zaraomarrogers

[zaraomarrogers]

This is so sweet 💕😍 I loved all the angst that ends in happy endings 💕

𝐈 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

steve rogers x nurse!reader

synopsis: following the fall out of the avengers, steve rogers needs somewhere to stay. knowing it'll only be a night and feeling in debt to sharon carter, you set aside your grievances and agree to have him stay with you.

request: no

warnings: no y/n, i use "she" once otherwise it's completely (correct me if im wrong) nondescript, swearing, mentions of blood and needles, angst, fluff, secret relationship, happy ending

wc: 4.5k

an: playing around with a new theme hehe i hope it looks good! this is also my first time writing in second person. i feel like i used "you" way too much but idk maybe i'm just not used to it 😭

no one asked for this and i rarely see steve imagines anymore but i had an idea while listening to griff back in jan and it just fit steve's character so well so i had to write it.

my requests are open and i am unemployed y'all so puhlease send me something 😩

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Sharon sighed into the phone. “I need a huge favour.”

Your brows furrowed at your wooden coffee table. “Uh, it depends.”

“You seen the news recently?”

So much had happened in US politics in a matter of a week. SHIELD founder Peggy Carter passed away at ninety-five; the UN presented a document that regulates the Avengers and any superhero-related activities; the UN was bombed and the King of Wakanda died in said bombing, including dozens injured if not missing; the Winter Soldier was apparently responsible for the bombing; Captain America and half the Avengers were arrested, and the Avengers Tower was officially on the market.

The first time you saw Steve Rogers get arrested on behalf of his childhood best friend was in a museum when you were twelve. A video interview with one of the Howling Commandos recounted the time Steve offered himself up after he’d ordered them on a rescue mission without higher permission. The second was a year after you’d started seeing him as a patient following coming out of the ice. He was being gunned down on national television for trying to save his best friend. Those in the infirmary took the evident terror on your face as the feeling many of them were experiencing, but they were deeply mistaken. Your coworkers, your patients, didn’t know Steve had become the person you went home to most nights. Your relationship was kept a secret for your safety and for both your sanities, but in that moment, you wondered if the secrecy was a bad decision. The third time was three days ago, when James Barnes’ arrest warrant was publicized after the UN bombing. You hadn’t been surprised when he was apprehended for attempting to reach Barnes before the government could. You worried about him, but you reminded yourself he wasn’t yours to worry about anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time. You had the thought that maybe he’d be safer now, finally stop making risky decisions. There was no coming back from this.

Then Sharon called.

“You still in that flat in Thirsk?” the agent asked.

“Yeah,” you leaned on your knees, anticipation making you anxious, “why?”

“Cap… kind of needs somewhere to hide.”

Your spine straightened like you’d been punched in the back.

“No,” was all you could manage as the memories threw themselves at the locked door in your mind.

Sharon Carter was the closest thing you had to a friend. She’d started as a patient, one of the many agents who often found themselves in SHIELD’s Washington infirmary. She was charismatic but to the point, calculated but emotional, and you found yourself enjoying her presence. Eventually, she’d start calling on you rather than going to the infirmary.

“Look—just hear me out,” she pleaded. “One night, max. He just needs somewhere with Wi-Fi and food to book a hotel. It’s tourist season so it’s not exactly like he can walk in and get a room. Hey, what if I bought you that window AC you’ve been saving up for? I will buy it for you. I’ll even get you one with heating—just because you’re such an amazing friend who does really nice things for me…”

Your fingernail came up to your teeth, but there was nothing left to chew on so you were forced to nibble on the peeling skin around it.

It had been two years since you’d seen Steve. He’d left you broken and confused. Sharon once asked if you’d ever find it in yourself to forgive him, but you weren’t sure how to do such a thing. You weren’t even sure you wanted to. You had ample reason to be angry and it had gotten to the point where you forgot what life was like before you were angry.

“Sharon, this is kind of a lot,” you rubbed the aching muscles in your shoulders.

“I told you it was a big favour,” you could almost see her sheepish grin. “He still thinks about you, you know?”

Your back hit the couch, and you stared at the popcorn ceiling. The red light of the smoke detector blinked mockingly.

“He regrets it,” she added in response to your silence.

You raised a brow, “Oh and he told you this?”

“No, but he asks about you. He wants to know you’re okay. He gets that sad, kicked puppy look in his eye whenever I tell him the same thing.”

She’s fine, is what you instructed Sharon to say. He didn’t need nor deserve anything more.

You looked at the time on the stove. It was almost mid-afternoon. You’d be starting dinner in a few hours.

“One night,” you finally said. “That’s it… and you owe me that HVAC unit plus another favour.”

“Anything for you.”

***

Hot chills ran across your body as someone knocked at your door. You stared at the slab of wood, food half-chewed in your mouth. Maybe if you waited long enough they’d leave. The second rap of knuckles forced a sigh from your nose. Your cutlery clinked against your plate and you swallowed. Your socks padded against the tiles as you headed for the door. Through the peep hole, you saw a man with his hands on his hips, a blue baseball cap concealing the nervous look you knew was on his face.

Your thoughts became rapid fire. Memory after moment replayed all at once in your mind. Years of pent up anger and lack of closure set your skin ablaze, twisted your lungs. You wanted to scream or punch him, but when you opened the door and were met with his familiar eyes, an ache settled in your heart and you felt yourself beginning to cower.

Steve’s eyes roved over you. Not much had changed. You were slightly older and slightly more tired, but he looked at you like you were a whole new person. He couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that you were in front of him. Maybe it was because he was somewhere else entirely.

“Hi,” he breathed.

You held the door with a white-knuckled grip, “Hi.”

After what seemed like years of staring at one another, Steve spoke up. “I’m sorry to just show up like this.”

“I invited you.”

“Right,” he directed his bashful half-smile hidden behind the bill of his cap to the floor.

It was a beautiful smile then and at just the glimpse of it now, you felt yourself melting all over again.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said.

“Who am I to denyCaptain America the shelter he so rightfully deserves?” You said the words before they could process in your mind. Whether they were meant as a jab or a joke, you couldn’t decide.

You could tell it had hurt him by the way his brows furrowed, but his lips formed a polite smile.

You opened the door wider for him. Steve took off his shoes, setting them neatly by the entrance, then looked around the small apartment.

“Nice place,” you heard him say as you headed for the table.

You didn’t reply, feeling a little too irritated to trust you’d say something respectful in return. You picked up the dish between the knife and fork you’d already set out for him and began spooning the extras you prepared at the counter. When you turned, he was waiting for you on his feet. You bit back a comment about being ever the polite man as you set his plate back on the table. The moment you pulled out your chair, he did too. You picked at the remains of your meal, face schooled in painful nonchalance at the corn.

“I’ve missed your cooking,” he admitted.

You nodded, brows twitching. Steve quietly shovelled mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie into his mouth. The food turned to sludge in your mouth by the time you remembered to swallow.

“You look good.”

Your eyes finally found his. He was watching you, trying to appear friendly. You looked him over. His white t-shirt was a little too tight and covered in dirty scuffs. There was a new scar peaking out from his brow and a healing cut on his bottom lip. He was slightly more muscular than the last you saw him. He was fitting into the new world nicely.

“You look like shit,” you observed.

Steve sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I’m trying to be nice,” he said softly.

“Sharon got me out of Washington, that’s why I’m doing this. I owed her. You made it clear a long time ago there was nothing I had to offer. You don’t need to try to be nice or anything just…” Your hand waved in dismissal, trying to quell the years of frustration finally getting its chance to strike.

Your chair scraped against the tile. As you rounded the table to take his empty plate, you noticed a red blotch a couple inches from his heart. You pushed aside the thin fabric of his shirt, your fingertips brushing his warm skin making him tense. A small jagged line had been sliced into his chest and someone with precise hands had stitched it back up, but there was fresh blood seeping from one end of the wound.

“Your stitches broke,” you murmured, then finally picked up his plate. “Go to the bathroom in my room. I’ll fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said despite rising.

“It’s my job,” you replied with your back to him.

When you finished rinsing the dishes, you found him exactly where you’d instructed him to go. He was sat on the lid of the toilet and had taken off his shirt. You did your best not to stare as flashes of sacred nights rapped on your mental door. You’d locked those memories out a long time ago, but sometimes they managed to slip through the cracks. Ignoring the aching in your heart, you took the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet.

In silence, he watched your concentrated face as you sterilized the wound and instruments. Ever since you met him, he’d pretend like he couldn’t feel the sting of an alcohol wipe. Out of the corner of your vision you noticed his knuckles turn white in his lap as you unlaced the old stitches.

“I’m sorry,” he broke the silence.

“I don’t want an apology,” you responded quietly.

“Then what do you want?”

Your eyes caught his, needle hovering over his open wound. Your gaze strayed to his lips, but only for a moment as you’d caught yourself.

The truth was, you didn’t know what you wanted. You wanted him and you wanted him to never speak to you again. You wanted him to hold you, tell you he was sorry until you forgot the meaning of the word, and you wanted him to leave in tears with regret evident in his posture.

Steve’s tough exterior was broken as you pierced the needle through his skin, his hand shooting out for the sink ledge. His brows lowered, the corners of his eyes creasing.

In a moment of sympathy, you decided to distract him from the pain. “How’s Fury?”

“Dead.”

“That man once walked into the infirmary with almost his entire arm hanging by the muscles of his shoulder,” you mumbled, pulling the string taught. “Dying by bullet wound is not his style. I don’t think he’d trust the Avengers in anyone else’s hands, anyway.”

Steve hung his head, his forehead inches from resting on your shoulder. You had the urge to cup the side of his neck, to press your lips to the thin skin just before his ear.

“He’s been somewhere else,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I haven’t seen him for almost a year.”

“How’s the team?”

A sigh left his lips at that. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”

“I did,” you fastened the string, kicking it with the small scissors. “I saw that Panther kicking your ass.”

Steve chuckled to himself, “Yeah, I’m sure you enjoyed that.”

“Is he the one who gave you this?” the pad of your pointer finger traced around the wound.

“Uh,” he looked down at her touch and swallowed. “No… that was Tony.”

“Must’ve been some disagreement.”

He didn’t say anything, but you could tell by the crease in his brow that what happened was eating away at him. You wished you could run your hands through his hair and he’d wrap his hands around the backs of your legs, pulling you in as you told him everything would be all right. By the way his fingers furled and unfurled, you wondered if he wished for that, too.

“I’ve missed you patching me up.”

Your eyes caught his, those blue eyes gazing deeply into yours. You flashed back to sitting on a balcony, smiling lazily as he traced patterns in your thigh; Steve pulling the bedsheets over you as you shivered against his chest, his arms snaking tighter around your middle.

You blinked, coming back to reality, coming back to the bloody needle and fresh stitches, the open medicine box on your counter. Silence ensued again and this time, you didn’t have the awareness to be bothered by it. You couldn’t stop thinking about the amount of times he smiled as you cleaned his wound or handed him a bandaid.

“So…” Steve said against the slow dripping of the tap, “you seeing anyone these days?”

Your tongue darted out to your bottom lip. “I was.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

You shut the lid of the box a little too hard and stared at the blue and white cross. “I kept picturing him as someone else.”

You put the first aid kit back where it was without sparing him a glance.

“You get the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He said your name, beginning to protest, but you cut him off.

“I’m trying to be a good host, just sleep in the bed for God’s sake. I’ll survive a night on the couch.”

The time on the stove read almost eleven o’clock. With work, you’d usually be in bed earlier than this, so the weight of the day was heavy on you. You’d shut the door to the bedroom on your way out, then shut the lights in the living area. You maneuvered easily through the shadows toward the couch, picking up the mess of the blanket and lying down to close your eyes.

You lay there awake for what felt like hours, in an uncomfortable state of half-sleep. When you finally opened your eyes again, you found you weren’t the only one up.

Steve opened the bedroom door, pausing as the hinges omitted their usual creak, then continued toward the front door. As you watched him slip on his shoes, a familiar ache bloomed in your stomach. The old wound was reopening, the dark hole expanding. The pain scraped against your bones and sent hot shivers across your skin. Your eyes stung and you had to hold your breath to keep from breathing too heavily.

Steve put his hand on the knob, but didn’t twist.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said into the darkness. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

You didn’t move for a moment, wondering how the hell he even knew you were watching him, but then you remembered who he was. He could probably hear your heart beating, let alone the unsteady rhythm of your breath. With your throat still constricted, you got up and put on your own shoes.

It was quiet on the darkened street aside from their shoes crunching loose pavement on the sidewalk. Somewhere, a dog barked and drunken teens laughed.

“I heard about Ms Carter,” you nodded, brows furrowed at your wellies. “I’m sorry.”

Steve nodded solemnly at your side. “She’s in a better place now.”

When you first met Steve, when you were just a nurse at SHIELD and he was freshly out of the ice, his mind had been on Peggy Carter. Then you cracked some jokes, distracted him with questions as you poked him with needles, you saw the other in the SHIELD lobby in Washington D.C., and it seemed like he started to find ways for you to cross paths. Peggy Carter had gone to the back of his mind, instead his thoughts being filled with you. With the encouragement of his neighbour, he worked up the strength to ask you out.

Sharon had invited you to drinks with some other SHIELD members and, too many shots in, you had no choice but to go home with her. Steve had caught you leaving her apartment early the next morning. You’d stopped dead in your tracks, hair a mess and jacket slung over your arm. After what felt like minutes of awkward conversation, he abashedly asked if you wanted to try a coffee shop down the block from work sometime. It had become a regular place for you two. It’s where you grew to know him as more than the historical figure. It’s where you grew to love him, deeper than you’d ever loved anyone.

“Do you like it here?”

You almost snapped at him, told him to stop with the niceties, but a part of you ached to tell him. “Yeah,” you replied, sucking in a breath as you mulled over your words. “I do,” was all you offered.

“You still a nurse?”

You nodded, pursing your lips at the pavement. You flinched as a rain drop hit you on the hairline. “Yeah, I work in the, uh, the medical centre just up the road.”

A knot formed between your brows as you debated on giving him more. You had been in Thirsk for several years now and despite that, you found it hard to make friends. A personal problem, rather than cultural. Everyone seemed to know each other and working in a small enough town, it was difficult to feel like it was okay seeing some of your patients outside of working hours. You had gone out with someone who was originally from Thirsk, his family still living here, but he had moved on. You’d caught him during one of his annual visits. It was supposed to be a one night stand but after realizing his family lived only a couple doors down from your apartment, you couldn’t help but bump into him. It felt like history repeating, and you tried to ignore the ache.

You thought you could make it work. Maybe he’d be good for you, but you thought of Steve any time he touched you. Every time he did something, you compared it to what Steve would have done or had already done. It wasn’t fair to him, so you’d called it off. You had been reluctant to let anyone in again after that.

“The town is small and it’s different from Washington,” you found yourself admitting. “It’s not bad. The people are nice and the weather’s an adjustment but…”

“It’s not home.”

You blinked at the streetlight. “Yeah.”

Silence ensued, eating away at your nerves. When Steve finally spoke, you quickly wished he hadn’t.

“You said something earlier…”

There was a steady fall of rain going now. Not the kind to get you soaked immediately, but not the kind where you wouldn’t want to be out in it for long.

“You said that I made it clear you had nothing to offer,” Steve continued.

You averted your gaze to the darkened red brick house, forcing him to look at the back of your head. Your tongue ran across your top teeth as you shook your head.

“It’s not important,” you said.

“It is important,” he emphasized. The way he said your name, like the most sacred thing, like a plea. It crushed your chest.

“No, it’s not,” you shook your head again, attempting to pick up the pace, leaving him a short ways behind in the process.

“I can understand why you feel that way,” he tried to keep up with her. “You deserve to be upset with me.”

You found yourself whipping around, the sudden jerk of your physical movement and exclamation of your words stopping him in his tracks. “You left without saying goodbye. You left like I didn’t mean anythingto you!”

“I left because I didn’t want you to get hurt!” he pleaded. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself knowing I led the bad guys right to you.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

He said your name with such sorrow that it felt like your heart was breaking all over again. You stared at his slumped figure, the wet hair sticking to his forehead, his clothes clinging his skin.

“I waited…” you searched the sky for words, throwing your arms up uselessly, “so long! I waited so long for nothing. I couldn’t even visit you in the hospital. Do you know what that was like? I watched you fall to your death on live TV and then I couldn’t visit you in the hospital. Then you go and leave the god damn country without so much as a goodbye!”

Your voice had grown, echoing off the houses on either side. You heard the slide of a window opening, and you spun around, putting a hand to your mouth as you tried to calm yourself down in a manner of seconds.

Willie’s dark outline, an elderly man who you saw regularly around the neighbourhood and in the medical centre, stuck half-out the window. “For fuck’s sake, it’s half past two in the mornin’! What the bloody hell is goin’ on down there?”

“Sorry, Willie,” you squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the headache that pulsed with every drop of rain. “Go back to sleep.”

“Christ,” he said your name like you scared him half to death. “You sure? Don’t need to me to give the coppers a ring?”

“No, no, good night Willie,” you waved him off. “Sorry to disturb your eight hours.”

“Right, I’ll let Doctor Burke know you’re the cause of my raised blood pressure,” he teased, though his tone was rather exhausted. “Just give a shout if you change your mind. I’m sure I’ll be up for the next hour or so.”

“Yeah, night Willie,” you said again, wishing you could escape this moment.

You had managed to live a quiet life in Thirsk and you wished to keep it that way. There was a sort of loneliness that had grown inside you over the years. It was suffocating, almost debilitating. It had gotten to the point where you were afraid if anyone even mentioned the Avengers around you, that you might explode in a tsunami of recollections and unrequited emotions.

When the window slammed shut again, you still couldn’t bring yourself to face Steve. Your clothes were beginning to stick to your shoulders, your damp hair only adding to the weight of your head.

“I didn’t like leaving the way I did,” Steve said. “I didn’t—That’s not what I wanted but after everything that came out of Hydra, everything that happened, I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure who to trust. I didn’t know if you were one of them or not.”

It was like a slap in the face. The impact of his words landed and they landed hard, almost enough to knock you off your feet. You turned with fisted hands, anger and upset swelling in your chest.

“I waited weeks for you,” you said, throat constricting. “I—I told you things about myself I never told anyone else. I tried new things for you, I gave you parts of myself I didn’t know I had. I had to leave my home because I couldn’t escape you. I can’t go back to Washington, Steve. My dad doesn’t know why I won’t come home. He loved you, they all did.”

You fought the years of emotion threatening to spill, all those tears you’d shoved down because he wasn’t worth it. It was not worth it to cry over a man, but it was Steve. Steve was everything. He still is everything.

Steve watched you, darkened hair sticking to his forehead, rain or maybe tears dripping from his jaw.

“I thought we were okay,” you said. “You told me we were okay.”

You put a couple more inches between you two and hid your face by turning your gaze to the sidewalk that would lead you to the medical centre. Footsteps approached, stopping a few feet from you. You wouldn’t let him see you cry, so you wiped at your cheeks furiously, managing to slow the onslaught of tears, but the anger and hurt hung heavy. It wrapped around you like a wet blanket, silently suffocating you, leaving just enough room to survive the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said against the sound of raindrops on tiled roofs.

“Let’s just get through the rest of the night.” You swallowed thickly. “You can leave in the morning and we don’t have to see each other again.”

“I don’t have to go.”

When you looked at him he had that sad, kicked puppy look in his eyes. It took everything to not burst into tears. The sadness he felt was the same as yours, you realized. He was feeling your pain just like you’d wished for years, but now that you were witnessing it you wanted to take it away.

“I’m sorry,” he said your name with the same conviction.

Steve’s hand cupped your cheek. Your jaw threatened to tremble as you were reminded of the softness of his touch. He was warm, just like he’d always been. He was the one bit of warmth you lacked in this town.

“I thought you loved me,” you said.

“I did—I, I do,” he stammered. “I do.”

You couldn’t help it when you set your hand on top of his. Your fingers squeezed his and he squeezed back with mirrored fervour. Then he leaned down and kissed you. It was gentle and full of love. Steve held your face with both hands, one of yours still gripping his fingers and the other on his middle. So many things had happened, so many things had changed, but his kiss was still the same. It was like being welcomed home and you stepped through the doors without hesitation.

When you were both out of breath and longed to be closer, you pulled back. Steve’s breath fanned over your face, his shoulders hunched as he gazed into your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I can’t say it enough to make up for what I’ve done, so let me stay. We can try again, if you’ll have me. If not then I’ll leave. You won’t have to—”

You kissed him again, effectively cutting him off as your fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck. Your forehead pressed against his and you buried yourself in his embrace, feeling your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

“I’ve missed you,” you said.

Steve’s head raised to press his lips against your temple. He sighed against your skin and replied, “I’ve missed you, too.”

[zaraomarrogers]

Oh this sounds good, I’m going to come back to it for sure.

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO MASTERLIST

steve rogers x fem!reader

summary: after a mission leaves him rattled in ways he can't explain, steve rogers is pulled from active duty and placed on medical leave. struggling with burnout, insomnia, and a growing sense that something inside him is fractured, he's relocated to a quiet brooklyn apartment under avengers oversight. he expects the silence to swallow him. instead, he meets his next-door neighbor and awkward hallway run-ins turn into the terrifying realization that he's falling hard and fast.

warnings: tbd

0. prologue

1. we'll meet again

[zaraomarrogers]

Congratulations on the 100 followers, you deserve so much more love 🎉❤️

Oh my heart ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥❤️

Feeling all the feels… you’re an incredibly talented and beautiful writer, idk what to say after reading this ❤️ the depth you’ve created for Steve 🤯🔥

It’s been a while since I’ve been active on this app and coming back after months, I’m picking few Steve fics and trying to get back into reading and writing. Once I find my way back into reading, I’m gonna start Public Relations again because I absolutely love that fic.

Also, are you still taking requests for your celebration?

Hello darling! I was wondering if I could make a suggestion via your recent post!

My suggestion is L and Y with Steve Rogers ♥️

(The yearning is so real with this man it’s insane)

(Your blog is so awesome!)

Perimeter (Steve Rogers x Longing, Yearning)

Summary: Your home is theirs for now. Takes place a couple months post-CW.

Word count: 4.5k

He wakes before the sun- he always does. Always has. Nowadays it’s not for a glass of orange juice and a run through the city, not from military discipline or structure or preparedness- though that instinct still lives in him. Instead, it’s because sleep no longer offers him rest or rejuvenation as it once did. It’s more akin to being in the ice, sitting in a cryo-tank for the few hours he allows his eyes to stay closed- only… scarier, and colder.

When his eyes finally open, he doesn’t get up immediately. He spends his days avoiding silence, stillness, so he allows his mind to torture him with thought for a few minutes as he sits between nightmare and consciousness.

Wanda cried out again last night, minutes after two o’clock. Just once- short and sharp, the way she always does when the dream grabs her and pulls her in. But this time, when his quiet, hurried steps finally ended at the edge of her bed, she didn’t pull away. She let him reach out like he always does, and she let him hold her.

She didn’t say a word. Her eyes were open for a moment- wide, distant- and then she exhaled, lashes fluttering closed, her shoulders loosening like she thought she was still dreaming, like she allowed the dream to comfort her instead of terrify her.

That silence sticks with him more than the scream. The horror he knows what to do with; he knows how to bandage a wound and ease someone out of shock. But whatever this was… it was scarier than blood and injury. Something he doesn’t know how to be worthy of.

The air is cool, the sky still a slate gray, and the light hasn’t broken past the horizon. The lake outside is still. Even the birds haven’t started. He dresses silently, tugging on the same worn shirt and boots, moving like a man going through the motions because the motions are all he has left.

The perimeter loop waits for him, like always. He walks it on muscle memory now- step, scan, pause. Step, scan, pause. The routine anchors him. It gives him something to do while his mind provides the background noise.

He tells himself it’s still necessary- that caution is survival. But he knows the urgency has thinned out over the last few days. Sam doesn’t join out of necessity anymore; he’s been sleeping in- not long, just long enough for his brain to wake up like he’s on vacation and not on the run.

The danger hasn’t disappeared- it just hasn’t followed them here. Not yet. He doesn’t trust that will last. Not for people like them.

The ground beneath his boots is soft in places, pine needles layered thick along the back edge of the treeline. The forest here isn’t dense, but it’s wide, and the lake below catches the light when the sun finally breaks, silver and sharp through the branches. For now, though, everything is gray.

They’ve only been here a few weeks. Maybe less. It’s hard to count days when you don’t want to remember them.

They arrived bruised, silent, and drained- Wanda pale and shaking in the backseat, Sam clutching his ribs but still cracking jokes in a voice too tight to convince anyone. Steve drove, jaw locked, knuckles white on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road until the signs of the last village disappeared behind them. It was hours after the trap. The smell of smoke still clung to their clothes.

The agent was supposed to be in danger- disavowed, stranded in another country after helping Sharon funnel intel and equipment back to Steve and Sam months ago. He’d gone dark shortly after. The message that reached them said he was running out of time. That his location had been compromised. That if someone didn’t intervene, he’d be caught and buried quietly, without trial.

Steve didn’t question it. He wanted to help. Wanted to believe that if someone had risked their life to do the right thing, they deserved to be protected. He still believed that much, even after everything. Even after the Raft, after the Accords, after the betrayals. Maybe especially after.

The extraction turned out to be a trade. The agent had already negotiated his pardon- freedom and safety, a clean record, maybe even reinstatement- all in exchange for drawing them out.

He didn’t look scared when they found him. Just… calm. Resigned. Almost apologetic.

They barely made it out.

Sam took a hit to the ribs hard enough to knock him sideways. Wanda’s powers burned too hot and blinked out halfway through- shock and grief grinding her raw. Steve had gotten them into it, and it was all he could do to get them back out.

The mission wasn’t a rescue. It was a message: you’re still being hunted. You’re still alone.

And Christ, he felt so alone.

Not just here, in the woods, with the mist still clinging to the lake and the birds still silent. The seclusion is constant, aching, and inside him.

There used to be more of them. A full team- a family. People he trusted with his life and everything that came with it.

He thinks of Natasha first… usually does. She wouldn’t have let them walk into that trap. Would’ve seen through it before the second message even came in. She had a way of reading people, of smelling a lie before it left someone’s mouth.

He misses her silence as much as her voice. Misses the way she could sit with him in quiet and still understand exactly what he needed. No dramatic speeches, no empty reassurances. Just presence.

Then Tony- God. That one still aches in a way he doesn’t know how to name. There was a time he thought they might’ve found their way back to each other. Eventually. If things had broken differently. If Steve had said the right thing… or hadn’t hidden the wrong one. Now, the idea of that kind of reconciliation feels like a bruise he keeps pressing so it never heals.

Bucky-

He swallows hard, chin tight, like he might sob right there in the forest.

Bucky’s safe. That’s what matters. Off-grid, out of reach, halfway to being whole again. Steve told himself that was the point of all this- running, resisting, fighting tooth and nail to stay one step ahead of whatever machine wanted to push them down. 

Bucky was the reason.

And now that he’s gone- resting, recovering, trying to live- Steve tells himself it was worth it.

But he misses him. Not just the brotherhood, not just the history- but the witness. The one person who remembered the boy from Brooklyn before the serum, before the shield, before all of it. The one person who could look at him and see him, not the symbol.

They’re all scattered now. Burned and broken in different directions.

The team he’d built after SHIELD fell, after Ultron, the people who stood with him when everything came apart… they’re ghosts now. Not dead, not gone- just out of reach. Like every time he turns around, there’s one less person walking with him.

He doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t even blame himself anymore. There’s no room left for blame. Just this slow, grinding ache of knowing they might never all be in the same room again.

That even if they were, they wouldn’t be the same.

That ache in his chest is steady by now, so familiar it barely feels separate from his breathing. The trees thin as he rounds the last curve in the loop, gravel soft beneath his boots. He tells himself he’ll finish the route, maybe run it again- anything to keep his mind from spiraling into places he can’t afford to linger.

But then he sees her.

He reenters the property line just after sunrise. The light is low but warm, a fluid gold that seeps through the trees without urgency, soft and slow, catching on the dew-damp grass and the curve of her shoulder as she moves.

She’s already at work.

Dirty boots planted firm in the garden soil, coffee balanced on an upside-down bucket beside her, one hand pulling vegetables from the ground and setting them gently on the grass. No gloves today. Just dirt under her nails and quiet resolve in her movements. She’s dressed in an oversized shirt and cargo pants- neutral, unassuming, practical. Unarmored, but not naïve.

It’s the kind of calm that feels deliberate. Chosen. Like someone who’s seen too much and decided to build a life anyway. Like she’s worked for every ounce of stillness and intends to keep it.

She doesn’t play music, doesn’t reach for distraction. Just lets the morning be what it is- the sound of her boots shifting in the dirt, the quiet splash of coffee as she lifts the mug for a sip, the low rustle as she leans forward to reach for another patch of green.

And Steve, from the edge of the trees, tells himself he should keep moving. That he’s lingering too long. That this moment isn’t his to intrude on.

But he stays. He’s been doing that lately. Staying longer than he should- longer than is at all tactical or cautious.

Because something about her- the way she claims the space without defending it, the way she works with that steady, practiced assurance that seems to say I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again- makes the world feel briefly less broken.

She’s just here.

And for a man who hasn’t known peace in a long time, that quiet constancy feels holy.

But it’s not his. That’s why it hurts to stay in the trees, to hide from view- because it feels like he’s spying on her. On a woman who chose to leave the world of spies and missions, only to be brought back into it, one phone call away.

He still doesn’t know why she said yes- why she agreed to take them in. She hadn’t been seen since SHIELD fell, Hill said. Everyone assumed she was out- burned, off-grid, done with all of it. By the looks of this place, it seems she was right.

This doesn’t feel like somewhere people pass through. It feels like somewhere you fight to keep. There’s nothing tactical about the yard, no sign of surveillance or fallback positions. No cover but trees, no alarms he can see. Just rows of vegetables, worn-down paths in the dirt, and a porch framed in flowers and ivy like it’s trying to swallow the house whole. Whatever life she’s built here- it isn’t a disguise.

And still… she said yes.

She let them in. Or- no. That’s not right. She didn’t let them in. She made room. Quietly, without ceremony. Without asking for anything in return. Without asking them anything at all.

He doesn’t know what kind of favor someone had to call in to make that happen. Doesn’t know who reached out on their behalf, or what name made her pause. 

It wasn’t Hill. Hill had only passed along the details, tight-lipped and careful, like she wasn’t entirely sure how the offer came to be in the first place.

But the offer had been real. Coordinates. Instructions. A tucked-away place for them to park the jeep. The kind of sparse, high-trust intel that makes your pulse spike just reading it.

They drove for hours, cutting across back roads and logging trails, no GPS, no backup- just the coordinates they’d been given by a contact they only half-trusted.

The instructions had been specific: go around. Use the side road. Key is above the door. She’ll know you’re coming.

And she had known. The boathouse was swept clean. A few essentials stocked. No note, no greeting. Just the soft slam of a door up the hill that proved she was real. 

That they weren’t alone.

Steve hadn’t liked it. Still doesn’t. But they had nowhere else to go.

She never came down. Not the first day. Not the day after.

They didn’t see her until the third morning, when Steve stepped out early and caught a flicker of movement on the hill- just a figure in the garden. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled.

She didn’t come looking for a thank you. She didn’t want to be pulled into it. She just wanted to be left alone to do what she was already doing- surviving.

So why agree at all?

Why risk exposure? Why share food with fugitives, open her space to strangers, invite the attention that inevitably follows people like him?

He’s tried to come up with reasons. Debt, maybe. Loyalty. A shared past with someone they know. He’s tried to convince himself she was coerced, that someone twisted her arm. That it wasn’t really a choice.

But every time he sees her- like this, boots sunk into wet earth, steam curling from the chipped mug in her hand- he knows better.

She made the choice.

She chose them.

Or maybe not them, exactly. But the act. The offering. She knew what it meant, and she did it anyway.

And that makes it harder. Not easier.

Because it means she saw what they were carrying- what they might bring with them- and said yes all the same. Because it wasn’t kindness born of ignorance. It was kindness. And he doesn’t understand it.

She doesn’t owe him an explanation. He wouldn’t ask for one even if he could, but the not-knowing gnaws at him in a way most things don’t. Maybe because it makes him feel like a burden. Maybe because it’s one more thing that isn’t a wound to bandage or a shock to shake.

The air shifts slightly as she moves, reaching for something deeper in the soil, brushing her shoulder against the low light filtering through the trees.

He should look away. But he doesn’t.

Because watching her work- quiet and methodical, untouched by urgency- feels like the first true thing he’s seen in weeks. Months, maybe. And some selfish part of him wants to hold on to that just a little longer.

Even if it isn’t his.

Even if it never will be.

She sits back for a moment, stretching slightly, and wipes her hands on her pants, palms and fingers streaked with soil. She doesn’t seem to mind the dirt under her nails or the smudges across her knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at them. Just lifts her mug, cradling it in both hands for a sip before setting it down on the grass beside her.

Then she flips the bucket over and crouches again, collecting the morning’s harvest with steady fingers. Her hands move with practiced care, fingertips brushing loose soil off each vegetable before placing it into the bucket. In the light rising through the trees, Steve sees the colors catch- deep greens, dusty reds, a sudden bright orange. Cucumbers, maybe zucchini, their skins still veined with earth. A handful of stubby carrots, twisted and uneven, the kind you only get when you grow them yourself. One or two ripe tomatoes, skin tender and flushed. She cups them carefully, holding them like they could bruise just from being misunderstood.

Nothing in that garden was grown for beauty. No neat lines, no symmetry, no pretty borders. It’s practical. Personal. 

There’s something in the way she touches each thing without hesitation but with intention that makes his chest go tight. Like it matters to her. Like this isn’t about survival so much as stewardship. She’s not just feeding herself. She’s tending something. Keeping something alive.

He wonders if she always did this. Or if it came after- after SHIELD, after the collapse, after everything that made them all disappear into the wind. Maybe this was what she built in the quiet. Something no one else could take.

She crouches a little longer, turning a tomato gently in her palm, inspecting it like it’s the only one she has. Then she nods once to herself, like that’s enough, and places it in the bucket with the rest.

Maybe this is her bandaged wound. Her eased shock.

She hoists herself up slowly, one hand braced on her knee, and rolls her shoulders back with a quiet exhale. Then she reaches down for the bucket, wiping her palms once more on her thighs before curling her fingers around the handle. She picks up the mug with the other hand, fingers smudged with dirt against the white ceramic.

Then she pauses.

She looks out across the treeline. Then the lake. Her head tilts slightly- not scanning, not searching. Just… observing. Like she knows someone might be there but chooses not to prove it. Steve’s breath catches for half a second, though he doesn’t move. He thinks she might see him.

But she doesn’t. Or maybe she does but doesn’t acknowledge it.

Either way, she turns, shoulders squared, and makes her way up the slope toward the house, steady and unhurried.

And then it comes- just like always.

The door.

A familiar, deliberate sound that breaks the stillness without shattering it. Not slammed in anger. Not careless. But loud enough to startle the birds from the clothesline and echo down the hill to the dock.

A signal.

It lands in his chest like a steady drumbeat. Reverberates through the quiet. The sound of her entering the house- saying without saying: I’m here. Not watching. But not hiding.

It’s a rhythm now. Part of the place.

To Steve, it feels like something rare. A boundary, yes. But also a kindness.

It says: I trust you not to make me regret this.

I see you. I’m not afraid of you.

This may be your space right now, but it’s always been mine.

He doesn’t know if she realizes what that sound does to him- how it cuts through the quicksand of his mind like a parted sea. Like a grapple hook.

Not a cry for help, not a demand. Just a soft, steady announcement of presence.

He hasn’t earned it- not even close. But still, she gives it: every morning, every night.

He stands there a little longer, eyes on the door she’s just walked through, and lets the silence return- heavier now. Not because of what’s missing.

But because of what she’s left in the air behind her.

-

Several hours later, the quiet of the afternoon has settled into the boathouse like dust. The only sound is the occasional rustle of pages turning as Steve sits in the armchair, a book open in his lap. He’d picked it from the basket she left by the door weeks ago- A Movable Feast by Hemingway. The cover is worn, the pages yellowed at the edges, like it has seen its share of sunsets and early mornings. He’s never read it before, and he finds it hard to focus. 

The pages are full of small, ordinary moments- hunger and wine in cheap cafés, cold streets that feel like home, the slow work of writing and falling in love in a city that seems to breathe with you. There’s no urgency in it, no mission, no looming threat. Just a man making a life out of quiet mornings and warm afternoons, choosing his own company and his own meaning. It’s simple, unguarded. And it feels like another world.

Too real. Too raw. Each line a mirror reflecting back the kind of life he hasn’t lived, the kind of quiet that doesn’t involve scanning the horizon for threats or counting the days until the next battle.

Across the room, Sam lounges on the couch, eyes glued to the small TV mounted in the corner. The volume is low, but Steve can still hear the laugh track of 22 Jump Street. 

It’s strange how much pop culture has changed, yet the essence of friendship stays the same. Two guys, a buddy-cop routine, a boatload of explosions and banter. Comforting in its way- a reminder that some things don’t change, even when the world outside turns upside down.

Wanda’s soft breaths fill the space between the quieter moments of the movie. She’s been sleeping more lately- a good sign. He glances at her, serene in sleep, and wonders if she’s had another nightmare. If the quiet is just a temporary reprieve. If he’s doing enough to keep her safe. To keep any of them safe.

The book in his lap feels like a weight, a silent accusation that maybe he doesn’t know how to live in peace. That maybe he’s just good at pretending- though, he doesn’t even feel like he’s good at that.

The soft crunch of boots on the gravel tears his attention toward the door. A low hum of a tune he can’t quite place. A simple melody, something folksy that floats through the light like a lullaby. He doesn’t stand up, doesn’t move. Just listens, lets it wash over him- a gentle proof that life goes on.

Wanda’s eyes snap open, though she doesn’t sit up, either. She feels it before the sound reaches her- a vibration in the air that shakes the dust from her dreams. Her pulse ticks up, but this time it isn’t fear. It’s something else. Something warm.

Steve’s head lifts at the sound, eyes instinctively focusing on the treeline- but she’s already there. The woman they’ve come to know only as a shape in the shadows, a presence they feel more than see. Moving toward them, a basket swinging from her elbow, her humming a gentle crescendo through the stillness.

Sam’s eyes never leave the TV, but his shoulders tighten like a bowstring. The laugh track suddenly feels too loud, the colors on the screen too bright against the grayscale outside. Steve can almost hear the gears turning in his friend’s head, suspicion coiling quietly beneath the surface.

Steve sets his book down slowly, the words blurring into a sea of black and white. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous- it’s not like she hasn’t done this before. But every time feels like the first; the soft scrape of wicker against worn-down wood planks as she picks up an empty basket and sets down a heavier one, the click of her boots on the same wood on her way back the way she came.

He waits until the humming fades, her steps retreating up the hill. Only when she’s out of earshot does he stand, his joints popping like the quiet is a seal he’s breaking. Sam glances at him but says nothing, the TV still mumbling in the background.

They don’t speak as Steve crosses the room, the floor creaking underfoot. The silence feels loaded, a grenade with the pin pulled but no one counting down. The door’s hinges cry as he opens it almost painfully slow and stands at the threshold, looking down at the gift in front of him. 

The basket is heavier than it looks, the handle biting into his palm. He sets it down with a gentle thud on the table.

The fabric falls away, revealing a bounty. Every single vegetable from the morning’s harvest- not a leaf out of place, not one missing. He catalogs them with a furrowed brow: potatoes, carrots, a few zucchini, a couple of onions. A small bouquet of herbs tied with twine. Tomatoes. Peppers. 

His stomach twists at the sight. Because she’s given them everything: everything she’s grown, what she’s fought for, what she’s kept alive with her own two hands, and left nothing for herself.

It’s too much. It feels like a peace offering. But what peace has he earned?

His eyes sting, but he blinks it away. He doesn’t get to be weak now. Not when she’s given them this.

Sam glances up, eyebrows raised slightly. “Everything okay?”

Steve nods, though the tension in his jaw is the only answer he can manage. He doesn’t know how to put this into words. The quiet, the weight of what she’s just given them. It feels like a gift and a confession. A declaration of trust and a silent plea for understanding.

He doesn’t know if she’s aware of the gravity of it, or if she’s just used to giving like that. But every time she does it, it feels like a knife turning in his chest. Because she’s giving them life, and all he’s brought her is the shadow of a war he can’t stop fighting.

The silence stretches out, thick and uncomfortable. He wishes he knew what to say. How to thank her. How to explain why her kindness feels like a wound. But all he has is a quiet nod, a murmur that feels too small, too weak.

