Sasha's World

Banana

You really hadn’t expected your boyfriend to sleep over. It wasn’t the traditional date where you dress up in something beautiful and eat out at a ritzy restaurant, then come home and undress to experience something beautiful. It was the kind where he comes by with takeout and the two of you watch movies until you both fall asleep on the couch.

Still, you’d like to make the morning intentionally special for Steve.

You can’t ask him what he likes for breakfast while he's in the shower, but you're sure he has a metabolism-stimulating plate of protein every morning, looking like that. After assessing what's in the fridge, you make the decision to go all-out. He’d been used to mess hall communal meals back in the army, right? Plus, there's a kitchen in the Compound, so he probably makes his own breakfast. You lose a few minutes just picturing that.

Ten minutes later you’ve made him a plate with two kinds of eggs, sausage patties, buttered toast, and a little cup of sliced strawberries. The glass of orange juice ended up using the rest of the carton, but you can always buy more.

You wait with bated breath with your own breakfast, a generous bowl of oatmeal with your favorite fruits garnished with brown sugar. Steve doesn’t need to know those were the only eggs, nor that you made him the last of your sausage.

“Wow that smells great, are you setting up your crock pot or something?” he calls out from the hallway. You grin, excited for the surprise. Soon he’s coming into the kitchen, still drying his hair off with one of your towels. He smells amazing, and everything about the moment is exactly what you’ve always wanted.

Except… he looks uncomfortable.

“Please tell me you’re not allergic to eggs,” you fret.

“Oh, those are for me?”

“Well, yeah, look at the size of the plate! I guess if you want the oatmeal…”

He’s walking into the wide kitchen doorway, disappearing behind the wall for a moment (during which your mind races, thinking of all the things you could have done wrong. Does he dislike pepper? Allergic to citrus? What if he hates sausage? Why did you think this is a good idea!?).

“Are you okay?”

Steve’s got a banana in his hand, along with a fork, knife, and spoon. “Together, we’re a table setting,” he jokes, holding them up.

You almost facepalm-- you’d completely forgotten silverware. “Thanks.”

After the eggs and fruit are gone (accompanied by many enjoyment noises that punctuate your discussion of baseball), he points at the empty bowl of strawberries with a neatly-sliced piece of sausage on the end of his fork.

“You should know, I usually only eat a banana or some sliced fruit like this for breakfast, but this is delicious. Thank you.”

You conjure up the least embarrassed smile you can manage, but inside you wonder whether his honesty is warring with his sense of politeness.

“You’re asking yourself if I’d lie to make you happy, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Guilty,” you sigh. “I’m glad you said something before I made this mistake multiple times in the future.”

Steve sets his fork carefully onto his plate, lifting up his napkin to wipe his mouth. The look in his eyes is warm. “You’re hoping I stay over more often?”

Two months ago you’d have worried that was some kind of relationship test.

One month ago you would have been scared to admit how much you think about sex with him.

Today you say, “Yes, I am.”

Loving Steve Rogers has made you more confident, and someday you’ll tell him that.

He stands, coming over to take your hand and draw you solicitously up to your feet for a sweet, brief kiss. Steve's expression turns more serious, and he looks you right in your eyes.

“I’m hungry.”

You cannot be reading him right. It’s wishful thinking.

“There’s still that bana--”

Steve interrupts you with another kiss. It’s full of passion--a rough hand at your hip, thumb caressing your cheek, teeth scraping out of desperate sloppiness. The man is wrecking your mental health, but you’re right there with him, slowly filling up with heated liquor at every swipe of his tongue. He lifts his head and smiles gently, his lips twitching for a few seconds before he leans his head back and laughs.

Two months ago you would have thought he was laughing at you.

One month ago you’d have nervously played along in confusion.

Now you shove at his shoulder in mock frustration. “Out with it!”

“I can’t pull off that line, I’m sorry! I did my best,” he confesses sheepishly. “I woke up in the middle of the night on the couch with you asleep on my chest and texted Clint about what to do.”

“Oh, God,” you say, trying valiantly to hold back a giggle. “Why Clint?”

He backs up into the kitchen with his hands held up defensively. “I thought I could trust him! I figured Natasha would give me… questionable advice,” Steve says, “--and neither of us wanted me to ask Tony.”

“Oh, God,” you say again, this time in actual dismay.

“Exactly.” He pulls out one of your leftover containers and its matching lid, and holds them up.

He looks so good in his tight pants and form-fitting t-shirt that you gather up all of your Steve-loves-me courage.

“I thought you were hungry?” you say impudently, walking over and taking them out of his hands to set on the counter. Sliding your arms up around his neck, you kiss him with as much fervor as the kiss just minutes ago, letting your hands roam into his hair, down over his arm muscles, and finally to your goal, his waistband. Because you want his full permission before you do anything further, you mouth your way from his lips to his jaw, so he can say something if he needs to. If his enthusiastic participation in the kiss so far is any indication, though, there’s hope he’s up for it.

