okay, this is crazy

Your hands shake far more than they should after this kind of mission, the faint tremors nearly timed up with your uneasy breaths. Your armor feels too heavy, too tight, too hot- just too much. Its flexible material is caked with blood, not much of it being your own. It nearly sticks to your skin as you peel off whatever you can without being entirely exposed.

The medbay is near silent, only the faint hum of distant machines filling the void in the air. It's hard to tell whether the silence makes the post-mission heavier or lighter. A clock ticks nearby, its metronome-like rhythm providing something other than your brief inhales and exhales to focus on.

The mission was relatively simple, on paper. Get in, get the files S.H.I.E.L.D. needed from the facility, and get out. It should have been easy, but you knew better than that from the moment you stepped foot in the secured building.

No real casualties occurred, except for the usual bruised rib or battered face. You made it away with only a few red marks scattered around your body, most of which were on your back.

You were going to just patch yourself up, cleaning out any particularly nasty wounds with a bit of peroxide before calling it a day. Natasha asked if you needed any assistance before she left, and you reassured her that you had it covered.

You severely overestimated the reach of your arms behind your back.

Your upper limbs felt twisted every which way, struggling to reach the last couple of lacerations on your upper back. Honestly, if any one else saw you right now, you'd be suffering from the worst embarrassment of your life.

A soft, unmistakable clearing of a throat breaks the quiet.

You freeze.

For a split second, panic flares, because you know that sound. You don’t have to turn around to picture him standing there, broad shoulders probably filling the doorway, posture too straight for someone trying to pretend they weren’t watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you fumble to straighten, arms dropping awkwardly to your sides.

Damn you for not taking some sort of gymnastics course when you were younger.

“Sorry,” Steve says quickly, voice low, almost apologetic. “I— Didn’t mean to startle you.” There’s a pause, hesitant, like he’s debating whether to say anything else at all. “Natasha said everyone was cleared, but I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, nodding slightly before forming a response. “Yeah,” you answer, a little too fast. “I’m fine. Just...apparently not as flexible as I thought.”

There’s the faintest huff of a laugh behind you, surprised and immediately stifled. Silence stretches again, thicker this time, until you hear him shift his weight.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” he says, careful, eyes already pointed anywhere but your bare skin. “On your upper back. If you want, I can—help. Just to clean it.”

You hesitate. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s Steve Rogers: your teammate, your friend. Still, the thought of him that close sends an unexpected flutter of nerves through you. You feel oddly uncomfortable with the idea of him seeing you vulnerable.

“…Okay,” you say finally, quieter now. The sound, though near silent, feels like it echoes through the room.

He approaches slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might send you bolting. You hear the soft clink of a tray shifting as he reaches for antiseptic and gauze. When his hand finally touches your shoulder, it’s feather-light, almost a question. His fingers flex slightly, pressing gently into the untouched skin before he can stop himself.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs, voice nearly carried away by the sounds of miscellaneous machines around the medbay.

The first swipe of cool antiseptic makes you inhale sharply, flinching away from his touch slightly. Steve immediately stills, pulling back just enough to not make you feel crowded.. “Too much?”

“No—no, it’s fine,” you assure him after dissecting your brain for just the right words to say. “Just surprised.”

“Right. Sorry.” His touch resumes, gentler this time, methodical. He works in careful strokes, focused, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, solid and steady, close enough that you’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath.

Neither of you says much.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… charged. Like you’re both suddenly aware that this is different from passing weapons in the field or standing shoulder to shoulder in a briefing room. This is quiet. Personal. His thumb brushes your skin accidentally, and you feel him tense, clearing his throat again as if grounding himself.

“All set,” he says eventually, stepping back a little too quickly. “They weren’t deep. You’ll heal up just fine.”

You turn to face him, catching the way his ears are faintly pink. For a moment, neither of you knows what to do with your hands, your words.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the sound almost lost in the silent room.

Steve nods, offering a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It almost seems like his smiles never do that, nowadays. “Anytime.” Then, after a moment or so, “Really.”

