resident dumbass

The scent of brown sugar and melted butter had become the official perfume of the common floor of Avengers Tower. For the past five days, it had been the only thing that made the vast, glass-walled space feel less like a mausoleum.

You and Peter had a system now. A rhythm born of necessity and a shared, bottomless well of anxiety that neither of you would ever admit to. The mission had been a Big One. The kind where Steve had used his ‘Captain America’ voice, the one that brooked no argument, and had looked at you and Peter with that specific, jaw-set expression that meant don’t even think about it.

So you hadn’t. You’d stayed. You’d watched the Quinjet disappear into a bruised-looking sky and then you’d turned to Peter, who had been shifting his weight from foot to foot, his brown eyes wide and already missing the action.

“Cookies?” you’d asked.

He’d let out a breath, a half-laugh. “Crumble cookies?”

It was your thing. When the world got too loud, or too quiet, or too them, you baked. You baked because it was a controlled chaos, a delicious alchemy that required your full attention. And Peter, your platonic soulmate, the other half of your two-person chaos gremlin unit, was always, always there to lick the spoon.

By day five, the tower had become a strange, suspended universe. You and Peter, tethered by FRIDAY’s calm, omnipresent voice, had fallen into a routine. Wake up, train (you’d only accidentally webbed FRIDAY’s primary sensor array twice), patrol the city in shifts for the small-time crooks who thought the Big Guns being away was an invitation, come back, do homework (Peter grumbling about Decathlon practice, you grumbling about AP Chemistry), and then… the kitchen.

It was your sanctuary. Your domain.

Today, you were going for aesthetic. The crumble cookies were a masterpiece in progress. You had the melted butter cooling in a Pyrex jug, a galaxy of brown and white sugar mounded in a bowl, and a constellation of chocolate chunks—dark, milk, and a few artisanal sea salt ones you’d found in the back of the pantry—waiting to be folded in.

“Okay, so, recipe says ‘lightly dusted with flour’,” Peter announced, his voice muffled as he peered at the tablet propped against the backsplash. A smudge of flour already dusted the bridge of his nose, a testament to his earlier, over-enthusiastic attempt to ‘help’ by sifting. “What does ‘lightly’ even mean? Is that, like, a feather-light tap, or a ‘I’m a ghost from a Victorian novel’ kind of dusting?”

“It means dusted so it looks pretty for Instagram, even though we’re not posting it,” you declared, rolling out the dough on the floured marble countertop. A puff of white powder rose, settling on your forearms and dusting the front of your oversized MIT hoodie—one of Tony’s you’d ‘borrowed’ months ago and never returned. “Aesthetic, Peter. The enemy is dry, crumbly dough. The goal is photogenic, magazine-cover crumbly dough.”

He grinned, that wide, infectious grin that could light up a black hole. “Yes, chef.” He hopped up onto the counter beside you, legs dangling, careful to keep his socked feet out of the flour drift. He was a study in contrasts—a Stark Industries t-shirt, sweats, and his web-shooters still strapped to his wrists out of habit.

This was it. This was your home. Not the glass walls, not the high-tech gym, not the rows of gleaming suits. It was this: golden hour sunlight slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting you both in hues of amber and rose. It was the shared silence punctuated by the thump-thump of your rolling pin and Peter’s quiet humming of the ABBA song that had been stuck in his head for three days. It was the comfortable, electric hum of your friendship, a bond so deep it felt like a shared heartbeat.

“Okay, get the cutter,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face and succeeding only in adding a white streak to it. “The star-shaped one. It’s the most aesthetic.”

“The star-shaped one is also the one that leaves the most dough scraps for me to eat raw,” he pointed out, his eyes sparkling as he hopped off the counter to rummage through the drawer.

“I am aware of your ulterior motives, Parker. I’ve factored them into my aesthetic calculations.”

He returned with the star cutter, holding it aloft like a holy relic. “I love it when you talk cookie theory.”

You were just about to press the cutter into the dough, the moment frozen in a perfect bubble of golden light and shared contentment, when the sound hit.

It was a low, deep, mechanical hum that grew into a roar, shaking the glasses in the cabinets. The Quinjet. Returning.

You and Peter froze, your eyes meeting. For a second, there was pure, unadulterated relief—they were back. Then, a flash of nerves. You’d kept the tower standing, mostly. The city was still there. You hadn’t broken anything… major.