You circle the button of his pants with your thumb, slipping your fingers past his waistband. He hasn’t put on a belt yet, and there’s something intimate about it that’s beyond anything sexual, like he trusts himself to be not fully put-together around you. Falling asleep on the couch with you is one of those kind of things, too.

Steve whispers your name in a hoarse voice that’s rich with desire.

“Yes?” you question, hoping you’re not pushing too much.

“Yes.” 

Arching up to give him a kiss, you release the button and push the zipper down slowly, as much a caress against his groin as anything else. Steve throws a hand out to the side, and you feel a surge of excitement to think he’s so enthusiastic already.

“Here,” he says, throwing the towel that usually hangs from the oven on the floor at his feet, eyes full of amused apology. “Believe me, I’ll want to hold on.”

It’s so Steve Rogers to worry about your knees.

There’s nothing you can say that won’t sound terribly gauche or overeager, so you kiss his chest and pull his pants down to his feet, kneeling as you go. You look up at him, holding eye contact as you tug down his boxer briefs--but you don’t have the bravery to keep his gaze for your first taste.

Steve’s holding himself rigidly still, but you can feel his leg muscles tighten up even more when you take him into your mouth. It’s validating as hell. You pull back, sucking, loving the feel of him, warm and vibrant and wanting you. 

At that point you let yourself bliss out, eyes closed and fully attuned to him. When he makes a guttural little sound of need after you do something, you add it to the rotation, and when he starts to rock his hips forward, you quicken your pace. Everything is perfect; the crease of the towel digging into your knees, the taste of precum in your mouth, the searing ache between your legs, and most of all, how alive Steve is under your tongue, against your hands, in your throat.

“Ahhhhh,” he groans, and slams a hand onto the counter. You realize you’d hummed in happiness, and god, he’d loved that. You let out a little moan of pleasure of your own at the thought of just how wet you’ve got to be by now.

As a reward for you both, you hum again.

That sends him, starting a glorious chaos of holding on and taking it all in. When Steve reaches down and flails at your hair and shoulder, you let him pull you up and into his arms. Steve holds you tight to his chest, right each there against the counter with his pants around his ankles, each of you pulling as much oxygen and approval into your bodies as you can.

He pets your head and leans down. “Want to know what Clint said to tell you if the first line worked?”

Two months ago you were sure you weren't good enough for him and it could never last.

One month ago you’d have worried this levity was a sign you'd done a bad job.

Now, you glare up at him in utter adoration.

“If it’s something about being barefoot in the kitchen, Rogers, I’m going to go to the bedroom and finish by myself.”

“Never mind,” he says, moving sideways just long enough to get a hand on his pants to tug them up. He does the button but not the zipper, then picks you up, heading into the hallway. At the doorway to your bedroom, Steve fucking Rogers looks down at you with a loving expression and says, “Don’t worry. I’d never leave you behind.”

It makes you stop. The movement resumes involuntarily when she looks away.

You’re hoping you won’t regret this. Like every other decision you make, it was an impulsive one; stemmed out of the need to delete every trace of HYDRA that was still in you.

You were born for the use of HYDRA.

That day, when you were showering your frustration away, you took a bath sponge and for the first time in your life, tried to scrub the numbers off.

7463000195.

The skin on your arm is still a little raw, their mark still inked deeply on it.

This procedure has to be the next best thing.

“Try not to look too excited, Shuri might get self conscious.”

You look up suddenly; Bucky is hovering above you, a smirk countering the usual exhaustion in his eyes.

“I just can’t contain myself,” You say, getting up and past him. “What are you doing down here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Moral support?”

Steve walks in just as his best friend says the words, and you hold back a groan. He’s been supporting your decision since you made it; of course he’d be here too.

You just have to pray Shuri is truly the genius people have been raving about.

The room Stark has assigned for the Wakandans is right down the hall from his own lab - and if that one was high-tech, then you didn’t have an adjective for this one. Shuri’s sleek, white and silver equipment now lined the walls, and holograms occupied the space physical screens would be.

“Impressive, no?”

“It’s a little flashy,” You grimace once you realize who you’re talking to; out of the corner of your eye, one of the warrior women tightens the grip on her spear. “Sorry, my…my lady. Your highness?”

The princess laughs. “Please, let’s end the formalities. I’ll be rummaging through your head for the next hour, it’s only fair you just call me Shuri.”

You hold back the urge to say As you wish, Your Highness and bow. “How exactly is this going to work?”

“Essentially the same process we’re doing to Sargeant Barnes. Find the source of your triggers. Unravel the memory and sever the connection to the problematic behaviors.” Her choice of wording makes you frown. “In generic terms.”

“You’re wiping me.”

HYDRA has never wiped your memories - at least you don’t think they have - so you don’t really know how it feels. All you know is that is not a fun time.

Your eyes find the two war veterans just outside the room, two armoire-sized men who could drag you right back in if you made a run for it. You’re almost certain they would never.

But still. They could.

