summary: you want to fall in love with steve, but you're finding that he's still very attached to an old compass from before your time.
pairing: steve rogers x gn!reader
tags: coworkers-to-lovers, timeskip-heavy, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, not actually unrequited love, love triangle (?), jealousy, occasional cameos, vigilante-turned-avenger!reader, reader has powers, gn!reader
a/n: and if i said i dug this up from last year's fourth of july... please read this avengers nostalgia fic that would've been my first post had i finished it in time last year.
The aftermath of the smash-and-grab consists of three major components: the broken glass of the storefront window sprayed across the cement, the pillowcase stuffed with pawn shop electronics spilled and strewn over the curb, and the robberâwho you have neatly pinned down against the hood of the nearest car. Heâs thrashing about as you bind his wrists with zip ties. You have to dance out of the way as he tries to kick at your feet; itâs a fruitless endeavor, because his coordination is poor and heâs striking the air behind him blindly.
Heâs cursing at the dark spots in his vision. You assume, by now, that everything in his retinas are blurred together and clouded by iridescent afterimages. Itâs likely the traffic lights are scratching fissures in red and green across his field of vision, the lampposts cracking intermittent amber. Ironically, over the cacophony of security alarms, heâs crying wolfâjabbering about vigilantes and hundred-dollar tactical flashlights.
There is no flashlightâonly you and the fading glow buried under the flesh of your palms.
Under any other circumstances you wouldnât have done it. It doesnât yield the best outcome for any person with working eyes. On a bad day, where the streets are congested with evening traffic and bar-crawling pedestrians, the little flashbang trick you pulled is enough to cause a five-car pileup. Trigger-Happy forced your handâuntucking the pistol out of the waistband of his boxer briefs; it was his eyes or your leg. You chose the less painful of the two.
Itâs pure luck that there isnât so much of a rush tonight. Youâre working double time to drag your perp up and a couple yards down to the street corner so you can attach him to the pole of a stop sign. He isnât so much dead weight as he is aggressively resistant. Heâs flailing to snatch the goggles you have adhered across your face and you have to wrestle to keep him moving. It isnât till youâve opted to knock him out cold that you realize you have an audience of one on the corner diagonal to you.
Theyâre obscured by the distance, the nightfall, and the steam piping out of the sewage grate near youâbut you can tell that theyâre broad and still. âTakes eight minutes for first responders to show,â you pipe up, âGet going before they hold you up to do a witness report. No one wants to spend their night at the station.â There isnât a response. At this point, youâre hoping theyâre devastatingly clueless or flat-out disinterested.
âJust start walking now,â you insist, âIâm doing you a favor.â
âIâve been tasked with taking you in.â The tone is commandeering, but clearly teeming with uncertaintyâfresh to protocol. You knew tabs were being kept on you, but the timing is glaringly inconvenient. You were just about ready to head home and hit the hay after this altercation, and now youâre being stuck up by some fresh-off-the-press SHIELD operative.
âYou his newest lackey?â you spit. âForget it. Tell Nick Iâm busy and send my regards.â
âYour compliance would be greatly appreciated.â Itâs a thinly-veiled threat thatâs bringing you closer to being flat-out pissed.
âNow, thatâs just immature.â You know how this is probably going to go, which is why youâre already straightening out your belt and raising your left palm out to make a beacon spanning light a couple feet ahead of you.
âSo is beating up petty thieves and calling it justice.â This, followed by strides forward, makes you perk up and stand your ground. The energy welling out of your hand is itching to turn into a warning shot.
The first thing you illuminate is the five-pointed star, shrouded in blueâthen, the alternating red and silver rings. Heâs got it hugged to his side. You drag your gaze up the sleeve of his brown leather jacket, to the collar of the plaid button-up, and rest it finally on his eyes. Theyâre kind, but sternâand all the more resolute.