Wanda exhales, eyes fluttering closed again, and he wonders if maybe his soft disruption is good. If she knows it’s good. If this is what peace sounds like when someone knows how fragile it is.

And Steve?

He feels it in his chest again- that tight, aching awareness. That mix of guilt and awe and something more fragile beneath it. He feels like an intruder. Like the moment wasn’t meant for them, but she let them have it anyway.

She’s humming.

And for a moment- nothing hurts.

-

It's sundown, Steve is walking the perimeter again. Slow. Thinking.

He's thinking about her. The woman in the garden, the silent guardian of this patch of peace. 

What would he say if he could? Would he thank her, tell her about Natasha, about Tony, about Bucky? Would he confess his fears and his longing? Would he dare to ask for something more than the quiet understanding she’s already given them?

But he knows better than to ask for more. Her kindness feels sacred, something to be revered from afar. He wishes he could ease the lines of her face, the tightness around her eyes that speak of nights spent in the embrace of fear. He wishes he could give her something in return- a piece of himself that’s not stained by the battles he’s fought, the lives he’s lost.

As he nears the treeline again, the one that gives him the perfect view of her front lawn, he can almost feel her presence. Her beat up car sits in the driveway, porch light off. She’s home, inside, but he can’t see her. The house is a sanctuary in the quiet, a beacon of warmth and life against the darkening woods. It’s a stark contrast to the cold steel and concrete of the places he’s known as home the last several months.

He imagines walking up to that door, not as Captain America, not as the man who brought chaos and pain to her doorstep, but just as Steve. Just a man who needs a place to lay his head and maybe someone to lay it beside. The door is chipped, painted blue, with a wreath made of dried flowers hanging by a single nail. It’s simple and beautiful in its imperfection.

In his mind, she’s waiting for him. She’s always waiting. Her eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t have to be painted on, and her cheeks flush with genuine warmth. She’s not surprised to see him. She knew he’d come. Maybe she’s been expecting him every morning since they arrived.

But he can’t bring himself to knock. 

Instead, he turns away, the weight of his own thoughts heavy on his shoulders. The idea that he could ever be worthy of that smile, of the quiet strength she carries like armor, feels like a joke. A sad, pathetic one that no one’s laughing at.

He reluctantly walks across her lawn, toward the downward slope on the path to the boathouse. Each step is a silent confession of his unworthiness. The grass is dewy, the air thick with the scent of earth and growth, and it feels like every inch he puts between them is a betrayal. But he does it anyway. Because that’s what he does. He retreats.

And then the porch light flicks on.

-

Note from me to @thecaptainsdoll: HELLO. I have been working on this since the moment you sent this in and I am finally done with it. I'm sorry it took so long, I am physically incapable of doing things quickly it would seem.

(Steve is the definition longing and yearning, our sad king.)

(Your blog is also awesome tysmily.)

-

Proofed by my bestie @kiba-uwuzuka

[zaraomarrogers]

Anikkkaaaaaaaa ❤️❤️❤️ how could you write angst full of love and… just love. This last chapter got me some tears, their emotional vulnerability was so in depth and hitting the right spots. I cried at when Lo thought that she’d never be good enough for Steve and oh Steve, my, our gentle giant, so full of love Steve, I just wanted to hug him tight.

I was an expecting a kiss that’d leave her breathless but, what? No kiss?? Not even in last chapter?? Well, I hope I get to read some in epilogue 👀

It took me months to come back to this app and finding my groove back into reading again. I’m slow tbh, but I’m trying to get back to it. Well, life’s been demanding lately and I felt like I lost rhythm, working on it slowly now.

Been working on some Steve angst myself, it’s not ready but I’m willing to put some time and effort to give it a life.

Thank you so much for writing and sharing this masterpiece with us. Well, whatever you write is no less than a masterpiece. I’m not just saying it, I mean it.

Hope you’re having a wonderful day/night 💕

Take the Ache - pt.4

Part 4: The Nice in Nice Try

Type: series, slightly canon-divergent, idiots in love with sprinkles of angst

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 11,8k (double serving, y'all)

Series masterlist (and summary)

Warnings: canon semi-typical injuries, mentions of temporary death (cardiac arrest, reader) and the use of AED and brief CPR, references to Steve’s sacrifice in CA:TFA, Lo and Steve being idiots, feels

A/N: written for Stella’s Starry Winter Sky challenge, using various prompts; DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; the title is, just like chapter titles, taken from The Script’s No Good in Goodbye

A/N 2:  No use of Y/N. Main character’s nickname made up by Steve is 'Lo (will be expalined at some point, promise). Thank you for reading so far and enjoy 💕

This feeling – this heavy weight sitting on your chest – felt entirely out of place. It felt so foreign; and seemed so nonsensical, contrasting sharply with the light behind your eyelids.

There was light, undeniably so. The light was cold and warm all at once, pulsing tenderly and steadily with every beat of your heart; or perhaps that was an illusion created by the low periodical beeping reaching your ears as you were lying in all that brightness.

The feeling was a little funny – the more the light consumed you, the warmer it tangled with something deep within you. But with the warmth taking over, so was the weight.

God, the weight. Every cell of your body fought natural laws except for gravity and it felt like it weighted a ton.

As the light consumed you, so did the instinct to smile, as the breathless sound of your name – your nickname really – pulled you further into the inviting light and brought on a memory, tied to a pair of bright blue eyes with a speckle of green making them all the more perfect; a pair of pretty eyes slightly unfocused as they stared at you when you put your foot in your mouth and earned yourself a sweet nickname in the process.

Steve Rogers had no reason to be in the lab that day; he usually didn’t. His visits to your workshop had no other reason than him being the epitome of a caring Captain, checking up on a new addition to the Avengers’ team and the adjacent. You.

He strode in there with what could be considered a regularity at this point. He’d always stand there or paced a little bit, shoulders slightly stiff, his smile genuine but a bit unsure as if he couldn’t quite tell if he was bothering you by his presence. Today was no different. All handsome in the dark blue button-down and charcoal slacks, hair a little messy as if he had been running his hand though it – probably after a stressful meeting with a politician or two – he had come down to your lab to see how you were doing.

You liked his visits, no matter how brief. Steve – well, Captain Rogers, who gently insisted you called him his first name – seemed to genuinely care about the people under his albeit indirect command, and about people in general. It was one of the qualities you appreciated in people, even if your territory was mostly machines and equipment – and Steve seemed to have this feature ingrained in his tender heart. It softened your heart every time, seeing the deep sincerity in his gaze proving what he stood for, truly and not only for show – not only in front of the press, but in a more private setting. It softened your heart to see that the urban legends of his moral compass and sense for justice, even as it sometimes involved violence for the sake of peace and kindness, were not exaggerated. It was his demeanour too; you might be better at reading charts than people, but it was impossible to be blind to Steve Rogers being a brilliant, profoundly good man.

Frankly – though of that you had no proof beyond personal experience – the man made it hard for people not to fall for him; that was a scientific fact. It did not help Steve’ss situation that oftentimes, he seemed to know what people around him needed the most.

He must have, because he brought you coffee on at least three separate occasions, staying a while longer to talk you through your break on days when you needed to lean on someone, anyone, who had an understanding of the nature of your job without actually being in the business himself. Those little talks seemed to leave you not only with caffeine in your bloodstream and more peace in your mind, but also – unless you truly forgot how to be a human being after spending long hours in the world of circuits and codes and charts – in Steve’s as well. During his visits, his smile might sometimes barely be there at all, but it was always sweet – and always appeared a tad wider after your little chat.

And there came another scientific fact; it was literally impossible to not notice and fall for how unfairly pretty his smile was. You supposed one could expect as much on as a man who had literally been genetically improved to be a perfect soldier – but the reason for your heart thumbing soft and wild wasn’t the shape of his lips or their plumpness, as alluring it was. It was something you could not quite put your finger on, but yet again, undeniably existed.

And it always distracted you; like now, when this memory went far beyond how well-shaped his shoulders were, how wonderfully wide in comparison to his waist, or how gentle his hands could be when handing you coffee or tools despite how large they were and how hard they could punch a man.

He wasn’t supposed to be here today and yet he belonged and you could not imagine your workspace being deprived of his presence.

Today, he certainly was a welcoming and perfectly handsome distraction from the discussion you had had with Tony, resulting in him simply leaving one of his prototypes behind for you to take a look at as soon as possible despite you having told him you were busy with your own projects.

Upon pointing out repeatedly that refocusing was not possible at the very second, Tony had left; but he had met with Steve in the doorway. And Steve stayed. Asking how you were settling in, how it felt being here now, after a bit over a month.

The warmth blooming in your chest at him remembering the date even as you were sure he simply liked to keep track of things and people at the AI would haunt your days to come.

“Hey Steve… doing alright. It feels… right to be here,” you said after thinking about it briefly, feeling your shoulders relax, the interaction with Tony not forgotten, but momentarily overshadowed by Steve observing you with a small lopsided smile prompting you to elaborate. “I uhm… the last position, it wasn’t for me.”

“How so?” Steve inquired kindly, a flash of amusement in his eye as his watch vibrated with a message which – as it turned out later – was from Tony and he knew without checking.

God, his smile lit up the damn room when it reached his eyes and the sharp edge of his jaw should be illegal--

“Well, I know it sounds awful, but… I like having a workshop on my own, cooperating with others only when necessary.”

“Others like Tony, your absolute favourite person in the whole world?”

Steve grinned as you couldn’t but grimace slightly, huffing and sipping at the tea he had brought along; and then, because the man in front of you was so damn impossible, you exchanged a conspiratorial smile with him over the edge of the cup. It felt like you could do that; Steve definitely sounded like someone who had a fair share of experience with the man and it wasn’t badmouthing a boss if you only hinted at it.

Not to mention that something about Steve’s demeanour whispered that it was safe to tell the truth and the words spoken would not leave this room unless you wanted to.

“I admit nothing, but maybe he’s in the lower part of my favourite people list right now.”

Steve’s smile widened, almost boyish now, despite the fact you were all too aware that his soul was weighted with past losses and pain no boy should ever experience; and your heart skipped a beat, your thoughts stumbling one over the other, untying your tongue unwisely.

“But uhm… what I meant is that I definitely enjoy not having to be the boss to anyone but myself, you know? I don’t… I really don’t have the qualities of a boss, I think. I’m not… bossy.”

“Oh? Is that the main quality of a leader? Being unbearably bossy?” he asked.

One corner of his lips rose higher, his irises crinkling with laughter, utterly distracting, your already tangled thoughts scattering altogether.

“Hm?”

Steve smile turned downright beaming now – the gorgeous jerk – and it took you embarrassingly long to understand why he seemed to be holding back laughter.

When it did dawn to you, you set your cup down hastily, your whole world exploding in social propriety horror, blood draining from your face as you realized any courteous relationship you two had been building probably shattered and you had most definitely crossed a line.

But before you could somehow apologize for implying that he was obviously that, your colleague and living legend and yes, your boss in a way, he burst out laughing with such pure sincerity – and so damn brightly, the halo of warmth around him calling out to your heart – that you couldn’t but chuckle with him despite the embarrassment piercing as deep as to where your bones were.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Please, don’t, I needed that. Thank you,” Steve chuckled again, the cerulean blue of his eyes, with the cutest droplets of greenery you never failed to notice, crinkling with laughter still. “I’m sure many would agree, Tony most of all. But I’m glad you’re content here. It means you might stay… despite having to deal with some peculiar or bossy people keeping you company-”

“Oh my god-“

You whined, fighting the urge to hide your flushed face or simply walk out of your own workshop and leave him there, the jester, the little shit who was supposed to be and was a gentleman but there he was, having fun at your expense – and yet, you stayed and couldn’t but chuckle again, the joy of sharing a laugh with him mixing with mortification.

What a prime example of how capable you were of putting your foot in your mouth, wasn’t it?

But that was not how you earned your nickname, so sweet and unique to Steve, no.

That only came a few minutes later.

When Tony’s goddamn untested prototype simply decided to explode without as much as a warning beyond a silent click Steve’s supersoldier ears must have picked up on, because as the noise of explosion hit your own ears, you were already tackled down. Pinned to the ground and shielded by a warm weight of a man who didn’t hesitate to use his own body to protect you from harm since his vibranium shield wasn’t at hand.

By the time you began to process what had happened, Steve had rolled you over so he wasn’t crushing you. Your breaths were coming out short as you stared at him with wide eyes, your heart a second from beating its way out of your chest from both anger and fright – and concern.

Because that was most definitely blood trickling down Steve’s forehead.

And he was blinking up at you with confusion – as if he didn’t even remember he had been the one to shield you, the instinct simply lacing his soul and DNA alike – as you climbed off of him and coughed away the pressure in your chest. You spent a precious few moments scanning over the mess of your recently new workspace – now a bit sparkly and crispy and definitely messy, but at least with no fire – before your eyes zeroed on Steve again.

“Hey Lo,” he muttered, blinking, looking at your face with curiosity, causing you to frown harder, your pulse skyrocketing further at the nonsensical words coming out of his mouth.

He must have hit his head hard.

You prayed to lords of science that help was already on the way – so you only had to keep Steve talking, to be sure he was not passing out on you. Your eyes ran over his form quickly, apprehensive of seeing blood anywhere else – as if on his face wasn’t enough.

How seriously was he hurt? You could feel a dull echo of pain in your back but none in your head; a distant memory of Steve’s large hand cradling the back of your head tickled your mind. He had not failed to protect your skull from cracking against the floor despite having but milliseconds to get you down. Of course he had. But what about him?

With the frantic melody of your heart loud in your ears, you wanted to punch him and kiss him all at once for his reaction; and the adrenalin coursing your veins, screaming at your throw any attempt at normal behaviour out of the window, was not helping you decide which one of the two you should choose.

Maybe both?

It was the blood, the coppery scent of it and the dark patch in Steve’s light hair, that helped you push either of those urges aside, your hands aimlessly hovering above him, unsure whether you could touch him without hurting him further.

“My god, Steve, you’re blee-- Who’s Lo? Are you okay?” you demanded, laying your hand on his chest when he tried to get up, your mind scrambling for any knowledge about first aid you could possibly provide at site. All you knew was that he should not be moving much, because god knew if his head injury wasn’t connected with a spine injury. “Wha-“

To your utter bewilderment, Steve was smiling a bit in response – just how much of a concussion had he suffered? – appearing distracted as his hand covered yours on his sternum, gentle and warm, mumbling your name.

“Don’t know any Lo. But you have… this halo above your head. Looks nice. Are you okay?”

Huh?

Oh.

Oh.

Not a Hey Lo. A halo.

That made a lot more sense. Why didn’t you think of that on your own? You should have. It was just a game of light and possibly Steve’s concussion affecting his vision further. It was just physics. And physics was essential for your work. You were good at physics. You were a physicist.

Which would explain why you said what you did next. Any rational person would have chuckled, embarrassed, and said something intelligently dismissive and moved on.

But not you, oh no.

Instead, your stressed-out brain went out of its way to launch into explanations of the natural phenomenon of halos, of the tinniest of crystals in the atmosphere aligning just right, reflecting the electromagnetic radiation into the eye of the beholder, and the dual nature of light as particles and waves.

You were not proud of it – but your lecture certainly kept Steve’s very conscious attention on you until the AI paramedics on duty arrived along with the cleaning crew and took an awfully calm Steve away; but not before he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes, slightly unfocused but still, undeniably focused on you, measuring you head to toe, checking your body for any injuries. Because of course he did.

Less than 24 hours later, he walked into your lab with a new cheeky greeting that only registered after your still shaken brain decided to have you hug him out of sheer relief; settling into that hug felt like it was suddenly the only right thing in the universe, right next to Steve’s soft voice and the new nickname.

“Hey, Lo.”

You wouldn’t admit it at the time, groaning at his teasing instead, but you fell in love with the nickname the very moment he spoke it; and fell a little bit more in love with him too. And when during one of the long nights at which you didn’t feel so great and found solace in the communal living room talking to him, he admitted with a soft smile that the nickname was about more than teasing and more than a memory, you realized you had fallen too deep.

Steve said he simply thought the nickname fit you very well; bright and brilliant, your need for everything to align just right and perfect in your inventions making you shine, sometimes so much it rendered others – or even yourself – blind to that fact that no matter how big your brain was, it was your even bigger heart that made you who you were.

It was the closest thing to calling you an angel and a genius at once and you were speechless.

As sappy as his words might be, it was exactly what you needed to hear at that time: at two a.m. at a long night thinking about how your inventions, while built to help your friends and those on the side of the angels, hurt people. And when spoken with utter sincerity, by a man whom you believed was nothing but good, and with a hand over the back of yours and then over your back when you went to hug Steve close, his words, just like his arms and his light, enveloped you in warmth and safety.

The light you saw behind your eyelids now, the weight still on you, made you wonder if this was what Steve had felt and seen that day in the lab when you were still sprawled over him, seconds after the explosion.

As you were mercilessly pulled towards that light, a soft weight you just become aware had been there the whole time disappeared from your hand, leaving it feeling strangely cold with absence.

“Aaaaand she lives,” a male voice you distantly recognized as Clint stated, the last push to opening and squinting your eyes against the unusual environment and company.

You were lying in bed. Clint stood nearby, a smirk with a shade of pride and worry on his lips. Bucky loomed in the corner of the room, with his arms crossed over his chest, looking grumpy with just a hint of a smile when you met his gaze. Tony at the foot of the bed. And Steve; on the opposite side of the bed to Clint, sitting in a chair by your bedside.

It was quite a crowd; guarding you in what was undeniably one of the AI medical department hospital-like rooms. You knew the space well – you had visited Steve here plenty of times, because he was a protector at heart and a reckless son of a bitch when it came to his own well-being, the memory of that day in your workshop just a cherry of top of all the insane things he was willing to do for others, for what he believed to be greater good.

Now, your roles might be reversed, but Steve still looked a little worn; and still handsome, almost frustratingly so, almost enough to distract you from a more crucial question than whether his slightly pursed lips were as soft as you’d always imagined.

What the hell were you doing in the medical?

You’d put your life savings in on a bet it had everything to do with the pressure on your chest and Tony’s face lightly twisted in worry and outrage.

Which, ouch. Tony actually looked worried. That had to be bad.

You opened your mouth to ask when the memories started floating in, along with the realization that your throat was a bit parched.

Without a word or another hint of a request, Steve brought a cup of water to your lips along with a straw, making you realize you were not, in fact, quite lying down horizontally; the third of the bed closest to the headboard was elevated, thus helping you not to drown when drinking the pleasantly cool liquid.

While grateful for Steve’s assistance, you did not find courage to look at his expression and analyse it like those of the other men; because as the blur of memories creeped in, you were sure Steve would have a lot to say to you and not much of it would be pleasant.

Better to postpone that for as long as possible.

You had fucked up. Somehow, the encounter of the EMP wave and your own device had managed to knock you out. That was far from a cause for glowing reviews; though the uncertainty and the absence of the testing period had led you not to expect any in the first place. In fact, it was the very reason why you had insisted you would be the only one to handle the device.  

A solid plan; an uncertain outcome.

“How bad?” you rasped, unwillingly prompting Steve to push the straw back to your lips, even as he still didn’t say a word and sent your heart beating very painfully against your sternum. You resisted the urge to rub on the tender spot.

“You’ll be all fine and peachy,” Tony hummed, earning a mute glare from Steve that would freeze people in spot unless they were Tony Stark. The billionaire ignored it, in turn glaring at you, even if with a lick of pride in his gaze. “Your EMP killer – nice work on the shielding and reversing, by the way – short-circuited under the load of the energy that the EMP, stronger than the last time, emitted. You really went and picked the worst possible second to be still touching it—--ew, that actually sounds dirtier than I wanted for once-”

You gulped, an unvoluntary shiver running down your back as Tony, Tony I-do-whatever-I-want-and-can’t-be-bothered Stark, observed you with something grave in his eye that easily overshadowed the pride and the clear message in his words – that you had helped the team. Immensely. You had not only protected them from the hit, but managed to reverse it, giving Hydra a taste of their own bitter medicine.

And had apparently given the team a scare in the process.

It would track; depending on the voltage, the short-circuit could have burned you or knock you out, neither of those things pleasant. You just hoped it had been worth it.

“Okay. But… you got them, right?” you asked, the flicker of a smirk on Tony’s face as he responded confirming your guess.

“Oh yeah, we got them. Bastards didn’t know what hit them, stood there like idiots for solid five seconds. It was kinda hilarious, you know, you should have seen their faces, just priceless and-“

“Your heart stopped.”

----Tony’s voice fell deadly silent, the room stilling so completely no one even dared to take a breath, least of all you; air stuck in your throat, your lips slightly parting in mute shock.

Steve’s voice wasn’t loud, nor angry; it shouldn’t have interrupted Tony’s so easily. But the quiet authority and the gravity his words carried was enough to shut up even Tony Stark for once.

The room drowned in the sudden silence. The loudest sound was the tremble of your heart, beating fiercely as if in protest to Steve’s statement, echoing in your skull as well as by the heart monitor you were attached to.

Your heart had… stopped?

That was the third option, the third part of your body potentially affected by the electric discharge; your skin, your brain… and your heart.

It was racing now and you felt it in every inch of your body, humming with life, absurdly loud so; but as Steve’s gaze met yours, you sucked in a quick breath as the damning realization slowly sank in.

There was no world in which Steve would ever joke or exaggerated about that; the blue of his irises seemed more watery than usual, speaking of a weight on his shoulders heavier than he’d ever like to carry.

Your heart stopped, he had said, a simple three words that didn’t seem to make sense in a tangible reality, uncomprehensible beyond the coldest shiver of dread running down your spine. Simple, detached words, in a way; and yet, Steve’s eyes whispered of a message far from detached, quite the opposite. Intimate even – and perhaps a little accusatory too.

You died on me. You fucking died and I held you while you did so and that was all I could do.

You remembered as much. Vaguely, in a strange fog surrounded by gentle blue bleeding into indigo and eventually black – and you did remember with startling clarity the sensation of his palms cradling your cheek and of his arms carrying you when you knew your feet wouldn’t be able to. You remembered panic you’d wish to sooth had your lips been able to move. You remembered the heaviness on your chest, preventing you from breathing.

The weight on your chest grew tenfold under Steve’s intent gaze; and made a whole lot more sense now when one thought about what must have been done to you to set your heart back on track.

“It wasn’t for too long, kiddo,” Clint said quietly, drawing your attention to him, his expression warm with almost a fatherly worry – though that might have been the fact he had called you a kid. He could be sweet and caring and responsible like that when he wasn’t up to crazy shenanigans. “But you did give us quite the scare. Arrhythmia, turning so critical your heartbeat became almost undetectable… until it disappeared altogether. You got two discharges and a few chest compressions for your trouble. It was fast and you’re gonna be just fine, but…”

As he trailed off, you gulped, trying to process the information and failing. It simply seemed too surreal of a thought, encountering your death when you were right here now, alive.

But that was the thing about death, wasn’t it? It wasn’t quite you who had encountered your death, not in your conscious sound mind. The others had. Every single person here, having been scared out of their mind; for you.

The overwhelming and perhaps a little bizarre affection that bloomed in spite of the weight sitting on your sternum warmed your bones, spreading through your veins all the way to your fingertips along with the need to say literally anything to make the shadow of gloom on everyone’s faces disappear.

But your mind was coming out blank, your ears ringing a bit.

“Oh, uhm… well. I guess that explains why it hurts so much,” you muttered.

It earned you two sighs and one sharp intake of breath at your side. On the other side of the room, Bucky shifted his weight, bouncing off of the wall with surprising elegance, and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, no shit. Why don’t we give you guys a minute…”

A brief eye-contact with Steve, meaningful but unreadable; a small beckoning at Tony and Clint, each of the two patting the nearest part of your body in encouragement with a slightly uncomfortable yet supportive smile, and then they were on their way.

Leaving you alone with Steve, who now had his elbows propped up on his thighs, fingers interlaced together to rest his chin against them as he thoughtfully observed you without a single word.

To describe your reluctant staring contest as awkward would be a gross understatement and not quite capturing the complexity of the unreadable emotion behind his blue eyes.

It was instinct, you’d later realize, to have your gaze trail along the immensity of his body, checking for bandages and bruises and the little too much tension; with relief that felt a little funny considering the circumstance, you only found the third thing on the list. Steve body was so stiff and strung it had to be painful.

You fought the urge to reach for his hand, knowing a simple gesture like that usually grounded him.

Right now, Steve seemed torn between being a concerned friend and a raging captain, and you did not believe there was anything at all that really could ground him, let alone something in your power.

“Hey…” you breathed out eventually, swallowing heavily when the trivial greeting made him wince. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with such effort as if he had to fight the same weight that was sitting on yours.

“I… no. I’m not. And no, not really.”

I’m the farthest thing from okay.

You gulped as the unspoken words, your lips twitching. “Did you get checked up by med-“

“Did you know?”

Your voice trailed off in an instant, just like Tony’s had earlier; the quiet intensity to Steve’s voice and the unnerving attention his eyes observed you with making a lump grow in your throat, no doubt in your mind about what he was asking about.

It seemed such an absurd question to ask and yet, you supposed it was a fair one; you just couldn’t quite grasp at the reality of Steve asking it.

“Did I know what?”

Steve didn’t avert your hesitant gaze for a second, his hands falling from his face to the space between his thigs, fingers still interlaced; only now you noticed just how tight he was holding one hand to the other, his knuckled having turned white, the vein running down his forearm bulging.

“Did you know what was gonna happen if you used the device? Because you told us it was too complicated for explanations and I trusted you--- and then it looked like you basically just went and pushed a button,” Steve said slowly, every word painfully articulated, the undertone of fire humming under the composed exterior of a Captain calmly berating those under his command, having seen right through their actions and their motivations.

God, he really was unbearably good at reading people, wasn’t he? Most of the time anyway. His gaze was so piercing you could feel it in your chest, how he practically ruminated through your very soul, no matter how feebly you tried to defend its secrets.

“So I’m asking again: did you know that this was a possibility and was that the reason why you refused to let any of us use that device?”

Did you know it might actually kill you, was the question then, not did you know you might get hurt or did you know the device could malfunction.

Well.

“No.”

Steve shook his head slightly, never releasing you from the now blazing blue of his eyes, a new emotion, harder than the others, flickering over his face, his jaw tensing further if that was even possible as he straightened in his chair and released the tight lock on his hands.

“Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve come to despise me somehow even though I don’t know why, but don’t you dare lie to me about that-“

“I’m not,” you exclaimed firmly, straightening a bit as well as silent outrage at his accusation flushed energy into your veins. It made for a fiery cocktail with the conviction behind your very conscious decisions – unlike the one getting shocked into a damn cardiac arrest. “I didn’t know this was going to happen, Steve. All I knew was that it was an untested prototype. So I made the strategic decision to-“

All blood seemed to drain form his face only to return in a millisecond as he damn well stuttered, a outrage colouring his expression and oh, had he have done it by that-

“A strat-- it is not your place to make strategic decisions-“

“I took a calculated risk, Steve!” you cut him off, trying hard to ignore the way it literally hurt to have your heart beating against you apparently bruised ribcage. It was surprisingly easy thanks to how distracting the level of hypocrisy Steve was exercising at the moment. “What would your decision be? A weapon that could get out of hand – imagine that. If it works, it’s all dandy, isn’t it? But if it doesn’t, you’re screwed. And whether the device works or not, if it ends up hurting the person using it, because there was no time to test it properly, you’re short of one skilled fighter. I am not a skilled fighter, you said so yourself, so I knew I was the best person for the job and I stand by that and would damn well do it all over again, and you can fight me or quote me on that!”

Steve bristled.

His jaw set even tighter, now seemingly sharp enough to cut bulletproof glass – and damn had you not been in a middle of exchanging opinions, would it have distracted you – his hands curled into fists.

But for a moment, he remained silent; no doubt fighting an inner battle, because he knew you would call his bluff if he said he would have done things differently. He wouldn’t. He knew you were right and that you had done the best call possible, even without his explicit approval.

He shook his head, willing his fists to relax for a bit as he took time to inhale and exhale slowly.

“That was not supposed to be your decision. It wasn’t right. Not if this was the price to pay,” he said, continuing before you could interrupt him, his voice levelled carefully. It mollified you; a little. “We don’t trade lives, Lo, it is not your choice to-“

“But it is my choice, Steve,” you opposed, “my choice to protect my friends. And you know the rules. I never let anyone use an untested prototype in the field.”

He huffed bitterly and finally released you from the cage of his gaze, running his hand down his face and nodding along as he heard you state, not for the first time, your most basic rule.

Except his nod was not one of approval, nor quite one of understanding. It was more of a nod of infuriation and helplessness when dealing with a stubborn mule.

Well, there were two of those in this conversation.

“Except you were just fine breaking that rule yourself. And it nearly killed you.”

The shiver that ran down your spine shook you, the bite of fear as old as time ice-cold. It nearly killed you. A primal part of your brain understood that, even as you were still processing that – or rather kept postponing the processing in favour of staying sane.

But the worry, so clear and vulnerable as it revealed itself in the depth of Steve eyes, had your shoulders slump, the fire feeding your argument slowly dying out as you felt something tight in your chest loosen just a bit despite the weight still sitting there.

“I didn’t know that was gonna happen, Steve, I swear. That wasn’t a choice,” you offered, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But… you’re near death every day – you all are, you make the choice every damn day-”

“Lo, that’s not-“

“And you, Steve, made a very deliberate choice like that over seventy years ago and on a whole different scale,” you reminded him, only to have to silence him when he opened his mouth to protest. “I didn’t make a conscious choice like that, but even if I did… I’m sorry, but you of all people really wouldn’t get to hold that against me. Because you already have traded your life – and you continue to risk it, every day. And the rest of us, mere mortals? We worry, we hope and we watch, unable to do a single thing, and still, we just suck it up, because that’s what you do-“

“It’s not what YOU DO!”

You flinched at the sudden outburst and the sudden movement of the mass of muscle he was, pushing to his feet and stalking a few feet away, eyes turned to the ceiling, a hand slowly running over his mouth.

You had winced at both the boom of his voice and the movement; but most of all, at his words.

Because those hurt.

It was childish in a way, you supposed; but those words burned through you like a wildfire and left nothing but smouldering ashes behind, a sharp sting at the very centre of your chest.

A razer-sharp reminder of who you were.

And who you weren’t.

Because who you weren’t, despite all you could ever do, was someone good enough.

You could feel Steve’s gaze turning back to you, no doubt drawn by the minute wince when he had noticed when he had snapped; but you refused to look at him. It hurt; and you refused to let him see just how much.

“Lo, I-“

You shook your head, a small gesture of your hand to stop him, pressing your lips in a tight line; and not at all willing to admit it was just so you wouldn’t find words to hurt him back – or to keep the stupid irrational sob in.

You got it. You really did. You had said as much to Sam; but that didn’t mean you were over it in the span of very long, very hard two days.

Steve was right, of course.

He had been right when he had said you didn’t get to make strategic decisions, and you were not able to defend yourself and that you simply weren’t an agent in the first place. Which would have been fine – because you did not want to be an agent.

You just wanted to be something more to Steve.

You used to think that maybe one day what you were – because Sam had also been right, you were irreplaceable as you were and you were pretty damn awesome, you knew that on a good day – could be enough for Steve.

But you wouldn’t. You weren’t. Never had been.

It was clear as day and violent as daylight after staying awake all night.

You licked your lips as you stared at the covers draped over your legs, trying your damn best to keep your voice calm and composed even as your nose stung with unshed tears.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Lo…”

“Was there anything else you needed, Captain?”

The sound pushing past his lips was guttural and painful, making your stomach clench. You squeezed your eyes shut.

It served him right. It served him right, because if you didn’t get to be close to him, he might as well get the hell out of your sight and out of your life. Just because you would never be a partner to him, he didn’t get to shove it to your face and make it hurt, to twist the knife in the still gaping wound. That was not fair of him. He couldn’t have it both ways.

Not even Steve damn Rogers, no matter how much your stupid heart ached for his love.

You hated how clearly you could see him even with your eyes closed; you heard his steps, could imagine the stiffness and rashness of his movements, the way he plumped back into the chair by your bed, the way he was leaning his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward.

His voice closer, a slight crack to it, a visceral note that made you nauseous just a bit with the vulnerability it displayed.

“Don’t… please don’t do this to me.”

It was almost enough. It was almost enough to make you fold and open your eyes and sooth him, but you couldn’t. Not now. You weren’t sure you ever should, if you were planning to stay sane and move on.

You gulped against the lump in your throat, but you persisted, repeating yourself.

“Was there anything else you-“

“Yeah, okay—alright,” he whispered, a rustle of fabric as he moved in his chair; but that was not the most prominent sound. That would be the resignation and barely masked hurt in his voice. “I deserve that. I do. Should I send for Sam?”

The unexpected question made you heart skip a beat and your eyes snap open despite your better judgement. A pair of eyes brimming with bright sadness stared back, an openly desperate yet achingly empty expression on Steve’s face; once more, your hands twitched with the instinctual need to comfort him.

No. Not now.

And he had asked you a question; that was why you had looked at him in the first place. The reminder had your heart skip another two very painful beats – probably literally, because Steve’s eyes flickered to the heart monitor by your bed with a frown.

“…why would you send for Sam? Where is he? Is he okay?” you demanded, mind scrambling for any memory of him being hit during the mission prior to your… intervention.

“No, he’s fine, he’s… he had a small cut on his arm and a few bruises, but he’s okay,” Steve reassured you, quick to do so, even if somewhat dully. “He said he needed to--- to take care of something.”

You breathed in and out, the ache in your ribcage easing except it did not. “Good.”

Steve looked as if he was the one in profound pain. And you broke.

You always broke when it came to him – that was your curse, even as you used to think that in a way, it was a blessing.

Where did that get you?

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, an idea occurring to you as to why he could be in pain even as he wasn’t – as unlikely it was that he would have been sitting by your bedside had it been any truth to it. “Is… Sharon okay?”

Steve’s smile might light up a room, you had often seen it happen; but the one he gave you now was just sad at its edges and did not reach his eyes, boring into yours again – intensely so, but without the previous pressure.

“We’re all just fine, Lo.”

“Good.”

Your voice was barely audible and yet it felt too loud in the sudden calm after the storm, a calm brushing over the rubble it had left behind; heavy stones you didn’t think you had the strength to move now, to build back up, the base of what you and Steve were – or used to be to each other – seemingly too shaky.

You weren’t sure you could ever rebuild it or whether you even should. Some things were better to left behind in order for something new to bloom; and yet, the idea of cutting Steve out of your life left like a hot wire splitting your heart in two.

And yet, Steve lifted the first stone, not to throw it because he was without sin; but to lay it gently into your hand so you could choose whether to throw it at him or choose to start with the restoration.

And like always, you couldn’t refuse an offer like that.

“I… I’m really sorry I yelled at you.”

“I get it, Steve, you were mad and I scared you-“

“That still didn’t give me the right,” he opposed quietly, lips slightly pursed, the sincerity of his regret breaking through the sadness still etched into his expression.

It hadn’t given him the right indeed – but he was only human.

And the volume of his voice wasn’t the problem, nor was him having startled you. You weren’t scared of him.

You were just scared of just how much he could make you feel and hurt and how little you were able to will yourself to do anything to take that power away from him.

“You barely even raised your voice, Steve-“

“And I’m still sorry,” he repeated in earnest. “I shouldn’t have. Yes, what you did, what happened to you--- it scared me, but that’s not an excuse. It definitely isn’t an excuse to blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind and hurt you.”

You gulped, your hand gripping the sheets.

Of course he had noticed the effect of his words. He wasn’t an idiot; most of the time anyway. And when he was an idiot, he was the kindest and the sincerest one. That was why you could never quite just make yourself not to love him.

God, he truly must have been the most infuriating person on the planet-

“I never want to hurt you, Lo. I’m sorry for that and for putting another thing between us even though I’m not sure what happened between us in the first place. I just…” he gulped, the deep, sad pools of blue searching your face you were sure had crumbled at his goddamn I never want to hurt you and the softness lacing your nickname. Your chest deflated a little and it hurt, physically and figuratively, Steve’s regrets about the distance that had been growing between you for weeks now tangible. “I’m sorry we’re this way. But… if I can’t be here for you, if don’t talk to me… fine—well, not fine, but--- what I’m trying to say is that whatever reason you have to hate me, fine, for now. But I know something’s been bothering you and now you nearly died, so you’d better talk to someone-“

“Why was your first thought Sam of all people?”

You couldn’t but notice a flash of hurt when you didn’t deny you hated him for the second time but you’d unpack that later – your heart was already brimming with something sweet and burning and aching.

“He… when you wouldn’t talk to me before, you… you clearly confided him in. You’re… it’s none of my business really, you two, you seem… close, so I thought-“

A sheen of ice-cold sweat covered your skin and had you shiver, your heart stumbling very painfully in your chest, the solid mattress under your body as if disappearing, replaced by a gaping void to which you stared despite the sudden vertigo.

“Hold on, did he--- tell you we talked or something?”

Did he tell you I’m fucking in love with you and jealous as hell?

Steve looked away.

“Steve?” you pressed.

“No. I… you’ve been avoiding me-“

“Oh, that’s rich-“

“And I know I haven’t exactly had a clear schedule, but it’s obvious still!” Steve interrupted your outrage with his own, even as his had earned an edge of an emotion you could not quite place. “And I tried to give you space--- but I also knew that mission where Nat got hurt would get to you too, but I had to leave and then, when I was back, you… you were already talking to Sam and—”

You watched Steve breathe in an out with growing confusion – but also with relief maddeningly mixed with disappointment.

Relief because he did not know. Disappointment for the very same reason.

Only now when you had a painful physical symptom, it dawned to you just how hard it had been to breathe around Steve due to both hope and anxiety.

“He’s a good guy, Lo. I’m… glad you have him, you deserve nothing less.”

An involuntary smile passed your lips, one that – for some reason – had Steve avert your gaze, the corners of his lips turned down just slightly, as if in a sad smile to mirror your own.

…why?

Your confusion was growing by the minute – and so was the heaviness in your limbs, but now was not the time to get tired.

“Yes, that we can agree on- Sam’s is a wonderful frie—wait hat do you mean have him? It’s not like he’s mine, we’re both friends with--- oh.”

The flicker of something on Steve’s face was a dead giveaway as to what he had meant, your brain short-circuiting for a few silent beats.

And you couldn’t but chuckle at the absurd conclusion he had come too, the sound leaving your lips unwittingly even as laughing hurt.

But… Steve thought you and Sam were dating?

Forget your heart having stopped – this was the most difficult revelation of the day to process.

Judging by the utter confusion and reluctant relief on Steve’s face, he seemed to think the very thing about your reaction.

“Sam? No. No, Steve, come on, I love Sam, but he’s like a brother to me--- not to mention he’s been gathering courage to ask Jess out for months and it’s been like a week since he did and he’s already a goner. When you said he said he needed to take care of something, he probably meant calling Jess, telling her he’s safe and sound.”

Steve’s lips parted soundlessly, a beat of silence, realization dawning on his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” you echoed, his face so endearingly scrunched as he chewed on that thought that you couldn’t but chuckle and have mercy on him; how could you be mad at him for just about anything when he had apologized, was concerned for the state of your relationship and looked like that? How could you ever hope to keep him at arm’s length or further just to protect your foolish heart?

You sighed, a seal inside you breaking, your shoulders slumping lower.

“Look, Steve I… as for what’s been bothering me… I told you. I’m just… going through some stuff-“

Like a flash of lightning, Steve’s contemplative expression disappeared, replaced by urgency as he leaned forward again, desperate sincerity lacing his features.

“So why don’t you let me help? What did I do? Why are you avoiding me--- and don’t tell me you aren’t, please, don’t insult me like that-“

“Steve, I just-“ you interrupted him, his gaze hanging on your face like a lifeline, the gears in your head turning madly as to figure out how to tell him the truth without telling him everything. “I just… need some time to come to terms with certain things. With… myself.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again, panic glimmering in his eyes for a moment.

“Are you sick?”

You frowned, confused by the question.

“…no?”

Not beyond having had a small cardiac arrest.

“Are you leaving the AI then? Is someone bothering you, giving you a hard time? We can take care of that, I’ll gladly take care of that personally—or-- look, if it’s about the money or the workshop or-“

“Steve, no-“

“Then what?” he breathed out, barely audible, but no less helpless and so unfairly gentle you felt tears sting in your eyes. “Tell me. I’ll try my best to make it better--- we all will. But please stop pushing me away unless you really do hate-”

“I don’t hate you, Jesus, Steve, I---”

The sheer visible relief at hearing that truly spoke of just how badly he had been affected by your mess of feelings and separation. Guilt instantly gnawed at your stomach.

Between all the wallowing about how Steve didn’t feel the same about you, you appeared to have forgotten about how deeply the beautiful man in front of you felt; how deeply he cared.