Shuri speaks again as your breaths shallow, “We’re not taking any of your memories away. They will still be in your head, but have no effect on present you. This will be more like… unplugging a cable from the port.”

“Like disarming a bomb.”

It’s not exactly comforting. But it’s not wrong.

“Exactly.” Shuri shifts in place as if you’re making her self conscious. “Not that you—”

“Oh, I am.” You shrug. “Let’s do this, Your High— Shuri?”

Shuri hands you a sort of metal headband and leads you to something that almost looks like a tanning bed, but with all glass casing and soft padding inside. You try not to think of how it looks like a coffin, or a fancy cryopod, instead focusing on the memory of the machine that made Steve Rogers into a super soldier. That one’s a little better.

The contraption you’re getting into looks like all of these combined, with the sci-fi makeover all over it. Shuri takes her place behind a multitude of hologram screens and out of the corner of your eye, you see Rogers on the doorway.

Good to know the Dora Milaje let him walk about like that.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions so we can narrow in your trigger memories,” Shuri says, and you nod. There’s some beeping around your head. Your fingers flex at your sides. “Try not to move too much. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

“Yeah… alright. Fuck it. I’m ready.”

A second passes.

“Where were you born?”

“I… I’m not actually sure.”

There’s a pause. It’s brief, but you notice anyway. You can’t really see anything from where you’re laying down, so you just keep your eyes to the ceiling.

“Where did you grow up?”

At least you know the answer to this one.

“The Brutkasten. 18 miles south from Erda, Norway.” You still remember vividly the trek through the snow during your escape, how you reached the tiny town in less than adequate clothing and with a bullet wound to your side.

You’re sure your raggedy, unexpected appearance raised many questions, but you couldn’t provide answers: mostly because you don’t speak Norwegian.

HYDRA made sure you were made into an island.

“Who was in charge of your programming? Who trained it into you?”

You pull a breath in - no wonder Bucky needed his quiet time after this. The questions are precise and equally invasive, and even if you tried skirting around the spoken answer the memory was already in your head. No running from it.

“Baron Von Strucker. Wolfgang Von Strucker. Head of all of HYDRA’s enhanced human projects, including mine.”

Shuri pauses again. “That’s… are you sure you remember right? I’m having conflicting results.”

Your hands are starting to sweat.

“Strucker trained the programming into me. He was always there to activate—” You interrupt yourself, as something in your head clicks. It makes you consider her question again, and chase another memory instead. “Steiner. Hermann Steiner said he made me. It has to be him.”

“That’s it. Keep going,”

“He…he tampered with my DNA to give me my powers. He said I needed an off-switch. A fail-safe. The-the whole purpose of the words is to keep them under control, I think. If they’re not activated I can’t use my powers properly, and if they are, I’m HYDRA’s perfect weapon.” Your lungs feel empty, and it’s suddenly hard to get them full again. It’s strange to echo Steiner’s words like that. It takes you back to that conversation.

To the warning.

You can hear something beeping and can only guess it’s to do with your vitals. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t—”

“You mentioned something about activation words. Can you recite them for me?”

Your fingers tighten against the soft padding you’re laying on. You need to get through this.

You must. “…and blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.”

“Shuri, perhaps we should—”

“One second, Captain Rogers. Just one second.” Shuri’s voice feels distant, and you can see her turn to someone out of your line of sight. Steve, maybe. The glass upper-half of your pod is open, but it weighs on you all the same.

“Vernetzt. Vernetzt. Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem. Hail HY- HY—”

“Got it.”

Your voice dies inside your throat. They’re talking, you can hear the muffled voices to the left of your pod. You’re buried under the snow, icy rubble burning your skin as your nails dig into cotton fabric and foam. “…not a fail-safe. I’d call it a muzzle.”

Getmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeout

The words don’t come. Your limbs are stuck. You’re a vicious dog, too terrified to leave its cage.

You have no idea the damage you can cause—

The light dies for a few seconds.

Tony Stark’s wail travels from down the darkened hall: the Pac Man.

Not again…

“He really needs to get a no-break for that thing,” Steve’s voice cuts between your frazzled panting, pulling you back into reality all the way from Norway. The lights are back on. You make a pathetic little sound that should have been a chuckle.

Something warm and sturdy helps you sit up, and you realize too late it’s a pair of very muscular, very patriotic arms. “Can we take a break? I need… a minute. Maybe ten,”

“Of course. Let’s do fifteen,”

“I think we can call it a day here. It’s lunchtime anyway.”

“Lunch? It’s 11:30, Captain.”

“That’s lunchtime if you’re retirement home age.” You say matter-of-factly, hopping off the pod. “And he is way past that by this point.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and you shrug. “I’m not saying she’s right, but…” Bucky walks in as the Dora quit guarding the door. “Look I’m not saying retirement but—”

“C’mon, not you too…”

“A vacation! You really need it, bud.”

Steve protests. You nod your head solemnly, stifling a laugh. You push through jellified legs in order to leave the room, fully embracing the lunch time excuse.