âYou.â You stand down, pulling your goggles up and snapping them on top of your head. âTheyâve got you doing house calls?â
âExcuse me?â His brows furrow and heâs shooting you a semi-offended glare. The tension in his stance becomes more lax as soon as he discerns that youâre more likely to make a jab at his ego than you are to charge a laser beam into the center of his ribcage.
âI thought theyâd send someone a little bit lower on the food chain to take me out of retirement,â you expound, âNot Americaâs saving grace.â Steve huffs, swinging the shield up and over his shoulder to attach to the latch on his back. He looks more boyish, now, as a strand of his dirty blonde hair strays defiantly down his forehead.
âYouâre retiredâŠâ He doesnât outright say it, but the implication is clear. Youâre youngâfar too young to have earned retirement. It would be far too crude for him to say a general estimate of your age, but the astonishment in his expression tells you he's got one pinned down. âFlattering. Thank you,â you mutter under your breath.
âYour file said you were inactive,â Steve emphasizes. âBut, youâre clearly field-ready.â He takes a moment to take in the stealth suit adorning your body; itâs military-grade tactical gear, fashioned with platinum plating running along your collarbones, over your shoulders, and down your sides. âFury knows about this?â Heâs totally in over his head.
âThis?â you guffaw nervously, brushing off your chestplate. The way his eyes rake over your gear is innocent enough, but the inspection is making you antsyâhot, even. âThis is a one-off. I was in the area.â
âYouâre well-prepared for someone whoâs just passing by,â he points doubtfully.
âFine,â you surrender. âI live the street over. I was getting ready for bed, I heard the glass break, and I thought Iâd stop by.â It isnât entirely a fib. You suit up when the occasion calls for it, and only when it conveniently comes your way; living downtown, however, means the occasion calls for it more than once a week.
âWith your recordââ Steve starts. Youâve heard this a billion times, different variations on the same sentiment. You could be in high places, become a national hero, receive the Medal of Honor, or something of the like. But, itâs conditional on the terms that you sell your soul for war games. Itâs not your style.
âI like things quiet,â you interject. âIâm not looking for world peace. Or intergalactic peace, for that matter.â The aftermath of the Chitauri was bad enough. Every news outlet for a month after was plastered with photographic coverageâbuildings crushed to bits and streets choked up with dust and debris. The casualties were worse.
âItâs a couple missions abroadâtactical espionage, infiltration, extractionâŠâ
You canât help but scoff. âDonât you have buddies for that?â
âWeâre a bit dysfunctional as of late. Itâs difficult getting everyone in the same place at the same time,â Steve admits wearily. âFury needs the assist.â
âDid he say that verbatim?â
âNo,â he concedes, âBut itâs the honest to God truth. He wouldnât take anyone else on record. Just you.â
It crosses your mind for only a second that Steve might be in over his head with these things, too. No one wants to place themselves into the middle of a battlefield. The way his fists clench at his sides tells you he doesnât want to place you into the middle of a battlefield, either. You havenât given him an answer yet, and he already looks sorry.
âThis is panning out like a missionary visit, Captain.â
âPlease,â he implores, âCall me Steve.â He shoots his hand out to shake yours, and itâs only polite for you to follow suit. Itâs difficult to ignore the wrap of his calloused fingers around your palmâthe way his hand practically engulfs yours. Heâs cold and youâre trying not to flinch from his touch; you wonder if itâs the night breeze or his cryogenics are still wearing off.
You already know his name; every living person above the age of ten knows his name. He doesnât need to tell it to you. But, thereâs something about the humility in his introduction that makes you stop. Heâs too genuine for his own good. Furyâs smart, sending Steve to retrieve you; heâs impossible to say no to.
After a couple months straight of telling yourself youâll âquit soon,â you still canât pull away. It is good workâdismantling HYDRA bases and making sure that nobody plunges a nuke-sized hole into the Earth. You despise Steve for convincing you that youâre necessary for itâand you despise yourself for not wanting more ardently to jump ship.Â
By now, Steve grants himself the privilege to be noticeably pissed at you. He has a med table rolled out and bolted into the center of the Quinjetâs hull; the rattling movement beneath you is taking a toll on the large gashes scaling your legs. Youâre gripping onto the platinum sidebars and gritting your teethâtrying to make it look like it hurts less than it actually does. You only need to last the span of twenty minutes until Nat can pilot the three of you to the nearest possible safe house.