Of course he had been worried. Of course it had bothered him, no matter how much you tried to lie to yourself that he hadn’t to ease your ache.

His genuine relief was a vicious reminder from the universe of how deeply Steve loved his friends. It made your stomach twist and fill with butterflies all the same. Of course you only loved him for it all the more.

It was another pure viciousness of the universe to give humanity only one Steve Rogers. It was unfair that the one who existed could not be yours.

It was unfair and lovely that he continued to watch you expectantly; he was not going to let the topic go. Obviously. What a surprise, not, to see him stubborn.

You sighed again, licking your lips, unable to hold the weight of his gaze as you tried to look for the right words, fingers toying with the sheets.

“I just… I got too used to being—the girl,” you said.

You could practically hear his frown at that and huffed self-deprecatingly. “God, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. What I mean is… the team relied on me, you know? You relied on me, you spent a lot of time with me and… then Sharon showed up, replacing me, rightfully so, and I--- this is my shit to deal with. I know that. It’s just… my stupid feelings, my stupid jealousy. That’s what I’m dealing with and have to deal with on my own… because for a huge part, I’m… ashamed of it.”

“Lo-“

“Wait, I- let me finish please, or I’ll never get it out and I never want to talk about this again, so…. I got used to being your girl--- not your girl!” you swiftly corrected yourself, mortified at the slip-up. “I mean…your girl, and I know it sounds the same but it’s not really--- and I get it. Rationally, I get it, Steve, I really do and I want you to be happy.”

Finally, you found the courage to meet his gaze, vision blurry as you smiled, even if through your tears – because this part you weren’t ashamed of and was achingly certain of.

Chuckling breathlessly, you caught the stray tear that escaped your eye.

“Because, Steve, you deserve to be so happy. For who you are, for what you’ve been through and stand for and Sharon is perfect. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s badass, she’s a Carter, you’re clearly meant to be together and that’s great, so great, but I--- I have feelings too and I just… as happy as I am for you, I just need to digest the fact that I’m not the only female human in your life besides Nat and that romantic partners often come before friends and in a way they should-“

The hand suddenly enveloping yours made your voice crack and fall silent – at least that was what you told yourself. That it was the warm weight of Steve’s touch you craved every damn day, not your heart breaking at wishing Steve well with someone who was not you.

“Hold on-”

“I get it, I just… I just need some space and some time, okay?” you rasped, forcing another smile. You wanted to turn your hand to squeeze his hand reassuringly for a good measure; but he didn’t let you.

As your gaze flickered to your joined hands and back to his face, vision clearing, you were startled by two things. Three. No, make that four.

One, those handsome features of his, because goddammit, did it somehow still took you by surprise just how beautiful Steve was.

Two, his expression – caught somewhere between experiencing shell-shock and visceral need to do something.

Three, his eyes, having turned glassy.

And four and foremost, how everything about him – despite the urgency in his stance, leaning into your space so close your faces were a mere foot from each other – suddenly seemed impossibly tender.

“Whatever you need, Lo…” Steve muttered, his hand flexing over yours and gripping – gently, but very firmly. “But no. I… I truly am sorry. I never meant to neglect you because of this mission, let alone so much you’d feel like this. It… I sometimes get my head lost in the game and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have-“

“And yes,” he cut you off, holding your gaze seriously, “Sharon’s great and she’s been around a lot since we’re cooperating on this one, but… I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t needed or wanted, or god forbid, like you are somehow less than her. You are important to the team, you are our girl, you’re… as a person, as a team member, your inventions, your input – they’re crucial and I’ll never stop marvelling at what you can come up with. …even if it nearly kills you and me in the process--- Lo, I swear, when Friday reported the arrhythmia and then your heart stopped, I nearly had a heart attack and you’d better, in fact, never do that again-”

The broken rasp of his voice was like an ice-cold fist of guilt clutching at your heart and pulling, gently replaced by warm fondness, a few more tears spilling over when you spotted one of his own rolling down his cheek. You could not find your own voice, noting with slight embarrassment that your lower lip was a second from wobbling at the assault of emotion radiating off Steve.

And then his left hand slipped under your hand – now held between both of his – as he took a deep breath, chasing the clouds away, a soft frown twisting his face.

“But I have to ask… what on Earth makes you think me and Sharon are together or that I’m even interested in her as anything else than a fellow agent and a friend?”

You froze mid-inhale, air painfully catching in your bruised chest.

Your mind turned blank in an instant – a complete tabula rasa besides the essential script of your damn heart belonging to the man sitting by your bed, to the gentle giant cradling your hand between both of his, observing you with curiosity and what looked like a silent wonder.

You were wondering too.

You were confused as hell, your whole world tilting aside, your tongue feeling heavy and all kinds of funny as you tried to form words. 

“You’re… not?”

“No. …no-“

Admittedly, you were rather unimpressed at the strange expression on his face and his resolute tone, contrasting sharply with how many compliments to Sharon he had just agreed with – but that was the least of your worries.

“I mean…” Steve said, hesitating slightly, “you’re right. Objectively, she’s all you said, but even if I was interested in her, the fact that she is a Carter and I was once in love with her grandaunt would make it rather awkward.”

“Oh.”

That was all you managed to choke out: an oh.

What an eloquent intelligent human being you were.

But in all honesty, your mind was blanking out on all words in English and any other language beyond what the hell and Steve is not interested in Sharon.

What he had said made sense, in a way. You supposed.

It had just never occurred to you.

But it had never also occurred to you just how wrong you could interpret Steve’s behaviour.

This whole time, ever since Sharon perfect Carter had walked in, you had been heartbrokenly sure Steve must have fallen for her. But he claimed that he hadn’t.

It would be great news if it didn’t boggle your mind and if the fact he wasn’t into her automatically meant he could ever be into you. And if all that time you had spent away, avoiding him and a broken heart at seeing him with Sharon in the process… hadn’t been for nothing and hadn’t hurt you both. Steve was clearly bothered that he hadn’t had time for you, for his close friend, and that whole time, he had known for a fact that you had been avoiding him--

God you were such an idiot.

And sure, Steve probably wouldn’t have been able to throw the first stone, not without some blame himself, but—

How could you have misjudged the situation so catastrophically…? How?

Jealousy.

Hurt.

Love.

All easy answers and complicated emotions that had blinded you.

For a rather rational person you liked to think you were, the man sitting with you still, holding your hand gently and firmly, still, sure stoked the fire of feelings so deep within you there had been no escaping that emotional bias.

It would have been wonderful had your feelings been reciprocated and had not Steve been observing you intently, eyes flickering all over your face and drinking in every detail of your face and taking a good, long look into your eyes, staring into your very soul in all its nakedness.

You reciprocated his gaze but for a few seconds until you could not bear it anymore, your heart, while trembling at his attention, speeding up with its every beat, your panic rising, because it was true what Sam had said about Steve.

He might be slow and blind when it came to certain things, but he was one damn brilliant man and you knew it.

And right now, it felt like certain puzzle pieces in his mind were falling into place and-

“You know,” Steve whispered, “Bucky told me I’m dumb like a ton of bricks if I don’t know what’s going on with you, but he wouldn’t tell me, the jerk. I… I think I’m starting to understand why.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, finding his gaze impossibly soft and you gulped, goosebumps rising all over your skin in anticipation.

You weren’t ready. You were not ready at all – to face his judgement. With your confession about jealousy and other feelings you had, with his own brilliance, he must have known now, and he was about to let you down gently, because ‘I never want to hurt you, Lo’ was something he had meant wholeheartedly.

Steve squeezed your hand, taking a deep breath – and in turn, you held your own.

“I’m going to go on a limp here, Lo, but… having established that you’re always gonna be our girl… would you… do you ever think about being my girl?” he asked softly.

Your heart skipped a beat – very, very painfully so, so much you winced and sucked in a startled breath before your body rebooted and your heart started racing again.

And your mind followed.

Your vision blurred a bit, your mouth turning dry.

He--- did he just-

Forget your heart having stopped, forget Steve having thought you were dating or about to date Sam; you had spoken too soon. This was the most definitely going to be the most difficult revelation of the day to process.

Because it--- did Steve just asked you out? Was that what he meant?

Well, you supposed that with how loosely you had used the term ‘your girl’, maybe he had-

“When… when you say your girl, you mean-“

One corner of his lips twitched, whether from nerves or a smile you couldn’t tell. His hold on your hand loosened slightly, his thumb running over the back of your hand, the gesture combined with… everything, making for a choked startled sound in the back of your throat, awaking a sparkle in Steve’s eye, his lips curling up further.

“My best girl.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s not entirely clear wording-“

“The dame I’d like to take on a date, sweep her off her feet and after she forgives me for acting like an ass, kiss her breathless if she lets me,” he stated in all seriousness.

You swallowed another startled sound, your head suddenly spinning.

Okay, that’s… that’s clearer.

And wonderful.

So, so wonderfully incredible.

You blinked, your brain somehow still processing what your heart instantly understood – and recognized as true.

Steve said was not interested in Sharon.

Steve was clearly interested in you.

Steve cared about you very deeply.

There might even be a slight chance that Steve was – just the tinniest bit at least – in love with you.

There was also a fair chance Steve had actually been jealous of Sam – perhaps the same way you had been of Sharon.

And there was a hundred percent chance you were both utter idiots.

And Steve would like to sweep you off your feet and kiss you breathless.

While he continued to regard with softly, he was also clearly expecting an answer the lack of thereof let uncertainty into his gaze, growing by the second.

You could not have that, because then he might take his words back, taking your silence for rejection; and meanwhile both of his suggestions made you speechless in the best way and gave birth to a fluttery feeling in your stomach, something warm, oh so endlessly warm, spreading in your achy ribcage.

“I’d… really like that,” you breathed out weakly, only now realizing you might have been holding your breath. How could you not? If anything, you were practising for Steve stealing all air from your lungs if he’d kiss you, those soft, undoubtedly soft lips--- your licked yours, your heart stumbling a bit as Steve’s gaze automatically flickered down to your mouth. “That, uhm… that’d be nice.”

Especially the kissing part.

Steve’s eyes snapped back up, relief mixing with amusement.

“Nice?”

Heat flooded your face, indignation, shame and affection all at once.

“Oh go to hell, Steve, my heart had like three hundred joules running through it today and I just learned that you’d like to kiss me which I really approve of, so I don’t have the mental capacity to be Shakespeare right now-“

As you automatically tried to jerk your hand free – despite his teasing being gentle – his hold on you turned into a tender vice, his features twisting with concern.

“Oh I know, doll, no need to remind me,” he muttered, sighing deeply, your mind instantly latching onto the new endearment, your face flushing further. With another sigh, Steve turned your hand to rest in his palm, his left index carefully following your lifeline “That’s one more vivid nightmare to haunt me. I… probably shouldn’t have sprung all that on you, as happy as I am that you said yes. It’s a date, though.”

A sweet, boyish smile passed his lips.

“But I should let you rest. You had a very long day.”

And wasn’t that the understatement of the goddamn year. You felt exhaustion settling into your bones despite joy still humming in your veins; you were not quite ready to let Steve go. Not now. Not ever.

After the briefest thought of telling him that perhaps the long day had earned you a goodnight kiss then, you covered his hand still drawing on your palm with yours, stilling his movements.

“So did you,” you pointed out, earning a noncommittal sound of agreement. “And uhm… sometimes we deal with a long day together, right? I miss that.”

He lifted his gaze, his smile, while not quite lighting up his face, warm like the sunshine itself and you couldn’t reciprocate, your heart finally free to thumb-thumb wildly in your chest in a rhythm of a lovesong you had been trying to silence for quite the while.

“Yeah, me too. I missed you, Lo.”

“I missed you too… plus, you just asked me out on a date, it would be rude to just leave.”

“That is true,” he said, a sparkle in his eye at last. “But I do think you should get some sleep. I’ll be here if you want me… fending off your nightmares at least.”

God knows I have enough nightmares for a lifetime, you read in his gaze. And one of them is losing you to something much worse than rejection and carrying another regret greater than life for the rest of my days.

You hummed, eyes stinging at the vulnerability of the words that might have not be pushed past his lips, but were written in his warm, sad smile.

“I’d like that, Steve… stay with me?”

He smiled a little wider, scooting his chair closer, one of his hands escaping the complicated tangle by your side in favour of pressing carefully to your shoulder to lie down into the cushions fully, brushing over your jaw lightly, tender fingers continuing up to smoothen your hair.

Despite how heavy your body was feeling by the minute – had been for a while – your heartbeat picked up at the sweet gesture, Steve’s eyes on you intently as if to look for any sign of discomfort, pain, or protest.

He found none.

“I’m not going anywhere, Lo…” he promised, squeezing your hand, fingers wavering by your cheek before he moved to cradle your jaw, leaning in. “But you should know that neither are you. I don’t care how many gadgets you and Tony come up with, how much protective gear you can get – I’m never letting you in the field again.”

“Hey-“

Before you indignation could flare up at his very bossy decision or the fact he just had to bring it up now, the little shit, the fire was put out, replaced by warmth spreading from where Steve’s lips brushed your forehead in a tender kiss, all the way to your fingertips and toes.

“But that’s a problem for another day… rest, Lo. I’ll be right here.”

Your mouth opened, any retort or protest overruled by your body literally melting under his affection.

“You’re playing dirty…” you muttered, no power behind your words. “Please continue.”

Steve’s breath tickled your hairline as he chuckled and kissed your forehead again, your eyes slipping shut, an unvoluntary but welcomed smile spreading on your lips, softening when Steve’s fingertips caressed along your jaw.

You could fall asleep to such tenderness. Every night. Especially after having quite a long day.

“Rest so I can woo you as soon as possible, Lo,” Steve whispered, kissing you one more time, this time on your cheek, before retreating back to his chair. Both his hands took one of yours again, keeping it warm, safe and his.

Just like you.

“That’s an order I can get behind, ‘ptain… Thank ya’ for being here.”

“Trust me… there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

And he meant it; every word. Of that you were sure of, even as you mind welcomed the soft darkness of a peaceful sleep, watched over by the fiercest, kindest protector you’d ever know.

As sleep led you away from him, Steve took several steadying breaths, letting the emotions of the indeed long day wash over him, closing is eyes just for a moment, wincing at the first image appearing in his mind being your terrifyingly still form.

He had not spoken a single lie to you, having been scared out of his mind – he had only kept certain truths from you. Like the truth that kept tugging at the corners of his lips up despite you being in a hospital bed.

He loved you.

And he was going to sweep you off your feet over and over to prove it, to let you feel just how much light was expanding in his chest whenever he could see you, talk to you, hold you; and feel that you cared about him too, more than he had ever hoped.

When he opened his eyes, it was almost as if you could hear his thoughts; while in the dreamland, bruised and exhausted beyond life, there was a small relaxed smile in your lips, one that drew Steve’s gaze like a magnet.

That was how Sam found him; that was what greeted Steve too. A telling, dopey grin on both of their faces.

Sam might have said Steve was far from blind and was quite brilliant, but the man himself was right up there with him, instantly understanding something had changed between you and Steve. When Steve asked him about a certain Jessica, Sam’s grin only widened; and Steve only wondered how he had missed it all before.

Love truly could be blind, couldn’t it? You would know, too; how you had never realized how he had felt for you was beyond him.

But the important thing was that he’d show you, now; and you agreed to let him.

As if Sam could hear his thoughts, he patted Steve’s shoulder, not staying longer than was necessary to learn how you were doing and to tell Steve to tell you he stopped by.

As he left, Sam took Steve’s gloomy thoughts of the day with him, leaving only contentment settling deep into Steve’s ribcage. As he still held onto you, he allowed to the sound of your regular breathing be a balm to his soul, the feeling on your hand in his be a balm for his heart.

Next chapter (Epilogue) // Series masterlist

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading, loves! Thoughts, encouragements and reblogs are always appreciated ✨

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Hello dear readers! I wanted to get to this chapter much sooner, but life has been happening and muse was protesting against the length of this… so it might have taken a while, but you got a double-length serving AND feels... yay!?🥰

With this chapter, I’m also crossing the 2 mil. word count on AO3. Might have been sooner with the blurbs I posted here on tumblr, but that is not the point… I just want to thank you if you’ve been here with me for some of those words and supported my writing. Thank you 💕

May your days be filled with love 💕

[zaraomarrogers]

Ohhh Steve ❤️😍 this was so good.

Thank you for writing and sharing this 💕

as its the 4th of july, aka steve’s birthday (at least mcu wise)… i have a request IF THATS OKAY ML 😔🫶

steves been avoiding the compound bc its always where tony has this big teasing session with a cake. its leveled down to JUST the avengers after steves embarrassed and shy face, humble as usual. so hes around brooklyn, early in the morning—DROVE THERE (wtf ik, but it gives him some peace amidst the storm that is his overly exerted mind) last night bc he wanted to escape the constant eyes.

reader, ever so observant and curious—bc reader has this bond with steve ofc, took a subway (like normal??) and was just quiet with him. and when it was time to go back to nyc and face the team, there was a moment. just a second, where they saw one another and crossed friendship’s edge. do what you will with that, but soft intimacy makes my heart melt—whether or not sex included doesnt matter to me.

anyway, bye queen love you 🫂🖤

YES OMG I don’t know if I interpreted that request correctly which I’m most certain that I probably did not BUT ITS FIIINE ha ha it’s fine. 😄

── FOURTH OF JULY

SUMMARY: When Steve slips out before Tony’s fireworks show can turn his birthday into a circus, he doesn’t expect anyone to come looking for him — least of all her. But she finds him anyway, tucked away in an old park with his vintage car and all his ghosts for company. Armed with a single cupcake, a cheap candle, and words she knows he needs more than he’ll ever say, she turns his runaway moment into something soft and real — something just for him. Between stolen wishes, shy confessions, and the hush of Brooklyn on a summer night, Steve remembers what it feels like to be just a man — not a symbol, not a myth. And maybe, just maybe, a single stolen kiss under a canopy of fireworks is exactly the kind of freedom he’s always needed.

genre: nostalgic fluff, soft birthday moment, runaway birthday, comfort, gentle romance

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

tw: soft intimacy, mild suggestive content but nothing too explicit, emotional vulnerability, affectionate banter, shy kisses, tender wish-making, nostalgia, Brooklyn at night, vintage car vibes, found comfort, implied mutual pining, a little size difference softness, lingering touches, small but meaningful birthday gestures, Steve being impossibly gentle and real

authors note: This was cutesy and I love this. Happy Fourth of July to the Americans even though it’s currently 3am on the fifth of July in Germany so um🥰 we love that

The Fourth of July — America’s grand, blazing testament to its own mythos — had arrived in a fanfare of cheap fireworks and overpriced sparklers, flags fluttering from porch rails and lampposts alike, every street corner draped in the same shades of red, white, and blue. If ever there was a day made for a man called Captain America, it was this one — his day, twice over. Independence and birth all wrapped into a single date on the calendar, every firework a belated candle for a cake he’d never asked for.

Yet Steve Rogers, that walking relic of wartime posters and morale-boosting slogans, had never found much comfort in the noise of it. If anything, the pageantry made him restless, like a ghost pressed too close to the glass of his own legend. He’d tried — Lord knew he’d tried — to play along in the early years, to stand still and smile politely while Tony Stark orchestrated parades of excess in his honor. But the older he got — which, ironically, he barely did — the more the spectacle chafed at him.

This year was no different. Slipping through the maze of the compound’s corridors like a soldier on a covert op, Steve caught sight of the monstrosity Tony had commissioned this time: a colossal cake, so garishly frosted in swirls of scarlet, navy, and purest white that it looked more like a circus tent than something meant to be eaten. It took three catering staff just to maneuver it through the doorway, their arms trembling under its weight while Tony barked orders from behind them, brimming with that uncontainable Stark enthusiasm that made subtlety seem like a foreign language.

Suppressing a sigh that threatened to slip free, Steve pressed on before anyone could spot him, weaving through side halls until he reached the garage. There, waiting in the hush of the dimly lit space, sat the car — his car — an old classic Tony had restored years ago, part apology, part vanity project, and part attempt to tether Steve to the modern world by wrapping the past in chrome and fresh paint. The metal gleamed faintly under the garage lights, all curved fenders and polished trim, a quiet promise of escape.

Sliding behind the wheel, Steve took a moment just to breathe — to let the scent of old leather and motor oil settle something deep in his chest. The engine rumbled to life under his hand with a soft, reassuring growl, like an old friend clearing its throat. He pulled out of the compound as unobtrusively as a six-foot-two super soldier in a vintage car could manage, the road unfurling ahead of him in long ribbons of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights.

Brooklyn called to him the way it always did — not the Brooklyn of condos and glass towers that had risen like weeds in the decades he’d been gone, but the shadows of it that still clung to the corners if you knew where to look. He drove with the window cracked open, the warm summer air spilling in, carrying faint traces of barbecue smoke and distant fireworks already testing the dusk. On the tinny radio, an old swing tune crackled through the static, the same songs that had once drifted from dance halls and war bond rallies, ghost notes threading the gap between then and now.

And for a while, with his hands steady on the wheel and the city lights flickering like fireflies on the horizon, Steve let himself believe — just for tonight — that maybe not everything good had been left behind in the pages of history books and sepia photographs. Maybe, if he drove far enough into Brooklyn’s sleeping streets, he might find a fragment of it waiting for him still.

It was later into the day, the sky burnished with that quiet gold only summer evenings could conjure, when Y/N first noticed Steve’s absence. The party had begun to spill out of the main common area into the hallways and terraces, laughter punctuated by the occasional whoosh of sparklers and distant echo of firecrackers from the city below. Yet the space he’d left behind seemed unmistakable now: a silent, oddly shaped vacancy only Steve could fill.

Pushing through the low hum of conversation, Y/N made her way toward where Natasha Romanoff had settled herself — perched on the arm of a couch, watching Clint and Wanda argue over a battered deck of cards, her gaze as amused as it was unreadable. “Have you seen Steve?” Y/N asked, her voice softer than she’d intended, almost as if she were hoping the question might answer itself.

Nat lifted her coffee cup, the steam curling in lazy spirals, and tilted her head in thought. “Hmm,” she hummed, the sound curling into a faint smirk. “Pretty sure he dipped a few hours ago.” She took a slow sip, her eyes following Y/N’s reaction.

“Oh.” The word slipped out smaller than she’d meant, her lips tugging into a frown that betrayed more than she liked. Turning on her heel, she walked toward the door, snatching her jacket from the back of a chair with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“Where you going?” Nat’s voice called after her, a knowing edge threaded through the casual question.

“I’ll be back,” Y/N tossed over her shoulder, pulling her jacket on. “Leave me a sparkler so I can blow it out in Tony’s office.”

Nat barked out a low laugh, genuine and brief. “Hell yeah.”

Outside, the air had grown cooler, the heat of midday retreating into pockets of warm concrete and drifting smoke from neighborhood barbecues. Y/N tugged her jacket closer around her frame as she walked down the path away from the compound, the echo of her boots muffled by gravel and grass.

She made her first stop at a small corner bakery she’d stumbled into weeks before, a place that still smelled of sugar-dusted nostalgia and fresh bread. The bell above the door gave a soft jangle as she stepped in, choosing a cupcake whose frosting swirled like a careless, hopeful wish. The baker wrapped it carefully, paper rustling, and Y/N thanked them with a distracted smile, already planning her next stop.

A few blocks away, she ducked into a narrow general store lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that hummed overhead. The aisles smelled faintly of floor polish and old wood, the shelves crowded with everything from cheap toys to dusty tins of soup. She found a pack of slim white candles and a small, folded card printed with a plain navy border — nothing loud or festive, nothing that screamed celebration, just something simple, honest.

Back outside, the sky had deepened to a dusky violet, streaked with rose-gold where the last of the sun clung stubbornly to the horizon. Streetlights blinked to life in quiet succession, and a warm breeze teased stray strands of hair across her face. She walked with purpose now, her boots tapping out a steady rhythm on cracked sidewalks as she descended the steps into the subway station, the stale underground air rushing up to greet her.

The platform was half-empty, the muted chatter of waiting passengers broken only by the squeal and clatter of an arriving train. She stepped inside and found an empty seat near the back, the vinyl sticky from summer heat, and settled the plastic bag in her lap.

Digging through its contents, she pulled out the card and a slim black pen she’d tossed in earlier. For a moment she hesitated, pen hovering, the words gathering in her mind but refusing to fall into place. The sway and shudder of the train seemed to nudge them free, and slowly, deliberately, she began to write — her careful cursive curling across the blank card, each letter a quiet offering meant for a man who never quite learned how to celebrate himself.

Beyond the window, the city blurred past in streaks of rust and concrete, neon signs flickering to life one by one as night finally claimed the sky. And for the first time that evening, Y/N let herself hope that wherever Steve had gone to be alone, she might still be able to find him there.

Steve had drifted somewhere between waking and sleep, the steady chorus of cicadas and the distant pop of fireworks dissolving into a lullaby against the hum of his idling car. He’d found this old park by sheer muscle memory, a place that felt half-remembered even when he was wide awake — a sliver of green tucked between apartment blocks and cracked sidewalks, where the world slowed just enough for him to feel like a man again instead of a symbol.

His seat was pushed back as far as it would go, the leather warm against his shoulders. Through the windshield, the sky was a velvet sprawl of deepening indigo, stars peeking out in shy, scattered freckles above the sleepy treetops. He’d counted a handful before his eyelids grew too heavy to keep track.

The soft, polite tap on the passenger-side window startled him back to himself. He blinked, brow furrowing until his eyes adjusted, then softened immediately when he saw her — Y/N, bundled in that too-big jacket she always shrugged into when she wanted to disappear into herself. She stood there under the halo of a flickering streetlamp, her breath fogging the glass just slightly, her smile shy but certain.

Something unspooled in his chest — something warm and grateful and heavy with the kind of affection he never quite found the words for. Without thinking, he reached across the console and popped the lock. The door gave a soft click as she opened it and slipped inside, careful not to bump the cupcake box she’d balanced in her arms. Steve leaned over, tugging the door shut behind her, the old hinges creaking in protest.

“You’re not that hard to find, you know,” she teased, her voice soft in the hush of the car, her grin tucked into the corner of her mouth like a secret. She smelled faintly of frosting and city air, a gentle contrast to the scent of old leather and the faint cologne that clung to his shirt collar.

He huffed out a laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest as he shifted to face her more fully, his seat squeaking as it moved. “I wasn’t trying to hide,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well. Not good hiding, at least.” He let the quiet confession hang between them like an apology he knew she’d never ask him to make.

She just shook her head, pulling her knees up onto the seat and turning to face him properly. The overhead light caught the curve of her cheek, the tiny flecks of glitter from some stray sparkler still clinging to her hair. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice softer now, the edges of his smile curling around his words as if he were trying to hold onto the moment and keep it from slipping away.

She lifted the small bakery box between them like an offering, her grin blooming wider. “Birthday rescue mission,” she said. “I figured you’d rather blow out a candle in the middle of Brooklyn than let Tony set off an entire pyrotechnic display in your honor.”

Steve let out a breathy chuckle, warm and full of something he couldn’t quite name but didn’t bother to hide. His eyes flicked from the box to her face and back again, a tender gratitude settling into the lines of his expression. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, but the truth of it was written all over his features — how much he needed exactly this: something small, something kind, something real that reminded him he was still Steve, not just the man they’d plastered across history books.

Y/N shrugged, brushing an invisible crumb from her knee. “I know,” she said, voice hushed, softening the night. “But I wanted to.” She rummaged in her bag for the candles and the little card, the cheap plastic lighter rattling somewhere at the bottom. Outside, a distant boom of fireworks painted the car interior with quick flashes of red and gold, brief enough to feel like borrowed magic.

Steve watched her, the corner of his mouth lifted in that gentle, lopsided smile she’d always loved — the one that made him look like the boy he used to be, before the shield, before the war, before the world decided who he was supposed to be. And for a moment, under the hush of old trees and the crackle of sparklers in the distance, he let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — this was enough.

She unwrapped the cupcake with delicate care, setting it gently on the center console between them as though it were something precious and breakable. The frosting had smudged a little from the ride over, but it still looked charming in its imperfection — a swirl of soft white peaks dusted with a few scattered sprinkles that had shifted to one side.

Then came the card — small enough to tuck into a back pocket, its navy border neat against the off-white paper. Steve let out an unguarded snort, the sound low and fond, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Don’t laugh,” she shot back quickly, her words bubbling out with more warmth than annoyance. “It’s small, yes, but it still counts.” She held it out to him, her brows raised in mock severity, though the faint curve at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement.

“Oh, most definitely,” Steve deadpanned, tilting his head slightly as he took the card from her hand. “I barely even noticed the size,” he added, voice dipped into a teasing solemnity that didn’t quite reach the grin tugging at his mouth. The paper felt warm where her fingers had held it, the edges slightly bent from the subway ride. Yet he didn’t open it right away — instead, he balanced it carefully on his knee, content to just watch her finish whatever quiet ritual she’d conjured for him.

She rummaged again through the rustling plastic bag, her forehead creased in concentration as she produced a pack of thin white candles. Choosing one, she gently twisted it into the cupcake’s frosting, the wax wobbling a little before it found its balance. The empty bag she tossed into the backseat with a careless flick of her wrist.

“Shoot,” she murmured under her breath, her eyes lifting to his with a small, rueful pout. “I don’t have a lighter.”

Steve felt his smile widen into something helplessly soft, something that tugged at old, half-healed places inside him. Wordlessly, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans, his fingertips brushing the worn metal of the lighter he’d lifted from Bucky months back — more out of habit than necessity. He held it out to her between two fingers, the brushed steel catching the soft glow from the dashboard lights.

Her answering grin bloomed like a spark itself, quick and bright, as she took it from him. “Thanks,” she murmured. The lighter felt heavy in her palm, and it took a few flicks — the first ones sputtering out in stubborn sparks — before the small, steady flame finally caught.

She leaned in slightly, shielding the tiny candle with her hand from the ghost of a breeze sneaking through the cracked windows. In that moment, Steve couldn’t help but watch her: the quiet concentration in her eyes, the soft press of her bottom lip between her teeth, the way the flame briefly illuminated the delicate line of her jaw and the faint freckles across her cheekbones.

When the wick finally took, the single flame wavered, sending a thin ribbon of warm light dancing over the car’s interior. Outside, another distant firework broke against the sky, its echo rolling through the night like a slow heartbeat.

“There,” she said softly, voice almost reverent, as if they were in a chapel built of steel and summer air. “Make a wish, birthday boy.”

Steve let out a quiet breath, his gaze caught between the candle’s gentle flicker and the even softer warmth in her eyes. For once, the wish came easily, unspoken and simple. Something small. Something real. Something that felt, for this moment, like home.

Steve leaned forward, drawing in a slow breath to blow out the flickering flame, but before he could, her palm pressed firmly over his mouth. He froze, eyes flicking up to meet hers, eyebrows arching just a little in mock affront. Her hand was warm against his skin, her fingers soft where they brushed the edge of his stubble.

“You have to close your eyes for it to come true,” she said, her tone dipped somewhere between patient and teasing, a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes that made her look a little younger, a little more reckless than the world usually allowed her to be.

Steve huffed out a sigh against her palm, his breath warm on her skin. “Since when?” he mumbled, words muffled, his eyes narrowing as if he didn’t quite buy it but loved hearing her say it anyway.

“Since forever,” she shot back, fingers slipping away as she straightened, giving him just enough space to breathe. “Do you want your wish to come true? Yes. You do. So close your eyes, Captain.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound vibrating in the small space between them, his shoulders relaxing as the last traces of weariness seemed to roll off him like an old coat. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he teased, but obediently let his lashes drift down, the weight of the day pulling him into that small darkness where he could wish without feeling foolish.

“Good,” she murmured, satisfaction flickering across her features as she leaned in a fraction closer, the scent of frosting and summer air and the faintest trace of his cologne mixing between them. “You have your wish, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the words soft and slightly sheepish, like a promise made under blanket forts or whispered on creaking front porches in the middle of the night.

“Now blow,” she said, her voice gentler than before, the mischief fading just enough to make room for something tenderer, something more real.

Steve lingered for a heartbeat longer, as if tucking the wish deeper into his chest where the world couldn’t touch it. Then he leaned forward and with one quiet breath, snuffed the tiny flame out of existence. Smoke curled up from the wick in a thin, silvery ribbon that drifted out the open window, carrying his secret with it into the bruised dusk beyond.

When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him, her grin softened into something almost shy. She reached over, brushing an invisible crumb from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “You can eat your cupcake now,” she whispered, her words so close they skimmed his lips like a promise.

He huffed out a small laugh and carefully lifted the cupcake from its nest on the console, its frosting now slightly dented where the candle had been. With the same deliberate gentleness he used for everything that mattered, he split it neatly in half, crumbs tumbling onto the faded leather seat between them.

He held out the bigger piece to her without a second’s thought — as if there had never been any question. Just like every other time. Just like when they sat cross-legged on the floor at two in the morning sharing the last slice of blueberry pie Nat had stashed behind the milk. Or when he’d torn his sandwich in half during a layover in some nowhere airstrip, the two of them perched on duffel bags under flickering fluorescent lights. Or the countless missions when a single bar of chocolate had to be split between bruises and exhaustion and the comfort of knowing neither of them would ever have to finish alone.

She took it from his hand, their fingers brushing in that quick, unspoken gratitude that said more than any speech could. For a moment, neither of them moved to eat. They just sat there, knees knocking gently together in the quiet cocoon of the car, the soft echo of fireworks rolling through the dark like distant thunder, Brooklyn alive and breathing all around them.

And there, between a half-eaten cupcake and an old lighter borrowed from an equally old friend, Steve Rogers allowed himself to feel, for the briefest flicker of time, that maybe this — this small, human, stubborn piece of normal — was the best wish he’d ever made.

“Did you read your card?” she asked around a mouthful of cupcake, her voice muffled but bright, as if she half hoped to distract herself from the fact that they were here, tucked away in this bubble of warm air and soft secrets. Crumbs clung to the corner of her lip, a smear of frosting trailing up her cheek in a way that made her look almost impossibly young, carefree in a way neither of them got to be very often.

Steve let out a quiet huff of laughter, the kind that curled at the edges and settled somewhere warm in his chest. Without thinking — and perhaps because thinking would have made him hesitate — he reached across the narrow console, brushing the pad of his thumb against her cheek to collect the stray bit of frosting. He didn’t pause, didn’t second-guess it — just brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean, an absent, intimate gesture that made something soft stutter in her chest.

She looked away so quickly her hair slipped over her shoulder, hiding the heat that bloomed in her cheeks. But Steve didn’t seem to notice the way her breath caught or the sudden flutter in her pulse. He was already shaking his head, reaching for the small card she’d slipped into his hand earlier — that simple piece of folded paper that now felt like it weighed more than the shield ever did.

He opened it carefully, his broad fingers gentle on the fragile crease, eyes scanning the familiar slant of her handwriting. He didn’t speak, not at first — just sat there with the card balanced between his fingertips like it might vanish if he held it too tight. His thumb traced over the lines of ink, slow and thoughtful, like he could feel the warmth she’d tucked into every curve of every letter.

When he finally looked up at her, really looked, the weight of him settled in the small space between them like a heartbeat. His gaze, steady and impossibly gentle, carried the same quiet gravity that had once held battle lines and broken men together — but here, now, it was stripped of all that armor. Just him. Just Steve. Just this.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was so soft it barely rose above the hum of the idling engine and the distant thump of fireworks echoing through Brooklyn’s summer air. Two simple words, but somehow they held more truth than all the speeches ever written in his name. He pressed the card briefly to his chest — a gesture so unselfconscious, so instinctive, that it almost made her heart ache — before folding it closed again, tucking it carefully into his pocket like an anchor, a promise, a small relic of something deeply, stubbornly human.

“You’re welcome,” she breathed, her voice a hush of warmth, the word threading the tiny space between them like a secret only they knew how to keep.

For a moment neither of them moved. The car around them felt impossibly still, the world beyond reduced to muffled pops of distant celebration and the faint rustle of leaves in the warm night air. Steve’s eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and for once he didn’t look away. He just leaned in, slow and deliberate, the faint squeak of old leather under his shifting weight the only sound between them.

She mirrored him without thinking, a soft pull guiding her forward until they were both hovering over the center console, knees brushing, shoulders almost touching. There was no rush, no fireworks needed — just the quiet promise of breath and heartbeat and the gravity of two people who had spent so long learning how to stay steady in a world that never was.

When his nose brushed hers, she let out a soft, surprised exhale — a sound that made Steve smile against her skin, a fleeting curve of his mouth that she could feel before she ever tasted it. And then, finally, like the quiet closing of a door on the rest of the world, he closed the space between them and kissed her — slow and careful, but certain in a way that said this was always going to happen.

Outside, somewhere beyond the worn steel and old leather, fireworks bloomed against the dark like fleeting, burning stars — but here, in the hush of an old car parked in a corner of Brooklyn that still remembered who they used to be, the only spark that mattered was the one flickering to life in the soft press of his lips against hers.

They lingered in that first kiss like they had all the time in the world, like nothing outside the old car could touch them if they just stayed right here, lips brushing, breath mingling in the hush of an empty street corner in Brooklyn. When Steve finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction — just enough to catch the soft, involuntary sound of protest she let slip, a tiny, unguarded whimper that slipped through the space between them like a secret she hadn’t meant to give away.

The sound made him smile — a quiet, helpless thing that tugged at the edges of his mouth and reached all the way into his eyes. Without a word, he dipped forward again, catching her lips with his like a promise renewed, his palm coming up to cradle her cheek. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and reverent, tilting her face just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste the sweetness of frosting lingering at the corner of her mouth.

Outside, the sky cracked itself open again — a low, distant boom that rattled the windows and spilled invisible color through the warm dark. Neither of them turned to look; it was enough to feel it rumbling through the metal frame, enough to know the world was still spinning, still burning bright, while they pressed pause on the small, stubborn piece of it they’d claimed for themselves.

In the cramped cocoon of the car, where the air smelled faintly of old leather and vanilla icing and the ghost of gasoline, they clung to each other as if the night might change its mind at any second. Steve kissed her like he could hold back the morning with just his mouth, like each brush of his lips might anchor him here, now, in a heartbeat that belonged to no one but her.

He kissed her with a patience that only made it worse — worse in that wonderful, helpless way that made her hands fist in the soft cotton of his shirt, her breath catching every time he pulled back just enough to make her chase him for more. When his tongue brushed hers, gentle but certain, she melted into him, soft and pliant and impossibly alive in his hands.

Her arms slipped around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, and he hummed into the kiss — a low, contented sound that rumbled through his chest and reverberated against her palms. He pulled back just far enough to breathe a word into her mouth, so quiet it barely qualified as sound at all.

“Come here,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in a command, his breath warm and unsteady where it kissed her lips.

She didn’t hesitate — didn’t stop to think how ridiculous they probably looked, tangled up in an old car parked beneath the sleepy branches of an ancient oak, fireworks unseen but felt in the tremor of the world beyond the glass. She braced one hand on the console, the other on his shoulder, and with a soft laugh that caught in her throat, climbed over the divide between them.

Her knees pressed into the worn leather seat on either side of his hips, the hem of her jacket slipping down her arms as she settled into his lap. Steve’s hands found her hips without thought, wide palms warm and steady as they skimmed over the curve of her waist, grounding her, grounding him, holding them both right there in that fragile, stolen moment.

She leaned in, one hand threading into the short hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him back into her orbit as if she couldn’t stand the few inches of air that still dared to separate them. When their mouths met again, there was nothing patient left in it — just the soft, breathless urgency of two people who had spent too many nights pretending they didn’t want exactly this.

Outside, the world kept exploding in color they didn’t need to see. Inside, she tasted like vanilla and firework smoke and something Steve had been chasing his whole life without knowing the name for — something small, real, and just for him. Just for her. Just for tonight, with the old leather creaking under their weight and his hands firm at her hips, holding her like the world couldn’t touch them so long as they held each other first.

They lost themselves in the kiss the way people lose themselves in half-forgotten songs — slow at first, then with a momentum that built quietly, insistently, until there was nothing but the heat of mouths meeting and parting, the soft hitch of breath and the sound of skin against skin where his hands squeezed gently at her hips. The old car rocked ever so slightly beneath them, the smell of summer air and leftover frosting curling sweet and heavy in the cramped space.

Time blurred around the edges. It could have been minutes, it could have been an hour — the only things that mattered were her fingers sliding through the short hair at the base of his neck, his thumb brushing lazy circles under the hem of her shirt where her spine curved, the small noises she made when he deepened the kiss, the quiet rumble of his laugh when she nipped at his bottom lip just to hear him breathe her name into the dark.