You abandoned the cookie cutter, wiping your floury hands on your jeans as you and Peter scrambled towards the bank of windows that overlooked the landing pad. The Quinjet descended, its landing struts touching down with a hiss of hydraulics.

“They’re back,” Peter breathed, a grin already splitting his face. But it wavered as the ramp lowered.

They looked… wrong.

They filed out like shadows, stripped of their usual post-mission adrenaline. Steve was first, his shield strapped to his back, his uniform torn at the shoulder. He moved with a weariness that had nothing to do with the physical, his face a mask of granite, but his eyes… his eyes were red-rimmed, haunted. Natasha followed, her movements precise as always, but there was a tightness around her mouth, a paleness to her face that no amount of makeup could hide. Thor, his cape dusty and torn, walked with his shoulders bowed, Mjolnir hanging heavy at his side. Clint brought up the rear, his quiver nearly empty, his gaze fixed on the ground.

And then there was Tony.

He was the last to descend. His suit was half-retracted, the faceplate up, revealing a face smudged with grease and grime. He looked ancient in that moment, every year he pretended he didn’t have carved into the lines around his eyes. His movements were stiff, mechanical, as if his joints were screaming in protest. He looked like he’d walked through hell and hadn’t found the energy to brush off the ashes.

Your heart clenched. Peter’s hand found yours, squeezing tight. The comfortable bubble of the kitchen popped, replaced by a cold dread.

But you were the welcome party. You were the sunshine brigade. It was your job.

“You’re back!” Peter called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright, but genuine. You tugged him towards the elevator bank, your feet carrying you forward even as your stomach churned.

“Great job out there!” you added, beaming with a wattage you hoped could cut through the exhaustion. “We missed you guys! We’re making cookies! Crumble cookies! And—and I did my AP Chem homework without even being asked, and we trained every day, and we didn’t break anything, not even the good china!”

You were babbling, you knew it, but the sight of them like this was unsettling. You were trying to fill the heavy silence with the lightness you and Peter always carried.

“We kept the crime rate down by, like, a solid twelve percent!” Peter chimed in, falling into step beside you. “Maybe fourteen! There was this guy trying to steal an ATM with a forklift—super original, right?—but we handled it. No casualties! Except the ATM. It was a goner.”

You reached the central living area just as the Avengers cleared the elevator. Steve managed a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Natasha gave a short, sharp nod. Clint just looked at you both as if memorizing your faces.

But Tony.

Tony had stopped dead in the middle of the floor.

He was staring at you and Peter, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, traced over you. The flour in your hair. Peter’s ABBA-humming lips. The matching smudges on your cheeks. The golden light that haloed you both. The star-shaped cookie cutter still clutched in Peter’s hand. The pure, unadulterated life that radiated from the two of you.

Something in his expression cracked. The armor he wore—not the metal one, the other one, the one made of sarcasm and bravado—splintered and fell away.

You saw the exact moment he made a decision. A physical loosening of his shoulders, a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to drag the weight of the world out with it. A whispered, “To hell with this,” that was more exhale than words.

He started walking towards you.

His gait was uneven, a slight limp you recognized as the one he got when the reactor housing was pinching a nerve in his back. He ignored it. He ignored Steve’s quiet, “Tony…” of warning. He ignored the lingering looks from the others.

He just walked until he reached you and Peter, who were standing side-by-side, frozen in a mix of joy and concern.

He didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his gauntleted hands closing around your upper arms and Peter’s, and he pulled. He pulled you both into him with a force that was surprisingly gentle, a desperate kind of carefulness.

It was a hug. But it was the hug.

He crushed you both against his chest, the cold metal of his half-retracted suit a shock against your cheek, but the heat of him underneath was searing. He wrapped his arms around you, one around each of you, so tightly you could feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of his heart against your ear. He tucked your heads under his chin, your faces pressing into the grimy, sweat-stained collar of his undershirt.

And then he kissed the top of Peter’s head, a firm, fierce press of his lips. Then yours. The same. A benediction. A claim. A prayer answered.

He just held you there.

You were too stunned to move for a second. Tony Stark was many things—brilliant, sarcastic, fiercely protective in a ‘I’ll build you a suit of armor’ kind of way—but he wasn’t usually this. This open. This raw. This present.

Peter, whose love language was physical touch written in neon lights, melted into the hug first. A small, surprised sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sigh, and his arms came up to wrap around Tony’s waist, his face burying into his mentor’s shoulder.