And then he leaves, just like that. The medbay door hisses open and closed while his footsteps get further and further. You don't turn your head in time to see him look back at you just before he walks out.

The air feels stale, heavy. Like something inside of your mind trying to claw its way out without your permission. No, stop that, you think internally, stop feeling weird around him.

Your mind, of course, doesn't listen. The next meeting you had was absolute torture.

The conference room is already half full when you arrive, lights dimmed just enough for the holographic table to glow faint blue. The air smells like coffee that’s been reheated one too many times and ozone from Stark’s tech. You take your usual seat without thinking, muscle memory guiding you more than conscious choice, and only realize your mistake when the chair beside you shifts.

Steve sits down.

It shouldn’t matter, really- Steve has always sat next to you. It’s like some silent routine that the two of you have fallen into within the past few years. But everything just feels so… tight. Like there isn’t quite enough room for either of you and you have to squish in an uncomfortable amount.

He stays respectful, of course, keeping his distance whenever possible. The real awkward parts don’t happen until after the meeting has already begun.

Fury begins one of his usual speeches, boring and to the point (much to Tony’s dismay, eating a donut he got from who knows where across the table from yourself and Steve.) It's still routine, with a couple of snickering comments thrown out here and there.

But as soon as you grab one of Stark’s tablets in front of you to get a better glance at the presentation, your arm brushes right up against Steve’s. Your heart genuinely might have stopped for a moment before continuing its normal ‘thump,’ though certainly at a quicker rate.

“Sorry,” the word comes quicker than you thought possible, probably even swifter than the actual contact you made with his arm. God, this has to be in the top ten of your most embarrassing moments. It actually feels worse than that one time you sent a text about Steve to him instead of your best friend.

“It’s alright,” his response is soft and quiet, though you can’t tell if his tone is so gentle because he’s talking to you, or if it's because he doesn’t want to hear shit from Nick later for not paying the utmost attention to the debrief. You can’t get yourself to look at him long enough to notice the slight flush of his ears and cheeks. He’s thankful you didn’t.

You can’t help that you fidget a lot during meetings- they’re really just too long and boring not to find something else to occupy your mind with. At first, you twirled a pen around your fingers like some sort of butterfly knife. Force of habit, you suppose, considering how often you use them on the field.

But even that starts to bore you after a while.

Your knee bounces next, the toes of your shoes tapping against the ground silently. It’s a steady rhythm, one that you’re able to perfect without taking too much of your attention away from the key notes of the meeting. The tapping actually almost keeps you engaged, ebbing away at the restless feeling growing deep within your mind and bones.

Until your leg brushes right up against Steve’s.

You swear the universe just has it out for you today.

Your mouth moves to apologize, leg already stopping its repetitive motion and foot resting softly against the ground- but Steve stops you. “Don’t worry about it,” he mouths silently, eyes barely breaking away from the main presentation. You swear you feel Natasha’s eyes on the two of you and your awkwardly tense behaviour, but you try as hard as you can to ignore it.

Her gaze lingers on both of you, and there’s no doubt that she sees the far off look in your eyes and the faint pink color gathering on Steve’s face. Nat is absolutely clocking whatever is going on between the two of you, and you know damn well that you won’t be able to live it down. Later, she’ll probably ask if she can officiate the wedding just to tease.

Sooner or later, though, your fingers begin to toy with the pen again. It's a sleek, black metal- probably one of those nice ones that you took from Tony’s workshop without him noticing. The motion is mindless, just some sort of flow that you memorized while toying with the writing utensil. Your hand slips under the meeting room table, resting upon your knee while your fingers stick with the familiar movement.

Steve notices- of course he does.

He doesn’t look away from the presentation, doesn’t shift closer, doesn’t make eye contact with you… He just lets his fingers slide away from his lap and onto your knee, touching in a way that feels like he might not be there at all. Steve’s face is a light shade of pink, but other than that, he remains completely focused on whatever Fury has to say.

You freeze.

For a while, nothing happens. His fingers just stay resting softly upon your knee, right next to your fingers curled around Stark’s pen. But eventually, his palm opens slightly as he rests it over yours. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t pull, just… stays there. Silent. Unwavering.