And then — as if the universe had grown jealous of what they were making here in the hush of the parked car — Steve’s phone buzzed insistently from the pocket of his jeans. The sharp vibration startled them apart by a fraction, but before he could so much as catch his breath, she was already peppering soft, open-mouthed kisses down the side of his jaw, her mouth trailing a path to the warm stretch of skin where his neck met his shoulder.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his head tipping back to rest against the seat, exposing more of his throat to her searching mouth. “Okay, well—” he rasped, his voice a low, wrecked murmur threaded with laughter. “Glad to know you’re eager.”

“Mhm.” She hummed her agreement against his pulse point, her lips grazing the steady thrum of his heartbeat like she could memorize it with her mouth. Her hands slipped lower, bold now, fingers pushing under the hem of his T-shirt. She flattened her palms over the hard planes of his stomach, tracing the warmth of him with her fingertips, feeling the subtle twitch of muscle under her touch.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his ribs expanding under her wandering hands. He opened his mouth to say something — maybe to tease her back, maybe to remind her that they were still half-balanced in a car parked on a side street with the windows fogging up — but his phone buzzed again, more insistent this time.

He let out a groan that was equal parts frustration and helpless amusement, fishing the device from his pocket without pushing her away. She didn’t stop — if anything, she pressed closer, her lips dragging lower over the curve of his neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear in a way that made his breath stutter.

“It’s Tony,” Steve said, his voice breaking a little when her nails scraped lightly over his ribs. He cleared his throat, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

She made a soft, questioning sound against his neck, her words muffled by the warm skin her lips refused to abandon. “What’d he say?” she murmured, the vibration of her voice against his throat sending a fresh shiver down his spine.

Steve huffed out a laugh, squinting at the glaring light of the screen. “‘Okay, uh — Steve, where are you? And where’s Y/N? Are you guys out in some shady—’ okay, I’m not reading the rest of that.” He cut himself off, his grin wide and uncontainable as he dropped the phone to the console, letting it slip from his fingers entirely when she giggled against his skin.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her cheeks warm and flushed, her lips pink and slightly swollen from all the kisses. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and something softer underneath, the kind of fondness that made him feel like the world outside this car could knock for hours and they still wouldn’t bother to answer.

“What did he say?” she pressed, her laughter bubbling up as she tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt, teasing him for his half-read censorship.

Steve just shook his head, his hands sliding from her hips up to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was nothing between them but shared warmth and the echo of their stolen breath. “Trust me,” he murmured, dipping his head to brush his mouth over hers again — once, twice, soft, like a promise. “You really don’t wanna know.”

And this time, when she laughed, the sound got lost in his mouth as he kissed her again — the car, the fireworks, the world beyond the window dissolving into nothing but the feel of her smile under his lips and the steady thrum of her heartbeat where his hands held her tight against him, refusing, for one more stolen moment, to let her go.

— all rights reserved © PALEVCR all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate nor repost as yours.

[zaraomarrogers]

Ohmygodddd!!! This is so so good. Enjoyed it thoroughly!! I’m curious to know how she got over with divorce and breaking up… I so wanna read more…

Thank you for writing and sharing with us.

Second Chances

Second Chances Part 1

Ex-Husband!Steve x Reader

Summary: You and Steve have a history. Right now you are just friends but what if he wants more?

Warnings: Smut, oral (m receiving), PIV, mild jealousy

WC: 4.9K

A/N: I'm so happy to finally introduce you all to Ex-Husband!Steve! I started this forever ago and I thought it would be just a one shot but it has just gotten longer and longer, and harder to finish. So I'm hoping introducing this pair to the world and getting some feedback will inspire me to actually finish this story!

“Ok I don’t get it” Sam finally relents.

“You don’t get what?” Steve replies to his friend without taking his eyes off you. You're across the bar headed to the pool table with some guy Steve doesn’t recognize. He’s pretty sure the top you're wearing is new. You look gorgeous, but then again you always do. 

“What is the deal with you two? And don’t tell me it’s not nothing cause there's clearly some history there.” Sam insists. 

“Ohh wow, this is a new low punk, even for you.” Bucky chimes in.

Steve clears his throat and uses his only excuse. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“You never even told him? Seriously!?”  Bucky snapped, his voice low and tight in an attempt to restrain himself from reaching across the table and pummeling his best friend. 

“Told me what?” Sam asks, his patience wearing thin. 

“You are looking at the former Mrs. Rogers.” Bucky takes a long pull from his beer as he watches Sam’s eyes practically pop out of his head. 

“You two were married!?”

“Yup” Bucky says emphasizing the P.

“Damn it’s worse than I thought” Sam scoffs.

Despite what his two best friends are about to say he never lied to Sam. Technically he was single when he and Sam met. Besides, Steve didn’t like to talk about it, didn’t even like to think about it. When he did think about you, which was about every 45 seconds or so, he tried to only focus on the good things.

The way you light up when you laugh. The way you always insist on taking a million photos to commemorate any and every occasion. How doing the dishes somehow always turned into a dance party. The way you would curl up on him at the end of a long day. 

Knowing he doesn’t need to sit through this next part he makes his way to the bar to grab another round of drinks.

“So what happened?” Sam asks Bucky.

“They got married young, really young. Which probably wasn’t the best idea, but they were in love and Steve was headed off to war and you know how it is.” Sam nods in agreement, letting Bucky continue.

“We enlisted together. She made us both promise we’d bring each other home. The first tour was hard on her I could tell even on video chat it was like she was just holding her breath till we came back. The next couple times were a little easier, we came home once before why wouldn’t we come home again? We were on our 3rd tour, about a month out from coming home when,” Bucky places his metal arm on the table he inspects it carefully opening and closing his fist. 

“We got hit. I got blown from the Humvee and ended up losing my arm. Steve was ok, physically but..we lost a couple of good men that day.” The brunette sighs. “After the accident her and Steve took care of me. They visited me at the hospital everyday and eventually took me in when I got out. I had been out of the hospital for a few weeks when Steve told us he was going back.

"She just couldn’t do it anymore. The waiting, the worry, the distance, especially with me having been hurt she was convinced Steve would come back in a casket, and I wasn’t so sure she was wrong. But you know Steve. They fought… a lot and eventually she laid out an ultimatum. If he enlisted again she wouldn’t be there when he got back.“

“Damn.” Sam said, shaking his head, “That must have been hard for her to admit.” Bucky nodded in agreement. “And he really just left?”

“Yeah. Looking back on it now, I realize nothing was going to stop him from going. Everyone told him to stay, me, his mom, the whole damn town tried to convince him but he wouldn’t hear any of it. I kept hoping he would change his mind, you know, that he’d stop being so pig headed, but no, he just had to go. The day after he left she contacted a lawyer.” Bucky stops to take a long swing of beer. 

“But the former Mrs. Rogers is nothing if not a saint, even with her heart broken she still put all her energy into helping me heal. She let me live with her even after Steve left, took me to all my physical therapy and Dr. appointments, helped me get the hang of the prosthetic” He says flexing his fist on his metal arm. “I owe her everything. That punks lucky I didn’t leave him too.” scoffed Bucky.

“Ohh yeah why didn’t you?” Sam asks

“Because” Bucky said as he leaned back in his chair, “she wouldn’t let me.”

Steve is sitting at the bar, he could go back to the table with Bucky and Sam but he figures he’ll give them a few minutes to cool off and change the subject before he ventures back. He keeps his eye practically glued on the bartenders, watching them work helps him resist the urge to turn around and look at you. He knows you’re over by the pool table. He can picture you taking your time, totally focused, biting your lip as you  line up your shot. He can imagine it perfectly; the only thing better than his imagination would be turning around and seeing it in real time. 

He sees you land at the bar a couple stools down from him and watches as Pepper approaches you. 

“So it looks like the date is going well” Pepper says while starting on your drink.

“I don’t know if it’s a date per say. ” You say with a playful glare “But yes, Scott and I are having a good time.” 

Steve looks up just in time to see you shoot him a wave and a small smile before thanking Pepper and heading back to your game.

His jaw is so tight he’s worried he might actually crack a tooth and it’s like the entire world’s gone quiet. He’s not sure if what he’s feeling right now is rage or heartbreak, it’s probably both. Pepper is the one that breaks him out of his stupor.

“Loosen the grip on that will ya?” She says pointing at the beer bottle in his hand, “I’ll have to clean it up if you break it.”  

Steve puts the bottle down flexing his fists, before he can even ask she places a double shot of whiskey in front of him.

He tosses it back, then slaps some cash on the bar before heading for the door.

Steve isn’t a complete prick. At least he doesn’t mean to be, but it’s hard. As much as he wants you as much as his body wants yours that is not an option, and he’s still human. So every once in a while he sates his urges with an actual woman and not just his hand.  It’s a small town, people talk, so when he does need relief he heads up the highway. Making sure to avoid any place that you or anyone from town may decide to venture to. 

It’s never anything serious, usually just a night. There was Sharon last summer. He saw her for a couple weeks but he made it very clear it was never going to turn into anything and she was perfectly happy to get his late night booty calls. 

It’s been a few days since that night at the bar, Bucky has been on Steve’s case more than ever and now he has Sam as back up. Plus the vision of you on your date, is permanently etched into his brain. Where you looked so beautiful. Christ all he wanted to do was bend you over the pool table and….

Needless to say, jacking off was not going to be enough. 

So here he is. In some back alley behind some trendy bar in the city with what he assumes is probably a perfectly lovely lady on her knees sucking him off. But it’s hard to picture you when it’s clearly not you staring back at him. Before he can lose his hard on, he yanks her up and pushes her against the brick. He would apologize for being so rough but she moans out a yes at the manhandling so clearly she's into it. 

Facing away from him, ass up, he never preferred this position until he lost you. When he was with you all he wanted was to see your face. To kiss every inch of you, feel your sweat slicked skin against his, and look into your eyes as you came undone. He always wanted to be close to you, touching you. But he can’t have that so he settles for this. 

In all honesty this girl isn’t bad, she's just not you. She’s moaning and grinding against him in a way that's too performative, but when he hears a sigh a real sigh it almost sounds like yours and that's all he needs. He keeps hitting her sweet spot and rubbing her clit and he's so lost in his vision of you he actually calls out your name.

Now he’s not going to say this has never happened before, because it has. In 5 years of missing you and pretending to move on he has, on more than one occasion called out your name while another woman rides his cock. He’s not particularly proud of this fact, but it’s true. But this time the worst part is, he didn’t even notice. He turned to dump the used condom in the dumpster in that and when he turned around his face slams into a fist. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened cradling his face; he tries to get his bearings when he hears.

“You piece of shit my name is Kristy!!!” 

Damn. She knew how to throw a punch. In a moment of complete and utter shame Steve slides to the ground completely defeated.

Steve opens the door of his apartment to find Bucky sitting on his couch drinking his beer. Great, exactly what he needs to top this night off.

“What happened to you?” Bucky asks as Steve heads to the kitchen to grab a bag of frozen peas for his soon to be black eye. 

“Got punched in the face” 

“Obviously punk. Who’d you piss off this time.”

"Girl at a bar.” He mumbles then winces as he adjusts the bag on his face.

“Damn, bet she has brothers. Good ones too since she landed a solid hit” Bucky muses.

Steve doesn't bother acknowledging his friend. He simply grabs a glass and a bottle of whiskey before taking a seat on the couch. They sit quietly for a bit, when finally Bucky breaks the silence.

“So, what’s your plan here?”

“What the hell are you talking about Buck?”

“What am I…” Bucky takes a deep breath and stands calming himself  before he gives his friend a second black eye. “I’m talking about the fact that it’s been 5 years Steve. Five long years of you pining and making those sad puppy dog eyes when you think no one is paying attention. Which we all are by the way. You’re constantly pouting, until God forbid a guy shows any interest in her at which point you become absolutely unbearable.” Bucky is pacing now the pressure of keeping quiet all these year has finally come to an end and he's decided to finally air his grievances.

“You sit by the phone waiting for her to have a flat tire or for her furnace to bust, all so you can ride in like her knight in shining armor. Whatever she needs you’re always there. You’ve had every opportunity but instead of telling her how you feel you go out and fuck other girls pretending they’re her. All the while knowing you’d both be a lot fucking happier if you were together.” Finally Bucky stops his pacing and instead grabs a seat on the coffee table looking his friend right in the eyes. 

“So I ask again -  What. Is. Your. Plan?” 

Steve drains his glass then watches as his best friend pours him a refill. He drains that too, tosses the frozen bag down as he throws his head back and stares at the ceiling. 

“I don’t know Buck. All I know is I don’t want to live without her.”

“Ok then.” Bucky pours Steve one last refill “That’s a start.”  He says getting up to take the bottle back to the kitchen. “Word of advice, you better figure out a plan. And soon, because no one has the time or the patience to wait around for you to get your head out of your ass.” Bucky goes to grab his coat when he stops.

“Ohh and make sure you clean yourself up for tomorrow. Arm’s been acting up. I gotta go see the doc. You’ll have to handle all the morning appointments.“

“You couldn’t have just called to tell me?” Steve scoffs at his friend. “You had to come here and harass me and drink all my beer?”

“Yeah well, it’s more fun for me this way.” He chuckles as he heads out “See you tomorrow punk.”

Steve gets ready to head downstairs to Twin Tires, the shop he and Bucky opened after Steve finally left the army. Luckily for him he lives in the apartment right above the shop so he doesn’t have to rush to get down there. Which is good cause on this particular morning he feels like shit. 

After Bucky left he kept drowning his sorrows in whiskey imagining what life would be like if you had stayed together. Between the what ifs, his hangover and his black eye this day is off to an awful start. And now he has to deal with the shop himself cause Bucky’s not coming in till noon. Needless to say when he heads downstairs he’s in a shit mood, but then he hears you. 

He’s not sure what you’re saying or who you’re talking to but he’s sure it’s you. Fuck Bucky. In an instant Steve realizes Bucky knew you were coming by the shop today. All that ‘look good tomorrow shit’, he knew Bucky was up to something. You’re probably picking him up for his Dr’s appointment damn it. 

Steve curses under his breath, stepping out into the Lobby where you’re with Bucky. He was so focused on you he completely forgot about how rough he looks until you look up at him shocked.

Abandoning your conversation with Bucky you rush towards Steve without a second thought. 

“Omigod Steve! What happened?” You cup his face in your hands gently coaxing him to bend down so you can take a look.

“Aww he’s fine doll. He’s seen worse” Bucky chuckles as he takes a smug sip of his coffee.

Bucky isn’t wrong Steve has seen much worse, but at this moment he is not fine because your hands are on him. They’re so warm and soft, and he can smell that hand cream you use. In a split second you envelope all his senses and take him back to a time when the two of you always had your hands on each other. 

Steve’s breath fans across your wrists and realizing how close you are you take a step back. .“Well it doesn’t look too bad” You say as you begin to bite your lip, a nervous tick Steve immediately picks up on, it takes all his strength not to stare at your mouth like a horny tennager, so instead he moves behind the desk. 

“It’s fine. It’ll heal soon I promise.” Steve says in an attempt to reassure you, even if he knows it won’t work. He clears his throat as he opens the appointment book. 

"You two should get going, you don’t want to be late."

“You’re right Stevie I don’t.” Buck says with a wink as he heads to the door unaccompanied. “You two have fun, don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Bye Buck!” You wave him off.

“You’re not going with him?” Steve asks.

“What? No Clint is taking him, he didn’t tell you?” There you go biting your lip again, has it always been this distracting?

He knows he’s been starting too long when you gently call his name again.  Shaking his head out of his stupor he tries to actually focus on the conversation at hand. “Tell me what?” 

You look like a deer caught in headlights before you grab a coffee cup out of the tray on the counter and hand it to him. 

“This is for you. I made it myself with those beans you like at the shop just before coming over here.”

Steve stares at the coffee, then at you. He’s perplexed by the coffee, he knows it will be exactly how he likes it. He still goes to the bakery for coffee and it’s always perfect. But he’s confused as to why you would bring it to him on this particular morning. 

“Sweetheart…what’s going on?”

"Well I was hoping I could ask you for a favor…."

“Christ.”

“OK, Look I know this is a lot to ask but he’s a good kid Steve, a great kid! And this way not only will he have a car but he will also be learning practical life skills and an honest work ethic!"

“He already works with you. I am positive you instill plenty of work ethic in him.” Steve chugs the last of his coffee before tossing the cup in the trash behind him.

 “How on earth did you let May talk you into something like this?” He asks.

“She didn’t talk me into anything” You scoff, “it was my idea.“Look it's an old car, with good bones it just needs to be fixed up a bit. Besides, I mean don’t get me wrong I love having Peter at the shop but he’s a tinkerer ya know?” Now you're all worked up, Steve knows how much you love May and her nephew Peter, not to mention he knows how passionate you get about these collaborations you come up with. 

“He likes taking things apart and putting them back together, and working with his hands,” Steve cuts you off.

“Last time I checked baking is done with your hands.” He simply shrugs at the glare you give him.

“Where’d this car come from anyway?” He asks in an attempt to make peace. 

“One of May’s old boyfriends. He didn't know a socket wrench from an open wrench, but apparently he was convinced he could put it back together. He left it and hasn’t been back since. It’s just been collecting dust.” 

“Look,” You insist, planting your hands on the counter. “I know this is a big ask but when you think about it it’s a win, win scenario.” 

“Ohh yeah” Steve scoffs “How so?”

“Well Pete is a young man, who needs more positive male influences in his life. He’ll get that,” You say ticking off your fingers, “practical life experience, plus a new car.” 

“This sounds like a lot of wins for Peter and none for me.”

“And you” You say poking him in the chest “You get an apprentice!” 

“I don’t need an apprentice.” He protests rolling his eyes  before turning and heading back to the shop to get set up for the day. 

“Come on," You inevitably follow him. Just like you knew you would, " everyone needs an apprentice. Someone you can groom to take over the business when you’re ready to pass it on, just like Sarah did with me.”

“Look at Johnny Hunt , he had no one to take over for him so when he got hurt his store just closed. It was tragic. I don’t want that to happen to you Steve, could you imagine everything you worked for just gone.” 

“You spend a lot of time thinking about my business doll?” He has to hold back his smirk as you get visibly embarrassed by his question. Deciding to put you out of your misery before you have to answer he immediately gets back to the topic.

“What about Buck? It’s his business too, I can’t just hire an apprentice with his input.”

“Well I already asked him. He thinks it’s a great idea.”

“You asked him about fixing up the car, or about your plans to hand our business over to some smartass kid?”

“He said, and I quote ‘the sooner Steve teaches this kid to do the books the sooner I can retire to Palm Springs.'" 

Steve hangs his head. He knows he’s going to give in, not only is it you asking but his soon to be former best friend has already agreed. But mostly it’s you. He can never say no to you, not anymore, not after all he did. But he knows you will will sit here and argue with him till the sun goes down only to come back tomorrow and start again.  So he decides to drag his heels for a little longer if only to extend his time with you. 

But when he turns around to look up at you he completely loses his train of thought. The light from the window surrounds you making you look even brighter and more beautiful. Your eyes are boring into his with a pleading look when you say “Will you at least  take a look at the car please? For me?”

And that’s when Steve knows he’s a goner. 

Steve throws a towel at Bucky as he waltz back into the shop. Bucky easily catches it and settles himself on the stool next to Steve's station. He says nothing, taking a sip from his drink.

“You could've told me.” Steve huffs before diving back under the hood in an attempt to ignore his friend. 

“And why would I tell you, when you are much more apt to say yes if she asked you?” Bucky smirks as Steve's scowl deepens. “Besides it’s her project, why should I ask you?”

“More important question is why would you say yes!?” Steve practically shouts as he tosses down his tools and heads back into the office. The other guys working in the shop pretend to look busy as the bosses pass them. 

“Look there's no downside ok. We get to help out a good kid.” Bucky shakes his head at Steve's look of disbelief. “Look Parker can be annoying but he is a good kid ok? No one has a bad thing to say about him. And the guys are great with cars, but not with business. They can fix shit sure but no one out there can do the books, or even wants to learn but maybe one day Parker actually could and then we’d have someone to take all this over so I can finally take a vacation.” The brunette makes himself comfortable in Steve’s desk chair, putting his feet up and his arms behind his head. “Besides, now you’ve got some extra sweet brownie points with your girl and that sure as shit can’t hurt.”

That last comment makes Steve deflate “She’s not..” Bucky waves his hand cutting him off,

“Yeah, yeah save me the speech.” Electing to ignore his friend he continues  “So when does Parker start?”

Steve has been ruminating over it for days, and he has come to the irrevocable conclusion that having Peter Parker work in his shop is a terrible idea. He was ready to call the whole thing off. But then this morning he came downstairs and found you leaning on the side of your car with a box from your shop sitting on the hood. Seeing you standing there, glowing in the morning sun  in what happens to be his favorite dress of yours, he knew this was a done deal. No matter what he previously thought now he was going to  follow through on this crazy plan of yours.  

“Good morning!” You cheer, already holding out Steve’s coffee cup as he walks towards you. 

“Morning Doll, what's all this?”

“This is just a little thank you.” You say as Steve takes a sip of the coffee. He’d never tell his Ma, but your coffee is a million times better. “I just wanted to thank you again. I really think this will be so good for Peter and… “ Steve cuts you off. 

“Sweetheart, you already thanked me about a thousand times. Besides, you weren’t wrong, it could be good to have some extra hands around here.” Steve concedes with a shrug. While he ignores how hypocritical he is considering he was singing a different tune 2 min ago.

“Steven Grant Rogers, did you just admit I was right?” You’re smirking at him and you’ve got a mischievous twinkle in your eye and damn it if that doesn’t make his heart speed up. 

“Well, possibly. I mean for all we know Parker could be a disaster who should never step foot near an engine, only time will tell.” Steve chuckles as you lightly slap him on the arm.

“You just wait, Rogers, you’ll be eating your words soon enough!”

The two of you are standing less than a foot apart. Steve decides this is not close enough. It dawns on him, you are standing a foot apart in a parking lot, that is the set up for a brief conversation before the two of you run off in your separate directions. But that is not what he wants. All Steve wants is more time with you. So he quickly asks. 

“Are there enough in there to share?”

The two of you head back to the office and settle in over your makeshift breakfast. You take a bite of the scone and your eyes roll back in your head as you quietly moan at the taste.

“You’re acting like you’ve never tried any doll, you made ‘em” Steve chuckles before taking a bite.

“I mean I did” you laugh softly as you dust crumbs from your dress, “But I decided to tweak the recipe and this is my first time trying it” you bashfully admit.

“Man that's what I get as a thank you? New recipe scones? What if they had been a flop?” 

You laugh at his faux scolding and the sound lights him up from the inside out.“That’s why I brought them. I knew if you didn’t like them then I couldn’t sell them.” You shrug “Besides, I have brownies in the car as a backup” You say giving him a wink as you take another bite.

“I know you don’t think you’re leaving here with those sweetheart.” 

You’re talking his ear off, he has books to update, parts to order and schedules to make and if it was anyone else he would have told them to leave the food at the front desk and went back to his office without a second glance. 

But it isn’t just anyone…it’s you.

This may be what he misses most. Sitting with you, talking about nothing and everything, tasting your new recipes. The most mundane days were always better when he had you.

Steve thinks this might be the moment. He can ask you out to dinner. Or maybe it’d be better if he cooked for you? Either way he will be securing a date with you before you leave this office, he’s determined. Right as he goes to open his mouth to invite you on what will hopefully be a life altering date, there’s a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response Bucky waltzes right in, and makes a beeline straight for the box on the desk. 

“Ohh scones” Bucky sings, but before he can reach the box Steve snatches it out of the way. 

“They're not for you Buck.” Steve grumbles with a glare.

“Aww come on Stevie don’t be like that” Bucky’s pout turns to you as you begin to stand. “Doll tell him he has to share!” 

“Don’t be too sad Bucky, I have brownies in the car. If you come grab them then they're all yours.” 

Steve starts to panic as you begin to grab your stuff. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah, I should get going. Besides I need to get out of your hair, you probably have a busy day.” 

Steve moves out from behind the desk, trying to think of a reason to get you to stay but before he can say anything you're right in his space, leaning up and planting a kiss on his cheek. Thanking him again before you leave his office Bucky hot on your heels.

When Bucky comes back in a couple minutes later with a smug look on his face it takes all of Steve's strength not to wring his neck.

“Brownie for your troubles?”

“God I hate you” Steve mumbles keeping his eyes on the screen as Bucky gets comfortable in the seat you were occupying moments ago. 

“Hey don’t get mad at me. All I did was come in here to say hello, not my fault she ran off” Bucky notes before taking a bite of his brownie. “Damn, these are good.” 

Steve rolls his eyes.

“So are you making any progress?” 

Before Steve can tell Bucky to mind his goddamn business his phone lights up with a text from you. 

I told Bucky he has to share the brownies with you, but feel free to hog all the scones ;) 

Steve smirks as he reaches over and snatches up a brownie. 

OMG part 1!! Can you believe? What did y'all think? Do you just love these 2? Do you want to see more of them? Leave a comment below because reblogs and comments fuel the muse.

[zaraomarrogers]

Coming back to this app after months and to find this Steve fic. I’m gonna come back with feedback once I finish reading it.

Thank you for writing and sharing 😊

the difference between love and longing ; steve rogers

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 10.5k

summary: you know that you will never be peggy carter. you are not her, and steve rogers is not the same man he used to be, but even when your heart tries not to hope, his gaze still lingers. his hands still find yours. his voice still softens when he says your name. so what do you do when the man you love still dances with a ghost… but holds onto you like you're real?

warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, one bed trope (kind of), found family dynamics, telepath/empath reader, mentions of peggy carter, interrupted kisses, soft confessions, steve rogers being sad and soft, reader being tony stark’s daughter (with overprotective dad energy), hopeful ending, and a lot of quiet moments that might just feel like love.

note: i am back on tumblr, baby. this is me giving steve rogers the softness he deserves and also projecting a little bit (a lot). english is not my first language so pls be kind. this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading and i hope it made your heart hurt in the good way. enjoy <3

masterlist

The Quinjet rumbles to a halt like it's sighing in relief. The doors creak open to reveal a world too quiet, too normal, too... soft for the blood on your boots and the ghosts still trailing behind you.

You step onto the gravel, gravel that crunches like it's trying not to break under the weight of six exhausted Avengers and one very pregnant secret.

“Is this a safe house?” Thor asks, clearly scandalized by the quaint barn and white fence vibes. There’s hay. Real hay.

Tony gives a dry chuckle. “Let’s hope.”

Clint, already halfway to the front porch, calls out with the most domestic line you've ever heard him say: “Honey, I’m home.”

You almost choke on your own tongue.

From the kitchen emerges the enigma herself—Laura Barton, barefoot, beautiful, glowing. The kind of peace you’d murder to experience for five whole minutes.

“Company. Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Clint adds, like he didn’t just bring a war into her living room.

She welcomes him with a kiss like this is just another Tuesday. The others shift uncomfortably, and your brain’s already starting to ache from the noise—the storm of emotions coming off your teammates like static electricity. Regret, fear, confusion... whatever that enhanced woman did back there, it cracked them open like glass jars.

But not you. Not all the way. You’re an empath and a telepath, which is either a cosmic joke or a tragic combo depending on the day. You didn’t see a dream because your mind is locked up tighter than Stark’s old lab vaults. But you felt everything.

Still do.

When Cooper and Lila come running out, all legs and laughter, it pulls a ghost of a smile from you. Cooper beams when he sees you.

“Y/N!”

You crouch to ruffle his hair before he can tackle you. “Hey, Coop, buddy. Missed me already?”

He nods too enthusiastically and your heart does a weird lurch. He has a tiny crush on you. He’s like… eight, or nine? You pretend you don’t notice, because what are you gonna do, crush a child’s soul?

“This is an agent of some kind.” Tony, meanwhile, is trying to process the domestic bombshell that’s just gone off. “These are... smaller agents,” he mutters to you as Clint sweeps his daughter up in a hug.

You tilt your head. “You say that like you didn’t just meet my kid pen-pal.”

Tony’s head snaps toward you. “Wait—you knew about all this?”

You blink. “What, you never asked?”

The look he gives you is somewhere between betrayed dad and malfunctioning toaster. You rolled your eyes.

Laura pulls Natasha in for a warm chat, touching her bump. Nat lights up for a second—she’s better with kids than she lets on. You lean into the doorway and try not to grimace at the ache behind your eyes. The emotional noise is deafening. Someone should really invent empath earplugs.

Outside, you catch Thor hesitating. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s seeing something none of you can. Then—woosh. Mjolnir lifts, thunder cracks softly in the clouds, and the god of thunder disappears into the sky.

You wince, because the second he’s airborne, the silence in his wake is loud as hell. Steve turns to follow him, but stops. You feel him freeze. 

And then—Peggy.

You don’t hear the voice, but the emotion is strong enough to slam into your ribcage: longing, loss, the cruel comfort of almost.

Steve doesn’t go inside.

You don’t follow either.

Eventually, Clint rounds you all up. “Alright, listen up. House rule: no exploding, breaking furniture, or turning the fridge into a science experiment. Rooms are tight, so you’re bunking up.”

You’re about to throw your bag next to Natasha’s when she tosses a glance at Bruce and casually says, “I’ll bunk with Banner.”

You turn slowly. “You traitor.”

Nat just smirks.

You scoff dramatically, arms crossed, then glance to your right—only to see Tony perking up with that hopeful dad-face.

“No,” you say immediately.

“But I thought maybe—”

“I said no.”

His face falls like a kicked Roomba.

You don’t even look at Steve. You just grab his hand like it’s a totally normal thing to do and march toward the stairs.

“I’m with Steve.”

Steve lets you lead him up the staircase without a word, but you feel the way his surprise flares for a second—then settles into something warm. You don’t comment.

Clint watches you both, then shrugs. “Alright. Don’t break the bed.”

“No promises,” you call back, just to watch Tony short-circuit.

“Fine!” he yells. “More room for me since PointBreak bailed! Ugh!”

You and Steve follow Clint, Bruce, and Natasha up the stairs.

Your hand stays in his a little longer than it should.

And yeah, maybe—just maybe—your walls aren’t that high when it comes to him.

You were not a fool.

You knew exactly where Steve Rogers’ heart belonged, and it wasn’t here—wasn’t now. His soul echoed the name of a woman wrapped in sepia-toned memories, someone he danced with once beneath the shadow of a war. 

Peggy. That name carried weight. Carried history. Carried love.

You could never compete with a ghost.

And you weren’t trying to.

You just… wanted to be near him. Close enough to feel his calm in the chaos. Close enough to steady your own mind when the screams of other people’s emotions got too loud. Close enough to pretend that maybe, just maybe, if the world was kinder or quieter, things might have been different.

But that wasn’t the game you were playing.

You knew your role.

You were the friend. 

The teammate. 

The one who always said “I’m fine” with a shrug and a joke and meant it less every time. You were the one who noticed when he didn’t sleep, who slipped him tea instead of coffee, who never asked him to explain the faraway look in his eyes when the world went still for a moment too long.

Because you understood silence.

And you understood pain that didn’t want a spotlight.

That was what friends did, right?

They stuck around.

Even when it hurts.

Even when your chest felt too tight and your name never sounded as sweet coming from his mouth as hers probably did. Even when he looked at you and saw loyalty instead of love.

You were still here.

Because he was still here.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You don’t know how long you sat by the window, brushing through the knots in your damp hair, untangling strands like you wish you could untangle the ache in your chest. Sunset was starting to paint the sky in hues of apology—soft peach bleeding into deep gold, like the world was trying to say sorry for being so damn cruel.

The house dress Laura lent you was a bit too big, soft cotton and floral print, nothing fancy—but comfortable. You hadn’t really packed for a spontaneous countryside war recovery trip. Clint had offered it casually, like this was all normal. Like the world wasn’t unraveling outside.

You exhaled through your nose, long and slow, feeling every fray at the edge of your sanity from today. From Wanda’s attack. From all the minds cracked open like eggs around you, except yours. Except yours.

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

Your spine straightened, brushing paused mid-stroke. You didn’t turn around immediately.

You knew it was him. It was Steve.

“I was wondering if you fell in,” you said dryly, brushing down another stubborn strand.

Steve chuckled, that low, quiet sound that always made your stomach pull tight in confusing ways. “I was debating if I should just hide in there all night.”

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

He was in a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. His expression was softer now, less weighed down. For the first time all day, he looked... human. Tired, yes, but real.

You hummed. “Would’ve been a shame. This room’s got all the ambiance. Trucks on the bedspread. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Real romantic.”

He smiled, stepping further in. “Kid’s got style.”

“Cooper’s got a Star Wars nightlight,” you pointed out, gesturing to the tiny plastic Darth Vader glowing faintly in the corner.

Steve followed your gaze, grinning. “That’s actually kind of impressive.”

You finally faced him fully, folding your legs beneath you on the windowsill seat. The brush dangled lazily from your fingers. “Better than any gear Stark designed. You can quote me.”

He laughed again, but it faded quicker this time. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else. Something deeper. You didn’t press.

“I didn’t see anything,” you murmured, breaking the quiet first. “Back there. When the girl—when she got into everyone’s heads.”

Steve looked up, brows lifting slightly. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head, setting the brush down in your lap. “My mind’s... closed. On purpose. Walls thick enough to keep anyone out. But I still felt everything. Every scream. Every fear. I just didn’t get a slideshow of my worst memories.”

“That sounds worse,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes. “Sometimes it is.”

He nodded slowly, taking a few steps closer. “Is that why you volunteered to room with me?”

You smirked, leaning your head against the windowpane. “What, because you’re emotionally constipated and I assumed I’d get a full night’s sleep?”

Steve cracked a grin. “You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Another beat passed. The orange sunlight spilled over his face, and you watched the way it made his hair shine gold, the way the lines around his eyes softened when he looked at you.

The bed behind him creaked when he sat down.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he said after a while.

You blinked. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“Stay by my side.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked back out the window.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

Steve didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the nightlight in the corner, watching Darth Vader’s tiny red saber glow against the shadows. It should’ve been funny. You should’ve made a joke about it. But something in his silence felt heavier than usual. Not tense, just... full. Like he was trying to breathe through a weight on his ribs.

You didn't push. That was the trick with Steve Rogers—he didn’t crack under pressure. He cracked under kindness.

So you waited.

The night buzzed with crickets outside, and the faint creak of the farmhouse settling into silence. You shifted slightly on the windowsill, folding your arms around your knees.

“I saw her,” he said at last.

You knew exactly who he meant. You didn’t even need your empathy to know. His voice cracked too softly to be about anyone else.

“Peggy,” you said.

He nodded.

You stayed quiet. Let him build the words the way he always did—slow, careful, like setting bricks.

“It was a dance hall,” he murmured. “Forties music. People are laughing. And she... she asked me if I was ready. Said the war was over. That we could go home.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His face was still turned away, but his jaw was tight, and his hands—his hands were clasped like he was trying not to let something shake free.

“She said we could go home,” he repeated, softer now. “And then everyone disappeared. The music stopped. It was just the two of us, dancing in an empty room.”

Your heart ached.

And you, stupid, foolish you, had the audacity to be jealous of a memory.

An old woman’s ghost had more of Steve Rogers’ heart than you ever would. And that should’ve made you bitter. But all you felt was... grief. Not for yourself. For him.

Because Steve Rogers never got to go home. He was at war. And the world never let him stop fighting.

You stood slowly, knees cracking a little from sitting too long. You didn’t know where your body was going until you found yourself walking over to him, quiet steps on the wood floor, until you were standing in front of him.

He looked up at you.

You looked down at him.

His legs were spread just slightly where he sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees like he’d been preparing to fight something again. But you weren’t something to fight. And neither was this.

You stepped forward. Right into the space between his legs.

His eyes widened just barely, lips parting.

You hesitated.

“Can I?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

You reached for him gently, hands rising to cradle the sides of his head, fingers ghosting through his hair with a touch so light it almost didn’t feel real. His breath hitched, just once.

Then the blue came.

It seeped from your fingertips like mist, like moonlight filtered through water—cool, soft, alive. Not the violent scarlet haze that haunted the others. Not chaos. Not fear.

This was calm.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Steve exhaled without effort. His shoulders dropped. His body stilled.

And then—his mind opened.

Not violently. Not all at once. Just... slowly. Like a flower at dusk.

You stepped inside gently, mentally and emotionally, your abilities easing you in like a tide rolling over sand. You didn’t rip memories apart. You didn’t dig. You read. Softly. Carefully. You let him show you what he couldn’t say.

And there it was.

The dance hall. The lights. The colors that looked too bright to be real. Peggy’s smile, so warm and whole. Her words: The war’s over, Steve. We can go home.

And then—emptiness. Her voice echoed in a hollow place. The ache that followed. The longing. You felt it so clearly it made your throat tighten.

He wasn’t just sad.

He was lonely.

Steve didn’t move for a long moment. Then—his head dropped forward. Right onto your stomach.

You stilled.

His arms, slow and careful, wrapped around your waist. A little desperate. A little tired. All vulnerability. He didn’t look up. Just stayed there, pressed into you, breathing like this was the first time in days he remembered how.

Your hands slid down from his hair to cradle the back of his head.

You held him there. Neither of you said a word, but you didn’t need to.

Not tonight. Not like this.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he sighed against you—soft, like a man who’s been carrying the weight of the world and just now realized he didn’t have to.

His head was heavy against your stomach, but you didn’t mind. His arms around your waist were loose, but steady. Not possessive. Just... present. Like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

His thoughts weren’t screaming anymore. The noise had gone quiet. You could still feel the edges of sorrow curling around the memory of that dream, but your presence had soothed the storm. Calmed the tide. The ache was still there—of course it was—but it wasn’t drowning him anymore.

You threaded your fingers gently through his hair, combing back the damp strands. It was still a little wet from his shower. Still warm from the steam. Still real, which is more than anything in his dream had been.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Neither did you.

But the voice in your head wouldn’t shut up.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. He doesn’t look at you like that. He never will. This isn’t a moment—it’s a mercy. He’s grieving, not reaching. Don’t mistake the difference.

You closed your eyes. And you stayed.

Not because you were hoping for more, but because you couldn’t walk away from him.

Not when he let himself break. Not when he trusted you with the pieces.

After a few long, aching minutes, Steve pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, but clear. Like whatever haze Wanda had left in him had been swept away by your soft little storm.

“You’re good at that,” he murmured.

You quirked a brow. “At what? Standing awkwardly while a supersoldier uses me as an emotional pillow?”

His lips curved upward, barely. “That too. But mostly... calming people down. You don’t just read minds. You make the noise stop.”

You shrugged, though your chest fluttered. “The side effect of being born weird, I guess.”

“You’re not weird.”

You tilted your head. “Please. You’re talking to a woman in a borrowed house dress with bare feet and psychic powers who just invaded your head with blue sparkles. If I’m not weird, the bar’s too low.”

His smile faltered. Not in a bad way—just softened. His hands were still on your waist, and he hadn’t moved them. You hadn’t either.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “For what?”

“For this. For staying. For... not looking at me like I’m broken.”

You blinked. “Steve, you’re not broken.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you.

So you leaned down a little, fingers brushing his cheek, grounding him again.

“You’re just tired,” you said. “You’ve been fighting a war that never ends. Everyone expects you to be made of iron—but you’re not. You’re just a man with a good heart and too many ghosts.”

His jaw clenched just a little.

“But guess what?” you added, softer now. “You’re still standing.”

You straightened again, and he stared up at you like he didn’t quite know what to say.

So you gave him an out.

“Now scoot,” you said, nudging his leg with your knee. “We’re both exhausted and this bed is like... child-sized.”

Steve let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was trying to figure out how we were gonna fit.”

“You sleep like a log, right?”

He shrugged. “I can.”

“Then I’m calling dibs on not being the one to fall out.”

He moved over, lying back onto Cooper’s little twin bed, his legs almost too long for it. You climbed in next to him, careful not to crowd. But not too far either.

You faced opposite directions, backs turned, the weight of the night still pressing soft and quiet around you both.

But you didn’t feel alone.

And neither did he.

You woke up to the sound of screaming.

Not in the air. Not in the halls.

In your head.

Thoughts—dozens of them, tangled and loud, pressing in from every corner of the house. Dreams turned into nightmares. Subconscious anxieties. Fears that bled into the walls. It was like the whole farmhouse had started humming at a frequency only you could hear.

You winced and blinked hard, groggy and disoriented.

The soft blue glow of the Star Wars nightlight spilled across the room. You squinted at the little digital clock on the dresser—red digits blinking quietly.

1:00 A.M.

Of course it was.

Your body had stiffened at some point in the night, but what caught your attention more was the arm wrapped around your waist. Steve. Still asleep. Still warm. Still holding you like whatever dream he was having hadn’t dragged him under again.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, grounding yourself. The noise was worse now. Thoughts tumbling over each other—dreams from Clint, Laura, the kids, even Bruce down the hall.