âYou donât have to play medic. Iâm good,â you hiss.
âYou arenât good. Youâre hurt.â Steve kneels down on one knee in front of you, rushing to slip off your boots and fold up your pant legs for damage check. The way his jaw is clenched shut tells you that you probably shouldnât look down.
Steve discards his shield on the floor like itâs a cheap toy; itâs weighing him downâmaking him impatient. He unlatches it off his back, he drops it, and it makes a heavy, wobbling spin onto the floor like a dropped dime. You donât appreciate the haphazard toss. You had given an arm and a leg to retrieve it for him, and the least he could do is treat it more carefully. He stops in his tracks when you let out a petulant âhey.â
âYou should have left it,â he mutters. He motions his hand out to the storage tray beside you, palm open expectantly. You hand him a bottle of antiseptic and clean cloth, and he takes them hastilyâuncapping the lid and sloshing a generous amount out onto the cloth and the floor below.
âItâs vibranium,â you shoot back. âThere isnât a lot of that out on the market, and weâre supposed to keep it that way.â You suck in air through your teeth as he dabs the antiseptic across your left leg. The sting seeps deep into the meat of your calf and he keeps a firm grip on your ankle to keep you from kicking out. Youâre strung too tight to process how he drags the pad of his thumb across your skin. âThe shield is one-of-a-kind.â
He looks up, steel blue eyes dripping with disappointment. âItâs an object.â
âThatâs like saying the Mona Lisa is an object,â you interrupt, shifting your attention to the safety belts swinging back and forth on the wall across from you. âThe Mona Lisa isnât an object, Steve; sheâs a national treasure.â
âThe shield isnât worth your life,â he cracks, reaching with outstretched fingers for the bandages in the tray beside you; he doesnât care to ask you for them, but you scoot it closer for him to grab. All the way in the pilotâs seat, Nat lets out a pitchy, approving whistle.
âI had it under control.â
âHad,â Nat calls out, pulling one side of her headset to the side, âUntil that HYDRA slugger mummified you with barbed wire. Not a good look.â
âSheâs right. You wouldâve been compromised if you were tapped.â Steve isnât wrong; if you hadnât conserved the lingering amount of light coursing through your central nervous system for that particular kind of emergency, you couldâve been sliced to bits. But, you had made sure of a contingency plan; you had pooled your remainder into a blast to plunge that HYDRA agent into a nearby wall. You were fine.
For a moment, you refrainâwatching as he revolves the bandage roll around each of your legs like a wheel on its axle. Youâve lost count of the amount of times youâve seen Steve take bullets like paper cuts; it makes you wince every timeâseeing the pain twisted into his features as the serum ceaselessly sends him into overdrive. You persist, âYou get flesh wounds all the time and I donât cry about it.â Now, youâre starting to care less about sounding childish and more about riling Steve up. He slumps, âIâm not crying about it.â
âYou look pretty distraught to me,â you continue.
Steve frowns, âIâm raising a genuine concern for your well-being. You were too cockyâno, reckless.â The correction makes you fume.
âYou donât fuss like this when Romanoff eats it.â Up in the front seat, Nat is silent. Giving you your time.
âThatâs because I know she can handle herself,â Steve retorts, snipping and taping the bandage on your left, and then on your right. Itâs a low blow, but you canât deny the truth of it. Natasha is trained flawlessly, immune to mistakes; youâre more⊠spontaneous than anything else. Still, it isnât difficult not to get offended by the notion that Steve feels burdened by his supervision of you.
âI existed before you, Steve,â you say obstinately.