Your shoulders feel locked, like you couldn’t make them loosen up even if you tried. You don’t look at Steve- you don’t dare. You know damn well that if the two of you made eye contact right now, your entire friendship would be destroyed. You really don’t want to feel awkward whenever you look at the only person you work well with on field after this.

Steve’s jaw tightens, like his mind finally caught up with what his body was doing. He doesn’t move away instantly, doesn’t brush it off like a complete coincidence. He lets his touch linger, the warmth of his palm seeping into the top of your own hand. Then, just as quiet as his fingers came, his touch retreats.

The pen slips out of your hand shortly after that.

Neither of you says a word.

Not until the meeting is finally over and he brushes past you softly. “Great job in there,” he mentions softly, not waiting to hear your response. You don’t follow him- you honestly don’t think that your rapid heartbeat could handle it. You watch him leave with a gaze that's downright embarrassing.

The next few weeks are quieter than you expect. Not necessarily calmer- things never are as an Avenger- just quieter. Like the Earth knows that something is coming up but doesn’t have the audacity to make it happen just yet.

Steve keeps sitting next to you during meetings and debriefs. It feels far more deliberate now than it did before, his shoulder so close that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off of him. The two of you never touch, though- or at least not on purpose. The accidental brush of your hand against his arm is more charged than it used to be.

You begin to recognize his presence before even looking for him. His breathing is familiar, a pattern that you probably couldn’t tear out of your brain even if you tried. Even the way he sits down has a place in your mind, especially the light groan he lets out more often than not as if the mere action of resting takes a toll on him.

Steve notices everything now. The way your fingers start to twitch when you’re overly tired. The way your breathing struggles to even out after a mission that hits particularly close to home. He starts handing you water before you even know that you’re thirsty, whether it’s at the end of one of your workouts or post-training match. Sometimes, his hand will find your shoulder or elbow in passing, always lingering just long enough to be felt but never long enough to be questioned.

You started doing it, too.

You’ll wait for him after a mission, not leaving to head to your room until he’s off the Quinjet. You linger around the gym until he’s done training, even if you tell yourself you’re just cooling down. You even started bringing him coffee on mornings that he’s up before you, which is certainly more often than not.

But nothing happens.

And it’s the absolute worst experience of your life.

There are moments, a lot of them, where it almost does, though. Sometimes you laugh together just a bit too long to just be friends, and sometimes neither of your hands moves away quick enough when they brush against each other under the table. Too many nights are spent with your bodies too close together on the couch to just be a coincidence, your knees barely brushing against each other with each passing moment. Neither of you breaks the spell, though, instead choosing to stare blankly at the same television screen like it can break the invisible tension between you two.

Steve hesitates before leaving the room that you’re in, glancing back with just that tad bit of longing that makes your chest and lungs burn. You, unknowingly, start watching him leave whenever it happens.

The gym is quiet tonight, unlike during the more reasonable hours of the day. Nearly all of the lights are dim, and only Steve’s punches can be heard echoing through the vast space. It isn’t unusual for him to be down here so late, but it is, in fact, odd for you to be in the same space, as well.

Your footsteps are quiet, almost hesitant, on the concrete floors. Steve notices them anyway- he always does. The art of noticing comes so naturally when it’s about you. It always has, and Steve reckons that it always will. His punches don’t stop right away when you enter, your body only a couple of steps behind his.

Both of you know that you didn’t come down here just to work out.

“Looks like you could use a new set of wraps,” you mention quietly, your voice sounding foreign in the quiet area. You know how far he pushes himself, just how long he’ll let himself go without bothering with simple things like knucklewrap. Your gaze stays on his red, cracked hands for what feels like hours, until Steve finally turns around to face you fully.

The gym is silent now, the lack of sound feeling like a weighted blanket upon your heart and lungs.

“I’ll be alright,” he deflects carefully, yet he still stops beating the punching bag like it owes him something. He always stops for you. Steve doesn’t pull away when you take a few tentative steps forward, either.