“What, you’re not comin’?”

You bite your lip. You want to say it - you really want to say it.

“Where?”

“Lunch. The diner,” Bucky raises one eyebrow at Steve. “You didn’t invite her?”

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“I was going to—” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Was just going to make sure you’re okay first. You know, to go out.”

Bucky waves his metal hand between you and Steve. “Please. This isn’t a date. I’ll be right there.”

Motherfucker.

“Barnes—”

This isn’t a date.

Bucky is right there, across from you and Steve.

And you’re not making out with anyone except this cheeseburger.

They took you to a place named Nemo’s, a diner in Brooklyn that is traditional in every way: burgundy booths made out of that are cracked in places. Silver metal tables. Checkered floors, low lighting even though it’s barely noon.

It’s apparently almost as old as they are, and they’ve been coming here since they were teens; it doesn’t surprise you at all. Creatures of habit, these two. Not to mention the food is to die for.

“Easy, tiger.” Bucky says, making you look up from your sandwich. He tosses you a napkin. “Here. You got grease all over yourself,”

You roll your eyes, but wipe your mouth anyways.

“Let her be, Buck.” You look at Steve in surprise, but he only shrugs and takes a bite out of his own burger. Old-school, with the sliced bread loaf instead of buns and everything. Too many pickles for your taste though.

Bucky’s response is to slap the brim of Roger’s baseball cap, eliciting a laugh out of you.

This is nothing like you’re used to. You’ve been to dinners and Pizza Night at the compound, but those are different. It’s more crowded. There’s more pressure. Even Steve seems at ease here, his shoulders relaxed despite his disguise being flimsy at best. A baseball cap, that’s it? Not even a mustache? Even Bucky’s singular glove is more inconspicuous.

You realize you’re staring when he meets your gaze, a hint of a crooked smile curling his lip upwards. Maybe you should’ve shared the seat with Barnes instead.

“What?”

You breathe in. He looks awfully good under this awful lighting.

Get it the fuck together.

“There’s ketchup on your cheek.” It’s a lie.

But it works: Steve swiftly moves to grab a couple of napkins. The other super soldier is eyeing you suspiciously.

You have to resort to stuffing your face of his fries, which causes enough commotion to allow your cheeks to return to their regular temperature.

“Is Stark not feeding you enough? Jesus,”

You shrug. “These are just really good, and mine are gone. See?” You show him your empty basket and Steve mumbles something about ordering more. “Thanks for bringing me here by the way. I know it’s you guy’s thing.”

“Figured it could lift your spirits after this morning. Like ice cream after the dentist,” Steve says, and you nod. Your spirits are indeed lifted. It feels easy, to just be around them like this.

Because despite your resistance, these two know all of the terrible parts of you. They think there’s hope for you yet, which is the sort of optimism you’re still working on.

“Yeah. If you stayed back you’d just be overthinking yourself to death. And that’s not allowed here.”

You sigh. “It’s just a lot. You guys saw what happened today and it was only the first ever session. If Steiner’s right about me it could be a huge disaster. What if I lose control? What if—” A french fry is flung in your direction, turning concern into vexation.

“No overthinking at Nemo’s.”

“Dick.” You throw the fry back, and he pops it into his mouth with a grin.

“Buck’s got a point, actually. We need to take one step at a time and suffering by anticipation won’t help.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “You’re agreeing with me? Who are you?”

You chuckle. “Seriously, Steve? Not even him?” Bucky makes a face of resignation, shaking his head.

“Besides, you’re one to talk…” He added, quietly.

Steve exhales. “You two gangin’ up on me now? This friendship of yours is really something,”

“We’re the cryo-crew. The HYDRA… rejects. The frozen guinea-pigs?” You and Bucky do a high-five as Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re both in remission now, the nicknames can stop—”

“I like cryo-crew.”

Steve groans. “I can’t believe this.”

Cryo-Crew it is.

Your body stiffens once you notice a man standing slightly northeast to your booth. He’s looking right at you; eyes too focused to have anything but recognition in them. You should’ve known your reprieve wouldn’t last. The months living in the compound made you forget how it felt like, to live on high alert. Bucky is next, frowning at your body language and turning towards your gaze. Then Steve. He streches his right arm across the table in front of your chest. The light bulb right above you flickers.

The man approaches the table, but he doesn’t seem nearly as tense as either three of you. Steve stands. Bucky remains seated but with a tight grip on the back rest of the booth.

Fight or flight, practical demonstration.

“S-sorry sir, Captain Rogers, sir. It’s so hard to find you out on the town like this, I couldn’t help it. Michael Lawrence. VP of the Sentinels of Liberty.” Steve lets out air through his nose, him and Barnes relaxing at the same time. He takes Michael’s hopeful, outstretched hand and shakes it, clapping an amicable hand on his shoulder then towing him away from you and Bucky.

“What. Was that…?”