Steve’s mind, thankfully, was quiet. Like a lake after the storm.

You slid away from his arm slowly, inch by inch, holding your breath so you wouldn’t wake him. The bed creaked softly under the movement, but he didn’t stir. His brow stayed relaxed. His breathing deep.

You exhaled through your nose and gently rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor silently. The nightdress swayed softly around your calves as you moved toward the door, careful not to trip over a stray action figure on the floor.

The hallway was dark, moonlight slanting in through the windows.

The stairs creaked.

You winced at each step, weight pressed into your heels to soften the sound. You didn’t need Clint waking up and scolding you like a sitcom dad.

Downstairs, the kitchen was cold and quiet. You moved on autopilot—glass from the cupboard, fridge door swinging open, the hum of it briefly masking the thoughts rattling your skull.

You poured water with shaking fingers and drank it fast, letting the cold shock snap you back into your body.

Too loud.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, willing the noise to dial down, even just a little. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, breathing slow, glass against your lips, trying to steady the tide—

“Y/N?”

You jumped.

Your heart practically launched out of your chest as you spun around. “Jesus.”

There she was. Lila Barton. Tiny in her little pajama set, hair mussed from sleep, clutching a plush unicorn to her chest with wide eyes.

You blinked hard, trying to reset your face.

“Lila,” you breathed. “You scared the psychic outta me.”

She giggled a little, then rubbed at her eyes.

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, lower lip wobbling. “And I didn’t wanna wake Mom or Dad.”

You softened instantly. The noise in your head quieted for just a second.

You knelt down in front of her, setting your glass on the counter behind you.

“You okay, kiddo?” you asked gently.

She shook her head. “There were... monsters. Not real ones. Just... bad dreams.”

You nodded slowly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Yeah. I know those.”

Her eyes were glossy. “Do you ever get them?”

“All the time,” you admitted. “But I’ve got a secret weapon.”

She leaned in, eyes curious. “What is it?”

You smiled, raised your hands to either side of her tiny face.

“I can make them go away.”

She blinked, skeptical. “Like magic?”

“Sort of,” you whispered. “But better. It’s heart magic.”

She gasped. “That’s a real thing?”

“For you?” you said. “Always.”

You let your fingers rest lightly on her temples, and with a breath, let the power flow. Not the full thing—just enough. A ripple of soft blue shimmered between your hands, a light like moonlight on still water. It touched her mind gently, soothing the fear there, brushing away the leftover shadows.

Lila’s shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Her little body melted into a sigh, and she blinked up at you like you’d just fixed the sky.

“I feel better,” she whispered.

You smiled, pulling her into a soft hug. “That’s the idea.”

She squeezed you tight.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes.

“Anytime, Lila.”

The water helped, but it didn’t solve everything.

Standing there in the kitchen’s pale yellow nightlight, you realized that the voices that pulled you from sleep hadn’t just been background noise. They weren’t random. They weren’t just emotional echoes left behind.

No—your teammates were dreaming.

All of them.

The house was full of nightmares.

And your head, caught somewhere between psychic receiver and emotional sponge, had taken the brunt of it.

You glanced down at Lila, now rubbing sleep from her eyes, little fingers still curled around her unicorn.

With slow, careful movement, you bent down and scooped her into your arms. She didn’t protest. She just tucked her head under your chin, small body warm and trusting, as if this was something you’d done a hundred times.

The creaking of the stairs felt louder now, but you made the climb with practiced quiet, one hand against the banister to steady your balance, Lila's tiny snores soft against your collarbone. The farmhouse smelled like cedar and old laundry detergent, warm and lived-in, faint scent of something sweet baked into the walls—maybe muffins from the morning before.

At the top of the stairs, you shifted your weight and leaned close to her ear.

“Time to head back, agent,” you whispered.

Lila gave a sleepy little nod, eyes fluttering. You opened the door to her parents’ room with your foot, inching inside on near-silent steps. Laura stirred faintly when you laid Lila down, but didn’t wake. You pulled the blanket over the small girl’s chest, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Goodnight,” Lila mumbled, not fully awake.

You smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. “Goodnight, baby bird.”

She turned toward her unicorn and curled into it, safe again.

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled quietly. The house groaned gently beneath your feet—old wood and older dreams. The noise in your head still hadn't settled. You could feel it humming deeper now, like standing too close to an overloaded generator.

Your eyes tracked down the hallway, toward where the buzz was strongest.

Natasha. Bruce.

You didn’t hesitate.

Lila’s room was just a few doors down. The pink wooden sign with glitter letters hung a little crookedly on the door. You turned the knob slowly, expecting it to be locked—but it wasn’t. Of course not. It was a child’s room, and Clint was a father first. He didn’t believe in locking doors where little ones might need comfort.

The room was dim, lit faintly by the soft swirl of glow-in-the-dark butterflies on the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender, like stuffed animals and bedtime stories. There were teddy bears lined up on a shelf, some with bows. A small princess nightlight blinked from the corner.

And on the bed, Bruce and Natasha.

They were tangled up together in a way that made your chest pinch—in the sweet way, not the jealous one. Natasha had her head resting on Bruce’s chest, arm draped across his stomach. He was angled slightly toward her, forehead pressed into her hair. It wasn’t messy or suggestive. Just intimate. Familiar. Two tired people clinging to the quiet.

But their minds were screaming.

You didn’t see the dreams. Not exactly. But you felt them.

Bruce’s was full of shadows—cold, sharp, flickering memories of cages and labs and needlepoints that made your throat close. A green haze lingered at the edge, rage balled up tight in his subconscious like a caged animal pacing.

Natasha’s was colder—quieter. But somehow worse. Hers wasn’t rage. It was control. Pain masked as purpose. You felt sterile walls, red lights. Not that door, she was whispering, even in her dream. Don’t make me open it again.

You stepped closer. The floor creaked slightly, but neither stirred. They were too far under.

You didn’t want to invade. But this wasn’t about watching. This was about relief.

You stood at the edge of the bed, raised your hand, and let your fingers hover in the air between them.

The mist unfurled slowly. That soft, silken blue light—cool and quiet, like a lullaby sung by the sea. It wrapped around both of them in threads of calm, not erasing the pain, but smoothing it. Buffering it. Their breathing evened. The lines on Bruce’s forehead faded. Natasha’s grip on his shirt loosened.

The noise—blessedly—stopped.

And you stepped back, letting your arm fall to your side.

You smiled faintly at the sight of them. Somehow, it felt like seeing something sacred. You were going to absolutely tease them in the morning. Nothing cruel. Just enough to make Nat roll her eyes and Bruce stammer through a defense. You’d earned it, honestly.

You stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind you.

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

But the storm wasn’t over.

You turned toward the end of the hall. The last door.

Tony.

His mind wasn’t loud, not the same way. His nightmares came in like static—messy, scattered. Fragmented shards of regret and guilt. You could feel it already. You didn’t need to see his dreams to know the truth:

He never forgave himself for anything.

You padded quietly to the door. This one was cracked open slightly. Probably forgot to close it properly when he stumbled in earlier, still running off adrenaline and sarcasm.

You slipped in.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and motor oil. Old shirts lay draped over a suitcase, a half-packed bag on the dresser. A tablet blinked low battery from where he’d left it beside the bed. He hadn’t even changed out of his shirt—just kicked off his shoes and collapsed sideways.

Tony was sweating.

Not heavily, but just enough. A faint sheen along his brow. His hand twitched every now and then, fingers curling into the blanket. His jaw was clenched.

His dream wasn’t coherent.

You felt it in fragments: a pair of hands reaching up from under rubble, a flash of a child's shoe, Pepper walking away without turning back. His dad’s voice—cruel and cold—echoing in his mind like a scratched record.

You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.

You closed your eyes, teeth clenched. “Oh, Dad,” you whispered under your breath. “You idiot.”

You moved closer, careful not to make noise. Your feet sank into the carpet near the bed. You reached out—no hesitation this time.

Blue mist swept out from your fingertips, curling like smoke in the low light. It danced over his temples, behind his ears, down to his chest.

The noise faded.

His breathing slowed.

His hand, curled in a tense fist, unclenched slightly.

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You just stood there, your hand hovering above the man who built your life from scratch but never quite figured out how to show love without sarcasm. The man who once gave you a Rolex for a birthday you cried through.

The room fell quiet.

And your head, at last, stopped hurting.

You slipped back into Cooper’s bedroom just as the grandfather clock downstairs struck two, the low chime echoing up through the floorboards like a reminder that time was always ticking—too fast, too slow, never on your side.

The room was dim, moonlight cutting pale stripes through the blinds. Steve had shifted slightly in the bed. He was lying on his back now, one arm thrown across the empty space where you’d been, like he’d reached for you and missed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, your heartbeat still steady from calming everyone else’s storms.

And now here he was.

The one storm you didn’t want to calm.

Because he could break you if he wanted to. And you’d let him.

You crossed the room slowly, the worn floor soft under your feet, and slid carefully back under the covers.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Until—

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice thick with sleep but laced with something else. Something warmer. Something that made your stomach twist.

“I’m fine,” you lied, as naturally as breathing.

He was silent for a few seconds, and you thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep. But then—

“I woke up and you were gone.”

You hesitated. “Just needed a walk. Too much noise.”

He turned onto his side to face you, one hand supporting his head, elbow on the pillow.

“I figured that’s what it was,” he said. “It’s always noise for you, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Perks of being a glorified human antenna.”

His eyes searched your face, soft and unreadable. You hated when he looked at you like that—like he was trying to solve you. Like you were a puzzle he was too close to finish.

“You helped us,” he murmured. “I felt it. When you touched my mind.”

You looked away.

“It was gentle,” he continued. “Like... like someone putting their hand on your shoulder when you’re about to fall.”

You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “Because I care about you. About all of you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His voice was low now. Steady.

You froze.

He shifted closer. The air between you thickened.

“You didn’t just care,” he said. “You held me together. You always do. And I’ve been lying to myself for a long time, pretending it was just friendship. That it was just... teammates sticking together.”

You closed your eyes.

“Steve,” you whispered, warning in your tone.

But he didn’t stop.

“I keep thinking about that dream. About Peggy. About how it felt to see her again. And I realized it wasn’t about going home. It wasn’t about the dance. It was about the part of me that still wants something... that feels like home.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when I woke up,” he said, voice catching, “you were gone, and the bed was cold, and I panicked because I didn’t want you gone.”

Your eyes snapped open.

He looked at you then—really looked. And he said it:

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The air left your lungs.

You sat up immediately, fingers trembling, eyes burning.

“No,” you said, too fast, too sharp.

Steve blinked, confusion and hurt flashing across his face.

You shook your head, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Don’t. Don’t say that to me.”

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up too, voice strained now.

“Because I’m not her, Steve!” you snapped, louder than intended, but gods, it was too late to be quiet now.

His expression froze.

“You’re still holding onto her,” you whispered, softer this time. “Even now. You’re just trying to find pieces of her in me. Kindness. The loyalty. The sarcasm wrapped in warmth. And maybe I remind you of her. Maybe I move like her, talk like her, care like her. But I’m not her.”

Steve opened his mouth—but you didn’t let him speak.

“You want to love me? Then love me. Not the ghost of someone you couldn’t save.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He stared at you like you’d just punched him in the gut.

Maybe you had.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked away, fists clenched in your lap.

“You deserve something real,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “So do I.”

He didn’t answer.

And for once, you didn’t fill the silence.

You let it sit.

Between the two of you.

Like a wall neither of you were ready to break.

The silence in the room wasn’t just heavy.

It was crushing.

You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing like your ribs were glass—slow, careful, scared of shattering. You didn’t dare look at him. If you did, you might take it all back. And you meant what you said.

Didn’t you?

Across from you, Steve didn’t move. You could feel the tension rippling off him—could hear the thoughts in his head, loud as church bells and quiet as confessions. He wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. No, he was something else.

Wrecked.

You heard the way his breath hitched. The way his hands curled into fists, resting on his knees like anchors. The bed dipped under his weight, still too small for two broken people who didn’t know what to do with their pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

You flinched.

Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them.

Like he meant them for a thousand different moments he could never take back.

“For what?” you asked, still not looking at him. “For saying it? Or for meaning it?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. And that told you everything.

You turned to him slowly.

He was looking down, staring at his hands like they held answers. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking. His eyes were glassy, lips parted, like he had a hundred words he wanted to say but none that would make a difference.

“I don’t know how to stop comparing,” he admitted. “And I hate that. Because it’s not fair to you.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His broad shoulders slumped. His spine curled forward slightly, like the weight on it was just too much tonight. His whole body—always so strong, so steady—looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with regret.

“I keep looking for things I lost,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I see them in you, it... it feels like hope. But maybe it’s just me trying to glue the past to the present.”

“Exactly,” you said, choking on your own voice. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“But it’s not just that,” he said, more firmly now. “You think I don’t see you? That I don’t know who you are?”

You stared at him. “Then why now? Why after that dream? You see her, you wake up, and suddenly I’m what—convenient?”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. You’re not convenient. You’re everything I’m afraid to want.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you like he was pleading with you to understand. “You’re not soft and perfect. You’re sharp. You’re chaos and compassion all rolled into one. You challenge me. You make me feel like I’m not just a man frozen in time. And yeah, sometimes I look at you and I hear her voice, but more often than not... I hear yours.”

Your chest tightened so hard it ached.

“But I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared because what if I’m too broken to know the difference between love and longing? What if I already ruined this by seeing ghosts in your shadow?”

Tears stung your eyes—but you blinked them away. “You didn’t ruin it. You just made it real.”

Steve looked up.

You stared at him with all the pain in your chest cracked wide open. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And it killed me—kills me—to know I’ll always be second to someone who’s not even here.”

His expression crumbled.

“I tried to be okay with it,” you continued, voice trembling. “I told myself being near you was enough. Being your friend, your anchor, your whatever you needed. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Steve reached for you, but you flinched.

“I need you to love me for me,” you said, softly now. “Not because I’m safe. Not because I’m similar. Not because I made your nightmares go quiet.”

His hand hovered in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Neither of you moved.

The clock ticked in the background.

Outside the window, the sky was starting to hint at dawn—just barely. The kind of blue that isn’t day or night, but the ghost of both.

You sat there, side by side, not touching. Two hearts beating too loudly in the quiet.

And somehow, silence said more than either of you could bear.

You didn’t sleep after that.

Neither did he.

The silence between you stretched on, delicate as spider silk, humming with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t trust yourself to speak. You sat on opposite ends of the bed, feet dangling, bodies heavy with unshed grief.

Eventually, Steve turned away and laid down, but not to sleep. You could tell by his breathing—too steady. Too rehearsed. He wasn’t drifting off.

He was trying to disappear.

And you let him.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark constellations stuck to Cooper’s ceiling. They were shaped like tiny promises, and every one of them felt like a lie.

The room smelled faintly like the remnants of Lila’s bubblegum shampoo and Steve’s cologne. Warm cotton. Faint traces of cedar and something older, like dust on a forgotten letter. The scent of almost.

You didn’t cry.

There weren’t any tears left.

When the sky finally cracked open, painting soft gold across the old wooden floorboards, you climbed quietly out of bed, careful not to brush against him. Steve stayed still, eyes closed, one hand over his chest like he was holding himself together.

You tiptoed across the room, grabbed your jacket from the chair, and slipped into the hallway.

Downstairs, the farmhouse was still quiet. Clint’s kids weren’t up yet. Laura was likely curled into Clint’s side. Natasha and Bruce, probably still tangled in each other’s warmth—dreams finally quiet thanks to you. Tony, passed out and drooling into a pillow he pretended cost $600.

You moved like a ghost through the kitchen, fingers wrapping around a chipped ceramic mug. You poured yourself coffee—black, because anything else felt like trying too hard. The mug was warm between your palms, but it didn’t chase the chill out of your bones.

You sat at the table and stared out the window.

The barn caught the sunrise first. All golden wood and long shadows. Somewhere, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for a movie.

And then you heard it.

Steps. Barefoot. Soft.

You didn’t turn around.

Steve entered the kitchen with that same slow, unsure quiet he always wore after a battle. His hair was a mess. He looked like hell. And somehow, he still moved like a leader trying to figure out how to ask forgiveness without words.

He stopped at the opposite end of the table.

You still didn’t look at him.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

“Didn’t sleep,” you said softly, staring into your mug.

“Me neither,” Steve murmured, voice rough. “Didn’t really want to.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Steve moved to pour himself a cup. You heard the clink of ceramic, the slow gurgle of the pot. He sat down across from you, hands wrapped around the mug like it might burn away the things he couldn’t fix.

Another beat.

Then he said it.

“I meant it.”

You looked at him now.

His eyes were tired. Honest. Exposed.

“I don’t care if you think it’s too late,” he said. “Or if I said it for the wrong reasons. I meant it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Steve,” you said finally, “I can’t be someone’s second choice.”

“You’re not.”

“You just saw her. You danced with her in your dream.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t wake up wanting her.”

You froze.

He swallowed. “I woke up missing her, yes. But I looked over and I—” He faltered. “I looked over and I needed you. Not her.”

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I just know I’ve never felt this calm around anyone else. Never felt seen like this. You get into my head and you don’t run. You see the worst of me and you stay.”

You let the silence fill the space.

Then:

“I don’t want to love someone who’s still haunted.”

Steve’s eyes dropped.

“I want someone who chooses me. All of me. Not just the pieces that look like someone else.”

He looked up again. And this time—his voice cracked.

“Then let me prove it’s you.”

You stared at him.

Two mugs of cooling coffee. Two exhausted souls. One moment balanced on the knife-edge between breaking and beginning.

And for once, you didn’t know what to say.

So you just whispered:

“Then don’t disappear.”

And he whispered back:

“I won’t.”

away every crack in your chest with nothing but care.

Steve kissed you like you mattered.

Like you weren’t just a comfort or a memory or an afterthought—but a choice.

His lips were warm, patient, but there was something deeper beneath the softness—a tension held back, something he’d buried for too long. And when your fingers curled into his hair and your body pressed closer, he melted into you.

His arm slid around your waist. Yours moved up around his neck. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, the kind that steals the air from your lungs but gives you back your name.

And then—

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You froze.

Steve pulled back an inch, lips still ghosting over yours.

You both turned slowly toward the voice.

Tony Stark was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, holding a coffee mug mid-sip like he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF STARK INDUSTRIES IS HAPPENING HERE.”

You scrambled to sit up. Steve nearly fell off the chair. Your face went nuclear red.

“Tony—” you started, but he held up a hand like he was stopping traffic.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. I need therapy. I need bleach for my eyeballs. I need—I need Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth, only to immediately close it again.

Tony’s jaw dropped further. “You—you kissed my daughter?!”

“She kissed me,” Steve blurted.

You whipped around. “Excuse me?!”

Steve winced. “Okay, bad defense, but—mutual! Totally mutual!”

Tony gagged.

“OH GOD, I CAN HEAR YOU!”

That was when Natasha walked in, looking like a goddess in sweatpants, holding her mug like it was her morning sword.

“What’s happening?” she asked casually.

Bruce appeared right behind her, adjusting his glasses. “Did Tony scream ‘Jesus’ or was that my imagination?”

You were halfway to combusting.

Natasha glanced between you and Steve—your kiss-swollen lips, your guilty spacing—and immediately smirked. “Well well well.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

“Oh?!” Tony shouted. “OH?! You’re older than me, Rogers! Older than me!”

“Technically—” Steve tried.

“Do not say ‘time doesn’t work like that,’ I swear,” Tony groaned. “You wore suspenders unironically.”

From upstairs, Clint shouted, “Did someone die?!”

“I WISH I HAD,” Tony roared back.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is not happening. This is not real. I’m still dreaming. This is Wanda’s fault.”

Natasha walked over and ruffled your hair. “Relax, lovebird. You could do worse.”

Tony gasped. “Excuse you?!”

“Not helping, Nat!” you yelped.

Bruce patted Steve’s shoulder with tragic sympathy. “Good luck, man.”

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “I was a war hero.”

“You still are,” Natasha said, smirking. “Just not in Tony’s house.”

The kitchen exploded with laughter. Well—everyone but Tony.

Tony, who took a long, dramatic sip of his coffee, stared at the ceiling and muttered:

“God, if you’re listening… please smite me.”

Tony was still dramatically mumbling into his coffee like a man who had just watched his favorite sports team lose and then spontaneously combust. He paced the kitchen like a sitcom dad in full breakdown mode, muttering things like “My daughter’s dating a man who fought Hitler” and “Why didn’t I just build Ultron a girlfriend and retire.”

You sat back down in your chair, cheeks still a bit flushed, hair tousled from soft hands and even softer kissing, while Steve sat beside you, trying very hard to look like he hadn’t just been emotionally stripped and publicly roasted.

Natasha was still sipping her coffee, now lounging on the counter with all the smugness of a cat watching a dog get scolded.

“So, how long’s this been a thing?” she asked casually, gesturing at the space between you and Steve like it was a soap opera.

“It’s not a thing,” you said quickly.

Steve blinked. “I thought—”

“I mean not a thing thing,” you stammered, panicking. “Just a—like—we kissed. Once. That’s it. Calm your shield, Cap.”

Nat’s smirk widened. “Uh-huh. Sure. You looked like you were seconds from writing each other vows with that kiss.”

Bruce cleared his throat, ever the peacekeeper. “Let’s maybe not interrogate the new couple before coffee’s fully metabolized.”

“Not a couple,” you and Steve said in unison.

Tony groaned. “You’re finishing each other’s sentences now?! I’m gonna be sick.”

“Do you need a hug?” Clint asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen in pajama pants and an I ❤️ NY hoodie, a cup of tea in his hand.

“I need a restraining order,” Tony hissed.

Clint looked at Steve, then at you, then at the empty coffee mugs, then back at Steve. “Huh. Took you long enough.”

Steve blinked. “You... knew?”

Clint shrugged. “Come on, Cap. You look at her like she’s the Statue of Liberty and you just came back from war.”

Tony gagged again. “He did. That’s the problem!”

Nat grinned. “It’s true. You give her the look.”

Steve frowned. “What look?”

Bruce, deadpan: “The ‘I’d jump on a grenade for you and then bake you pancakes’ look.”

“Pancakes?” you repeated, grinning now.

Natasha pointed her spoon at Steve. “He literally made you pancakes last week.”

“They were protein pancakes,” Steve mumbled, ears turning pink.

Tony dragged his hands down his face. “Great. This is how I die. Betrayed. In my own kitchen. Watching my daughter make googly eyes at Uncle Sam.”

Clint snorted. “Steve’s more like Grandpa America, actually.”

You nearly spit out your coffee.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve said, his voice somewhere between amused and mildly offended.

Tony pointed dramatically. “That’s my line! That’s what I say when the team roasts me. You can’t just—oh my god, are you wearing socks with sandals?!”

Steve looked down at his feet. “They’re slippers—”

“Slippers are just socks with ambition.”

Bruce leaned against the fridge and tried not to laugh. “Tony, you’ve built AI, rebuilt your heart, and flown to space. You can survive this.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Tony huffed. “This is my daughter. This is like... betrayal. World War, Farmhouse Edition.”

Natasha raised a brow. “I mean... we do need a sequel.”

You leaned into Steve and whispered just loud enough for Tony to hear: “So, uh... wanna kiss me again just to see what happens?”

Tony shrieked, “I’M STILL HERE.”

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, and his hand found yours under the table again. This time, he didn’t let go.

The sun had fully risen now, stretching lazy golden fingers across the quiet farm. It was one of those mornings that smelled like dew and dust and warmth—like something old and kind. Birds chirped high in the trees, and everything felt like it had finally exhaled after a long, aching breath.

You stood just outside the barn, arms crossed loosely, wearing a borrowed hoodie that was definitely not yours. (Okay, it might’ve belonged to Steve. But no one needed to know that.)

In front of you, Steve was chopping firewood.

And you were... well.

You were shamelessly staring.

Not just at the strength in his arms or the way his shirt clung to his back in all the right ways (though, yeah, duh), but at the way he moved—focused, quiet, content. It was rare to see him like this, outside of the suit and the weight of a world expecting him to save it.

He lifted the axe again, brought it down with a solid thud—the wood split clean in two, scattering chips across the dirt.

You whistled low under your breath.

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, clearly trying (and failing) not to smirk. “You always make that noise when someone chops wood, or am I just special?”

You leaned against the fence post with a dramatic sigh. “I dunno. The lumberjack thing? Kind of doing it for me.”

He barked out a laugh and wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt—lifting it just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

You blinked.

He noticed.

And grinned.

“Oh, you’re evil,” you muttered, biting your lip and trying to look anywhere else. “How dare you use your super soldier abs against me.”

He walked over to you, grabbing a bottle of water from the post. “I thought I was Grandpa America?”

You shrugged, innocent. “Gramps can still get it.”

Steve choked on his water.

“Jesus,” he coughed, eyes wide, laughing through it. “You’re unbelievable.”

You took the bottle from his hands and sipped. “Takes one to know one.”

He was still smiling when he stepped closer, hands loosely on his hips, a little dirt smudged across his cheek. “You just gonna watch, or you planning to help?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, and ruin my new career as your personal eye candy appreciation society?”

Steve gave you a look.

You gave him one right back.

Then—slowly—you walked forward, closing the distance between you, until you were toe-to-toe. You reached up, thumb brushing the dirt off his cheek. He didn’t move—just watched you with those soft blue eyes that made your heart twist.

“Y’know,” you said gently, “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

You shrugged. “Here. Now. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just... you. Chopping wood and smiling at me like I’m not a complete disaster.”

He leaned in, just a little. “You’re not a disaster.”

You grinned. “I’m definitely a disaster.”

He reached for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours. “Maybe. But you’re my disaster.”

Your cheeks flushed, and your smile softened.

There it was again. That look.

Like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he never wanted to look away.

You rested your forehead against his chest and sighed. “God, this is stupid.”

“What is?”

“This,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna fall so hard for you it’s gonna ruin me.”

Steve tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours with that quiet intensity he always had. “Then let’s ruin each other.”

You laughed, soft and breathless, and leaned in to kiss him again—this time slow, warm, with the smell of pine and the sun on your face. His hands cupped your jaw, steady and grounding, and you melted into him like you were always meant to be here.

No chaos. No noise.

Just the two of you.

And for once, that was enough.

The work was done.

The firewood sat stacked in neat rows by the side of the porch, and Steve had finally tossed the axe aside with a satisfied grunt. His shoulders glistened slightly under the heat of the late afternoon sun, the edges of his shirt darkened with sweat. The farm had quieted—no Avengers stomping through the yard, no chaos spilling out of the house. Just birdsong, the distant murmur of a breeze, and the soft creak of the wooden fence where you now sat, legs dangling lazily over the side.

Steve leaned beside you, elbow propped up on the post, drinking the last of his water. His eyes weren't on the sky. They were on you.

"You've been quiet," he said gently.

You shrugged. “I like the quiet. It’s rare.”

He nodded. “It is.”

The sun had started its slow descent behind the trees, casting everything in that golden amber light that made even the worn-down barn look like something out of a painting. Dust motes danced in the still air. The breeze smelled faintly of hay and honeysuckle.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wood. “You ever think about what it’d be like if this was... it?”

Steve glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the open field, the house, the firewood. “Peace. A normal day. No aliens. No missions. Just... existing.”

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly. “More than you know.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

The lines around his eyes. The soft pink at the tip of his nose from the sun. The small smile he tried to hide when you caught him staring.

“You could have it, you know,” you said. “You could hang up the shield. Be done.”

His smile faltered. “You think I deserve that?”

You nodded. “I think you deserve more than that.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped to the ground, jaw working through something heavy.

Then—quietly—he said, “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this again.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

He looked at you, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“Hope.”

It hit you like a whisper and a storm all at once.

You sat there, blinking up at him, heart stumbling like it had forgotten how to beat on rhythm.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he added, voice rough around the edges. “Talking. Letting people in. But you...” He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You make it feel easy.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow,” he continued. “But right now—this—” He squeezed your hand. “—this feels real.”

You didn’t pull away.

You leaned in, your voice soft. “It is.”

The silence between you thickened, but not in a bad way. In a way that made your skin hum. The sunlight caught the edge of his hair, turning the golden strands even lighter. The light made him look impossibly soft—like a memory in motion.

And then—you did it.

You reached up, fingers brushing along the side of his face, thumb dragging gently across the line of his jaw.

He leaned into your touch without hesitation.

No more hesitation.

No more ghosts.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this moment.

Your forehead touched his, and for a long, sweet breath, you both stayed like that—eyes closed, hearts steady. The heat of the day melting into something calmer. Safer.

You whispered, “We could stay here a little longer, y’know.”

He smiled, barely. “I’d like that.”

Then, finally, he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Softer.

There was no rush. No adrenaline. No fear.

Just two people who’d found something quiet and good in the middle of chaos.

And for once, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t sure when you both ended up lying side by side on the patch of tall grass just behind the barn, but the stillness of it was a balm. The sun had begun to dip low, casting warm light across the world, catching in the strands of Steve’s hair, painting everything in gold.

You turned your head on the rough wool of the old blanket Clint had lent you and looked at him—his profile soft in the last light of day. His eyes were on the sky, calm and unreadable, but his thumb was tracing soft, distracted patterns on the back of your hand.

It was quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... peaceful.

Safe.

“Steve?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?” he murmured, not turning, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hesitated. Then: “Do you ever think about the future?”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stilling on your skin.

“All the time,” he said.

You shifted to lie on your side, propped on one elbow, watching him. His expression was unreadable at first—like he was still somewhere else. Then slowly, his eyes found yours.

“I don’t let myself get too far ahead,” he admitted. “But lately… I don’t know. It’s getting harder not to want something more.”

You swallowed. “More like what?”

He smiled, slow and unsure, like the words felt too delicate to say out loud.

“A house,” he said finally. “Quiet. Out here, maybe. Far from everything. Big porch. Two chairs. One dog.”

Your lips curled. “Just one?”

“Just one. I’ll name him something dumb like Sergeant Bark.”

You snorted. “Okay, first of all, you’re banned from naming anything.”

He laughed, head tilting toward you slightly, light in his eyes. “Fine. You can name the dog.”

Your heart clenched.

He was teasing, but there was something real under the surface. Something he wasn’t quite saying. You knew that tone. You knew what it meant to speak softly about things you didn’t think you could ever have.

You let your eyes drift to the horizon. “And kids?”

The question hung there for a second, caught on the wind.

Steve’s voice was gentler when he answered. “Yeah. I think about that too.”

You met his gaze again.

“I didn’t used to,” he added. “Back in Brooklyn, it didn’t feel like something people like me were supposed to have. Then the war happened. And after that… I just stopped letting myself want it.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers against the curve of his jaw.

“But now?” you asked.

His hand found yours again, curling around it like it was something precious.

“Now I want it with you,” he said.

You didn’t know what to say. The words hit like warmth and ache all at once. He meant it. He meant you.

“You’d be a good dad,” you whispered, the lump in your throat rising fast.

He shook his head slightly. “I’d be terrified. What if I mess it up?���

You smiled. “We’d mess it up together. That’s the deal.”

His eyes softened like he was memorizing you.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said, voice barely audible.

You blinked hard.

Then, because your chest hurt with how much this meant—this moment, this man—you tried to tease again, just to breathe.

“Let’s name one of the kids after Tony, just to mess with him.”

Steve grinned. “Only if we name the other one Natasha.”

You paused. “No joke, I actually love that.”

You both laughed. Not loudly. Not the kind that echoed. Just the soft, chest-humming laughter of people letting go.

The kind of laugh that tastes like home.

Steve rolled onto his side to face you, his palm resting over your heart now. His fingers curled there, like he could feel every beat. Maybe he could.

“Do you think we’ll get there?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to scream it. But your throat was tight, and your heart was full in a way that made it hard to speak.

So you whispered, “If the world lets us, I’ll build that life with you brick by brick.”

His hand slipped to the back of your neck and he pulled you in—slow, reverent, like the world had finally stood still long enough to let you breathe.

The kiss was softer this time. Less hungry. Less breathless. Just… full. Steady. Familiar. It felt like the answer to a question neither of you had ever known how to ask.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

You could feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady.

And then—he whispered it. Soft. Like a vow.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then you smiled.

Not because it surprised you.

But because you felt it too.

“I love you,” you whispered back, voice thick with something tender and raw. “I think I always have.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the war.

You both lay there under the fading sun, holding each other. No fear. No need to rush. The world was still out there. The chaos. The battles. The uncertainty.

But for now, it was just two hearts. A patch of sky. And the dream of something more.

A life not yet lived.

But close.

So close.

And maybe, just maybe—worth fighting for.

Later, as the stars carved quiet paths across the darkening sky and the barn lights flickered on in the distance, you stayed curled against Steve, the world hushed around you. There was no war at this moment. 

No ghosts, no shields, no broken pieces needing to be picked up. Just skin pressed to skin, hearts aligned like constellations, and the shared breath of two people who had survived enough to finally let themselves want more. 

You didn’t need promises. You didn’t need forever wrapped in certainty. What you had—this raw, beautiful now—was more than enough. 

And if the future ever came with a house, a porch, a dog with a terrible name, and laughter echoing through hallways built from healing… you’d be there. Hand in hand. With him. 

Building peace in the shape of each other.

[zaraomarrogers]

chris evans alphabet | s | swearing

“I shouldn’t be swearing. Captain America shouldn’t swear. But I get caught with these interviews and I start dropping f-bombs! This is why I can’t do interviews!”

[zaraomarrogers]

Sooo cute!! 🩷🩷🩷

Stevie, isn’t he the best😍

I want him😍

Thankyou for writing and sharing, just what I needed to read this morning 💕

His Little Clothes Thief

Another entry for @steverogersbingo. A2 - Sharing Clothes

I'll admit this one ended up being way cuter than the original idea I had for this prompt, and I may have stretched the prompt a bit to make this work. I'm definitely happy with the results.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 1034

Summary: You come home to find Steve rummaging through your closet for his favorite shirt. He has plans for it and refuses to be deterred.

Warnings: none; just a lot of fluff

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

"Steven, what do you think you're doing?" you demanded, hands crossed over your chest while you hip rested against the door frame of your closet.

Your boyfriend of nearly three years glanced over his shoulder. His hands stilled on the hoodies hanging in front of him. He had the nerve to give you a knowing looking before returning to what he'd been doing. This time though, he picked up his pace as he sifted through the large collection of hoodies you've amassed.

"I'm looking for my favorite shirt. I know you have it, sweetheart."

You scoffed at the mild accusation in his tone. Sure, you'd been known to 'borrow' some of his clothes from time to time, but you always returned them.

Steve had the nerve to mimic your scoff. "I saw it in your pile when we were doing laundry yesterday. Don't think I don't know you."

"What makes you think I still have it?" you asked, not about to let him win this match so easily. "How do you know it's not hanging up in your closet? You know the door on the other side of our garden tub? The last I checked you have a greater collection of clothes than I do. What makes you so sure I have it?"

"Because, sweetheart," he spared you another exasperated though loving glance, "I already checked my closet, and it's not there. While I do agree I have more clothes than you, I also know what I have and my shirt isn't among what's mine. Your closet is the next logical conclusion."

Realizing he had you there, you stubbornly clung to the idea that you didn't have his shirt. Your gaze swept over the walk-in that you'd claimed the day you two moved in. You were determined to prove him wrong and send him back to his own closet. Not one hanger or shelf was missed in your scrutiny, so certain you were in your knowledge.

It was only when your gaze landed on an out-of-place navy shirt that in fact looked familiar did you shift your weight. Studying it further, you could just make out the edges of the even more familiar shape and color of his shield emblazoned across the front.

Creeping forward, you kept an eye on Steve and his attention on the far wall of your closet.

"I'm telling you, my love, it's not in here."

And it wouldn't be in the next thirty seconds if you had your way.

Steve hummed, clearly still skeptical of your assertion.

It was just as well. As long as he kept his attention where it was, you could do this. You could be stealthy when you wanted to be, and right then, you really wanted to be.

You dared a glance in his direction when you neared the spot where his shirt hung. Your hands stretched the short distance towards it and even gripped the shirt. With his attention still diverted, you tugged gently at the shirt, pleased when it gave and dropped off the hanger.

Knowing you wouldn't have long, you turned to dash out of your closet.

You made it two steps and only two steps.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back into a solid and warm chest.

"What's that, sweetheart?"

"What's what?" you asked, deciding to play dumb even though you've been caught.

Steve's soft chuckle wasn't lost on you as it reverberated through you. "That shirt in your hands. It looks awfully familiar, ya know?"

"I don't know," you said, shrugging even as you held up the shirt to inspect it. "Looks like any other shirt you'd give out to your fans. Certainly doesn't look like anything that special."

"Oh, it's plenty special, sweetheart," Steve murmured close to your ear. His breath tickled across the exposed skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing as he continued, "I got that shirt from someone very special to me. It's my favorite because they gave it to me."

"You must really care about them if you notice when this shirt isn't among your others."

The softest of kisses pressed against the space where your shoulder and neck met.

"They are the most precious part of my life."

He said the words so softly but so assuredly that your heart threatened to pound out of your chest. Your belly swooped while happy tears rushed to your eyes. Darn him for doing this to you every time.

Swallowing past the lump forming, you twisted so your eyes could meet. You managed a decent though mocked glare in his direction while you pushed the shirt into his hand still holding you close.

"You never play fair," you accused him though your voice lacked any real conviction.

Steve, without an ounce of remorse for eliciting such an emotional response from you, simply leaned in and pressed another sweet kiss to your lips. His nose rubbed against yours when he pulled away to say, "I play for keeps, sweetheart, and I mean to keep you as long as you'll let me."

"Even if I steal your clothes from time to time?"

"Especially because you steal my clothes," he countered, pressing another kiss to your lips.

He released you then, shaking out his shirt.

When you figured he would slip it over the tank he was wearing, he surprised you by raising the shirt and tugging it over your head and down your body. While you hurriedly pushed your arms through the sleeves, you caught the speculative gleam in his expression.

"I thought…"

Steve shook his head. "Nah, it looks better on you, sweetheart. Plus, I know you like wearing it when you've had a long day. I just wanted to have it ready for you when you got home. Unfortunately, you got home before I could find it."

This time, you rose up on tiptoes and wrapped yourself around him. Your lips founds his and didn't let him go until you both needed to pull back for some air.

"Do you know how much I love you?" you asked between breathy inhales.

Steve grinned. "Almost as much as I love you, sweetheart."

[zaraomarrogers]

Steve 🥰🥰🥰

Oh no, I hope she recovers and tell him that it’s not because of him..

Thank you for writing and sharing with us

I’d love to read a part 2 if you find inspiration to write..

IT'S BEEN A LONG, LONG TIME.

⤷ STEVE ROGERS X READER

Summary: Steve, absolutely in love with the stranger he'd see every day on the train, had finally gained the courage to speak to you, and ask you out.

Warnings: GOD, HEART WRENCHING!!!!! but! incredibly soft and i mean, so extremely soft, in love steve! plottwist!

Part Count: 1/2? I originally intended this to be only one part, but i am open to writing a second part, if interested!

A/N: oh, you MUST listen to the song while reading! i adored writing this, it is an idea i have had for a while now! i wrote it listening to the song, and god, it was heartbreaking to write!!! english is not my first language, so if you find any grammatical mistakes, please do let me know! enjoy!

9:15AM. Jamaica Center Station.

This was Steve Rogers' favorite time of the day, and definitely his favorite stop during his train ride to the Avengers Compound. All because he got to see the most beautiful, and appealing stranger he had ever seen ever since he woke from his ages long sleep.

A small grin appeared in his face, his eyes following you into the train. You looked as good as always, wearing comfortable yet radiant clothing, still, your headphones were never to be left behind. They wrapped around your head, keeping your cold ears warm during the cold winter of New York. His eyes watched your pretty frame, as you chose to sit right across from him, allowing him the privilege of looking at you through this train ride of his. He found himself fixing his clothing, hoping to look as presentable as possible in your eyes. His expression softened as soon as you looked up to meet his gaze. You offered him a small smile, just enough to keep the hopeless romantic happy the entire day. He returned your smile, happy to see that you recognized him. After all, you both meet almost daily on the train.

He kept waiting for his favorite moment of train rides with you. His head turning to look out the window, hoping to distract his nervousness from your closeness to him. He watched as people got in and off the train, just awaiting for that special moment.

There it was.

It's been a long, long time by Harry James and His Orchestra being softly hummed by you.

He somehow felt all his worries being washed away by the peace your gentle hums brought him. It must be one of your favorite songs, or so he thought, as you would always hum and if he was lucky, you'd even sing it, every single time he met you at the train. Steve would even imagine himself dancing along the song wth you. His strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you both danced to the sweet sound of the trumpet. Steve bit his lip, to try and stop the smile that absolutely begged to leave his lips, as he continued to listen to you hum to his favorite song.