You were a heartbeat behind, your own arms snaking around him. You could feel the tremors running through him, fine and almost imperceptible. You didn’t know what had happened. You didn’t know why he was holding you like he was trying to fuse you to his very bones.

But you didn’t need to know. Not right now.

Right now, all that mattered was the solid, trembling warmth of him, the smell of ozone and sweat and the familiar sandalwood of his cologne, and the way he was cradling the two of you like the most precious things in the universe.

You turned your head, your cheek pressed against his sternum. You caught Peter’s eye over Tony’s arm. His brows were knit together in confusion, but his eyes were shining with a kind of happy, bewildered light. He gave a tiny, minute shrug, his own silent question: What’s this about?

You gave a tiny shake of your head: I don’t know, but we’re not moving.

Behind Tony, the other Avengers had stopped. The heavy, haunted atmosphere had shifted. Steve had one hand pressed over his mouth, his eyes suspiciously bright. Natasha’s hand was on Clint’s arm, her grip tight, her expression softer than you’d ever seen it. Thor bowed his head, a single, enormous hand resting on Steve’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment.

They knew.

They had all been in the grip of that mutant’s power. They had all seen things. Heard things. Felt things they would never un-feel.

For Tony, it had been you. And Peter. The hallucinations had been tailor-made for his greatest fear, the one that lived in the darkest, most sarcasm-proof part of his heart. He’d seen you suit up, too young, too reckless, trying to follow him into a fight you couldn’t win. He’d seen Peter, his kid, his brilliant, innocent, good kid, catch a blast meant for him. He’d held you both as you bled out in his arms, your eyes going dim, your hands going slack, your voices—those voices that filled his tower with laughter and ABBA songs and chatter about aesthetic crumble cookies—going silent. Forever.

For five days, he’d fought through hell with those images seared into his brain. Every explosion, every close call, his mind had superimposed your faces over the danger. He’d come back half-convinced he’d find a cold, empty tower. A note on the counter. Or worse, FRIDAY delivering the news he’d dreaded.

Instead, he’d found this.

Flour in your hair. A star-shaped cookie cutter. Golden light. Homework done. Nothing broken. The sweet, cloying scent of brown sugar and butter. His kids, his bright, beautiful, impossible kids, safe and whole and home.

He held you tighter, a low, shuddering breath escaping him. His fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie—his hoodie—and into the back of Peter’s shirt, anchoring himself to the present, to the warmth of you both, to the simple, miraculous fact that you were here.

“Missed you guys,” he mumbled into your hair, his voice wrecked, a raw, gravelly thing that was nothing like his usual sardonic drawl. “So much.”

Peter sniffled, and you knew him well enough to know he was trying not to cry. “Missed you too, Mr. Stark. The tower is so boring without you. FRIDAY won’t even let us use the good waffle iron.”

A choked sound escaped Tony, something between a laugh and a sob. “Good. That thing’s a fire hazard.”

You just pressed yourself closer, letting your own relief flood through you. The tension you’d been carrying for five days, the fear you’d buried under cookie dough and patrols, dissolved. He was here. They were all here. And despite the exhaustion and the haunted looks, they were alive.

You didn’t know why he was hugging you like you were the only solid things in a world that had turned to quicksand. You didn’t know about the mutant, the hallucinations, the nightmares he’d fought through. You just knew that Tony Stark, who showed his love through inventions and witty banter and acts of service so grand they reshaped the world, was holding you and Peter in the middle of his filthy battle suit, kissing your foreheads, and shaking with a relief so profound it was tangible.

And that was enough.

The golden light had shifted, deepening to a richer, more profound orange. It painted the three of you in a tableau of warmth—the exhausted hero, his two flour-dusted kids, wrapped together in the middle of the living room, a silent, fierce act of love that said more than any words could.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and no time at all, Tony’s grip loosened. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes moving from your face to Peter’s, then back again. His gaze was still raw, still too bright, but there was a steadiness there now, a quiet foundation of peace.

He reached up, with a hand that trembled only slightly, and wiped a smudge of flour from your cheek with his thumb. Then he did the same to Peter’s nose, a ghost of his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve got… stuff,” he said, his voice still rough, but warming. “All over your faces. It’s a very… rustic look. Very artisanal.”

“We were making cookies,” you said softly, your voice finally finding its footing. “For you guys. For when you got back.”