“Must be ‘nother one of his biggest fans,” Bucky chuckles, pulling the strings of his hoodie. “He’s got a few devoted fan clubs, I always tell him the baseball cap is not enough.”

You scoff. “Right? Like, look at him. He can’t be thinking that’s making him anonymous.” Bucky grins. You’re still on edge, but the tension is dissipating slowly. You can see Steve’s back from here, shaking another few hands and displaying his signature Captain America smile. “I thought it was trouble for a second. Geez.”

“As much trouble as civilians can be. Buncha’ nerds geeking out over a bigger nerd,” He shrugs. “You’re off the hook, Sparky. Relax.”

“Look at where we live, Buck-o. ” He makes a face at the nickname, and you shrug. A Buck-o for a Sparky, it’s only fair. “We’re never off the hook.”

“You got that right.” He sighs. “Even if it was trouble. Those fuckers are not laying their hands on you, or me, ever again.”

You nod. The reassurance makes your chest tighten. You’ve been getting a lot of that lately. You didn’t know you needed it. “It’s not just them though. It’s… S.W.O.R.D. General Hoss, Fury. I feel - I know - they’ve got their eyes on me, just waiting for the moment I slip.” Even Stark. He was funny and he seemed to care, but his initiative towards the Sokovia Accords made it clear he held a high standard for fuck-ups. And you were a big one.

Your knee starts bouncing, making Bucky land a kick on your shin. You send him a glare, but he just smiles fiendishly.

“The Compound situation is… complicated. It’s Hoss’ kennel. The longer we stay, the more strings they got on us.” You nod again, slowly this time. Bucky drums his gloved metal fingers on the table, looking around the diner before speaking. “Won’t be our permanent residence for much longer, though.”

“What? You plan on running off into the sunset with Steve or something?

“Please. He’s not my boyfriend,”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I see the way you look at him. And vice-versa.” You roll your eyes.

“I don’t look at him any sort of way, Barnes. Except maybe disgust. Okay?”

Boyfriend. Some bullshit.

Bucky shakes his head. “Sure thing.”

“…he tell you anything?”

“Nah. He doesn’t kiss n’ tell. Should I ask?”

“No.” You refute quickly, and he narrows his eyes.

You’re not sure why he’s acting like this. Rogers wouldn’t have much to tell anyways.

“Right. Think you fool me with this act—”

You hold back the urge of pulling his hoodie strings and choking him with them, mostly because this place is public and because Steve is now back, shoving the cap back in his head like he’s not six-foot-four and super-soldier shaped.

He slides back beside you, and you scold yourself for relaxing when he does. Dammit. 

Bucky gestures vaguely at the both of you.

“Sharin’ a booth and everything.” Now you really want to choke him. With his own arm, maybe. He shrugs. “Alright. I’m gonna go check if the bathroom stall has that poem we wrote still.” Bucky says, leaving you and Steve at the table with a wink.

Fucking goddammit.

“What’s he on about?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like—”

“It’s nothing, Rogers.” You grit your teeth. You can’t have him noticing how transparent you are, too. He’s now got a hurt look in his eyes, making you sigh. “He’s a shithead. What did uh - Michael - want with you, anyway?”

“He’s got this World War reenactment event, and he wanted to know if I could make an appearance. Gave him an autograph and a picture and sent him on his way.”

Your jaw drops. “What?”

“I know, I know. I don’t really do autographs. But he asked for one—”

“That’s not— he wanted you to do war reenacting with him and his buddies?”

“Yeah. It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that.” Steve shrugs as you shake your head incredulously. “They wanted me to play myself in a movie, too.”

“That’s fucking twisted. Wait, you have a movie?”

“Yes and no. They got some bodybuilder to play me instead. ‘S coming out in a couple months.”

You let the fact sink in for a second.

“Can we go watch it?”

He glares at you. “Absolutely not.” Then laughs. You join him, imagining how ridiculous it would be to watch some action-hero-esque Steve Rogers next to the real thing. “Plenty of better things to watch instead.”

He leans his elbows on the table, looking back at you. The cap conceals most of his expression, but surprisingly you can still see his smile clearly.

It kinda sounds like flirting, even though you know it’s not. Your heart does a somersault regardless.

“Deal.”

Keep it together.

A waitress approaches you after a few minutes. “Can I get you two cuties anything? A milkshake, two straws?”

The table becomes a cacophony of - Oh, no; we’re not—; not like that - as the poor woman stands there with an awkward look on her face. You scoot away from Steve quickly - you hadn’t realized your elbows were brushing this entire time - while he looks around for Bucky.

“He’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”

“Yup. Think he got stuck in the toilet?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s outside already. We should probably vacate the table anyway,” He says, getting up.

Reality sets in as he does, the blood that had rushed up to your face settling back where it’s supposed to be. You watch him drop a couple fifties on the table and half-cover them with his plate. “One for bill. One for tips.”

“I don’t think you know how tips work,” You quip, not at all surprised by his generosity.