You simply watched out of the window, humming as quietly as possible, hating the thought of sounding like an obnoxiously loud person. You had grown up with the song, and you found it comforting, bringing you tranquility in this crazy life you were living, and in this insane world you lived in. You had made it a point to always listen to it, to start your day in calmness and overall happiness. You didn't know the happiness you were also bringing the soldier sitting across from you.

"Kiss me once, then kiss me twice..." You softly sang under your breath, thinking no one could hear you. But Steve did, and God, he was thankful he did. A bigger smile left his lips, now looking down to his lap, just enjoying this moment, the moment he didn't even see himself looking forward to every single day.

St. George Station said the speaker. This was the very moment Steve dreaded. Leaving you. He stood from his seat, you looked up at him, watching him collect his belongings. You moved one of your headphones to the side, smiling up at him.

"See you tomorrow!" You sweetly said between grins. Oh, God. Steve almost melted to the ground right then and there. He chuckled softly, nodding his head at you.

"Take care 'till then." He replied, his eyes not wanting to leave yours. It was such a sweet view, Steve's tall figure looking down at yours, big smiles on both your faces. You nodded up at him, before readjusting your headphones.

Steve got off the train, a huge grin on his face. He was walking on sunshine. This had been the first time you two had even spoken. You had ridden the train together for a few months now, only exchanging a few smiles, glares and sometimes a few 'Thank you's or 'Excuse me's, never full phrases directed to one another. The hero walked towards the Avengers Compound, humming the sweet song, mimicking the way you softly hummed along as you looked out the window.

"Something's got you all happy." Natasha spoke in smiles as the Captain America walked into the foyer. Steve shook his head, smiling at her. "Oh, it was definitely the train girl!" She squealed, walking up to Steve, covering her mouth in excitement.

"How did you know?" Steve laughed. "Could've been Sharon from Accounting." He said, chuckling, mocking Natasha, who had once tried to set them up.

"Do not mock me, Rogers. Tell me about it!" Natasha excitedly asked, as they both walked towards the living space of the compound. Steve mostly chuckled.

"We spoke to each other."

"...Right. Yes, that is how you meet people." Natasha said, motioning Steve to continue on. He looked at her, a bit puzzled. "That's it? Steve, come on, you can't be this rusty.”

"I am not-"

"Did you ask her name? Her number, even better?" Natasha asked, now stopping her walk to look up at Steve. He sighed softly, shaking his head cautiously. "Okay, you can't go on like this." She mumbled, shaking her head.

"Well, what do you want me to do, Nat?" Steve asked, one of his hands running to massage his forehead.

"Steve, time is precious, you of all people should know this." Natasha started, earning a nod from Steve. "Tomorrow, you ask the girl out." She stated.

"Nat—”

"You ask her out. Got it?" Natasha reaffirmed, nodding her head at him, who breathlessly chuckled.

"Got it." Steve nodded along her, snickering a bit at her. Natasha was absolutely the best dating couch known to men.

Steve stood, waiting for the long awaited train to arrive. Today was the day. The day Steve Rogers would ask you out. He bit his lip in nervousness as he waited for the train, just wondering how you'd look, if you'd sing or just hum the song today. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the train. He walked in, choosing the seat he always sat at. His hands rested on his thighs, casually wiping the sweat into his jeans. His heart kept beating faster and faster than before by every single stop, every station closer to you.

9:15AM, Jamaica Center Station.

It was clock work, by the second. And here you came in, looking more beautiful than yesterday. He wondered how that could be possible. You wore a long dress, those headphones of yours resting by your neck, as you made your way through the now moving train. You soon sat by the empty hair across from the super soldier, like always. Your eyes met, and instantly, you offered each other a smile. You had even blessed him by giggling so early on. His heart probably skipped a beat.

"Long time no see." You decided to joke, now getting comfortable in your seat, placing the book you were currently reading on your lap. You heard the handsome man chuckle softly.

"A long, long time." You saw the man smirk gently, earning a shocked smile from you. You understood his pun.

"You know that song?"

"Know it? Of course. Every soldier does." Steve spoke, smiling at you. You nodded your head, understanding him. Of course, the song was very well known during World War 2, as it speaks and reflects on the reunion of two lovers. You knew the story behind the song, you knew everything about it. You smiled widely at him.

"Of course." You simply replied, your eyes traveling to his army dog tags, hanging from his neck. Steve felt your eyes, looking down to look at them himself. He then looked back at you, wanting to continue this conversation of yours.

"What about you? How do you know of it?" He asked, so genuinely interested. You tilted your head, trying your hardest to remember. He watched, his heart warm and just happy to be speaking to such a lovely woman.

"Mhm... I guess I've always known it." You started after thinking about it for a while. "I've been listening to it since forever, it seems. I'm sure you've noticed." You laughed softly. A laugh he reciprocated. He smiled fondly at you, before reaching out to gently shake your hand.

"Steve. Steve Rogers." He introduced himself. You shook his hand, smiling a bit. His breath almost hitched at how soft your skin was, and at how warm you felt. You nodded your head, knowing already. You knew who he was. Of course you did, everybody did.

"Y/N." You simply replied, smiling at him. He repeated your name under his breath, smiling at you, nodding his head. Pretty name for a pretty human, he thought. He now had a name to attach to the person. He watched as you looked out the window, following your eyes, he also stared out the window, trying his hardest to find a theme interesting enough to hold a conversation with you. However, you spoke before him.

"Would you like to... listen to it together... Steve?" You shyly spoke, now holding cable earphones in your hands. Steve couldn't smile bigger even if he tried. His heart melted by your sweet voice, absolutely covered in nervousness. It was nice to know you were as nervous as he was. He nodded, now moving to sit next to you. You took off your headphones, putting them away in your purse, now plugging the new set in. Steve waited patiently, mostly thinking of how nice his name sounded when said by you.

You handed him one of the earbuds, soon placing yours on. You both looked at one another, as soon as the commonly loved song started to play. The orchestra and trumpet lovingly speaking to you both, who simply stared at each other. You shyly placed strands of your hair behind your ear, exposing your flushed cheeks. You must be trying to make his heart stop. You were a dream come true to the hero.

Never thought that you would be standing here so close to me.

The song almost perfectly described how the soldier felt. He felt as if he had been looking for someone like you, for you. And here you were, at last. His thoughts were soon interrupted by the sound of gunshots. His eyes searched around the train, soon landing on the threat, only a few feet away from you. You jumped by the sudden noise, unconsciously nudging a bit closer to Steve, who kept his eyes on the armed man feet away from you both. Screams filled what used to be the silent train, panicked people running away, towards the other end of the train.

Steve's breath hitched as he watched the man, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. A confusion that soon was dissolved, only by the sight of the HYDRA logo plastered on the man's cap. Steve cursed under his breath, knowing instantly this man's purpose, and what seemed to be his mission. Before he could even begin to comprehend the situation, or even attempt to stop it, you gasped besides him, your hands holding your stomach, as to prevent blood from gushing out.

You had been shot. You. The woman of his dreams. Y/N.

Steve gasped as he took in what had happened. He looked down at your wound, mostly in shock. His senses had kicked in, it seems, as he had grabbed that book you were reading and had tried to shield you with it. He had been too slow, and the bullet had reached you.

"No." The words left his mouth in a whisper, his hands running to lay on top of yours in your stomach. His eyes returned to the man, who had now began to run towards one of the many exits of the train, intending to take off on the following station. Not that Steve would ever let that happen. Within an instant, the HYDRA agent was unconscious, hitting the ground only after a few punches from the super soldier. People continued to scream in fear, watching the scene unfold.

You, on the other hand, cried desperately in your seat, looking down at how the blood now leaked from your seat. You hissed in pain, trying your hardest to calm down and get your breathing under control. In your ears, the sweet, nostalgic song continued to play.

You'll never know how many dreams I dreamed about you, or how empty they all seem without you. Said the song, as you watched Steve Rogers run back towards you. You watched his worried eyes and how they roamed your body. It was almost as if you were watching from outside your own body.

"It's alright. Eyes on me, sweetheart." Steve spoke, your now muffled hearing making it hard to understand him. You tried nodding, your breath shuttering, in so much pain and terrified for your life. His hands applied pressure to your bleeding wound. You watched as he loudly instructed the scared civilians, having a few call the authorities.

"Just look at me, Y/N, alright?" Steve spoke tenderly to you, as he had caught you looking down at your injury, your fear increasing at the sight. He couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening. To you of all people, and today of all days. His heart was beating out of his chest, scared out of his mind. He hated how one of his first touches of you was of your bleeding wound, and that the very first time he had embraced you was this very moment, you bleeding out in his strong arms.

Everything soon went black. You could still hear Steve's soft voice from afar, and that commonly adored song as well.

It's been a long, long time.

[zaraomarrogers]

I wanna know the story behind the nickname T.

Sheriff Steve, baker Bucky - gosh, I’m pretty sure I’m in for a treat 🥰

I can’t wait to know more about them. Thank you for writing and sharing.

Can I please get tagged for this?

Small Town, Big City: 2

As you and Nat drive back to the town you text Maria to let her know that you’ve decided to stop. Your older sister is less an older sister and more a mom figure, to you and your younger siblings. When your phone starts to ring and her picture pops up you groan and don’t answer it, letting it continue to ring.

“Who are you avoiding?” Nat asks and you huff a laugh.

“My older sister. She’s always been more a mother figure to me, Pietro and Wanda. My dad took off when I was a kid and mom went to prison my freshman year. Maria was a senior, thankfully, and we were able to keep our family together. It wasn’t easy but we made it work.”

“I’m sorry.” She says and you shrug, “I get it though, Clint and I got married when I turned 18 and his father did not approve. He died last year, never forgave Clint or me but fuck ‘em.”

“Damn.”

“Yea, he’s a real asshole.” She says with a laugh, “sometimes I wonder how Clint is so great when his dad was such a piece of shit.” She says pulling off of the freeway behind Steve. “Welcome to Knowhere.” She says as a few houses start to appear along the roadside.

“That’s how you pronounce it?”

“Yea, what did you think?”

“Know here.” She chuckles,

“Yea makes sense.” She agrees, “so this is old downtown, while I’m working on your car you could go to the cafe or the diner. If you go to the cafe you should try the scones. They’re awesome.”

“Good to know.” You note out the window that there’s a small pet store called Stan’s pets. There’s a dentist, a doctors office, a few clothing stores, a hardware store, and an old white church.

“Alright, I’ll get right to work on this so we can get you back on the road. Can you fill out some paperwork with Happy at the front?”

“Oh, yea of course. Thanks for the ride.” You tell her climbing out of the truck and making your way to the enclosed part of the shop where a dark haired man is waiting for you behind a counter.

“Hi, uh Nat said there was some paperwork for me?”

“Yup, just this.” He says sliding the paper and a pen toward you. You fill out the paperwork, your address, phone number, insurance information and what details you know about your car. Things like mileage, when was the last time you got an oil change, how long it’s been since you rotated your tires, the little things that you probably should’ve paid more attention to.

Once you’re done you head out to start exploring the small town of Knowhere. You visit a few of the little shops before wandering into the cafe. It’s called Bucky Bakes and the inside looks like the inside of a log cabin and it’s adorable. The man behind the counter has shoulder length brown hair, a sleeve up his arm and an easy smile.

“Hi there, how can I help you?”

“Hi, what would you recommend drink wise? I don’t like tasting my coffee but I like the caffeine.” He laughs softly and leans forward on the counter.

“How do you feel about caramel?”

“Big fan.”

“What about whipped cream?”

“Even bigger fan.”

“Alright give me a couple minutes and I’ll have something whipped up for you. Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”

“Um, a scone? The chocolate raspberry sounds amazing.” To your surprise the man scowls at you.

“Did someone tell you to ask for a scone?”

“Uh, Nat told me that they were really good but she didn’t say I should. Why?”

“We have a bet going and she keeps telling people to try the scones to sway the bet in her favor.”

“What’s the bet?”

“She thinks that scones will sell better than the muffins.”

“So if I order a muffin too will that keep you even?” A smile lights his face and he grins over at you.

“It will! I like the way you think. Bucky Barnes.” He says reaching across the counter and shaking your hand as you introduce yourself.

“You’re welcome to call me T though. My friends and family all do.”

“T?”

“For Tornado, I’ve always been kind of all over the place. My sister says I’m a bit of a walking disaster and I think this week has been a perfect example.”

“Are you the girl Steve found on the side of the road?”

“Yep.”

“Coffee’s on me then T.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“What do I owe you for the scone and muffin then?”

“$4.28.” You pass him a five and watch as he makes change then when he passes it back to you you dump it into the tips jar. “Thank you, what did you want for your muffin? You said the chocolate raspberry for your scone.”

“I’ll let you pick.” You tell him with a smile and he plucks a muffin from the display case.

“Blueberry lemon. It’s Steve’s favorite so if you hate it you can give it to him.” Bucky says jerking his chin toward the door. Sure enough Sheriff Rogers comes into the coffee shop, he’s still in his uniform when he sees you he gives you a smile.

“Hello, glad you survived Nat’s driving.”

“Yea, and I wandered a little bit. I’m still waiting to hear the damage.”

“Fingers crossed then.”

“No kidding.” You tell him taking the small plate with your scone and muffin from Bucky. “If you’d like you’re welcome to join me. I’ve got more snacks here than I need but was guilted into getting both.”

“You heard about the bet?”

“I heard about the bet.” He chuckles as a cup is passed to him from Bucky.

“I’d love to join you. Did you get something to drink too?”

“I’ll bring it out to you T.”

“Thank you.”

“T?” Sheriff Rogers asks as he follows you to one of the tables. You explain the nickname to him and he frowns. “Seems like a mean nickname to me.”

“It’s not wrong though.” You say with a shrug as Bucky brings your drink over.

“It’s hot.” He warns and you nod, “let me know what you think.” He says and you pretend you don’t see the knowing grin on his face.

Tag list:

@foxyjwls007 @andahugaroundtheneck @also-fangirlinsweden @pagina16ps @princesssterek @valsworldofcreativity @dumblani @inkedaztec @loving-life-my-way @animegirlgeeky @shinycupcakebaker @eralen @sophham @gh0stgurl @wonderlandfandomkingdom @patzammit @abschaffer2 @capsiclesdoll @killcomet @sass-masterkittenmama

[zaraomarrogers]

Aniiiikkkaaaaaaa!!!!!

No no no no, you can't just do this to my heart. Angst. Slow burn. Hurt - my heart can only take so much.

My Queen, take a bow...

I need a minute to gather my thoughts because Steveeeeee - how could he be such a big idiot yet so lovable is beyond me.

“You don’t disobey a single order,” Steve said flatly. “You never stay alone. You don’t do any unexpected moves. If you get hurt, if you get as much as goddamn scratch, I will hold you personally responsible. Do you understand that, Heron?”

Oh Steve, he loves her so damn much and she doesn't have damn clue.

“No, you don’t,” Steve interjected matter-of-factly, something so familiar and gentle creeping into his voice, making your breath hitch and the rest of the world fade away. “I-- we cannot have you hurt, we cannot lose you. I know you work with weapons, I know you know this, but the people we’re about to face have no conscience and they won’t hesitate to shoot to k-…”

No, Steve, it's you who can't lose her, you don't want her to get hurt. You love her, bro, just admit it and let all of us including her out this misery.

Hypnotized by Steve’s gaze, you’d swear you could drown in the gentle blue of his irises, your only salvation being the warmth still radiating off his palms and the expression on his face, which had at some point drawn rather close to yours. Your head was spinning as tip of his thumb almost, almost angled your head up to make sure you held his gaze. Almost as if he was cradling your jaw to kiss you-

Okay, this is torture Anika! plain torture, girl! I was so ready for that kiss, almost half way drowning in Steve, and never want to saved... Why?

“I want to do this, Steve,” you opposed, relaxing slightly at his offer – one you knew you couldn’t accept, for so many reasons, but welcomed it nevertheless, the outstanding prove of his care for you you had craved so much. “They hurt Nat. They hurt my friend, and could have killed her. They could have killed all of you and I won’t stand for that.”

I absolutely love Lo. even with all her self doubt, and going hard on herself also an idiot, I still adore her for who she is as a person - caring, sensitive and smart and ready to face whatever it is. I like her courage in this part. And she loves him so much.

Your closest friend – the man whose company you longed for in any form, your heart yearning for his arms around you, his tender fingers in your hair, his lips on yours – was mad at you for showing up.

I almost couldn't stop my tears. She loves him so so so much.

Oh, the ending... I'm hoping Steve would come into his senses and say something to her. they need to be locked in a room, I swear I want all the feelings and love to explode and Lo finally gets to bask in Steve.

Thank you, my dear for writing and sharing with us.

Take the Ache - pt.3

Part 3: The Soul in Soldier On

Type: series, slightly canon-divergent, idiots in love with sprinkles of angst

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 6950

Series masterlist (and summary)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, near-death experience, Steve raising his voice, slight angst, communication skills that need some improvement, language

A/N: written for Stella’s Starry Winter Sky challenge, using various prompts; DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; the title is, just like chapter titles, taken from The Script’s No Good in Goodbye

A/N 2:  No use of Y/N. Main character’s nickname made up by Steve is 'Lo (will be expalined at some point, promise). Thank you for reading so far and enjoy 💕

Steve’s glare – that near-murderous glare you had believed only to be reserved for the likes of HYDRA or Tony when he was being overly unreasonable – hurt.

You might not be willing to admit it, but the ache from having it directed on you was so acute it made it hard for you to breathe.

You had thought you had braced yourself enough, having counted on Steve not being happy when you’d step inside the Quinjet – but clearly you had not.

Seeing him again was like a slap to the face and for once it had nothing to do with jealousy – it was simply his look. The flames in his blue irises burned so icily when he watched you stride in with a box of equipment that you might as well get a frostbite in their pyre. His disapproval of you showing up mere minutes before the jet would head straight into the lion’s den again was crystal clear; and he didn’t even know half of it.

But he was not the only one whose emotions were burning like a wildfire.

It had been long two days for all of you.

Two days of gathering more intel, of training, of Natasha recovering not only in the cradle but also in physical therapy. Two days of having your nose buried in the dismantled EMP and the ruin it had caused, two days of cooperating with the applied sciences department, two nights of next to no sleep; that was how little time you had. You hadn’t even considered actually repairing the destroyed gear for your team as there were more pressing issues; after all, with the exception of Steve’s shield, you had an extra piece of everything. Examining the nature of the damage done was much more important than repairs themselves.

Because the damage done could be hiding the key to preventing another hit and if you were lucky, reversing the effects of the EMP.

The good news was that you were rather confident that you had found the key; now you just had to make it work.

The bad news was that time truly was a luxury.

You didn’t have a second to spare. The Avengers including Sharon were heading to face the rogue HYDRA agents from very fraction that had knocked out your equipment with the bloody EMP now.

The mere idea of letting them face it again without help was suffocating. However, the fact they were to fight the same people who had hurt Nat through your invention, even if indirectly, had the cold of your fear burst into blazing determination.

And the fact Steve looked like he was going to block your path and prevent you from doing your job of protecting them, his shoulders squaring upon seeing you instead of gracing you with one of his usual warm smiles, was almost enough for your growing anger to swallow the hurt. He could brace all he wanted; there was no way he could ever make you sit back on your ass at the compound, when the solution – a shield of its own – was at your fingertips.

And if he did think he could stop you, well he'd better think again.

Disapproval bounced off of each of you like a damn ping-pong ball even before either of you opened your mouth, but as much as you cared for Steve – a lot more than was comfortable or even bearable – you were not going to take whatever bullshit he was about to throw at you.

Because this wasn’t about him. Not only.

And while you knew all too well that he was a force of nature moulded into a shape of a man, you knew that not even Tony’s Mark 63 would be able to drag you back to your lab at the moment.

“What are you doing here?”

You winced at Steve’s sharp tone, swallowing the ‘hello to you too’; and cursing internally as even in your state of mind and heart, you could not not notice the beautifully cut features of his face as if standing out thanks to his own distress.

You wished he at least wasn’t so distractingly gorgeous when he was about to pick a fight with you; his nearly unearthly beauty was almost more absurd than the fact he of all people was picking up a fight with you.

Your closest friend – the man whose company you longed for in any form, your heart yearning for his arms around you, his tender fingers in your hair, his lips on yours – was mad at you for showing up. You were aware his turbulent emotions probably had little to do with your person and more with concern for the safety of his team, but that didn’t make your ribcage ache any less. Because no matter how silly your dreams and dust of hopes were, you were friends. And despite the pressure you knew Steve felt, you wished he would have treated you more like your friend Steve and less like the Captain and the head strategist of the Avengers Initiative.

But you couldn’t have all that you’d wish, could you? You had already established that. And that as fine. It was dandy, because time was a luxury you did not have and thus you could not spend the precious entity on wallowing in your sad little feelings.

Still, your gaze instinctively flickered to the person who had actually invited you here despite your best efforts not to and to stand your ground on your own instead.

Steve’s glare followed your line of sight, his jaw set so tight it might cut glass.

“What the hell is she doing here, Tony?” he demanded, the words barely making it through his grinding teeth.

“Jesus, Steve, have some manners…” Bucky muttered under his breath on your right, but Steve paid him no more mind than to you all of sudden.

He was too busy seething.

His hands were curled into fists, drawing attention to just how nice his hands looked in the fingerless gloves that might have not been a fashion statement, but sure were an art in their own right. It was maddening, really-

Tony only sighed as he made his way to your pair nonchalantly, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Why Steve, Heron’s here because she’s been designing a weapon that could withstand the EMP hit –or better yet, reverse it,” Tony informed him, shooting you an encouraging smile that seemed to irritate Steve further.

Steve’s reaction, in turn, irritated you; your emotions, having already been on edge for days, threatened to spill over. Again.

“Great. So she can hand it over and stay in the lab-“

“Stay safe, you mean,” Sam suggested helpfully, earning an icy glare that could scorch the earth.

“Yes, safe,” Steve echoed. “That’s my whole point-“

“You have a funny way of making that point then,” you interjected, your heart skipping a startled beat when Steve’s gaze snapped back to you.

Even as you caught the slightest flicker of shame in his features, you winced again and swiftly averted the weight of smouldering gaze.

It wasn’t that you were scared of him, of the power you knew hummed under the surface, of the knowledge he could just could snap you in half – if anything, that thought made your heart beat even wilder, unnervingly so, because you so did not have time nor mental capacity to deal with that, nor with the way he looked so majestic and righteous in the stealth suit – but the lack of gentleness and understanding you were used to was like a heartburn you did not know how to swallow.

Even with a job to do, you weren’t sure how to hold you head high.

You couldn’t turn off your emotions when the situation demanded it like most people on this jet; after all, you were not an agent, which, obviously, was the whole damn problem.

So she can hand it over and stay in the lab, Steve had all but spitted.

It shouldn’t have stung so sharp but it had.

“It’s not ready yet,” you explained, voice less steady than you’d like. “I need more time. Hopefully I’ll have it prepared by the time we land and can give you a fairer fighting chance by knocking out their biggest weapon-- but I need time for that,” you added when Steve opened his mouth to protest, your determination finally rendering your tone uncompromising. “So I’m coming with you, whether you authorised it or not, because you don’ hold all the power there is. Deal with it.”

Steve’s jaw ticked the tinniest bit; as you dared to meet his gaze, the emotions in his irises raged like a sea disturbed from its peace by a violent storm with your name.

He leaned in, lips parted with an invitation to be kissed or argued with – but as he sucked in a breath, a new voice, soft but resolute, joined the conversation from your left, causing your gut to clench uncomfortably and your eyes burn with something else than determination.

“Oookay, alright. Why don’t we all take a breath and think for a bit. We need to go over the plan again anyway,” Sharon said.

You did take a deep breath.

You did so even as it felt like you were stranded in a desert and the sight of Steve’s shoulders slumping a bit, his expression softening with concern just a fraction as if he was finally reacting to a voice of reason just because it was Sharon’s, made you feel like the air you breathed in was full of grains of sand, stinging and scratching in your lungs.

You cleared your throat and pretended to be brave in face of heartache and being on a jet which would head in direction of trained killers, nodding to yourself as you tightened your grip on the box in your arms.

“I need to get working. Excuse me.”

As you pushed past suddenly speechless Steve, Tony gracefully offering to carry the equipment for you, you’d swear you heard Bucky mumble ��great job, punk,’ and Steve damn-near growl in return with a gratuitous ‘fuck’ on his lips.

Your stomach had swung at the take-off, the reality of the danger you were heading towards slowly sheeting you as you had settled at your make-shift workshop, trying to ignore the low voices discussing the plan of attack. However, your nerves had quickly dispersed, replaced by the acute need to get things done; because you had maybe minutes. You had been but a mere step from finishing the ‘EMP eater’ – patent pending – and your only chance was to finish it in time.

And you did.

When the weapon’s control light flickered to life, an astonished gasp left your lips, automatically curling up in a victorious smile, your heart fluttering with familiar excitement.

Eureka!

You did it.

Fucking take that, HYDRA. You’ll be eating dust, you bit back, smirking.

Hell yeah you did that. You got the EMP reflector – and perhaps that was a better name – ready in time.

If only the euphoria spreading in your veins wasn’t iced down so soon with the realization of what the next phase was.

Because next phase in development of anything was testing.

You had all the faith you could afford in your invention, always had, but you had one clear rule you’d push for come hell or high water:

You would never let anyone face the enemy with an untested prototype.

You gulped at the unfamiliar tickle of panic in the back of your throat, your gaze flickering to Tony who was still talking to Steve, Mr. Butt-headed Head Strategist himself. You heart threatened to give out with how fiercely it thundered against your sternum, but you knew you had no choice.

Calling out Tony’s name lowly earned you two pairs of eyes on you; one curious, the other sharp. While Tony made his way to you, Steve turned to Sharon and you’d swear that in that moment, you barely cared about the fact he turned to her like a goddamn sunflower to the sun. You were a little too taken by the fact it took Tony once glance at you to know.

You and Tony had never really understood each other without words, which had everything to do with the fact he was the definition of hyperverbal; but today you did.

You got it, didn’t you.

Yes.

Is it time then? his eyes inquired, concern drawing his eyebrows together even as it could not quite hide the flash of mischief and excitement in his irises.

You nodded, even as the movement was shaky. Yeah, Tony. It’s time. …I’m terrified, but it’s time.

Eu-fucking-reka.

The fact your knees still felt a little weak a few minutes later, now dressed to the part and clinging to your little device like a lifeline, did not make approaching Steve any easier.

He took one glance at you, his eyes going almost comically wide with shock before they regained the fiery rejection from earlier; blew it to proportion, in fact.

Steve Rogers was a tall man, but as his spine straightened with indignation, he seemed to grow another five inches, his hands curling into fists so tight you were sure that had his forearm not be covered, his tendons would all be on full display with the powerful clench, which would be a sight to beho--- so not the time.

You inhaled shakily as his face seemed void of any emotion bar the simple resolute no written all over.

“You’re not serious. You’re not coming with us into the field-“

“None of you can operate this weapon, Steve,” you blurted out before he could protest further. Mostly because it’s a prototype I haven’t tested yet and I’d never fucking let you touch an untested weapon, you nearly added, hoping that much was obvious. “I can. And Tony gave me protective gear-”

“Seriously, Stark?” Steve snapped to the man and you regretted having mention Tony even as your intention had merely been to give credit where it was due and express your gratitude, rather than shift the focus of Steve’s – partially understandable – anger. “You just happen to keep gear and Kevlar lying around to fit her perfectly.”

Tony, for his part, was perfectly nonchalant again, which you knew would only pissed off Steve further; but you had to admit it was a little funny to watch him be so when he was speaking on your behalf. It certainly was a welcomed distraction from the deep pit inside your stomach that had formed there the second you realized you had not, in fact, had any other option that to go face bloody HYDRA agents.

“Of course not. I don’t just happen, Rogers. We’ve worked on it together specifically to make it fit her and her needs, just in case she ever did need to come with us to the field. My idea. What can I say, I’m a visionary. You’re welcome.”

“That’s never meant to be an option! She’s not--- I can’t-“ Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he averted Tony’s challenging gaze, his chest expanding rapidly and deflating as his eyes flickered briefly over you only to return to Tony himself. “Did you give a single thought to her safety? What if we can’t protect her out there?”

You gulped. The sentiment was very sweet and echoed your own fear; but it had nothing on a fear much greater, one that had anger at Natasha having been hurt and at Steve talking about you as if you weren’t standing right there simmer in your lungs.

“Well then we’re not much of mighty heroes, are we?” Tony shot back, one corner of his lips quirking in a smirk that alone had Steve bristle before Tony even continued. “But sure, if you hate the gear I made so much, we can just give her a simple bulletproof vest and a helmet that doesn’t really fit-”

If Steve had glared at you murderously when you had bordered the jet, right now, Tony was being murdered by the most painful and slowest death possible.

Not that it made him as much as flinch.

Briefly, you wondered if a few years of glares like that from Steve would make you just as immune; you hoped to never find out. Though as with the current state of your relationship with Steve, it seemed you just might.

You could almost see the wheels in his head turning, all the alternatives projecting in his head like a movie about goddamn time-loops, tens of versions of reality changing based on his decision, going through every possible outcome, possible risks and potential damage, his strategic mind carding through the scenarios and frantically searching for the one with least danger to his team.

And you knew exactly which option he’d have to choose, inevitably coming to the same conclusion as you had, but you still held your breath, your heartbeat seemingly filling the space of the jet.

You straightened as if jolt of electricity ran up your spine when Steve’s eyes suddenly turned to you, your nerves at the serious stare he casted your way making words come out before you could think twice.

“Oh, so you know I’m actually standing right he-“

“You don’t disobey a single order,” Steve said flatly. “You never stay alone. You don’t do any unexpected moves. If you get hurt, if you get as much as goddamn scratch, I will hold you personally responsible. Do you understand that, Heron?”

“Yes, Captain,” you said automatically, wishing you could say you sounded sassy like Tony would, but you did not.

You were too consumed by shame at what Steve’s Captain voice did to you even when you were at odds with him. And too scared and too stunned by the fact he actually did agree with you going.

Steve did not seem satisfied with your answer, taking a step closer. Tony, bless him, somehow got the hint for once –being oh so satisfied with winning so easy too, no doubt – and disappeared into the depths of the Quinjet.

You, in turn, gulped as Steve loomed over you.

“Steve, I-“

“Lo, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, like a heart attack, I know-“

“No, you don’t,” Steve interjected matter-of-factly, something so familiar and gentle creeping into his voice, making your breath hitch and the rest of the world fade away. “I-- we cannot have you hurt, we cannot lose you. I know you work with weapons, I know you know this, but the people we’re about to face have no conscience and they won’t hesitate to shoot to k-…”

He licked his lips and lowered his gaze as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the word that had your temples throb with fear.

And then, your own fear seemed to dissipate into thin air, just like you knew it would if Steve had only touched you and unwittingly lent you some of his strength and bravery. With tenderness contrasting almost absurdly with his previous outbursts, he placed his palms on your shoulders, their warmth seeping into your skin even through Kevlar, his gaze boring into yours with urgency that had your heart flutter. His voice, as if following the lead of his touch, grew softer as well, almost pleading.

“If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to do this. Just give us the… whatever brilliant device you created and walk us through it. I can-“

“I want to do this, Steve,” you opposed, relaxing slightly at his offer – one you knew you couldn’t accept, for so many reasons, but welcomed it nevertheless, the outstanding prove of his care for you you had craved so much. “They hurt Nat. They hurt my friend, and could have killed her. They could have killed all of you and I won’t stand for that.”

His gaze roamed your face, frows furrowed worry that had every cell in your body shudder, something soft and warm humming inside your chest – and for a moment, you granted yourself a few seconds of revelling in that feeling. Basking in Steve’s proximity, his sincere concern for your safety that seemed to reach beyond you being under his command; and all that pain of the past weeks felt so silly all of sudden, your heart a fool not for having fallen for him, but for avoiding him and trying to push away the sweet ache of being hopelessly in love with him.

His thumb ran gently over the curve of your shoulder, squeezing lightly as he took a deep breath, his voice heavy with gravity.

“You stay with at least one of us at all times. Anyone starts shooting, you duck, you hide, you listen-“

“-and don’t disobey a single order, yes, I heard you the first time.”

The sound of your name on his lips was coloured by exasperation and urgency, his hands flexing on your shoulders. You instinctively covered his hand on your right shoulder, the tender gesture causing him to relax slightly, an emotion etched onto his face you had trouble deciphering with how busy you were with calming your racing heart, humming contentedly at his proximity after having been pushing him away.

“Steve. I get it. I did hear you,” you whispered, a lame attempt at a joke rising one corner of your lips in a lopsided smile even as it was the furthest thing from fun: “Unlike some people on this plane, I don’t have a death wish-”

From a terrible distance, Bucky’s cough clearly covering a laugh reached you, flushing your cheeks with realization of the – dare to say intimate – exchange between you and Steve being observed by others.

And yet; you didn’t care zilch for anyone watching when Steve’s right hand shifted, now resting on the curve between your throat and shoulder, thumb accidentally brushing your jaw, causing you to gulp at the profound sincerity in his gaze and words alike.

“Noted, but please understand. I’m not--- I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you, Lo. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I—you just… you haven’t been trained for this. I’m worried about you.”

A vacuum born in a middle of an aircraft.

Someone must have sucked out all the air out of the space of the jet, that was the only explanation for why your chest felt so full, so heavy and so light at once.

Hypnotized by Steve’s gaze, you’d swear you could drown in the gentle blue of his irises, your only salvation being the warmth still radiating off his palms and the expression on his face, which had at some point drawn rather close to yours. Your head was spinning as tip of his thumb almost, almost angled your head up to make sure you held his gaze. Almost as if he was cradling your jaw to kiss you-

“I worry about you every day,” fell from your lips unwittingly, the flash of something in Steve’s expression starling you and causing you to inhale shakily. “Uhm, I mean… about all of you. But, uhm I-- I’ll be fine. I have the mightiest heroes to protect me while I try to protect them.”

“Yes,” he whispered, a statement and an oath. “Yes you do.”

You have us. You have me.

For the briefest moment, Steve appeared to be contemplating the greatest mysteries of life and universe, holding you gaze with such intent you’d believe he had found the answers to them right there in your eyes, your lips parting as breath caught in your throat. His gaze flickering down and back up. His own pretty pink lips pursed the tinniest bit as if in invitation – or perhaps you were imagining things, you had to be – and to hell with everything, you were seconds from leaning closer just to find out if they were as soft as they appeared and as you had always imagined.

And then you heard someone draw in a cautious breath, reality settling in and you withdrew, seeing Sharon from the corner of your eye leaning onto the near stack of boxes, the sight like a bucket of icy water poured into your lungs, Steve’s hands sliding from your shoulders, one of them hovering by your arm.

You could smack yourself.

You could touch a living wire and it would not be enough of a punishment for allowing yourself to get wrapped up in a little fantasy world, in the castles in the air Steve’s soft words and touch had drawn in perfect detail despite not giving another promise than to protect you like he would for anyone.

Idiot. Stupid, foolish little idiot, what were you thinking, even indulging in a feeling like this-

“I’ll do it,” Steve said as if knowing exactly what Sharon was about to say and it should have been like another slap to your face. But for all your scolding and your racing heart that had begun to ache all over again, you cared little for the future lovers’ telepathy, only caring about the strange emotion, deep even if undecipherable, etched into Steve’s features. Caring about how the ‘I’ll do it’ sounded like it had less to do with a Captain being responsible for his subordinates’ safety and more about his loved ones, romantic or platonic ones. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll brief her and then let you guys know if there any changes.”

It was silly and you knew sobering up would hurt; but in order to not fall apart at the thought of going somewhere where HYDRA agents would shoot at you, you allowed the petty victory of Steve taking care of you personally and caring wash over you, charming up a small reassuring smile.

“Thank you, Steve.”

Your smile slightly widened as Steve, walking you through the plan and blueprints, demanded at least three times if you were sure and whether the Kevlar-lined uniform and the cowl were good enough quality.

You forgave him the foolish question, mostly offended on Tony’s behalf rather than your own; but mainly grateful he still cared enough to ask.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sam’s smirk and Bucky elbowing him to the ribs as if to stop it.

Walking into enemy territory with the Avengers felt like entering the most surreal of dreams.

In your own uniform and with your own – dare to say – weapon, perhaps you might fool someone into believing that you belonged; which was even more surreal that the fact you were here in the first place.

And yet, the most surreal of all things was the fact that you not only appeared to be but actually also felt strangely, deceivingly calm; and if not calm, than certainly less nervous that you had expected.

You assumed you had Steve to thank for that.

Just like with the briefing, he took it upon himself to be the closest to your side, to act like your main shield, figuratively and literally.

With him, he brought a wave of reassurance rising like a tide to wash over the exposed edge you’d find yourself on, the whisper of safe growing louder whenever the lightest of touch of a hand brushed over your side, your arm, whenever the advance allowed him to do so.

It warmed your rapidly beating heart, increasing the whoosh of blood past your ears, despite the logical part of your brain telling you that his decision wasn’t only a personal one, but also a strategic one.

He was the one most likely to protect you even if the EMP hit before you could use the device.

You had tried to lace Tony’s suit with as similar EMP-resistant alloy as the applied sciences could develop with the weapons you had got your hands on, but it was no guarantee – and without his full control over the suit, he might be relatively safe, but unable to properly defend anyone else.

Bucky’s vibranium arm was a fine complicated net of connectors, inductors and well-integrated circuits that might have been made to withstand physical force, but less so an EMP hit.

Sam’s wings too could turn into a nuisance upon the discharge. Sharon was a separate entity as her task was to hack into the network and let you all in with Clint as a back-up. Bruce was, in Steve’s opinion, a little too unpredictable. And Natasha was still recovering, left to remotely help you coordinate from the compound if needed.

On the other hand, Steve’s only three pieces of electronics were his StarkWatch, the comms and the sleeve with electromagnets for his shield which was more of a question of comfort than a necessity.

Him becoming your designated guardian was a natural choice.

And it was all turning out almost dandy.

Sharon hacked in. Clint had all of your sixes. No sight of an EMP as per Tony’s scanners, not yet anyway. You advanced through the building, relatively quiet and stealthy, your team’s voices in your ear and Steve’s occasional touch grounding you as your heart kept picking up its pace the deeper into the facility you went, your breaths turning shaky, your stomach beginning to coil uncomfortably with a warning from an instinct as old as humanity.

And then it all went to shit.

Steve leaving your side shouting at you to take cover in a large space of a warehouse where there was barely anything to hide behind.

Flashes and terrible cacophony of gunshots.

Metal hitting metal.

Bodies hitting the ground.

Wet sounds of blood following dull punches to what must have been bone.

Sparks flying and your vision instinctively blurring with distressed tears as your heartbeat grew so loud and frantic it nearly swallowed the terrible noise of a battle.

And yet, one thing pierced through like a lightning through the skies.

“Heron, now!”

Two simple words, spoken urgently over the comms, Clint’s voice with an unmistakable tinge of pain.

You winced, the sound cutting through you like a knife.

They needed you.

They needed you now, because your name wasn’t a warning but a prompt. A plea. The EMP was here again. And it was about to be discharged and your friends were about to be rendered powerless and made vulnerable.

Well, not in this fucking life. Not on my watch.

You scrambled to move from behind your improvised hide-out, the metallic edge of your EMP dampener digging into your palms painfully as you peeked over the shelves stuffed with containers.

For a moment, the sight of the fight stopped you short in horror, the only thing circuiting and rebooting painfully fast being your brain, a sharp haziness taking over your perception.

And for that split second, you wondered if this was how Steve saw the world with his enhanced senses; it hit you all at once, a cacophony of a battle captured in a slowly moving image.

The copper smell of blood and gunpowder; the still noise of violence; the salty tang of sweat and the bitter taste of adrenalin on your tongue; the weight of your own device nearly succumbing to gravity at the sudden weakness in your hands.

Tens of agents clad in black with a startingly red symbol on their biceps.

Automatic electricity-powered riffles. 

The EMP whose every fucking circuit you knew like the back of your hand by now.

The Avengers, standing almost in line like avenging angels, way closer to you than you had thought as they had taken down all of those who had come at them before – real, unconscious, hurt people scattered across the floor.

All of your friends breathing heavily from exertion; and some of them in the air.

Perhaps it was the adrenalin, but you’d swear you could hear the EMP charging, ready to be fired, and the world stopped altogether. A still image pulsing in sync with your own heartbeat.

Tony and Sam in the air.

Bucky clenching his metal fist.

Clint reaching behind him to grab another arrow his automatic quiver offered him.