“They’re crumble cookies,” Peter added, holding up the star cutter like a peace offering. “They’re gonna be super aesthetic.”

Tony stared at the star-shaped cutter for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked back at you, at Peter, at the kitchen behind you with its galaxy of ingredients and its mess of flour and its promise of something sweet and handmade.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice a low rumble. He cleared his throat, and you saw the mask of Iron Man, the one made of wit and deflection, start to slide back into place. But it was different now. It was thinner, more transparent. Underneath it, you could still see him. The real him. “Well, what are we standing around here for? I was promised cookies. And I better get the first one. I’m the one who just saved the world. Again. It’s in my contract. Clause 47, subsection B.”

He released you both fully, stepping back, and the sudden absence of his warmth was a physical shock. But he didn’t go far. He reached out, one hand landing on Peter’s shoulder, the other coming to rest on the back of your neck, a grounding, possessive touch.

He steered you both back towards the kitchen, towards the flour-dusted counter and the waiting dough. Behind you, you heard Steve let out a long, slow breath. “I’ll get the plates,” he said, his voice thick.

“I’ll get the milk,” Natasha added, her tone lighter than it had been a moment ago.

The tower was no longer a mausoleum. It was filling with the sounds of movement, of quiet words, of life returning. And at the center of it all was the kitchen, bathed in the last of the golden light, where Tony Stark stood with his hand on his kids, watching you press a star-shaped cutter into the dough, a small, unguarded, deeply relieved smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

This was home. And they were all finally, finally back in it.

❤️‍🔥 ⌯⌲ smut

Bucky Barnes

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐶𝑅𝑌𝐵𝐴𝐵𝑌 જ⁀➴ It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 11.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐶𝑅𝑈𝑆𝐻𝐸𝐷! જ⁀➴ Bucky does not trust you. And don't ask him whether it's just a shoddy attempt to grapple with a crush - because it's most certainly not. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 13𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑇𝑂𝑈𝐺𝐻 𝑃𝐼𝐿𝐿 જ⁀➴ You think Bucky may have an intense, innate hatred for you - something he is powerless to fight. You couldn't be more wrong. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.8𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠

𝐹𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅 𝐹𝐼𝐺𝑈𝑅𝐸 જ⁀➴ You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑆𝑈𝐵𝑈𝑅𝐵𝐴𝑁 𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐷𝑆 જ⁀➴ You're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. It's too bad that Bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. When you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠

𝐵𝐿𝑈𝑆𝐻 જ⁀➴ After you confided in Bucky about your past, he began to ice you out - shooting you dirty looks instead of his usual smiles... especially when he sees you blushing for Steve. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.2𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝐵𝑅𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻 𝑌𝑂𝑈 𝑇𝐴𝐾𝐸 જ⁀➴ 15.9𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠, unfinished

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 9.5𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜 6.4𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

જ⁀➴ When Bucky's close friend is found murdered, he resolves to stop at nothing until he catches the killer. This, unfortunately, means protecting you; his friend's old mentee and the next target for the attacks. You are abrasive, reckless and vexing - but Bucky can't help but find himself slipping into obsession as lines blur between duty and desire. ❤️‍🔥

Dean Winchester

𝑆𝐸𝑅𝐼𝐸𝑆

𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐾𝑁𝑂𝐶𝐾𝑆 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ongoing

Dean is not in the habit of accepting help - especially not from rich, pretty college girls - but this time it really can't be helped. Badly injured and without his Baby, he is forced to take a lift from you for one long road trip to try to save Sam. He finds there are worse things than playing passenger princess. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 42𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 (when complete) ❤️‍🔥

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐴𝐿𝐿 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑁𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝑆 (𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐷𝐴𝑌𝑆 𝑇𝑂𝑂) જ⁀➴ You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 11.8𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑀𝐴𝑌𝐵𝐸 𝑆𝑂𝑀𝐸𝑂𝑁𝐸 જ⁀➴ Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐺𝑂𝐿𝐷 𝑅𝑈𝑆𝐻 જ⁀➴ You know Dean and you know he's not exactly boyfriend material. But maybe he could be good for you, if you'd only give him a chance. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Steve Rogers

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐷𝑂𝐺 𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐸 જ⁀➴ Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Clark Kent