He lets out a soft sigh. âAnd itâs my job to make sure you exist after me.â
Youâre following a dim stream of light pouring down the hall straight into the kitchen, where the leftovers of a makeshift war room lie waiting on the counters. Manila folders and mylar maps, each altered with their own annotations, decorate every surface. Front and center, the floor plans of some defunct warehouse turned bio-weapon manufacturing site are rolled out on the kitchen island. This isnât the first time youâve seen Steve do this before: checking and rechecking entrances and exits, identifying and re-identifying escape routes, assigning and re-assigning roles. Itâs all a part of this meticulous, ritualized process he insists on going through for every mission.Â
Sometimes, Steve just despises screens. You can tell by the way he insists on having everything on paper. Itâs not a matter of user error; heâs perfectly capable and not nearly prideful enough to not ask for help learning twenty-first century technology. Itâs more a cultural difference than anything else. You assume itâs therapeutic, the way he marks and organizes physical documents like these; theyâre tangible and tactileâand not made of pixels, like most things are.
He has you booked for the usual drill: interior reconnaissance prior to his entry, with a loop back to meet him in the middle. As you drag your index finger against the floorplans, you identify the linework of your trajectory running through the warehouse, marked in red ink. His is parallel in blueâseparated by five minutes' time. They lead you to the head of the warehouseâwhere, placed just atop the northern exitâyou find her encased in metal framing. Peggy Carter. You scan across her features long enough to etch her likeness into your memory: pale beauty, primped curls, rouge lip, eyes brimming with witâprinted sepia-toned and grainy.
Youâre sure, all those sixty-seven years ago, that he placed her there as a good luck charm. Or, a motivator to fight. Or, a reminder to come home in one piece. And why he keeps the picture in the compass at all is a whole other beastâmaybe guilt or duty, but knowing Steve, itâs something more⊠It's the soldierâs version of the loversâ heart locket.
Youâre quick to jump at the sound of footsteps, which halt imminently at the threshold of the doorway. When you whip around, hands drawn back and practically melded to your sides, heâs there, clad in a fitted white t-shirt and sweatpants. His blonde hair is ruffled all over, like heâs been running his fingers through it mercilessly. Itâs always strange seeing Americaâs Star-Spangled Man in this wayâso casually. He doesnât look any less than he does when he was in the suit, just more⊠homely. His gaze passes from you to Peggy, and you feel all the more conscious of your position; it appears, at the center of his ad hoc workspace, that youâre committing the scorn-worthy offense of invading privacy.
âSteve.â Itâs the only thing you can muster up: a hesitant half-greeting. You are close to apologizing, but you concede considering you havenât actually done anything irrevocably wrongâbesides eyeing his personal belongings a little too closely. Steve, in the merciful way that Steve is, doesnât say a thing. He simply gives you a curt nod, taking a few steps towards you.
He raises his arm and nears so dangerously close to your left side that your breath involuntarily hitches in your chest. Youâre acutely aware of the warmth radiating off of himâlikely, in a short-circuit mixup with your ownâand try not to eye the cotton of his shirt pulling taut against his chest as he reaches behind you.
You come more clearly to your senses when you hear a pinging swish and click right; Steve shifts the compass on the counter, clasps it shut, and pulls back before you can soak in the proximity. Right.
You want water. You dash easily, rounding the island to stretch up and paw at the tall cabinetsâkeeping your back to him as long as possible. You try to list all the cold things around to try and counter the flushing heat of your cheeksâyour socks on the laminate tile, the tips of your fingers as you reach for a glass, the glass as you fill it with ice-cold water under the dispenser.
âYou should be asleep,â Steve warns gingerly, âItâs nearly three in the morning.â Heâs either clueless, or brilliant at acting like he is.
âThanks, Pops,â you respond sarcastically, âShouldnât you be asleep, too? Big mission tomorrow.â You turn and knock back a generous sip, before eyeing him carefully.