Sharon wearing Natasha’s new bites.

All of them but mere seconds from being knocked down – some more literally than others.

Not in this fucking life.

Not on my fucking watch.

You were not sure if you truly were so fast, perhaps having borrowed some supersoldier speed; or if the world around you truly turned so slow.

But you sprang from behind the containers and fell on your knees, the pain not quite registering as you slid just under Sam’s feet.

You punched the button on your dampener with all your might, the blue control light turning green a split second after the crackling sound of electricity rushed through your body.

An elementary knowledge said: when everything works as well and safe as it’s supposed to, electricity is meant to be invisible.

And yet.

You saw it.

You felt it.

And it hurt.

You’d swear you could see the wave of the EMP discharge meet the wave sent by your dampener halfway, if a little closer to your part of the room.

The part of the room you had been in before the burning current of pain rushed from your hand through your arm straight into your chest and sent you flying backwards, a dull sound of someone shouting your name reaching you from a terrible distance.

There was fire licking at your veins, a crushing weight settling on your chest, a blur of gorgeous dark blue moving like a shadow behind your eyelids despite your eyes remaining wide open.

The phantom sound of your name haunted your ears over your own heartbeat punching like a sledgehammer inside of your skull. Someone’s gentle but urgent touch was on your arms, squeezing and you realised your lips were moving just as urgently, your words hopefully making sense – even as they didn’t seem to make sense to you at the moment.

“Go. Go, I don’t know--- how long they will-- be done— down.”

The EMP. The dampener, you thought you meant.

If all the gods and patron saints of science and technology aligned and blessed you, you had managed to not only protect your friends from the hit, but sent the very hit back at the bastards who had fired it, disabling their own weapons.

The voice and the grounding touch disappeared with reluctance and a frustrated grunt; the weight on your chest stayed.

Were you breathing? Your lungs burned, so you probably were.

But were you?

Your back laid on something solid and cold and uncomfortably hard; but you had the perfect view of the blurs and chaos in front of you. A wall then, not the floor.

The chaos. The noise. Sledgehammer inside your skull.

Useless, hungry sucks of breath.

Punches. Fire. Cracks.

Flurry of movements; someone always appeared to be in front of you to block your hazy view. To protect you.

But that didn’t really matter, because you couldn’t breathe.

It felt like a damn quinjet was sitting on your sternum and was not about to take off.

Where had all the air gone?

A pair of pretty blue eyes attracting your gaze like a magnet, pulling you into its orbit with inevitability.

Warm leather and hot skin brushing against your cheeks a your cowl was pushed back – by Steve’s palms, you thought – fingers spreading to cradle your head, keeping your face upright and helping you to hold his gaze. What a gentleman.

Now if he could just get you some air too. Maybe from his own lips, they seemed so close and so far away.

“Talk to me, Lo. Tell me what-“

His voice was really pretty, that commanding tilt to it that would have made your head spin if it wasn’t already spinning like crazy.

“Sent it back-“ you rasped, your lips feeling strangely dry and tingly, but it didn’t matter, because Steve was asking a question and Steve had to be answered to. “The frequency should have--- reverse it and--- penetrate the mat-- material you-- brought me.” You were sure you drew in a breath but the air was not there, where was it--- Steve seemed to be alright, even if a little scared – or was he proud? Why was shaking his head? “Turning the discharge--- against them.”

You tried to gather strength to cough to release the pressure in your lungs; one of Steve’s hand must have moved from your face, because the warmth disappeared from one of your cheeks and it reappeared like a rather painful squeeze on your shoulder.

Your coughing didn’t work. You tried to breathe in –but it was not working.

It was not working.

“Lo, sweetheart, not what I meant. You need to slow down your breathing-“

“Can’t-“ breathe at all, you heard yourself wheeze, confused by Steve’s insane request to breathe less.

A firm grasp on your wrist pulled your attention form the lovely sea of panicked blue, a curse reaching your ears, a pull on your wrist as Steve tore your StarkWatch away, a blur of quick dextrous fingers pulling off his glove and taking of his watch too, putting the latter back on your wrist instead.

Were his hands blurry because you had tears in your eyes, because he was moving so fast, or because his hands were shaking? It looked a little like they were shaking. Your vision was closing off from its edges, however, so that might have been your imagination.

“FRIDAY, run the analysis--- Lo, does your chest hurt?”

You were vaguely aware of your heavy hand, the one Steve wasn’t holding, gesturing somewhat, glad he finally fucking noticed.

“Can’t--- breathe-“

“Agent of codename Heron is experiencing a severe arrhythmia-“

Oh okay that explains a lot, screamed your mind with surprising clarity, the world around Steve gaining sharper edges for a brief moment. There was the red and gold of Tony’s suit somewhere on your left, the glint of Sam’s wings near him too.

“What can I do, FRIDAY?” Steve barked, sharp and with an unfamiliar edge that sounded a whole lot like fear that would have grown in your chest too had there been any space left under the crushing weight sitting on it already.

“Immediate medical evac recommended, with an AED and medical personnel at hand for the duration of the transport, and-“

You could hear the words sharply now, see Steve’s features twist, but none of it seemed to make sense as despite the haze dispersing, darkness began to swallow the edges of your vision again.

Nothing made sense anymore but the terrified blue of Steve’s eyes.

Then, a wild swing of your body.

The star on Steve’s chest.

The unforgiving yet soft material of his suit.

His voice.

“Stay with me, Lo. Keep your eyes, open, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you home safe… You’re going to be fine… you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay…”

But you weren’t okay.

You knew as much.

Just like you knew, somewhere in the strangely clear space in your empty skull echoing your frantic heartbeat that this was your own fault. You had been stubborn and you had wanted to protect your friends and you had rules you refused to break and it had been the right thing to do but maybe you had been a little eager to prove Steve wrong and to prove yourself.

It worked out the best and worst way possible.

“Look at me, Lo, come on! Don’t do this to me!”

But you weren’t. It already had been done. And you couldn’t take it back.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that you wouldn’t if given the chance. Not really.

And so this mission – the way this fight had turned out – was killing you.

Literally.

You couldn’t breathe.

It hurt too much.

All you saw was the navy blue of Steve’s stealth suit, the silver of the star on his chest, the almost watery cerulean of his eyes shining with something so unusual for him, fear, no, terror. Your chest ached with ever attempt at a breath, numbness flushing through your veins, the memory of his gloved hand cradling your cheek and speaking words that sounded like a white noise machine turned to max and thrown under water haunting you, the ghost of his urgent touch still tickling your face.

He was speaking still. You recognized your name with difficulty, the sweet nickname whispered hoarsely as a slightly mechanical voice reported numbers that made no sense beyond ringing alarm bells and accelerating the movement of the world around you.

Other voices joined, emotions clearer than words, sounding like curses and prayers at once. A flash of Steve’s face white as a sheet of paper in your vision before harsh light replaced it, stinging in your heavy eyes, an unbearable high-pitched beeping causing your head to swim. 

And then there was darkness, wrapping you greedily in its soothing arms, in silence.

The gaping darkness that swallowed Steve as he laid your nearly limp body on the stretcher, on the other hand, was everything but soothing and silent.

And when the heart monitor his own trembling hands had helped to hook you on screamed with the absence of a normal, then sufficient, and then any heartbeat, losing the solid ground under his feet had nothing to do with the jet taking off, and everything to do with the person he loved being taken away.

He held his breath under the icy waters of pure terror until your own wasn’t restored an eternity later.

Steve swore was going to kill you himself later for giving him a scare like that. But for now, ass planted on the floor of the quinjet, head in his still unsteady hands, he let the now present beeps signalling your heartbeat wash over him, letting the few tears that escaped him wash away the images etched forever into his supersoldier brain.

Next chapter // Series masterlist

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading, loves! Thoughts, encouragements and reblogs are always appreciated ✨

I hope your days are full of softness and peace of mind 💕

If you’d like to be notified on updates, follow my other blog @anika-ann-writes or let me know for a tag.

[zaraomarrogers]

I’m so looking forward to read more of Sheriff Rogers and this big city girl. I’m already invested.

Thankyou for writing and sharing with us. Wanna know more ❤️

Small Town, Big City

You can hear the engine before you can see it, but just by sound you know that it’s a motorcycle. Great. The last thing you need is some biker dude rolling by, seeing you and your piece of shit car and coming back to hit on you. You keep your focus on your car, you’ve already burned yourself once you don’t need to twice, as the bike roars by.

“Please keep going. Please keep going. Please keep going.” You mutter under your breath but luck has abandoned you as the motorcycle turns around and comes back your way.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you alright?” He calls, him calling you ma’am throws you off a bit.

“I’m fine thanks.” You yell back, still not turning around.

“Ma’am. Can you please turn around? My name is Sheriff Rogers I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Sheriff? You turn then, water bottle in one hand, flashlight in the other and are somehow still surprised to see a sheriff standing in front of you.

“Oh, sorry I just assumed that you were a biker and really didn’t wanna deal with that.” He’s tugged off the helmet, his hair smooshed down from it and he gives you a small nod and a smile.

“Understandable. But you’re okay?”

“I mean, mentally yea, physically I burned my arm pretty good with some steam. Emotionally? I’m gonna be honest with you. Pretty shitty.”

“Well, I can help with the burn for sure. I’ve got a kit on my bike but the emotional stuff I don’t know. I’m a good listener at least.” He offers with a small smile, one you can’t help but return. You turn back to your car and pour some water into the radiator.

“Alright ma’am. Can I see your arm?”

“Oh, oh my god you scared me. You move quietly.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You turn and give him your arm and he lets out a low whistle.

“You said it was steam?”

“Yea I opened the radiator too soon, shot some steam out at me.”

“Ouch, it doesn’t look too bad though. I’m going to put some burn ointment on there then wrap it to keep it clean okay?”

“Sounds good.” He gets to work, his large hands much more gentle than you’d have expected them to be. You chat as he tends to your battle wound.

“So, you mentioned emotionally not good.” He says not looking at you, “Wanna talk about it?” You sigh heavily, watching as he gently applies the burn ointment.

“I’m from Chicago, had a job, a nice apartment. Family nearby. But my boyfriend, sorry, my ex-boyfriend got a job down in New Mexico.” You wince as he hits a tender spot.

“Sorry.”

“No it’s okay. Anyway, Brock asked me to move with him. We’d been together almost two years so I figured why not. He left a week before me, mailed me a key to our new place. I packed up this piece of shit and drove all the way out here. Walked in on him having sex with another guy, which honestly is fine just maybe break up with me first. Ya know?”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” He says softly wrapping the gauze around your arm. “So are you heading home?”

“Yea, gonna stay with a friend until I find a place. Luckily, I can kind of work anywhere there are animals so a job isn’t an issue.”

“You work with animals?”

“I’m a veterinarian.”

“That’s cool. You wanna try your car again?”

“Yea.” You round the car and try to start the engine when a loud bang sounds and Steve ducks. “Are you okay?” You call over your open door.

“I’m fine. But your serpentine belt isn’t.”

“My what?”

“The belt that goes around the engine. One of my best friends owns a car shop and some of the guys and I hang out there on the weekends. We’re working on an old ‘67 mustang right now. Let me give them a call and we’ll get you a tow.”

“Oh god. This is the last thing I need.” You groan dropping your forehead onto the top of the steering wheel. You can hear Sheriff Rogers talking to someone through his walkie and you check again for a signal on your phone. You’re disappointed but not surprised when there’s still no service. You grab your purse off of the seat of the car then throw your keys into it.

“So they’ll be here soon. Can I see your ID really quick? I should run it through the system, make sure you’re not wanted or anything.”

“Oh, right.” You pull your wallet out and pass him your ID. He calls it in and when you come back clear he gives it back.

“Sorry about that.”

“No reason to be, you’re just doing your job.” He nods then glances over his shoulder, you follow his gaze and see a dark spot on the horizon.

“That your friend?”

“Probably. She drives too fast, especially when she knows where we all are.” He says shaking his head with a small smile on his face.

Sure enough that dark spot on the horizon becomes a bright red tow truck.

“Hey Steve.” A small, slender woman calls as she drops out of the truck. “You said something about the serpentine belt?”

“Yea, when it was started it snapped.”

“When was the last time this bad boy got serviced?” The woman asks looking over at you.

“Uh, my brother usually just does it so, by a professional, maybe 4 years?”

“Oh dear god.” She mutters before laying down on the ground and attaching the large metal hook to the front of your car. She moves quickly and before you know it your car is hooked up and ready to go.

“Come on, you can ride with me.” She says with a grin at you, “Don’t worry Steve I’ll go the speed limit.”

“Just cuz you’re married to a deputy doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.” He huffs in a poor attempt to look irritated.

“Okay.”

“Natasha.” He warns his voice low, “don’t make me call Clint.”

“You know he’ll just fold.” She says with a laugh and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

“At least let me give you an escort.” Sheriff Rogers says making his way back to his motorcycle.

“Score.” Natasha says with a laugh, “that’s what I was hoping he’d do.” She tells you with a wink causing you to laugh.

Tag list:

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[zaraomarrogers]

You said Steve, and I’m all ears 🐰

Btw, please continue

I wanna know how it goes from there 😂😍

Dbf!Steve Rogers Blurb

Dbf!Steve Rogers is stuck in my head and he won’t leave. Whether he’s Cap or not.

CW: sfw, just plot ideas

He was a bit younger than your dad, but still noticeably older than yourself. They had been best friends for years despite Steve living a couple states over because of work and all, meaning the two of you are not that close outside of being friends on social media and the abstract birthday text. That is until you’re applying to grad program and of course one of the colleges is in his town. It’s a good program! Ignore the subconscious influence his most recent instagram post had on your decision making.

Surprise surprise when decision time comes around, out of the multiple programs you could have chosen from, you choose the one in his town. It’ll be nice to get to see him in person more often! It ends up being even more often than expected when Steve learns you’re still looking for an apartment to lease and… oh! He just so happens to have a spare room he’s more than happy to let you lease out (that he’s never going to let you pay for) since he’s gone for work half the time anyway.

I think we all know where it goes from here.

[zaraomarrogers]

❤️

Sweetheart

Steve Rogers x Reader feat. Avengers

Summary: A simple game slowly leads to a lifetime.

Warnings: a few swear words, some very hot scenes, fluffity fluff, mutual pining, mentions of nomad Steve specifically his hair and beard (yes! that's a warning), reader wearing Steve's hoodie (also a warning, gets me every time, and yes I did write a whole fic about it Hoodie)

Word Count: 3.5k

Notes: I wrote this with a female reader in mind but I think it works for any gender, there are no pronouns used and no use of Y/n, Steve calls reader sweetheart.

Everyone was drinking and having a good time. Tony remembered something he had seen earlier in the day and decided now was the best time to bring it up.

"Y-You know it's weird how fasc-cinated the public is with us" He slurred, waving his scotch around and spilling it slightly.

"How's that, Tones?" You questioned while blinking abnormally fast.

"I saw a-a thhhing on my phone, said vote on each 'venger's best look"

"Like Nat's 'I'm gonna kill you so bad' look?"

"No, ap-pearanceses"

"Ooooh, that's kinda strange, isn't it?"

"What?" Stephen asked as he flung his head up, only hearing the word 'strange'.

"Not you, Dr Otter" You and Tony replied at the same time followed by a small exclamation of acknowledgement.

"It's like a quiz" Tony continued.

"What?" Clint asked.

"The thing I was just talking about"

"Oh, right. A quiz?"

"Yeah, wanna do it?"

"I don't know, I'm not good on tests"

"It's not- It's opinions, not right or wrong"

"Okay, shoot"

Tony cast his phone to the large TV in front of everyone and started the quiz.

"What is the le-legendary genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, Tony Stark himself, 's best look?" He read off the screen.

"You always look pretty much the same" Nat stated.

"First one, little scruffy" Steve said simply.

"Yeah, his hair's cute when it's floppy, like you could run a hand through it and it'd still look adorable" You agreed.

"Adorable? Drunk you is pretty honest, this is gonna be fun" Tony smirked "Natasha Romanoff, the fierce woman of the avengers"

"Oh God" She sighed.

"The half red half blonde, super cute, especially in a braid" You smiled at her.

"I'd have to agree" Bruce added.

"Next, The God of Thunder and long hair, what's Thor's best look?"

"Ooh, the short one!" You exclaimed.

"How dare you?! That was not consensual!" Thor boomed.

"Sorry sweetie, but you've got to admit, it was hot"

"Pfft!" Loki laughed out.

"Did you just go pfft? You don't pfft" Bruce turned to him.

"My brother is not that hot"

"I think Happy's shirt would beg to differ" You counter.

"What about your mug?"

"I don't know what you are referring to"

"The mug that has 'This meeting would be a lot better if one of you were Loki' written across it"

"Oh, that mug. That and Happy's shirt were gag gifts from Tony, like Cap's Cap cap"

"Pardon?"

"Tony got Steve a cap with his Captain America logo on it, so it's Cap's Cap cap"

"You mortals are pointlessly confusing"

"Alright next question, speaking of Gods, Loki the God of Mischief and sexiness has great hair as everyone knows but what look suits him best?"

"I am beginning to like this quiz after all"

"Christmas tree" Nat states blankly.

"I am not beginning to like this. What do you mean Christmas tree?!"

"In New York, your hair had the outline of a Christmas tree. Don't look at me like that, they put tinsel in it" She points to you and Sam.

"ThAt WaS yOu?!"

"He dared me!"

"You said dare me to put tinsel in Loki's hair, I didn't do shit"

"Until I had the tinsel"

"Well it was already there"

"By the great heavenly kingdom of Valhalla I swear I will-"

"Tony, why don't we just move onto the next question?" Steve tried to diffuse the situation before Loki turned everyone into frogs, again.

"The question we've all been waiting for, the most gorgeous avenger, Bucky Barnes!"

"He's the most gorgeous?" Nat asked, a twinge of jealously in her tone.

"You're way prettier than Bucky" You reassured her.

"Hey?" Bucky lightly hit your arm.

"She is" You shrugged.

"Stevie, who's prettier?" Bucky looked to his friend.

"I don't want to choose between my friends"

"Come on, Captain"

"Uh, um.....neither"

"What?" They both blurted out in shock.

"You are" He said softly as he looked into your eyes.

"Th-thank you" You blushed.

"Of course he picked you" Bucky grumbled.

"And last but certainly not least, the very handsome face of the Avengers, Steve Rogers"

"Nomad Steve" You spoke a little too quickly.

"Really?" He asked you.

"Uh-yeah"

"Oh I toootally agree" Sam responded "That slightly long hair, a little unkept"

"And that beard" Bucky agreed.

"And the way he looks like he could just pin you up against a wall and-" You saw everyone looking at you and Steve's face covered in a bright red blush "I'm oversharring again, aren't I?"

"Yes" Bruce said, sitting in the corner, just a little mortified.

"I think that's enough for the night, I'm going to bed" You almost beckon from halfway down the hall already.

You thought that would be the end of the topic, after a while you didn't really think of it at all. Not long after, Steve had to go on a mission and boy did he have a surprise for you when he got back. The mission lasted about a month and you were really beginning to miss him. One evening you opened the door to your room and felt something behind you, someone. They pushed you into your room and slammed the door shut, they spun you around and you saw that it was Steve. You lit up instantly by just seeing his face, he had grown his beard back and his hair was a little messy and longer. Just as you were about to open your mouth to compliment him on the new-old look he pushed you against the wall, no, he pinned you against the wall. He held your wrists tight by your sides, you saw the look of desire in his dark clouded eyes. Before you knew it his lips were on yours, moving fiercely and hastily, full of passion and lust. As he pulled away he bit your bottom lip lightly, causing you to let out a soft whimper. The sound almost making him drop his tough exterior.

"This what you wanted?" His voice was deep and rough, making your body quiver.

"God yes" You breathed out shakily.

He transferred his grip on your wrists to your waist. He lifted you like you were nothing, like you weighed less than a feather. You wrapped your legs around his hips and grasped his neck in your hands, clinging on and keeping him close. He held you up against the wall as he continued kissing you roughly, deeply. You could feel your stomach aching, your whole body was aching, for him. He could feel the heat radiating off you as he trail open mouthed kisses down your jaw and it was addictive. You tilted your head back and to the side, giving him better access to your neck. He found that soft spot under your ear that made you moan so sweetly and his lips latched on. He sucked and bit marks that were sure to turn bright purple and he ran his tongue back over the spot gently, soothing your inflamed skin.

He kept up this pace, kissing and sucking and biting and licking all over your neck and upper chest. You tugged on his hair, rough enough that it made him bite your shoulder, hard. The sensation of his teeth sinking that far into you made you throw your head back even further and let out an almost primal, animalistic moan that just spurred him on all the more.

His fingers dug into your hips, certain to leave bruises you would admire for days. He pulled you off the wall and sat you on your dresser.

"Y-you know" You began, your words near breathy moans at this point "The bed's over there"

"Soon. First I want you on every surface possible"

His tone mixed with his words made your breath hitch, you could've sworn your heart stopped for just a moment. One of his hands came up and ripped your shirt off. He tossed it to the side and you toyed with the hem of his. You pulled it up slowly, running your fingers over the taught muscles of his body. You pulled the shirt over his head and when his hands returned to you they were on your thighs. His lips flew down your neck and to your chest. He kissed every inch of you within his reach, the feel of him all over you, hot and wet. He undid the top button of your pants and lifted you again. Your hands moved from his neck and discarded your pants on the floor. He carried you to the couch and laid you down. He hovered over you and you scrambled for his belt.

"Uh uh, not yet" The teasing in his tone made you squirm under him.

"Well that's not very fair is it?"

"Life's not fair sweetheart"

He continued his mission, his mouth was all over you. He moved down the couch, sitting between your legs. It was quite a sight, Steve Rogers, Captain America, America's golden boy, situated between your legs, looking up at you with the gaze of a starved animal. He took one of your legs, started at your ankle and kissed his way down. The contrast between your silky smooth skin and his rough scratchy beard made you grateful to be alive. He moved tantalisingly slow, never breaking eye contact for a second. It was like your eyes were tethered to stare at each other forever and you wouldn't have it any other way. You looked down past your heaving chest to see your knee slung over his shoulder. His chest was pressed up into the back of your thigh, pushing your muscles just right. His lips went so low, so close, so far down your inner thigh and he pulled away. The bastard pulled away. You never would have thought he'd be a tease. He did the same to your other leg, starting at the ankle and working his way almost all the way down. He laid down, his shoulders under both of your legs and he got so close. He kissed your lower stomach and he moved down. Finally, you thought. He kissed over the top of your underwear, taking the waist band in his teeth, pulling just a few inches away and releasing it, flicking against your body. He pulled even further away, devastating you.

"Steve" You whined "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Watch out or I'll have to put that dirty mouth of yours to good use"

"Please do"

He chuckled low, the sound reverberating through you and sending shivers down your spine. You kissed him again, this time soft and sweet, full of the love you had been hiding for so long.

He pulled away and stared down at you, at your beautiful face. He meant what he said that day, he thought you were beautiful, so beautiful it hurt. It hurt when he saw you get all dressed up for galas and charity events in those fancy clothes that fit your body so well. Or when you'd go out to clubs with Nat and Sam, those two always dragged you out, trying to get you to meet someone but you were never interested. For so long it had only been Steve. Wearing something outrageously short for the '40s like Steve was used to, but you looked amazing, you looked amazing in anything. He remembered the first time you trained together and you wore skin tight workout gear, he barely made it through the hour. But his favourite, his absolute favourite, was when you had just woken up. When your hair was all messy and your eyes were only half open. You'd say good morning in a raspy voice full of sleep and you'd smile at him so softly he thought he'd melt. All he wanted was to see that smile and hear that voice every morning for the rest of his life. One day was just, he didn't know quite what. It was an oddly chilly morning for that time of year and all of your winter clothes were packed away. You looked through the freshly washed laundry you had done the day before and you found a blue hoodie, it looked so comfortable and soft and most importantly warm. You pulled it on over your head and it fell halfway down your thighs, just covering the pyjama shorts you were wearing. You walked down the hall and into the kitchen like you did every morning. You greeted Steve and he greeted you back before noticing what you were wearing. It looked like you were wearing his hoodie, only his hoodie, nothing else. He blinked for a moment, opening and closing his mouth, trying to speak but not knowing what to say. You reached up to grab a mug off the top shelf and the hoodie rose up. He didn't want to look, no that was a lie, he thought he shouldn't look but he couldn't help himself. When he was met with the sight of your shorts you could say he was more than a little disappointed. You turned around and saw him staring at you.

"What?" You laughed "I can't have something in my teeth, I haven't eaten yet"

"I-is that my hoodie?"

"Oh, that's who. I'm sorry, it was in my laundry and I was cold. I can give it back"

"No you look nice. Nice and warm" He only just caught and corrected himself.

"Thanks"

He didn't know it yet but ever since that day, whenever you were feeling sad you wore his hoodie and it comforted you more than anything else.

He brought himself out of his memory haze and back to now, to you. He saw you looking up at him, wondering what he was thinking. He leaned down and whispered into your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you've been so good, it's time for your reward"

He picked you up and you latched onto him once again. This time he finally took you to the bed. He laid you down so soft and gentle like he was handling something so precious, he was. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his finger trailed down your cheekbone. His hand moved back to cradle your head and his thumb caressed your cheek so lovingly. His usually innocent blue eyes stared into yours, boring into your soul. The two of you truly connected, in a way neither of you had with anyone else, only each other.

You woke up the next morning, in his arms. You couldn't believe you were finally where you had dreamed of being for so long. In fact you actually pinched yourself, just to be sure. You couldn't help but smile even brighter when you looked back up to see him looking down at you. This was one of those moments you'd experienced so many times before. It took you completely out of the moment and you noticed just how pretty he really was. His eyes, full of so much hope and joy matched with pain and sadness. His eyes, full of time, years of time and he wanted to spent the rest of it with you. He laid on his back, his chest rising and falling with his steady breaths. His right hand was snaked around your waist, even in his sleep his grip never faltered. You laid on your left side, your cheek on his chest, snuggled up to him. Your right hand was laying across his body, tracing random patterns slowly.

"Morning" There it was, there was that sweet, soft, raspy voice he had longed for.

"Morning sweetheart"

You giggled slightly at the pet name, your pet name. He called you that because to him, that's what you were. You were so sweet he thought he'd get a cavity. You always did whatever you could for others, sometimes they knew and sometimes they didn't. Like the way you helped Bucky. When he first came to the tower he only had Steve, Tony was still upset with him and after hearing what had just transpired the rest of the team weren't very welcoming. But you were different. You trusted Steve's judgement and you welcomed Bucky. He stayed in Steve's room for a while, still too scared to be alone in a tower full of people who didn't much care for him. You decided the best way to get to know Bucky and hopefully help him was to get to know him in a setting he felt comfortable in. You brought a sleeping bag to Steve's room and explained your thinking. Bucky was offered the bed and the couch but he still chose the floor, so you joined him. Steve was in his room with the door open and you and Bucky were in the small living room attached. He was by Steve's door and you kept you distance, trying not to crowd him by sleeping on the other side of the room. He curled up and faced away from you. You heard him gasp for air as he came out of a nightmare. You slowly approached him and took his flesh hand in both of yours. You were gentle but your grasp was firm, reassuring him that he wasn't in his nightmare. Steve got up and came to the door but you shook your head and he stepped back. He trusted you too and he knew that you had a lot of experience with nightmares, you helped him after all. You slept with Bucky on Steve's floor for a month, until Bucky was ready to go to his own room. You slept on his floor for the first night, then you returned to your own room, next door. Sharing a wall, you were able to hear when he had a nightmare and you always came and sat with him like you did that first night. Thankfully, after some time, the nightmares were a rare occasion for him.

Steve loved how you cared for his friend, for everyone. He was the only one who noticed the small things you did. One of the simplest but kindest being whenever you would go to the grocery store you would buy a box of pop-tarts, a dozen plums, a bag of decaf coffee and a punnet of blueberries. Pop-tarts for Thor because he ate them at an alarming rate, plums for Bucky of course, decaf coffee because it always worried you how much coffee Tony drank, so you would replace it with decaf whenever you had the chance, and blueberries also for Tony, he liked having a snack while he worked and they distracted from the coffee.

There were other little things you'd do that just made Steve fall for you even more. If someone had a tough mission you'd cook their favourite meal for dinner, perfectly, and if their suit was torn you'd sew it up. They didn't ask you to or expect you to but you'd just take it and return it to them, fully mended and cleaned. Whenever you noticed his pencils were getting short or his sketchbook was getting full you'd go to the little store that had the supplies he liked. You wouldn't make a fuss about it, you usually just left a book and a box of pencils on his bedside table. And God, did he love to draw you. The first time he tried he obsessed over it, wanting the sketch to be as perfect as you. After a while it became almost mindless, if he didn't know what to draw he'd find himself drawing you.

He looked down at you now, lying in his arms with a huge smile on your face.

"I love you" It just slipped out, he meant it, he did love you but he didn't want to scare you off. He panicked for a moment when you didn't respond.

"I love you too"

He sighed a huge breath of relief "You know you're everything to me, right?"

"I do now"

You brought your hand up to his cheek, you thumb ghosted over his lips.

"You call me sweetheart"

"I do"

"Why?"

"Because you're so kind and giving, you always put the team first and you're well, sweet. Like with the pop-tarts and plums"

"You're the reason"

"What do you mean?"

"I saw your face when I got you a sketchbook or when I got Bucky plums, you know, small things. I saw the way you looked at me or at least the way I hoped you looked at me and I wanted to see that look again"

"Really?"

"Why else do you think we have plum pies every other week? Or enough Pop-tarts to feed an army, or I guess Thor for a couple weeks"

"You did that just to see me happy when I was watching you?"

"Yeah" You said nervously, hoping he wouldn't think you were quite as pathetic as you felt.

"God, I love you"

He pulled you into a kiss and you could feel his smile against your lips.

Tags:

@impetusofadream @goldfishthegr8 @avengers-official-recruit-agent @goreygirl03 @xenasolos @sparklyturtlefox @rios-sythe @nekoannie-chan @ilovemarvel12 @hayneyney @n3ponen @8812-342 @everyonesfriend @pinkthick @craftytacopiecash @meryuniverse @aliljaybird @yelldontwhisper @justhereforthememesnangst @lonely-core

[zaraomarrogers]

Bucckkkyyyyyy 😂😂😂

I love high school sweetheart trope and it serves all the feels in the best way possible. Steve being in love with our reader was all ❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for writing and sharing with us 💕

Hi, can you do a High School AU with Modern Steve Rogers.

For you Valentine's Day thing. :)

Please.

PROM

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.6k

ᯓ★ TW(s): a little spicy scene at then end

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The cold air bites at your skin as you tug your sweater closer around you, navigating the crowded halls of Brooklyn High. The chatter of students echoes around you, lockers slamming, laughter bouncing off the walls. You try to make yourself smaller, slipping past clusters of people who barely acknowledge your presence. It’s not like you mind. You’ve always been more comfortable blending into the background.

Except, no matter how much you try to stay unnoticed, there’s always one person whose gaze finds you.

Steve Rogers.

Captain of the hockey team. Star athlete. Straight-A student. He’s the kind of guy who could walk into a room and have every eye on him without even trying. And yet, whenever you catch him looking at you—which happens more often than you can explain—there’s something different in his eyes. Something warm. Something that makes your heart stumble in your chest, even though you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

You push the thought away as you reach your locker, spinning the combination dial with practiced ease. Just as you pull it open, a familiar voice calls your name.

“Hey, kid.”

Bucky Barnes slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his side with a grin. Your older brother is one of the few people who never fails to acknowledge you, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his usual greeting.

“I’m not a kid,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance behind it.

Bucky laughs, ruffling your hair before you swat his hand away. “Yeah, yeah. You coming to the game tonight?”

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. You don’t usually go to school events unless absolutely necessary, and Bucky knows it. But he asks anyway, because he likes having you there, and maybe a tiny part of you likes watching him play.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind watching Steve either.

“I don’t know…” you start, but before you can finish, another voice joins the conversation.

“You should come.”

You freeze, gripping the edge of your locker a little tighter. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You recognize the voice, deep and steady, laced with something softer when he speaks to you.

Steve.

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice your reaction, too busy digging through his own locker a few feet away. “Yeah, see? Even Steve thinks you should go.”

You finally turn, looking up at him. He’s leaning against the lockers, hockey jacket unzipped over his hoodie, arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his blue eyes—so damn bright it’s unfair—are focused on you.

For a second, you wonder if he actually cares whether you show up or if he’s just being polite. But then you see the way his fingers tighten against his sleeve, the way his jaw tenses slightly, like he’s bracing himself for you to say no.

You swallow, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “I’ll think about it.”

Steve nods, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Disappointment? Hope? You can’t tell, and before you can analyze it, Bucky slams his locker shut and claps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright, let’s get to practice before Coach skins us alive.”

Steve nods, but his eyes linger on you for just a second longer before he turns and follows Bucky down the hall.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

It’s ridiculous. The way your heart speeds up when he looks at you, the way your skin burns when he’s too close. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just because he’s Bucky’s best friend.

It doesn’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what you try to believe.

—

The rink is buzzing with energy when you step inside later that night. The game hasn’t started yet, but the stands are already packed, students decked out in school colors, waving banners and chanting excitedly. You make your way to the back, settling into a seat near the edge where it’s quieter.

You’re not even sure why you came. Maybe it’s because Bucky asked. Maybe it’s because Steve asked. Maybe it’s because some stupid part of you wanted to see him play, wanted to watch the way he moves on the ice, wanted to catch even one of those rare moments when his eyes might find you in the crowd.

The team skates onto the ice, and the cheers grow louder. Your eyes immediately land on Steve. He moves effortlessly, powerful strides carrying him across the rink, his gaze focused, determined. He looks completely in his element.

Bucky skates up beside him, nudging his shoulder before pointing towards the stands. Towards you.

You stiffen as Steve follows his gesture, his gaze locking onto yours.

And then he smiles.

It’s barely noticeable, just a small quirk of his lips, but it’s there. Just for a second. Just for you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you force yourself to look away, pretending to be focused on something else. But you can still feel it, the weight of his attention, the warmth spreading through your chest despite the cold air around you.

You shouldn’t feel like this.

But you do.

And you don’t know what to do about it.

—

The game is intense, fast-paced, and even though you don’t usually care about hockey, you find yourself caught up in it. The way Steve moves, the way he commands the ice, the way he and Bucky work together like they can read each other’s minds—it’s impossible not to watch.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, your school has won, and the crowd erupts into cheers. The players pile onto the ice, celebrating, and you watch as Steve and Bucky bump fists before skating off.

You hesitate before standing, debating whether you should just slip out unnoticed. But before you can move, a familiar voice calls out.

“Hey!”

You turn just in time to see Bucky pushing through the crowd towards you, still grinning from the win. Steve is right behind him, his expression more reserved, but his eyes never leaving you.

“You saw that, right?” Bucky says, breathless. “We crushed ‘em.”

You nod. “Yeah, you guys were… really good.”

Bucky slings an arm around your shoulders. “See? Told you it’d be worth coming.”

You glance at Steve, who’s watching you with that same unreadable expression. You’re about to look away when he speaks.

“I’m glad you came.”

His voice is quieter than Bucky’s, but somehow, it drowns out everything else.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Yeah… me too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and for a second, it feels like it’s just the two of you standing there, the noise of the crowd fading into the background.

And for the first time, you wonder if maybe he’s been looking at you the same way you’ve been looking at him.

The days after the hockey game pass in a blur, slipping into the routine of school, homework, and avoiding unnecessary social interactions. You still catch Steve looking at you sometimes—across the cafeteria, in the hallways, when he's with Bucky. And each time, something in your stomach twists uncomfortably, like you're balancing on the edge of something unknown, something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You tell yourself it's nothing.

He’s just being polite.

But then there are moments—like when you drop your books in the hallway, and he’s there before anyone else, kneeling to help you gather them up. Or when you pass each other by the lockers, and he sends you a small, hesitant smile, even when he’s surrounded by his friends. Or when he lingers just a little too long whenever Bucky drags you into a conversation with him after school.

You try to ignore it, but it’s impossible when he’s everywhere. And it only gets worse when the school announces the Valentine’s Day prom.

It’s all anyone can talk about.

The posters go up on Monday morning—red and pink hearts plastered across the bulletin boards, glittery letters spelling out Brooklyn High Valentine’s Prom: Saturday Night! The second the announcement is made, the school erupts into chaos. Girls giggle excitedly in clusters, whispering about their potential dates, while the guys groan about the pressure of asking someone out.

It’s not something you care about. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You’re pretty sure no one’s going to ask you, and that’s fine. It’s not like you’ve ever imagined yourself at a school dance, dressed up in something fancy, slow-dancing under dimmed lights.

Except when you least expect it, your thoughts slip back to Steve.

You shake the idea out of your head every time. He’s Steve Rogers—hockey captain, golden boy, the guy every girl in school wants to be with. There’s no reason he’d waste his time thinking about you when he has a lineup of girls practically throwing themselves at him.

And yet.

Steve is thinking about you.

He’s thinking about you so much that it’s starting to drive him insane.

He’s never been good at hiding his feelings—at least, not when it comes to you. He’s spent years keeping this thing buried, years pretending you were just his best friend’s little sister, even though he’s known for a long time that you’re so much more than that.

And now, with prom around the corner, he sees his chance.

But it’s not easy when half the school is expecting him to take someone else.

“Hey, Stevie,” a voice sings, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He barely has time to react before Peggy Carter slides up beside him, smiling that knowing smile of hers. She’s one of the most popular girls in school—sharp, confident, effortlessly charming. And she’s been trying to get his attention for weeks.

“So… prom’s coming up,” she says, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Have you thought about who you’re taking?”

Steve tenses. He knows where this is going.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “Not yet.”

Peggy tilts her head, pretending to be surprised. “Really? Because, you know… a lot of people are waiting for you to ask someone.”

By a lot of people, she means the entire female population of Brooklyn High.

Steve forces a polite smile. “I guess I just haven’t decided.”

She pouts slightly, stepping a little closer. “Well, if you do decide soon… I wouldn’t mind an invitation.”

Before he can respond, she winks and saunters off, leaving him standing there, feeling suffocated.

It’s not just Peggy.

All week, girls have been dropping hints, batting their lashes, finding excuses to talk to him. Even Bucky teases him about it.

“You’ve got options, man,” Bucky laughs one afternoon at practice, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Half the school is waiting for you to make a move.”

Steve just exhales, tightening his grip on his hockey stick. “Yeah… I know.”

Bucky nudges him again. “So? Who’s the lucky girl?”

Steve hesitates. For a second, he considers telling him the truth. That he’s only ever wanted to ask one person, and that person is you.

But he doesn’t.

Because Bucky is your brother, and if Steve screws this up—if he asks you and it somehow ruins everything—he’s not sure he can handle losing both of you.

“I dunno,” he mutters instead. “Haven’t decided.”

Bucky just grins, oblivious. “Well, don’t take too long. People are getting antsy.”

Steve doesn’t respond. Because the truth is, he has decided.

He just doesn’t know if he has the guts to follow through.

You don’t expect anything when you walk into school on Friday morning.

You’re halfway through the hallway when you hear the whispers. People are staring at you more than usual, murmuring to each other, their eyes darting between you and something up ahead.

Confused, you keep walking—until you see it.

Your locker is covered in decorations.

Pink and red hearts, taped all around the edges. A small envelope, neatly tucked into the slats.

Your heart stutters.

You don’t know who did it, but there’s already a sinking suspicion in your gut. Hands trembling slightly, you reach out and pull the envelope free.

Inside, there’s a small, folded note.

Meet me outside after school. I’ll be waiting.

There’s no name.

But you have a feeling you already know who it is.

You spend the rest of the day in a daze.

You try not to let yourself hope. Maybe it’s a prank. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re reading too much into it.

But still, when the last bell rings, you find yourself making your way outside, heart hammering.

And then you see him.

Steve is standing by the steps, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shifting on his feet like he’s nervous. He looks up the second he hears you approaching, and something in his face softens.

“You came.”

You swallow hard. “You left me a note.”

He nods, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath. “Yeah. I, uh…” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Okay.”

He takes a step closer, and suddenly, it’s just the two of you. The sounds of the schoolyard fade into the background.

“I know prom’s a big deal for a lot of people,” he says, voice careful. “And I know you’re not really into that kind of thing. But…” He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want to go. But only if you go with me.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, you think you’ve misheard him. That this is some kind of cruel joke.

But then you look at him—really look at him. And you see it. The nervous way he’s watching you, like he’s afraid of your answer. The way his hands tighten into fists at his sides. The way his eyes are shining with something you can’t quite name.

He’s serious.

Steve Rogers is asking you to prom.