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐺𝑅𝑂𝑊𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑃𝐴𝐼𝑁𝑆 જ⁀➴ You had spent a large proportion of your life in love with Clark Kent. He had spent a large proportion of his life avoiding you, honouring the boundary that Jimmy had always set. When you can no longer deny the draw you have to each other, it's Clark's insistence on keeping your relationship a secret that threatens to break you apart. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

———

SEASON ONE.

chapter one - the vanishing of will byers

summary: you bump into your irritating ex boyfriend and his clan of idiots, finds out will byers is missing, babysit dustin who ends up being the bane of your existence and find a little girl in the woods. overall, a casual day for you.

chapter two - the weirdo on maple street

summary: you watch your ex flirt with nancy wheeler, find out something very interesting about the little girl from the woods and have an uncomfortable dinner with the wheeler’s and the kids. your ex boyfriend calls you and you can’t help but have a conversation with him.

chapter three - holly, jolly

summary: you find out about steve and nancy having sex with ends in a blowout between you and him, but when your dad comes home with news on will none of that seems important.

chapter four - the body

summary: the kids have news on will, you bond with el, mike asks too many personal questions and you find out someone else has gone missing. you and steve have a heart to heart but it leaves you feeling even worse.

chapter five - the flea and the acrobat

summary: will’s funeral commences but the kids tell you he’s still alive, you just can’t get to him yet. you have a conversation with your old science teacher and dustin notices something’s wrong with the compasses. a fight breaks out between mike and lucas and you lose el. steve drops you home and is the kindest he’s been in months, your mom calls leaving you in despair.

chapter six - the monster

summary: you and the boys visit lucas, but he’s not up for joining you in the hunt for el. steve has some nasty things to say to jonathon and you’re not impressed. in better news, you find el safe and uninjured. now you just have to find will.

chapter seven - the bathtub

summary: lucas warns you about the ‘bad men’ and all of you meet up, el throws a van with her mind and the kids finally make up. your dad shows up saves you and all of you are finally reunited. el can find will in the bathtub so you head to the school and set up; giving her an option to leave. you find out will is alive and joyce and your dad take off to find him. nancy, you and jonathon have a plan of your own.

chapter eight - the upside down

summary: after setting up and waiting for the demogorgon, steve decides to turn up. after the fight, you head to the hospital and get to see will; but find out el didn’t make it. steve and you talk and you decide to think with your head rather than your heart.

IN BETWEEN.

the return

summary: hopper has a surprise for you hidden in his cabin and you’re thrilled with what it is. your life just got a whole lot more complicated.

movie blues

summary: you and steve bump into one another and try to be ‘friends’, you come to the conclusion that you’re not sure you can be his friend.

SEASON TWO.

chapter nine - mad max

summary: you meet the new kid, billy hargrove, avoid steve like your life depends on it and get invited to tina’s ‘halloween bash’.

chapter ten - trick or treat, freak

summary: you go tina’s ‘halloween bash’ and make some drunken mistakes, you and steve are back to not getting along and your dad for the first time ever acts soft after you’ve annoyed him.

chapter eleven - the pollywog

summary: you’re too hungover to deal with el and hopper’s arguing and gym class. you have an altercation with billy and learn just how awfully he takes rejection and then you bump into a very worried joyce byers.

chapter twelve - will the wise

summary: will’s having the worst time of his life, you stick around with joyce to take care of him. he draws what he’s seeing and your dad decides to take off on his own when he discovers what the drawings are; typical men.

chapter thirteen - dig dug

summary: will tells you some worrying news about your dad and you decide to go out and look for him on your own, but that ends up with you bumping into steve and dustin and being dragged into dustin’s problem.

chapter fourteen - the spy

summary: you, dustin and steve have to go out and look for dart and he decides to give dustin some relationship advice. you’re joined by max and lucas and steve decides to use himself as bait to catch dart; it doesn’t go to plan.

chapter fifteen - the mind flayer

summary: you, steve and the kids bump into nancy and jonathon and end up finding everyone else; including your alive dad. someone didn’t make it. back at the byers’ house, steve cleans up your wound and you have some realisations. the lot of you work out a way to communicate with will and there’s a special visitor.

chapter sixteen - the gate

DENNIS REYNOLDS X READER

This is an ongoing series with the same reader throughout, but they can easily be read as standalone fics and still make sense without the subtle linking to others xoxo

DENNIS ALMOST SLEEPS WITH A HIGHSCHOOLER

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: After the gang realise they’ve accidentally become a gay bar, Mac gets Dennis violently and dangerously drunk from tequila shots (S1E1). The next morning he wakes up hungover with gaps in his memory. And you in his bed fast asleep next to him.