Turns out Bucky was not outside. And neither was the car you rode into town.

You’ve been robbed. Three Avengers, actually maybe one and two halves, robbed. You’re 60% sure it was Michael, Cap’s Biggest Fan #37.

You’re staring exasperated at the empty spot on the narrow street you’d parked when Steve comes out of the diner. “Can’t find Bucky anywhere.”

“And we’ve been robbed! Look,” You cry out, pointing at where the Jeep should be.

A look of realization crosses Steve’s face and he groans, rubbing his face.

“What?”

“We weren’t robbed. Bucky took the car and left us here.”

“What?!” Your voice bounces against the brick walls of the buildings around you. “How? Why? You gave him your keys?”

He shook his head. “Must’ve swiped it off my pocket at some point. He’s good at that.”

Goddamn him and his nimble metal fingers. You’re more alike than you thought.

You were about to ask the universe why when the answer chimes in on both your phones.

Have a nice date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! J.B.

“J.B. Fucking ridiculous.” You read the date part again and turn to Steve, showing him your phone screen as if he doesn’t have a twin message on his. “Did you plan this?”

He scowls. “Plan this? Bucky leaving us stranded in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah.” You don’t explain it’s because of the date thing. But you know he’s got it, because his scowl deepens and he suddenly looks offended.

“No. I didn’t plan this.” He takes a step forward, getting right on your face. “You think I couldn’t get myself a date if I wanted one?”

The mention of how easily he could score himself a piece of ass makes you see red for some reason. “Mr. D’Artagnan over here! Good on you,”

“That’s not— do you mean Casanova?”

“Please, don’t act like you’re the king of pop culture.” You cross your arms against your chest. “So you didn’t tell Bucky anything?”

“No. I didn’t.” He breathes out. “I didn’t ask for his help, either. He’s a shit wingman.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You feel betrayed, somehow. There’s no better way to explain it. Like this has been a trap, even though Steve has had nothing to do with it, but his best friend had and he wasn’t here to receive the brunt of your blows. “It’s just— he’s been an ass about this whole date-not-date thing all day, I’m sick of it. And now this.”

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair that leaves it all over the place.

“I thought it was obvious there was nothing like that. This was his idea. A stupid wingman move, that’s it.” The way he says it makes you grit your teeth. “I just don’t get why you’re so angry about it— why do you hate me so much?”

“Because!” You explode. “Because you annoy the shit out of me. Because of you wake me up at 6 a.m. to run. Because you beat my ass during combat training every time, as if letting me win would give you hives. Because you’re too fucking nice and then you’re the Captain again and it’s fucking confusing!”

Because the idea of you dating Steve Rogers is fucking preposterous and you don’t get why suddenly everyone is bothering you about it.

“I’ve done nothing but try and help you. We were fine 10 minutes ago—”

“I can’t tell if you want to help or just sanitize me. You tell me I’m enough when it’s just so obvious I’m not. Just tell me you hate me back, Rogers.” He shakes his head, and you hit his chest, fruitlessly trying to shove him away. “Come on! Be angry back. Say it. I hate you.”

“Stop.” He grabs one of your arms, then the other when you don’t relent. He’s so gentle about it that it makes your eyes well up. “Stop—”

“You hate HYDRA. And you hate me. Just fucking say it—”

“I can’t! I don’t hate you. I don’t. I’m sorry.” His words finally do the trick; you slack on his hold, nearly collapsing into his chest. “I care about you and you— you need to start dealing with that.”

You suck in a sharp breath - the weight of today’s events crashing down all at once - and you finally understand the reason behind your mood swing. Despite Nemo’s rule, you have been overthinking non stop. He cares, even if you don’t deserve it. You only hate his guts some of the time. And you have to deal with that.

The reason why you can’t fucking stand all the nagging is because you know can’t allow yourself to want a silly, normal thing like a date. Not yet.

Steve splays a large hand at your back, the other resting at your hair as your breathing returns to normal. His steady presence helps - you even let a tear or two fall, but you’re composed again in a few minutes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. Thanks for— everything you’ve been doing. And sorry.”

He moves as if he’s not going to let you step away, but his hands fall at his sides. “It’s okay. You’ve had a tough day.”

You scoff. “It’s not okay, Rogers! God. Stop being so… understanding.” You say, putting your hands on your hips but doing your best to keep your attitude at bay. Apologies are not your strong suit. “I’m sorry for a reason. So you have to say ‘apology accepted’ so we can move on.”

Steve raises one eyebrow. “Apology accepted,”

“Great.” You nod. “What now?”

He blinks, finally averting his eyes from you as he looks back to the main street. “There’s a station down two blocks away. Or we can… get a cab.” You make a face, and he nods in agreement. “I could hot wire a car. Maybe not the best idea.”

“You want to steal a car?” You frown. “You know how to steal a car?”

It’s not like the idea isn’t exciting. But the image of Steve Rogers hot wiring a car seems a little surreal to you. Then again, he’s been in the army. He probably knows how to do a lot of illegal shit.