You open your mouth, then close it again, because you don’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he adds quickly, misreading your silence. “I just… I needed to ask.”

Your heart is racing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it—let yourself believe that maybe, all those stolen glances and quiet smiles meant something after all.

You inhale sharply, meeting his gaze.

“Yes.”

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I’ll go with you.”

Steve exhales in relief, and then—he smiles.

And it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach flip, the kind that makes the world feel a little brighter.

The kind that makes you realize this might just be the start of something you never saw coming.

The Barnes house is usually loud.

Between Bucky’s constant chatter, your mom yelling at him to put his dirty hockey gear in the laundry, and the old radio playing classic rock in the kitchen, it’s never really quiet. But this week, there’s a different kind of energy.

You feel lighter. It’s impossible not to. Ever since Steve asked you to prom, you’ve caught yourself smiling at random moments, zoning out in class, replaying the way he looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said I want to go, but only if you go with me.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Bucky notices everything.

At first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches you with narrowed eyes whenever you hum under your breath or check your phone more often than usual. But by Wednesday night, he’s done pretending he isn’t suspicious.

“You’re acting weird.”

You look up from your notebook, blinking. “What?”

Bucky leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “You’re acting weird. Like… smiling-for-no-reason weird. Like you’re actually excited for prom.”

Your stomach clenches, but you keep your face neutral. “I never said I wasn’t going.”

“You never care about school events,” Bucky argues, pointing at you accusingly. “Last year, you called prom a pointless parade of teenage delusion.”

Damn it. You did say that.

You shift uncomfortably, playing with the corner of your notebook. “Well… maybe I changed my mind.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow further. “Why?”

Your heart beats a little faster. He’s going to find out eventually—there’s no way he won’t. But you don’t know how to tell him.

You’re saved, temporarily, by your mom walking into the kitchen. She looks between the two of you, raising a brow. “What’s going on?”

Bucky gestures at you. “She’s being weird.”

Your mom looks unimpressed. “She’s a teenage girl. That’s normal.”

“No, like weird weird,” Bucky insists. “She’s actually excited about prom.”

Your mom pauses, then turns to you with interest. “Oh? That is new. Did someone ask you?”

You freeze. Bucky stares.

Your silence is damning.

“Holy shit.” Bucky’s eyes widen. “You have a date.”

You groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “Bucky—”

“Who is it?” he demands. “Wait—oh my God, if it’s Peter Parker, I’m throwing you both into the Hudson.”

“It’s not Peter.”

Bucky studies you for a second, his brows furrowing. Then, suddenly, realization dawns in his eyes.

“No way.”

Your stomach flips. “Bucky—”

“No way,” he repeats, looking horrified. “Steve?”

Your face must give it away, because Bucky gapes at you, mouth dropping open. Then he whirls around, dragging his hands down his face.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Unbelievable.”

You sigh. “Bucky, it’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?” He turns back to you, eyes wide. “Steve—my best friend—Steve?”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Would you relax? It’s just a date.”

Bucky scoffs. “Just a—? No. No, because I know him. And I know he’s been into you for years.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

Bucky throws his hands in the air. “Oh, come on. You really never noticed? He looks at you like a lovesick idiot all the time.”

You stare at him, your heart hammering. “You never said anything.”

“Because I didn’t think you liked him,” Bucky exclaims. “And I figured if he made a move, I’d have to kill him anyway.”

You roll your eyes. “Very mature.”

Bucky groans, dragging his hands through his hair. “Ugh. I need to sit down.” He drops into a chair, shaking his head. “This is so weird.”

You cross your arms. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I have to be dramatic,” Bucky argues. “It’s in my contract as your older brother.”

Your mom, who has been silently observing this entire conversation, finally sighs. “Well, if Steve is taking you to prom, at least I know he’ll treat you well.”

Bucky groans again, but you catch the way his shoulders relax slightly, the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. He may complain, but you know he trusts Steve more than anyone.

And despite his dramatics, you think he’s secretly glad it’s him.

The night of prom arrives faster than you expect.

For the first time in your life, you’re nervous about how you look.

Your mom helps you get ready, fussing over your hair and adjusting the soft fabric of your dress. You chose something simple but elegant—a deep midnight blue gown that falls just right, the fabric shimmering under the light. It’s not flashy, not over-the-top, but it makes you feel… beautiful.

Which is terrifying.

You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “Is this too much?”

Your mom smiles. “Sweetheart, you look stunning.”

You swallow, glancing at yourself in the mirror one last time before there’s a knock at the door.

Bucky beats you to it.

“Oh, look,” he deadpans as he opens it. “It’s lover boy.”

You shove him aside just in time to see Steve standing there, looking unfairly good in a fitted suit, his blond hair neatly styled. He’s holding a small corsage in his hand, but he’s not looking at it—he’s looking at you.

And he looks absolutely speechless.

His mouth opens slightly, then closes again like he’s forgotten how to talk.

Bucky snorts. “Real smooth, Rogers.”

Steve finally clears his throat, blinking a few times before managing, “Wow.”

Your cheeks burn. “Um. Hi.”

He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You look… incredible.”

You shift on your feet, glancing away. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Bucky groans. “Okay, before you two start making heart eyes at each other, let’s go.”

Your mom insists on taking a few pictures, much to Bucky’s dramatic protests, and then you’re finally out the door, your heart pounding as Steve offers you his arm.

And when his fingers brush yours, a quiet, steady warmth settles in your chest.

The moment you and Steve walk into the prom, the entire room seems to pause.

You feel the stares immediately. Murmurs ripple through the crowd as heads turn, people nudging each other and whispering.

Steve Rogers—captain of the hockey team, golden boy of Brooklyn High—walked into prom with you.

You catch glimpses of shocked expressions. Girls who had been trying to get Steve to ask them looking completely blindsided. Guys who had never paid attention to you suddenly glancing your way like they’re seeing you for the first time.

Peggy Carter, standing with a group of popular girls near the dance floor, looks particularly surprised. Her eyes flick between you and Steve, her lips parting slightly.

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t seem to notice.

Or, more likely, he doesn’t care.

His attention is entirely on you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice quiet enough that only you can hear.

You inhale, forcing yourself to focus on him. On the way his blue eyes hold nothing but warmth. On the way he’s standing close, making sure you don’t feel out of place.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Good.”

And then, just like that, the moment passes. The music picks up again, people go back to dancing, and the tension in the air shifts.

Steve holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Your heart skips a beat.

You hesitate, then slowly place your hand in his.

And as he pulls you onto the dance floor, the world melts away, leaving just the two of you in the glow of twinkling lights.

The music swells around you as Steve pulls you onto the dance floor. The bass hums under your feet, the chatter of students blends into the beat, and suddenly, you’re surrounded by couples moving in sync under the dim, glittering lights.

You swallow, feeling a little overwhelmed. It’s not like you’ve never danced before, but you’ve never done this—never been the center of attention, never had an entire room secretly (or not-so-secretly) watching you.

Steve must notice your hesitation because his grip on your hand tightens slightly, grounding you.

“You nervous?” he asks, leaning in so you can hear him over the music.

“A little,” you admit.

His lips curve into a small smile. “You don’t have to be. It’s just me.”

And somehow, that helps.

Because it is just Steve—your childhood friend, the boy who’s always been kind to you, the boy who asked you to be his date when he could have had anyone else.

So you let out a breath and nod. “Okay.”

The song playing is more upbeat than a slow dance, and Steve doesn’t hesitate to start moving, his grip on your waist light, his other hand still holding yours. You try to follow his lead, your movements awkward at first, but after a few steps, you let yourself relax.

And then… you’re laughing.

Because Steve Rogers, for all his talent on the ice, is not the best dancer.

He tries, though. He does this ridiculous little move that looks half like a hockey stance, half like he’s dodging something, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that,” you tease, smiling up at him.

Steve laughs, unashamed. “What, you don’t think I’ve got moves?”

“Oh, you’ve got moves, alright.”

“Good ones?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Mmm… debatable.”

He grins, eyes shining. “Guess I’ll just have to impress you some other way.”

Before you can ask what that means, he twirls you—twirls you, like this is some kind of fairytale—and despite yourself, you let out a surprised laugh.

For a moment, everything else fades.

You don’t notice the stares. The whispers. The way Peggy Carter and the other girls who had been fighting for Steve’s attention now stand off to the side, watching in disbelief.

They aren’t subtle.

Peggy’s arms are crossed, her lips pressed into a tight line as she exchanges looks with some of the other cheerleaders. “I told you something was up between them,” she mutters.

Sarah Rogers, another popular girl who had been dropping hints to Steve all week, scoffs. “I don’t get it. No offense, but… her?”

Peggy sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I guess he likes her.”

Another girl huffs. “I still don’t understand why he didn’t just pick someone else.”

No one has an answer for that. Because Steve Rogers is the kind of guy who should be with a girl like Peggy Carter—someone who matches his status, someone who fits into the high school hierarchy.

But instead, he’s here—dancing, laughing, looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.

And that fact alone seems to shatter everything they thought they knew about him.

Bucky, meanwhile, is not enjoying himself.

He’s leaning against the punch table, arms crossed, glaring at the dance floor like it personally offended him.

“You alright, man?” Sam Wilson asks, raising a brow.

Bucky lets out a dramatic sigh. “No, Sam. I’m not alright.”

Sam follows his gaze, then smirks. “Ohhh. You’re mad Steve is dancing with your sister.”

“Damn right I’m mad.” Bucky gestures aggressively. “Look at him. Look at them.”

“They look happy,” Sam points out.

“That’s not the point,” Bucky grumbles. “That’s my baby sister.”

“She’s not a baby.”

“She is to me,” Bucky insists, taking a sip of punch. “And Steve’s my best friend. I trusted him.”

Sam laughs. “Dude, it’s Steve. You make it sound like he’s some player.”

Bucky glares. “I know he’s not. That’s why I’m pissed.”

Sam frowns. “Wait… so you’d rather she date some jerk instead?”

“Of course not.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

Bucky hesitates.

Because there isn’t a problem. Not really.

Steve is the best guy he knows. He’s loyal, he’s kind, and yeah—he’s obviously been head-over-heels for you for years.

But still.

Bucky groans, rubbing his temples. “It’s just… weird, okay?”

Sam pats his shoulder. “You’ll get over it.”

Bucky grumbles something unintelligible but doesn’t argue.

Because deep down, he knows Sam is right.

Back on the dance floor, Steve is still grinning at you like he’s never been happier.

“See?” he says. “Told you this wouldn’t be so bad.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “Okay, fine. You win.”

“I like the sound of that.”

You huff a laugh. “Of course you do.”

The song changes, the beat slowing, and suddenly, couples around you are drawing closer, settling into a slow sway.

You hesitate, your heart picking up speed.

Steve must notice, because he lifts a brow. “We can sit this one out if you want.”

You swallow. “Do you want to sit this one out?”

His gaze softens. “No.”

Your stomach flips.

You take a breath, then step a little closer. Steve’s hands find your waist, warm and steady, and you place yours lightly on his shoulders.

And then, you’re dancing.

It’s slow, gentle—nothing like the awkward shuffle you imagined. Steve moves easily, leading you without hesitation, and you let yourself relax.

“This okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, feeling strangely shy. “Yeah.”

He’s looking at you again—that quiet, thoughtful look he always gets when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

You swallow hard. “What?”

His lips twitch. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “Steve.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I just… I can’t believe this is real.”

Your breath catches.

He hesitates, then continues, voice softer. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

Your heart pounds. “Dance?”

He smiles. “Be with you.”

The words settle over you like a warm blanket, and for once, you don’t overthink. You don’t panic.

Because this is Steve.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting for this, too.

So you take a breath, tighten your grip on his shoulders, and rest your forehead lightly against his.

And in that moment, nothing else matters.

Bucky is losing his mind.

He’s actually going to have a heart attack right here at the punch table.

Because there, in the middle of the dance floor, under the dim glow of twinkling fairy lights, Steve Rogers—his best friend—is holding his baby sister like she’s the only person in the world.

And she’s letting him.

Their foreheads are practically touching. You’re looking at Steve like he’s hung the damn moon. And Steve—Jesus, Steve is looking at you like he’s already in love with you.

Bucky grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

He knew this was happening. He knew Steve had feelings for you. Hell, he’s known for years, even before Steve probably realized it himself. But seeing it? Actually witnessing his best friend hold you like that, touch you like that, dance with you like that?

Nope. Absolutely not.

“Breathe, man.”

Bucky startles. Sam is still standing next to him, watching with clear amusement.

Bucky scowls. “Don’t tell me to breathe.”

Sam snorts. “Dude, you’re gripping that table like it owes you money.”

Bucky doesn’t let go. “He’s holding her.”

“Yes, because they’re dancing,” Sam points out. “At prom. Like normal people.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “It’s Steve.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And—I know what that look means,” Bucky grits out. “That’s the look of a guy who wants to—”

Sam smirks. “Kiss her?”

Bucky groans, dragging his hands down his face. “God, I’m gonna be sick.”

Sam laughs, patting Bucky’s shoulder. “Relax. Steve’s a good guy. You said it yourself.”

“I know he is. That’s the problem.”

Sam tilts his head. “You’d rather she be with some random asshole?”

“No,” Bucky mutters.

“So what’s the issue?”

Bucky groans. “The issue is Steve is supposed to be my best friend. And she’s my sister. There’s a code.”

Sam snickers. “And did you ever actually tell him about this code?”

Bucky glares. “That’s not the point.”

Sam just shakes his head, watching the dance floor. “Face it, man. You knew this was gonna happen eventually.”

Bucky huffs, but doesn’t argue. Because, yeah. He did.

Still. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Especially not when Steve leans in a little closer.

Bucky’s eye twitches. “Oh, hell no.”

He storms off before Sam can stop him.

You don’t even notice Bucky approaching.

Because all you can focus on is Steve.

His hands are warm against your waist, his forehead almost touching yours, his blue eyes soft and searching. The music fades into the background, the room blurs around you, and for the first time all night, you don’t care that people are watching.

It’s just him.

You swallow hard. “Steve…”

He smiles, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah?”

Your heart pounds. You don’t even know what you were going to say. You just know that this moment—this feeling—is something you never want to forget.

And then—

“Alright, break it up!”

You jump as Bucky all but shoves himself between you and Steve, breaking your hold on each other.

Steve stumbles back, eyes wide. “Bucky?”

Bucky glares at him, crossing his arms. “That’s enough.”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my God.”

Steve blinks. “We were just—”

“I know what you were just doing,” Bucky interrupts. “And I don’t like it.”

Steve sighs. “Buck—”

“Nope. I’m invoking big brother privilege. Step away from my sister.”

You groan again. “Bucky, stop—”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. “Because I see where this is going.” He turns to Steve. “And you, punk, should’ve asked me first.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Ask you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, like it’s obvious. “That’s how this works. You wanna date my sister? You ask me first.”

You glare at him. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Bucky ignores you.

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t look intimidated. Instead, he just sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I should’ve asked you first. I’m sorry.”

Bucky frowns. “Wait, really?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah. I get it.” He looks you in the eye, voice soft. “But I was gonna ask you on a proper date first.”

Your breath catches. “You were?”

His lips twitch. “Of course. I just figured I’d wait until after prom.”

Bucky groans. “This is a nightmare.”

You roll your eyes, shoving Bucky aside before turning back to Steve. “You want to take me on a real date?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

You hesitate for maybe half a second before nodding. “Okay.”

Steve smiles, looking relieved. “Good.”

Bucky makes a strangled noise.

You glare at him. “Leave.”

“No,” Bucky grumbles, arms crossed. “I have to make sure Rogers doesn’t try anything.”

Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bucky—”

“Nope.”

Steve looks at you, exasperated. You sigh. “Ignore him.”

Steve smirks. “Gladly.”

Bucky groans again. “This is so weird.”

And it is weird.

But when Steve reaches for your hand again—when he gives you that soft, knowing smile—you think maybe it’s the good kind of weird.

Steve picks you up on a Saturday afternoon, his truck packed with a picnic basket and a blanket. He had been oddly secretive about your first official date, only telling you to wear something comfortable. When you press him for details, he just grins and says, “You’ll see.”

The drive is peaceful, the windows rolled down as the early spring breeze sweeps through the cab. Steve drums his fingers against the steering wheel, humming softly to the song playing on the radio. Every now and then, he glances over at you, eyes warm, like he still can’t believe this is happening.

He takes you to a secluded spot near a lake, far enough from town that it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. The grass is soft and green, the water shimmering under the afternoon sun. He lays out the blanket beneath the shade of a tall tree, then starts unpacking the basket.

You sit cross-legged across from him, watching as he pulls out sandwiches, lemonade, and—of course—strawberries.

“You really went all out,” you say, amused.

Steve shrugs, a little sheepish. “Wanted to make it special.”

Your heart flutters.

You eat and talk for hours, the conversation flowing easily. Steve tells you stories about his childhood, some you’ve heard before, others you haven’t. You laugh as he recounts the time he and Bucky tried to build a treehouse but ended up stuck halfway up with no way down.

“I still don’t know how your mom didn’t ground you both for life,” you say, shaking your head.

“Oh, she did,” Steve chuckles. “But she also said it was the most ambitious disaster she’d ever seen.”

The sun starts dipping lower in the sky, painting everything in golden hues. You lay back on the blanket, staring up at the sky as Steve shifts closer, propping himself up on one elbow beside you.

After a moment, he reaches for a strawberry from the basket.

“Want one?” he asks.

You nod, expecting him to hand it to you, but instead, he brings it up to your lips himself.

Your breath catches slightly, but you take a bite, your eyes never leaving his.

Steve watches you, his gaze dipping to your lips. There’s a moment of silence, heavy and electric, and then—

He leans in.

You don’t pull away.

His lips are soft, tentative at first, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him. But you don’t. You kiss him back, your hand lifting to curl lightly into his shirt.

The kiss is sweet, unhurried, tasting faintly of strawberries and lemonade. When you finally pull apart, Steve rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits.

You smile. “Me too.”

That one kiss leads to more. Dates become a regular thing—late-night drives, walks around town, lazy Sundays at the park. Every time Steve picks you up, he greets you with that same soft smile, the kind that makes your stomach flip. Bucky complains loudly, but he doesn’t actually stop Steve from coming around, which means he’s tolerating it. Barely.

Eventually, the two of you make it official. It’s not some big announcement, but everyone figures it out when Steve starts calling you his girlfriend without hesitation. The looks and whispers at school don’t matter as much anymore. The popular girls still don’t understand how it happened, but Steve never gives them a second glance.

A few weeks later, you’re at home, sitting at the kitchen counter as your mom flips through a magazine. Bucky is sprawled on the couch, half-listening as you and your mom chat.

“I was thinking about getting a wax,” you say casually.

Bucky nearly chokes on his drink.

Your mom hums. “Oh, full-body?”

Bucky makes a strangled noise.

You shake your head. “No, just my legs and maybe a bikini wax.”

Bucky whips his head toward you. “What?”

You blink at him. “What?”

He looks horrified. “Why?”

You shrug. “Because it lasts longer than shaving?”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just announced you’re moving to Mars. “But—but why now?”

Your mom raises an eyebrow. “Why does it matter?”

Bucky ignores her, still staring at you. “Is this because of him?”

You frown. “Who?”

His eye twitches. “Steve.”

You stare at him. “What does Steve have to do with—”

And then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you groan. “Bucky, no.”

But he’s already spiraling. “This is it. It’s happening. You’re gonna get a full wax, then you’re gonna go to his house, and then—”

“Bucky, stop.”

He grips his hair. “You’re gonna sleep with him.”

Your mom snorts.

You cover your face. “I hate you.”

Bucky points an accusing finger. “I knew this would happen.”

Your mom sighs. “James, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Bucky sputters. “My baby sister is getting waxed for my best friend!”

“I never said that!” you exclaim.

“But you were talking about it!”

“For myself!”

Bucky doesn’t believe a word of it. “No. Nope. You’re not allowed to go to his house.”

“Oh my God.”

“I trusted him!”

Your mom rolls her eyes. “James, you need to get a grip.”

Bucky shakes his head, muttering under his breath about betrayal and how Steve is so dead the next time he sees him.

You groan, shoving your chair back. “I’m leaving.”

Bucky glares. “To his house?”

“I hate you,” you repeat, grabbing your bag.

Your mom pats your shoulder. “Have fun, sweetheart.”

Bucky gasps. “You’re encouraging this?”

“She’s grown, James.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s seventeen.”

“Exactly!”

Your mom sighs, standing. “I’m making tea. You need some.”

“I need therapy,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes, walking toward the door.

Bucky calls after you. “Tell him I’m watching!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter.

But when you see Steve later, waiting for you with that soft, dimpled smile, you don’t think about Bucky’s dramatics.

You just think about how lucky you are.

The next few months with Steve are some of the best of your life. The dates keep coming—movie nights at his place, drives with no destination, lazy afternoons spent tangled up in each other on his couch. The longer you’re together, the easier everything feels, like you were always meant to fall into this rhythm.

It’s different with Steve. He isn’t just some guy you’re dating. He’s Steve. The boy who used to pull you up when you tripped running after him and Bucky. The boy who once sat with you on the curb for an hour when you scraped your knee, just so you wouldn’t cry alone. The boy who watched you grow up and somewhere along the way, started looking at you like you were his person.

It’s not just puppy love. It’s real.

And then, one day, it happens.

You go over to Steve’s place on a Sunday afternoon. His parents aren’t home, and neither is Bucky, which is rare. You don’t have a plan—you never do. You just like being with him.

You’re curled up together on the couch, the TV playing some movie neither of you are actually watching. Steve’s arm is around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm. You’ve been together long enough that physical affection is second nature, but today, there’s something different in the air, something unspoken simmering just beneath the surface.

When you shift slightly, looking up at him, he’s already watching you.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. But suddenly, his lips are on yours, and this time, there’s no hesitance. The kiss deepens quickly, hands gripping tighter, bodies pressing closer.

Your heart is pounding, but you don’t stop. Neither does he.

The shift from the couch to his bedroom is a blur. His hands are careful, his lips soft, his touch reverent, like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he isn’t gentle enough. You feel the same. It’s overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It’s new and uncertain, but it’s him.

And that’s all that matters.

Afterward, you lay in his arms, the room filled with the soft hum of his breathing. He holds you close, his fingers tracing along your spine, and you think to yourself that you’ve never felt safer than you do right now.

He presses a kiss to your hair.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. You?”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the weight of what just happened settling between you in the best way possible. Neither of you regret it. If anything, it feels inevitable, like every moment leading up to this one was pushing you here.

Eventually, the sun starts to set, and you know you have to go home.

Steve walks you to the door, kissing you once, twice, three times before you finally force yourself to leave.

When you get home, Bucky is waiting.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a long, scrutinizing look.

You keep your expression neutral. “What?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Where were you?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Steve’s.”

He tilts his head. “All day?”

You shrug. “Yeah?”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he just hums, watching as you grab a glass of water and make your way upstairs.

You can feel his suspicion, but you don’t acknowledge it.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Then comes lunch the next day.

You, Steve, and Bucky are sitting together in the cafeteria like always. Sam is off grabbing food, which means Bucky has a clear opportunity to make things uncomfortable.

And he does.

“So,” Bucky starts casually, taking a sip of his drink. “What’d you guys do yesterday?”

You freeze mid-bite.

Steve tenses next to you.

Bucky notices immediately.

His eyes flick between the two of you, interest piqued. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Bucky squints. “That’s suspicious.”

Steve clears his throat. “We just hung out.”

Bucky nods slowly. “Hung out.”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

You and Steve exchange a quick glance.

Bucky notices that too.

His eyes narrow further. “You were at his house all day.”

You shrug, forcing yourself to sound normal. “So?”

Bucky leans forward. “What exactly were you doing at his house all day?”

Steve coughs into his drink.

You glare at Bucky. “What are you implying?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

Steve shifts in his seat. “Buck—”

Bucky ignores him. “I mean, you did get that wax recently.”

You choke.

Steve nearly drops his fork.

Bucky grins.

“Oh my God,” you sputter, heat flooding your face.

Steve groans, rubbing his temples. “Bucky—”

Bucky points a finger. “I knew it.”

You grab a napkin and throw it at his face. “Shut up.”

Bucky swats it away, looking disgusted. “I knew something was off when you got home last night. You were acting weird.”

“I was tired!” you argue.

Bucky scoffs. “Oh, I bet you were.”

Steve covers his face. “Please stop talking.”

Bucky gapes at him. “Oh my God.” He turns back to you. “You did, didn’t you?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

Bucky slams his hands on the table. “I knew it!”

People are starting to look.

You lower your voice, glaring. “Bucky, shut up.”

“I trusted you,” Bucky says dramatically, looking at Steve. “I trusted you, and this is how you repay me?”

Steve sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Bucky—”

Bucky turns back to you. “And you! After everything, you still—” He makes a strangled noise. “I knew this would happen!”

Sam walks up to the table, setting down his tray. “Knew what would happen?”

Bucky throws his hands up. “They slept together!”

Sam chokes on his drink.

Steve groans again. You bang your head against the table.

Sam, still coughing, blinks at the two of you. Then he grins. “Finally.”

Bucky glares at him. “Not helping.”

Sam just laughs. “Oh, this is great.”

“It’s not great,” Bucky snaps. “It’s awful.” He looks back at Steve, betrayal all over his face. “You were supposed to be my best friend.”

Steve sighs. “I am your best friend.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“Buck—”

“Nope. Friendship over.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Bucky scowls. “Maybe not, but I am mad at you.”

Steve gives him a flat look. “You’ll get over it.”

Bucky glares. “Don’t bet on it.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Are you done?”

Bucky folds his arms. “Not even close.”

You groan. Steve sighs. Sam grins.

Lunch is ruined.

[zaraomarrogers]

Ooohhhhh, this is sooo good

I'm curious to know more about reader and feel bad for her. Can't wait to read part 2 .

Thank you for writing and sharing with us

Cinderella Moment (Steve Rogers x fem!Reader) Part 1 of 2

One night at a charity gala with Captain Steve Rogers has all the makings of a fairytale, but instead it all goes horribly awry.

Word count: 3.2k Genre tags: first meetings, platonic hinting at romantic interest, angst, family issues, hurt/comfort, post-Blip, Steve never left Rating: Teen Content Warnings: emotional abuse, public humiliation, vulgar language, brief, minor assault To Read on AO3: LINK

Cinderella Moment

Steve Rogers x FemReader

PART ONE

Oh, this is hell. I'm literally walking into hell.

However, when the photographers stationed by the venue entrance began snapping away, you were ready with your thousand-watt smiles and elegant head tilts, angled precisely to capture the best view of your face. After all, over a decade of experience had turned you into a pro, and it was your long history of successful performances that landed you back in this situation in the first place.

But your five-year hiatus from society--and from existing--had made your instincts a little rusty and your patience a lot thinner. As you started to move further onto the lobby, to begin your descent down the grand staircase to the party below, Madeline seized your forearm, her crimson-clawed fingers making you wince. 

“What are you doing?! Wait.” your stepmother hissed. “Harlan should be here in a moment to walk us both down. Bad enough that your father canceled at the last minute and left us to arrive here by ourselves! And what a poorly organized event! We paid a fortune for your escort, and he couldn't even be made to do the job right?!”

That's because they respect him enough not to treat him like a performing monkey, you thought wryly, while still keeping that jaw-aching smile steady on your lips. A luxury that your own family could never seem to afford you, despite the obscene wealth the clan has held for four generations.

But you obeyed like the good monkey you were, and held still to wait for an escort to lead you into the event as a proper lady should. You brushed your hands over the shimmering, billowy skirt of your gown with fond wistfulness. You loved this dress almost as much as you loathed to be there; it was a positive you could focus on and take refuge in, at least. Madeline had, if nothing else, great taste and connections with every designer and fashion house in the world. Ever since she married your father, you've been the best-dressed doll at every function they dispatched you to. 

This particular gown, a Zac Posen original, was exceptional. They went hard on it. It was designed to turn heads, as Madeline intended. “We can't let him completely overshadow you,” she declared at the fitting appointment. “Everyone's eyes can't be on just him the whole evening. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Well, don’t you look stunning!” Your Uncle Harlan descended on you suddenly with a booming laugh and scratchy kiss to the cheek. You could tell he was already a few drinks in. He lived for a good gala more than anyone in your family and never had to be persuaded to make an appearance. “Such beauty will get a little tardiness forgiven and forgotten any time. Don't you agree, Captain Rogers?”

Harlan stepped aside to greet your stepmother, and fully revealed the man lingering behind him. You blinked at the legend come to life, instantly recognizable and eerily so much like his pictures from your elementary school textbooks, even while wearing a pristine black tuxedo in lieu of his iconic stars and stripes. Suddenly you felt just an extra touch of gratitude towards Madeline for putting such intense effort into your look for the evening. 

“Captain Rogers.” Cameras clicked at furious speed from every direction as you faced your date. Smiles up. Time to start collecting returns on what your grandfather paid seven figures for. “What an honor to meet you, sir.”

“It’s just Steve,” he said, giving the hand you offered a polite shake. “And the pleasure is all mine. Thank you for…” He paused and cleared his throat, giving away his own status as a fellow puppet in this play (as if you didn’t already know it), and finished lamely, “Thank you for coming.” 

Dismissing the awkward moment, you reminded him of your name, and that you didn’t want to go by “Miss” either.  

Steve was familiar enough with the drill to take your hand on his arm and guide you smoothly down the staircase, even managing not to tread on the most voluminous skirt you’d ever worn in your life. A sea of cell phone cameras joined the quest to capture the moment, and you tried not to think about videos of you being possessed by a hundred strangers only to be released and shared with a million other strangers. 

It’s nothing new, you told yourself. Been here, done this.

Except you haven’t. Your usual escorts of dynasty heirs and startup founders paid to get their pictures published on antiquated society pages when they couldn’t buy their way into a viral video. Captain America attending a function like this was an extremely rare occurrence, guaranteeing a social media frenzy his fans would feed on for weeks if not months. You were just there to creep along the edges of the Captain’s spotlight, and by extension, so was your family who paid for the privilege. 

Madeline would be able to rest assured that her own investment in the affair paid off. You could feel constant stares on the spectacle you and your showstopper gown made, stealing a fair share of attention from the illustrious guest of honor. 

From the moment you hit the floor and joined the crowd milling about for cocktail hour, you and Steve fell into the pattern together like a team. Get approached, exchange introductions. Steve receives effusive adulation and expressions of gratitude, you get a compliment thrown your way, pictures are taken. Next deep-pocket donor steps up, repeat. It all came back to you very quickly. 

It took longer than you expected for your grandfather to find you. As with all his engagements, he liked to arrive early and leave early, which he claimed was his strategy for packing in an inhuman amount of work into a single day, everyday. And when you saw him, your face lit up with the first genuine smile you'd worn all evening.

“Ah yes, yes. We've been introduced. And had ourselves a good talk earlier.”  Acknowledging Steve with a nod, Grandpa Harry squeezed you tightly around the shoulders and pressed a kiss on your coiffed hair. “It was only right that the Captain be briefed about the priceless treasure being entrusted to him this evening. What did I tell you Steve, is she not the most beautiful woman you've ever had at your arm?”

“Very beautiful,” Steve agreed politely. Because what else was he supposed to say?

“The best and brightest star among all my grandchildren.” Your grandfather patted your cheek with such tenderness, that for a second you could almost believe that his affection for you was his primary motivation behind buying you the world’s most expensive date. Misguided as that intention might still be.

“He sure loves you,” Steve remarked, when your grandfather strolled off to resume his own social rounds. “That's really nice.” He chuckled. “A little open about his favoritism maybe, but still nice.”

“It just comes with the territory. I'm the third out of his fourteen grandkids, but the oldest girl.” You gestured at the floral-design wreath of small but very real diamond clusters that crowned your updo, a hint of irony in your smirk. “Seniority got me the rank of ‘princess’, I suppose.”

“I think you carry the title really well.” This time, you couldn't help the warmth that spread through you at that compliment. You could just tell that Steve didn't have it in him to peddle flattery, even with the effortless charm he wielded. And since sincerity was an out-of-place stranger in this environment, its sudden presence caught you off-guard. 

“Uneasy lies the head,” you murmured. And in that single unguarded moment, the mask slipped off, exposing the raw weariness behind your glamorously painted eyes. You cleared your throat of its hoarseness and batted away your vulnerability. “It really is such a thrill to have you here, Captain. And an honor for me, personally.”

He wasn't buying it, though. He was past all this bullshit now (if he ever was taken by it), including yours. But he looked at you in silence for the longest second before saying gently, “I'm glad you're here with me. I didn't want to come either, but I think we can make a fun evening of it together.”

You gave another delicate ahem, raising your clutch bag over your mouth, very casually, very ladylike, a diversion tactic while you fought off your blush and regained your footing. It became uncomfortably clear to you that you’d never been anywhere with a man like Steve Rogers before. Which meant you didn’t know how to even be around someone so observant, whose eyes bore straight through you, rooting around for candor that just didn’t exist. But the words he offered--Fun. Together.--coaxed your anxiety back down, and it didn’t even take much effort to mount the smile back on your lips.

“Do you dance, Steve?” The band saved you by choosing that moment to strike up a slightly more upbeat tune with a louder volume, signalling the gala’s transition from cocktails to dinner. You slid your hand into the curve of Steve’s arm once more as you followed the crowd’s movement towards the ballroom doors.

This prompted his turn to blush; what should have looked silly on a grown man was sweet on him, you couldn’t help but notice. “Not a lot, I’m afraid.” He lifted his free hand to rest it over yours, its firm, gentle weight pressing your fingers against the muscles of his forearm and setting a thousand butterflies loose in your stomach. “But for you, I'll give it the old college try.”

Your assigned companions at the dinner table were the people you expected to sit with--all family members--and for once you were happy with the arrangement. Your grandfather never brought a date to these events, no one to replace your grandmother since she passed. One chair was automatically vacant, in her honor, so it was acceptable. But two empty seats at a table for eight was a huge no-no, so Madeline grabbed one of her very willing girlfriends to be bumped up to the table of honor and stand in for your father. Harlan and the second wife he'd married during the Blip made up the third couple. Whether by coincidence or design, you were Steve's only choice for decent company at that table. 

And as you thanked him for helping you with your seat--both of you repressing chuckles at the work it took to arrange your billowing skirt just right so you could sit close enough to the table without knocking things over--you realized you'd made up your mind. You were going to have fun this evening. Because all it took to have fun with someone like Steve Rogers was to not even think about it. Just be there with him. 

Even avoiding the topics you were conditioned to never touch at soirees (and that list was even longer for a controversial figure like Captain America), there was plenty to talk about. Dodgers vs Yankees--to which team should his allegiance now lie? Dominick's food truck for the city's best hot dogs, which he promised to try at your endorsement. Big band music--his eyes lit up at your professed love for “Sweet Georgia Brown”, and you gave him Ella Fitzgerald’s live version as another recommendation. The things you bonded with your grandfather over were suddenly proving useful in connecting you with, well, technically another old man. 

The only time you and Steve stopped talking was when the speeches started, and all attention was focused on the stage where foundation members trotted up one by one to remind everyone of the charity's mission--health services and support for US veterans--and thank a laundry list of esteemed partners and contributors. The spotlight was directed to your family's table several times, to acknowledge your grandfather for opening his deep pockets, and Captain Rogers for lending his face. Both were met with enthusiastic applause and plenty more camera action. 

“Can I ask you something?” You leaned towards Steve while a duo of waiters circled around the table to switch out the soup course for the salmon entrees. 

“Anything,” Steve said amiably, putting down his fork to give you his full attention. 

“What made you agree to participate in this event?” You gestured around you. “Something about this charity in particular?”

“The timing was right, first of all, meaning I actually had the time to do it. Secondly, I've met a lot of people who've directly received aid from the foundation. I've heard only good things about the work it does. But most importantly, I said yes because I was asked.” Steve shook his head and chuckled. “I don't know why people assume I get called on a lot for things like this, like they confuse me for Stark.”

“And the part where they auctioned off a date with you?”

“I found it strange,” Steve admitted. “But I wanted to do whatever little extra I could to help raise donations. They told me your grandfather won it with a very generous, record-breaking bid, but wouldn't say the exact amount.” 

One and a half million. You briefly considered revealing the price tag to him, knowing this man had absolutely no ego to inflate, but he chose that moment to lock eyes with you for the first time, his gaze so soft it knocked your breath away. 

“When your uncle pointed you out to me and I saw you at the top of those stairs, that was when the idea seemed absolutely crazy to me. How does it make sense that someone paid for me to spend an evening with a woman like you?”

He meant well by it, you knew he did, from the way he said “woman like you”, and from that look in his eyes, like he could hardly believe you were next to him. But you were so hopelessly flustered that you went into defensive mode, stammering, “It was my family… my grandfather's idea. I didn't ask him to… I knew nothing about it.”

You felt Steve’s hand envelop yours underneath the table, a prolonged touch hidden from prying eyes. “I thanked Harry for his donations when we were introduced earlier at the start of the evening.” He glanced across the table where your grandfather was squinting through his glasses at his phone screen. “I'll need to go back and thank him again for the other things I didn't expect to be so grateful for.”

You wiggled your fingers slightly in the cage of his hand, trying to reciprocate the touch, to somehow communicate that you too were grateful to be enjoying a much more pleasant evening than you could have ever imagined. 

But then Steve withdrew his hand when he had to turn his attention to his left, towards your uncle who chose that moment to bring up questions about the Avengers compound being rebuilt upstate (naturally of special interest to a real estate magnate). The interruption, the abrupt loss of contact, broke the spell. Snapped your senses back in place. Your fingers curled into a fist, nail extensions leaving red crescents in your palm. What the hell are you doing? You’re being ridiculous. 

Two seats away, you spotted your uncle’s new wife Jackie, whom you’d met only once, rise from the table with purse in hand. Impulse kicked in and you fumbled for your own clutch. “Ladies room…” You shook your head and waved Steve off when he started to rise to help you up, feeling your frustration with yourself in danger of spilling over to him.  “I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, and swept off in a rustle of voluminous fabric before a word could leave the surprised gape on his lips. 

Your original intention was to tag along after Jackie, and make the bathroom break seem more valid, but when she stopped to greet a familiar face at a nearby table, you kept on moving.  Struggling to weave through the ballroom while managing the circumference of your dress, you halted just in time to avoid colliding with a waiter carrying two water pitchers. 

“Oh. Excuse me,” you said, bowing your head and moving to squeeze past him. But the waiter stepped aside in the same direction, fully blocking your way. You looked up and found the most scorching, most hate-filled glare focused directly at you. You were able to take only one step back when the man lifted his hands above your head and upended both pitchers, sending a torrent of ice water splashing down on you. 

As you shrieked and gasped and sputtered blindly, you felt something hard knock solidly against your chest, with enough force to knock you to the floor. Your ankle gave a cruel twist as you went down on your stilettos, and you crashed down awkwardly, landing hard on one elbow. 

Sounds of chaos broke around you, but as you tried to lift yourself up, you saw only one thing: another waiter--female this time--swing a large silver serving bowl in your direction.  A shower of mush mixed in viscous liquid struck you right on the face, some of it entering your mouth, coating your hair and splattering all over the bare skin of your shoulders and arms. Above the cries of alarm, you most clearly heard the screeching and hooting of your attackers as they stood over you, raising their arms in celebration of their success. 

“Fuck yeah! That’s right! How does that feel, princess? Let’s get THIS viral!”

The man actually bent down towards you to make sure you’d heard him clearly, while he shouted for the rest of the room to hear. 

“Just kill yourself, you spoiled cunt! You and your entire garbage family! Useless, toxic pieces of shit!  Tell your father--!”

The rest of the words were cut off by shouting, or maybe just drowned out by the buzzing in your ears. You curled your legs up, shivering. You were cold, yet burning at the same time. The only thing you could do was to swipe the goop from your face, trying to see better, trying to breathe, trying not to think about what you tasted in your mouth. 

Suddenly you were lifted off the ground by a pair of strong arms. And there he was, the last person you wanted there, the worst person to see you in your humiliation, carrying you off. Steve, asking if you were hurt while simultaneously telling you, “It’s okay.” 

“Get her out of here, now! Go!” your grandfather’s voice boomed out, louder and angrier than you’ve ever heard it. 

You caught just a fleeting glimpse of Steve’s face when a member of your family’s security team extracted you from his arms, but the memory of his expression would haunt you for weeks. You clung on to the nameless bodyguard and buried your face into his shoulder and finally let yourself dissolve into a bigger, sobbing mess as he carried you like a package straight into a waiting car. There couldn’t have been a worse way for Steve to find out, but at least he now had the truth without you having to admit it to him. 

You were no princess. And you especially didn’t deserve to be his princess.

To be continued...

PART TWO: Work in Progress

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