Steve shakes his head, before taking a step forward to lean on the kitchen island. âI donât really sleep the same as I did⊠Only need a couple of hours and Iâm good as new.â He sounds almost rehearsed, as if heâs advertising himself like a freshly-minted toy to a child. You wonder, then, if they had made him rehearse it after pumping him full of serum and painting him red, white, and blue.
âNo such thing as âsleeping inâ in the forties?â you raise, hugging your glass to your chest. He takes up his pen again and uncaps it to return to his notations.
âMost days, I wake up early to train.â
âRight.â You nod, admittedly bested; he works twice as hard as anyone else doesâand everyone knows it. âYouâre a fine-tuned machine, Steve.â
âI try to keep up good habits,â he says under his breath, tracing one long line around the outside of the warehouse to delineate an exterior flight path: Samâs, likely.
You interject, âItâs alright to not be Cap all the time, you know. Youâre allowed to loaf around like the rest of us.â
âIâll take that into consideration.â He halts his linework at the nearest corner, raising the fountain tip just above the surface of the paper to peer up at you. Itâs a charming sight. Heâs leaning so indifferently over the counter, glancing up to meet your eyes with the small quirk of a grin tugging up at the corner of his mouth. Itâs almost shy, the way he looks back down before it can last too longâpressing the pen back down to make another stroke.
Youâre racking your brain with all of the classic human resources statements youâre supposed to uphold in a functioning coworker relationship, because youâre sure the way youâre eyeing him is getting progressively closer to misconduct. Then again, professionalism isnât so fulfillable in cases like yours; being in the Tower means living under the same roof, eating dinners at the same table⊠itâs all very untraditional.
Your hand drifts just below the counter space and brushes against the seat of the barstool nearest to you. It wouldnât hurt to sit with him a little while longerâmaybe even chat about things other than crime-bustingâbut, youâre crudely interrupted by the careful scoop that Steve makes of the compass into his left hand. He clicks it open and uses it diligently to identify his bearings and jot them on the corner of the nearest manila folder.
You canât see her from where youâre standing, but you know sheâs thereâthe little reminder that Steve has a dance saved for him in a time-locked past. Heâs holding out for a pipe dream. You try to push down the disappointment thatâs boring an ache into the middle of your chest. It isnât difficult to realize that, at any given time, you can only have half of Steve. The first half is as-is. Heâs a good manâthe best man, even. The second half is trapped dwelling on his losses.
Before you can excuse yourself, Steve clicks the compass shut and beckons to you over with a pat on the stool beside him. âSit,â he offers. âIf you want to, I mean. I donât mind.â
âYou sure? I donât want to overstay my welcome.â He looks at you with an incredulous expressionâlike youâve said something absolutely absurd.
âIâd appreciate a second-hand opinion,â Steve insists. As you slide onto the seat beside him, your shoulder brushes against the middle of his bicep. Neither of you apologize. There isnât much else you can do, besides pick up a pen offer to take down coordinates.
Steve is in the middle of a not-so-short breather thatâs approaching near thirty minutes. His directive is simple: survive another seasonal Stark fundraiser. It's a daunting taskâespecially when every politician, military official, and A-list celebrity in the state of New York wants to shake his hand. At this point in the night, heâs glued to the corner of the bar, watching Tony and Rhodey knock back thirty-year-old whiskey more expensive than the average rent for a New York condo. Not far from them, Natasha looks busy trying to shrug off baby-faced SHIELD recruits. And you⊠are trying your best to keep Bruce company.
Itâs a very difficult task. Heâs been giving you a hard timeâexplaining mathematical theorems and laws of matter because he knows you arenât paying attention. As he rattles on with his ostentatious science jargon, he traces your line of sight straight to the super soldier. Youâve got your eye fixed on Steve, watching as he tosses the weight of his compass from hand to hand. He canât help but suppress a smirk as he takes a generous sip of his Shirley Temple. He raises his pointer to you, and then to Steve. âItâs rude to stare.â
âIâm notâBruce, Iâm not staring,â you correct. The involuntary scrunch of your nose says otherwise. You swirl the wine glass in your hand by the stem, watching the liquid magenta swirl in the bowl.