That’s what really makes your chest ache like there’s no tomorrow.

Up close, there’s far more damage than you thought to the thick skin of his knuckles. The skin across his right hand is split, blood already dried to the slightly swollen flesh. There’s even a few specks of the dried crimson across the training mats beneath you, along with small scraps of his previous wraps. A slow and steady exhale escapes your nose as you reach down for the first aid kid tucked beneath the bench.

“Sit,” you request quietly, internally feeling just a little bit weird about bossing around the Captain America.

Steve hesitates for a moment, exactly like you knew he would, before eventually giving in and lowering himself onto the metal bench. His shoulders practically sink as soon as he does, bleeding out whatever tension they’d manage to retain for however long he had been down here. You kneel in front of him without a second though, taking both of his battered hands into your lap. They’re warm- incredibly so- and still shaking.

You take your time with them, gently brushing over the worst of the damage with your thumb before carefully removing the old tape. The sound of it tearing is too loud in the gym, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind much. He doesn’t flinch away from the faint sting of adhesive breaking away from his skin, but he watches you from beneath his eyelashes. You both know you can feel his gaze burning into you, but neither of you make it stop.

You clean up each little abrasion carefully, dragging the gauze over his skin with something akin to reverence. His fingers will twitch now and then, a slight tremor that has nothing to do with cooling down after nearly beating a punching bag to death. You can feel the weight of them in your lap, his jaw set like he’s just given you a piece of him that he has no way of taking back.

The wrap comes soon after you begin cleaning him, the pristine white sticking out against the inflammation and irritation of his skin. You’re unreasonably careful as you bring the roll of wrap around his hands, as if this is what will make him break into a million pieces as opposed to the workout that lead you both to this point. Steve isn’t fragile, far from it, actually, and you know that. But something inside you wants to treat him with the same kind of care and tenderness that one would with a fragile doll.

Eventually, he’s wrapped well enough to fight the Hulk with his bare hands.

You don’t let go. Neither does he.

Your gaze doesn’t meet his at first, instead focusing on your thumbs gently making their ways to his wrists and pausing to rub across the skin. When your eyes finally meet his, though, you both know what's coming next. You’ve both known since the day he cleaned those nasty gashes along your back and hesitated before leaving you all by yourself.

Steve’s jaw is set tightly, like he’s refraining from saying something irreversible, something that could change how you see each other from now on. The slight furrow in his brow looks similar to the one he gives you in the middle of a mission, waiting for your signal to continue. You don’t know if you could live with yourself if that signal never came at this moment.

His breath feels hot and heavy against your face, and you can only imagine that yours feels the same to him. Steve’s eyes have that kind of hesitant determination that you only get to see when he knows he’s making a reckless decision, one that could change the trajectory of an entire operation.

You nod slightly, fingers still tracing along his forearm damp with sweat. What you’re nodding to- you’re really not sure. Maybe you’re telling him that yes, you are here, or maybe you’re telling him that you know exactly what tension he’s feeling around you. Either way, he takes it as an order of such importance that it simply can’t be executed wrong.

Steve takes that as his command, a silent order in the middle of a battlefield.

Slowly, his head dips down closer to yours until your foreheads touch. Neither of you has broken eye contact- you wouldn’t dare. Your lips meet softly, pressing together in the kind of way that only weeks of tension and hesitation could create. Steve is stiff for a moment or two before pressing back, letting his lips move against yours like they’ve waited for decades.

But just as soon as it happened, he pulled away.

It’s not with haste- actually, it almost seems like he had to force himself to do so. You know it’s probably for the better if you don’t continue this right now, especially in the middle of the gym on some dirty training mats. The two of you sit in silence for what feels like forever before he finally lets out a whisper.

“We should-”

“Yeah,” you continued for him, the sentence still left incomplete. You stand from your spot on the floor with ease, and Steve follows from the bench not too long after. Neither of you speaks as you each pack up your belongings, eventually turning off the gym’s lights as you both exit the room.

It feels like the tension might genuinely be impossible to break, but at least he walked you to your room at the end of the night. That is certainly something new.