DENNIS BANGED A COLLEGE STUDENT

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Dennis thought that drunkenly sleeping with an 18 year old would be a blip on his radar, much like it was a blip in his faded memories. He’d never have to see you again he thought, you were out of his hair. Yet several months later he meets you again.

THE GANG TRY NOT TO BE A BAD INFLUENCE

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Being under 21 didn’t stop you from somehow becoming a part of the gang’s lives, so they make a pact amongst themselves to try and be good influences on you.

LEGAL DRINKING AGE

Word Count: 1.7k

Request: can you pls write something around the gang teasing reader about being younger than them all the time and the age gap between her and Dennis like saying she has a bed time and stuff

Summary: On your 21st birthday, you waltz into Paddy’s with your fancy new ID card, demanding your first legal alcoholic drink.

LEGAL DRINKING AGE PART 2 🌶️ SMUT

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Your 21st birthday had rolled around, and the gang had thrown you a last minute party on the roof of Paddy’s. It wasn’t just a celebration of being able to legally drink, it was a celebration of Dennis being able to finally make his mark on you. He’d promised the gang to not be his usually sleazy, sexual self towards you until now so you bet your ass he was going to claim his reward.

THE GANG BECOME COLLEGE GRADUATES

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: After an unsuccessful attempt at recruiting flip cup talent at Dennis’ old fraternity, the gang figure they could gate crash whatever party you were going to after graduation to find players. They just had to sit through the boring commencement ceremony first… Drunk as shit.

FRANK LIES TO YOUR COLLEGE PROFESSORS

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: After being mistaken for your father by a college professor, Frank plays along as he boasts that all three of his kids attended Penn. Only two of them graduated though. One was institutionalised. Oh! And two of them have fucked each other.

DENNIS DESTROYS YOUR RELATIONSHIP

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Dennis had everything planned out for you in his head. You’d turned 21 now, recently graduated college, and you’d started to kind of work at Paddy’s. Well, you were there multiple times a week so it basically counted. All he had to do now was wait for you to desperately beg him for sex… Which still wasn’t happening. Why? Because you’d gone and gotten yourself a stupid little boyfriend. Shit. That wasn’t part of Dennis’ plan. Not part of the plan at all.

JUST A PRECAUTION PART 1

Word Count: 2.8k

Request: Okay hear me out. A Joe Goldberg and Love Quinn situation where Dennis is stalking reader but reader has been doing it to him as well ~(˘▽˘~)THEN THEY BONE KABLAM!!!

Summary: Dennis has taken a liking to you, trying to learn as much as he can about you in some rather unorthodox ways…

JUST A PRECAUTION PART 2 🌶️ SMUT

Word Count: 9k

Summary: Freshly single, you’d just moved into your first apartment. Dennis knew that you were lonely, heartbroken and emotionally vulnerable from the breakup and the stark change from a college dorm room to the beginnings of adulthood. He breaks in one night to learn more about you and that very same night, you get attacked by a stranger on the street. Scared senseless, you call Dennis and he swoops in to play the white knight to keep you safe for the night. Perfect… His plan was playing out exactly how he’d wanted it to. He just needed it to end with sex.

MAC GETS KICKED OUT

Word Count: 3.1k

Request: omfg i looooved how mac had a grudge against younger reader in your latest post 😂 does he ever warm up to the reader or is he salty forever lol

Summary: After Dennis gets married to his high school girlfriend Maureen Ponderosa in a whirlwind 24 hours of reconnecting with her, Mac and Reader bond over a newfound hatred.

THE PUSSY METHOD VS THE DENNIS SYSTEM

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: Dennis’ system to manipulate women was morally bankrupt and unethically wrong on so many levels, you and the gang knew that. You also knew that it was a formula that had worked on nearly every woman but you. Why? Because you had your own modus operandi for maintaining power over men

DENNIS CATCHES THE FLU

Word Count: 3.8k

Request: I feel like Dennis is SO dramatic when he’s sick. Like peak manflu. Do you have any headcannons (maybe with younger!reader) about him having a cold and being a drama queen?