âIâm only teasing you,â he nods, âGet over there. Iâm getting tired watching you dawdle.â
You whip your head up. âDawdle? Says the one whoâs allâŠNatasha this, Natasha that.â Your impression of him is subpar at best; youâve got the bumbling tacked down, but not so much the gruffness.
âYouâre being very defensive,â Bruce notes. When he realizes youâre no longer going to entertain himâfrom the sunken appearance of your cheek being bitten from the insideâhe holds back. âReally, you donât have anything to worry about. Steve adores you.â
âLike Nat adores you?â Another way to say: Like a stray dog found on the side of the road. Bruce understands this, and snortsâattending once again to his Shirley Temple. The cherry bobs. The two of you stand, two wallflowers flanking the most unpopulated column at the venue. Tactically, itâs the best seat in the house. And, Steve stands out to you like a sore thumb.
âHe respects you,â Bruce nodded, âThat goes a long way.â
âHeâs Captain America. Heâll respect anything with good morals and a pulse.â
âSuit yourself. Just saying heâs looking pretty lonely over there.â Bruce leaves your side, sidling off to go take a couple shots at Tonyâwhoâs now making it a point to initiate a toast over by the A-shaped ice statue. So, youâre left to your own devices. In a getup that looks like you should be presenting some kind of heavy, gold entertainment award. Itâs raucous among every politician, military official, and A-list celebrity in the state of New York. And Steveâs thereâat the bar. A silent solace. You find yourself digging your fingernails into your palm as you make your way through the crowd and over to his side.
The polished compass is shut in his right palmâand you already know whoâs inside.
Maybe, itâs the alcohol biting away at your self-restraintâbut, you figure there isnât a reason not to say it now: âItâs a nice photo.â
Steve turns to you without an ounce of shock; on the contrary, heâs got a sapped look in his eyesâthe remnants of a grin overcome by fatigue. He expected youâd float together sometime throughout the night. He tells you, âI cut it out of the back page of a tabloid in Londonâlocal, nothing too fancy.â
You come to sit on the barstool behind him. The satiny fabric of your nice getup feels all the more slippery; youâre all nerves, you think. And youâre trying to figure out what point in the past couple of years that you started getting nervous. Around Steve. It hadnât always been like that. But, you need to push it down. In his right palm, the compassâŠ
âWoulda been a hard sell, right?â you ponder. âFirst woman in the U.S. to serve in a non-secretarial government position. I mean, in the history books, sheâs on par with Amelia Earhart.â That makes him let out a breathy laugh. He knows the reference, and you know he does. The satisfaction you get out of seeing the amusement twinkle in Steveâs eyes makes your heart skip. âIâm serious,â you affirm. You do mean it; by historical standards, Peggy Carter is a messiah.
He chortles. âGlad to know sheâs of such monumental effect.â There isnât much else to say. Champagne glasses clink together, the room dances and chatters in revolving circles, and Steve is here, in front of you.
âSorry youâre trapped here.â
âWhy are you apologizing?â A tinge of Brooklyn sparks in his toneâmakes you squeamish, but you carry on.
âFeels like youâre the most obligated to be here out of all of us.â Itâs true: you could go home and no one would bat an eye. But, to be as public of a figure as Captain America⊠heâs stuck for at least another hour. Or, until Tony makes a big enough scene for him to slip out unnoticed.
âSânot that bad. Thereâs good booze.â Sarcasm: it doesnât even register with metabolism. âAnd good company.â
âLike usual,â you agree. He bumps his elbow against you, and you nudge him right back. Itâs a nice routine you two have. A perfectly usual back-and-forth.