“I’d just return it tomorrow.” He chuckles when you deflate. “Guess we’re taking the train. We can ask Nat to get us at the Compound station.”

“God, this is so humiliating.”

“Sam, then.”

“That’s not better.”

“Better than walk—” His words are cut off by the screeching of tires next to you.

It’s the Jeep.

It’s James Buchanan Barnes.

“Yeah yeah, I was nearly at the Interstate but I felt bad. I think it’s gonna rain. Get in.”

You don’t waste any time. He’s here and it beats asking for Sam, or Nat, to rescue you. Even though you’re itching to get home, to barge into her room and tell her all about it.

“Fucking hell, Bucky. You’re an asshole. Fuck you.”

He grimaces. “Deserved that. Sorry.”

Steve is still out of the car, bracing his hands on the passenger window. “Get out. Let’s switch.” Bucky tilts his head. “You don’t have a license.”

“I’m 93 years old. I know how to drive.” He pauses, then entering a glaring contest with Steve. “I’m an Avenger - sort of. Doubt my lack of license will be their first concern when pulling us over.”

Steve just stares. Your eyes flit from him, to Bucky, and back. Finally, Barnes just sighs and allows the other nonagenarian to take the wheel.

“I could drive.” You’re also an Avenger - sort of.

They both turn to you at the same time. “No.”

Jesus. Okay then.

You don’t go back to the diner on next Friday’s deprogramming session - Steve couldn’t make it, so you and Bucky decided to not go without him despite his protests. Neither of you have valid licenses, after all. Instead you two lounged under the sun and Bucky made you a rum and coke so large that kept you drunk for three hours.

It’s for the best. You went for the intensive program - between two or three sessions a week - and you were in need of something to take off the extra edge.

Shuri’s prodding at your brain is showing results - if those are good or bad, it’s yet to be decided. Your powers have been slipping out of control more often. Tony finally got that nobreak for his Pac-Man machine. You’re running through electric toothbrushes faster than a piranha, but - strangely - you haven’t had a headache in days. The crossroads approaches, you can feel it; you’re gonna have to make a decision soon. Finish the job and lose the little control you had, meaning learning to use your powers from like a baby deer learning to walk, with imminent risk of causing more damage than you can afford, or cutting it short and dealing with a possible head implosion.

It’s great.

You already know what Steve’s opinion is, but you’re yet to make up your own mind about it. You appreciate his faith in you - and everyone else’s. But the more faith they have, the more disappointment you can cause.

It’s getting increasingly harder to detach yourself from them, and if you’re being real honest, you’ve already stopped trying. Whatever plans you’ve had of figuring out your faulty powers and bolting, fading back into anonymity, has been crushed way before the media started calling you Dynamo.

It’s terrifying, because even if bleak, that was a known path forward. And now, you can’t see anything clearly ahead. Just that crossroads.

You’re not fully healed from your old ways, though. Steve Rogers is on national television, back under the limelight and the scrutiny of a bleached blonde host wearing a brightly-colored skirt suit. And you made watching the interview a personal form of self-flagellation.

Holed up in your room, eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet Stark had lent you - you didn’t go for the big TV because Natasha would chastise you for doing this. But you can’t help it. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel… even.

You mute the TV when a picture of you is shown on screen. You look serious, geared up, menacing. The kinda side of yourself the mirror never shows. The question the host asks Steve makes him look to the floor, and you’re glad you can’t hear his answer. Something akin to the one he gave about the risks of allowing Bucky to walk free, you’re sure. You catch the twitch of his lips, the tension in his knuckles. But he takes it in stride, flashing a charming smile when he’s done. Of course he does. He’s Steve Rogers, and the people love him.T

hat’s why he goes to that stuff and not you, or Nat, much less Bucky.

Truth be told, you’re dying to break this cycle, maybe burn the Compound to the ground and throw Captain America’s shield in the garbage. It would cause havoc, for sure. But it would set you all free.

He ends the interview with some heartfelt speech about everyone’s part in keeping the peace. The audience claps.

You wrap your arms around your knees.

You half-watch-half-look at a couple of episodes of Survivor before getting up, headed towards the big kitchen on the communal floor below. There’s a hole in your middle that can only possibly be fixed with food.

And there he is.

Leaning over the balcony, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He got back quicker than you expected, no doubt taking the motorcycle or a helicopter to the CBS News Headquarters.

“Does alcohol have any effect on you?”

You expected him to startle - he doesn’t.

“No. This is mostly wishful thinking,” Steve says, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

“All this pressure and you can’t even be an alcoholic about it. Shame.”

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” He shrugs. “What are you doing up this late?”

You give him a look. You’re positive it’s barely past 11 p.m. “What am I, fourteen?” You retort and he flashes you a sheepish, tired smile. “I wanted a snack. Then I saw you were back from the interview, brooding and trying to get yourself drunk.”

“I wasn’t brooding. I just… needed some air.” He clears his throat. “The interview went well, I mean. But it’s a whole thing. Wardrobe, hair, microphones, shaking hands. The commute.”

You raise your eyebrow, wondering why he can’t bring himself to say the word tired. “As well as something can go when Kaitlyn Holloway and her pink blazer are trying to get you to say something compromising.”

“You watched it.”

“Don’t tell Nat.” You nod when he does. “Figured I should. I put it on mute when you were talking about me though.”

Steve sips his drink and makes a face. “Only good things.”

Laughter escapes you, getting him to raise his head to look at you. “Right, I forget. You’re Steve Rogers and you’re incapable of hating anyone.”

The things he told you last week have been carved into your head. You couldn’t stop mulling it over, and over.

He shakes his head. “No, I hate plenty of things. Like crude language. Wet snow. Bullies.” You knit your eyebrows. Wet snow is new. “…I hate HYDRA and I hate what they’ve done to you. To Bucky.”

Your hands tighten against the railing. “And I hate what the army did to you. What S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hoss are doing.” Your vision goes blurry, and you have to close your eyes.

He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I volunteered for all of that.”

“It’s still—”

“Bullshit?”

You draw in a sharp breath. “Yeah. But no. It’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. I just never saw it that way I s’pose.” His eyes are focused on the horizon, and then his gaze lowers. You shift on your feet.

He doesn’t have to say it. It’s duty. To him, it’s what all of this has always been about.

“Can I ask you a question?” You suddenly feel cold and under dressed, especially comparing your large T-shirt and shorts to Steve’s more formal attire. But that is not unusual. He looks at you, so openly that it makes you shiver. Maybe it’s just the cold wind. “About what you said that day… at the gym. That you can’t, you know—”

He blinks, the memory probably resurfacing. It’s kind of been a long time since you had sex. “Yeah…it’s a bonus effect of the serum apparently. Once you have a family, your priorities change. Serving the country is not your biggest concern anymore, so they went ahead and made sure to kill any chance of that happening.”

Your mouth parts. “You didn’t know,” It comes out in a whisper.

He shakes his head. He’s looking at the whiskey like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Found out after I was thawed out. Routine check-up.”

You clench your fingers. You’re not sure what to say. It makes you want to punch someone – not him this time – but someone.

It’s not fucking fair.

It takes you a moment to answer. “So stubborn as you are, you went and got yourself a family anyways.” You say, gesturing vaguely at the place the Avengers made into their home and trying on a lighthearted tone. You can only hope it works. “And now they’re your biggest priority instead.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s why you gave up the shield to Tony, isn’t it? And that you have to do everything S.W.O.R.D. tells you to—”

“Not everything—”

“But a lot.”

He nods.

“So they let you get them out of the Raft and come live here.”

He nods again.

“I don’t think they’d want this if they knew, Steve.”

“They know and they don’t.”

You stare at him for a second.

“So just—pack your bags and get out of here! Retire or something. Get out of character.”

“I can’t retire. I can help people for a long time still. Besides, people don’t like me out of character. They want Captain America,”

“I don’t.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, fair enough. Is that why you’re always trying to make me lose my temper?”

“Maybe.” You smile coyly. “I’m not saying I like you for you or anything. Just that what I see behind the mask – the shield – is better. ‘Cause it’s real.”

“Look… I’m not two people in one, darlin’. There isn’t this interior battle, or mask, that you think there is. The Captain is me. I’m not sure I know how to not be that anymore. It makes things easier.”

“For who?”

“For everyone,”

“I’m not everyone.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely one of a kind.”

“And you make my life very not-easy.” Understatement of the century.

He chuckles. “This place… might not be paradise, but it has a purpose. Look around you. Controlled environment and plenty of support for Bucky, amnesty for Natasha, a safe place for Wanda… it’s not like you’ve done any differently. You’re using this place and its resources as much as I am.”

“It’s different. I’m doing this because I wanted to. I’m selfish. I was reluctant at first… but it was my choice for my own benefit.” He doesn’t seem to agree, but you only shrug. “I just think you should start doing what you want for a change.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve leans in, and it’s like he’s captured you with nothing but his eyes. So, so blue. And grey. Like the sky, that is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. Tonight, you can almost see stars in them if you look hard enough. While you were caught, you hadn’t noticed his hand come up to tuck your hair behind your ear, stopping when it cups your jaw.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, like it’s a secret. Because it might be.

“I’m doing what I want, for a change.”

His nose brushes yours before he kisses you, much less urgently than last time. It’s tender. So much so it leaves you paralyzed, your fingers tingling.

You don’t know what to do; this is a one of a kind thing to you. He kisses you like he wants you to sigh when you think about him. Like he wants you to write his name on your notebook and circle it with a heart. Like… like he wants you.

When he pulls back, your eyes are still closed. He’s smiling when you finally open them, a crooked thing. None of that poster-like shit.

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

You stand there, shell shocked, willing yourself to move and to affirm that you hate him. You can’t.