By the end of the night, youâre in the backseat with Steve. Itâs a private car, a high-tint, black SUVâthe result of Tonyâs insistence on getting the two of you home to the Compound sweet and sound. Tony, you recall, had pulled you aside at some point of the night, when the direction of your gaze was clearly inhibited by your alcohol intake; your eyes hung on Steveâs every movement, and Tony couldnât help but point it outâproudly: âDonât be embarrassed about it, sweet cheeks. Everyoneâs got work crushes.â
Youâve had enough glasses of fizzy, sharp-tasting champagne to start to feel too reflective for your own good. Itâs easy to feel accomplished with a job like yours. You save people, and get praised for it; itâs simple, clean-cut. But thereâs still something missing. You know what it isâof course, you know.
Youâd regret not telling Steve that you want one date. Just to try it out. And in some earnest wayâno doubt influenced by his own never-ending sympathyâyou donât expect anything out of it. Just one date. You think about it all the time, the course of the day planned out in your head. Steve in a t-shirtâjust a regular, old white t-shirt and dark-wash jeans. Drinking espresso out of small white cups outside a just-as-small corner cafe, on metal-grate chairs. Quiet. With him.
Itâs quiet now, in the backseat. You wish Steve would just say something to make this less strange. But heâs just sitting there, all stoic and contemplative, like you havenât spent the entire night wallflowering at the bar. All youâre hearing is the sound of the SUV tires wheeling along the freeway, a little bit of wind resistance andâ
âI donât want you to think Iâm stuck somewhere Iâm not.â Steveâs low voice rings out in the backseat. His hands are locked together in his lap, and heâs fixing his gaze down at you. In the window behind him, thereâs only dark mounds of shadows cast by passing trees.
Youâre shrugging at him, meekly, âI get it. The social stuff isnât great, but weâve got to do itââ
Steve tries again: âIt was hard at first to make the adjustments, to be modern, but Iâm solid where I am now. And I have been for a while.â
Heâs reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, and offering the old compass over to you. Steve practically dangles it over your lap, and out of pure instinct, youâre holding your palms up to save it from falling. He drops it, and youâre staring at it with eyes like saucers. Thereâs no coherent reason for him to do this. âYou donât need toââ
Steve shakes his head. âI want you to take it. Borrow it for as long as you want, give it back whenever you feel like it. As long as you donât throw it away, Iâll be happy.â
Youâre barely able to get a word outâyour own, nerve-wrecked doing: âI donât⊠Steve, itâs yours.â
âYes, itâs got a picture of Peggy lining the top. I know it looks sad. Sentimental, maybe. But itâs also me. I was young and good when I carried this, and I want to stay like that for as long as I can. And if you take itââ He gives you an apprehensive, tight-lipped smile. Your throat dries out. Steve is giving himself over to you.
âAre you sure? Wonât you miss it?â
âWell, itâll be with you, so it wonât go far,â he assures you. It's sweet, how sure he is to be having you around. âItâs all yours.â
The SUV pulls up to the Compound in a rolling stop, and you're still quite undone by this whole ordealâthe crowded night, and what's come out of it. Steve hops out, comes around the back of the car, and opens your door for you. He's holding his hand out to help you step off that high ledge, even if he knows you hardly need the assistance. Youâre sliding the compass into your pocket, weighted gold pulling down the fabric just slightlyâbefore taking hold of Steve. When you've got both feet planted on the ground, you're very surprised to find that he doesn't let go. His good hold on your palm is making your thoughts all muddled.
The two of you are trodding across the cement path leading toward the main building. It's dead quiet, staff all packed up on gone home for the weekend. Amd Steveâs taking his time on this walk, trying to soak in that nightly brisk air of upstate New York. By now, all the street lamps across campus have flickered to life, pouring electric light out onto the lawn. He gives your hand a quick squeeze. âEveryoneâs going to be out Monday for the press conference, and Iâd rather we leave them to it.âÂ
âYou want to play hooky.â Your skepticism makes Steve bring a hand up to his chest in mock offense.
âI have a great reason, and Iâm completely certain that nobodyâs going to mind it,â he tells you. âIn fact, I think itâll settle a whole lot of bets.â