BEING UN-D.E.N.N.I.S-ABLE

Word Count: 4.4k

Request: Plss write abt dennis and younger reader when they are in a relationship

DENNIS VS. VALENTINES

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Everybody in the gang knows Dennis hates Valentine’s Day with a passion. Of course he does, he never gets any gifts. They expect him to be tense and miserable every year but this year he takes his anger out on you. Then, you surprise him with a gift.

READER X THE GANG

FRANK GETS RUN OVER

Word Count: 740

Summary: You accidentally hit Frank with your car whilst pulling out from the kerb. The least you could do is drive the poor bloody nosed man to the hospital, right?

THE GANG EXPANDS PART 1

Word Count: 620

Summary: When Dee meets a potential new hire for the bar, the gang decide to give you an interview. They decide the best way to determine if you’re a good fit at Paddy’s is to play Chardee Macdennis with you.

THE GANG EXPANDS PART 2

Word Count: 410

Summary: You agreed to play Chardee Macdennis with the gang as a form of ‘job interview’. The level 3 card you pull poses the question of how far is too far?

CHARLIE DATES ONLINE

Word Count: 182

Summary: Charlie thinks lying on a dating profile like Mac and Dennis suggested to do feels icky, so he comes to you for a ‘real life’ female opinion.

CHARLIE CAN DO MATH ?

Word Count: 292

Summary: Whilst ranting about women, Dennis fears that Charlie is secretly a lot smarter than they thought. Not only do they suspect he can spell, but he can also divide…

THE LIME DEBATE

Word Count: 444

Summary: You walk into Paddy’s right in the middle of the lime debate so the boys turn to you to be the one to settle the score.

THE GANG TRIES TO DO SOMETHING GOOD

Word Count: 333

Summary: You and the gang help Charlie put the stray cats he ‘lives with’ up for adoption.

FIRST TIME MEETING CRICKET HEADCANON

Word Count: 258

Summary: Just a few lil headcanons about mistaking Cricket for a mugger on the streets

THE GANG SINGS ABOUT RACISM AGAIN

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: When the gang wake up in different bodies again, they’re quick to realise they mustn’t have learnt their lesson. You didn’t wake up in a different body though, so you assume that these strangers have broken into the bar.

MAC AND CHARLIE CHILDHOOD HEADCANONS

Word Count: 2.1k

Request: Hiiii :3 Can you pretty please write some headcanons about Mac and Charlie growing up together??? I love your writing so much thank you for your contribution

CHARLIE KELLY X READER

MAKING CHARLIE CLEAN

Word Count: 547

Request: i want charlie so bad but i know that man does not shower and i just have to live with knowing that i probably would still do it

SHOWERING WITH CHARLIE HEADCANON

Word Count: 351

Request: the idea of showering with charlie is so cute. i think he would really appreciate the non sexual intimacy. and if he really liked u it could be intimate in other ways too 👀

WHAT IT’S LIKE DATING CHARLIE KELLY

Word Count: 877

Request: the world needs more charlie x reader thank you for doing your part. do u have any headcanons on what it's like dating him

CHARLIE HAS A CRUSH

Word Count: 2.4k

Request: Also may I request a Charlie fic where it’s just about stupid things/ habits he has when he has a crush on the reader. Like she’s not fully apart of the gang but she’s a regular at paddy’s lol. Thanks

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SEASON ONE.

chapter one - the vanishing of will byers

summary: you bump into your irritating ex boyfriend and his clan of idiots, finds out will byers is missing, babysit dustin who ends up being the bane of your existence and find a little girl in the woods. overall, a casual day for you.

chapter two - the weirdo on maple street

summary: you watch your ex flirt with nancy wheeler, find out something very interesting about the little girl from the woods and have an uncomfortable dinner with the wheeler’s and the kids. your ex boyfriend calls you and you can’t help but have a conversation with him.

chapter three - holly, jolly

summary: you find out about steve and nancy having sex with ends in a blowout between you and him, but when your dad comes home with news on will none of that seems important.

chapter four - the body

summary: the kids have news on will, you bond with el, mike asks too many personal questions and you find out someone else has gone missing. you and steve have a heart to heart but it leaves you feeling even worse.

chapter five - the flea and the acrobat

summary: will’s funeral commences but the kids tell you he’s still alive, you just can’t get to him yet. you have a conversation with your old science teacher and dustin notices something’s wrong with the compasses. a fight breaks out between mike and lucas and you lose el. steve drops you home and is the kindest he’s been in months, your mom calls leaving you in despair.

chapter six - the monster

summary: you and the boys visit lucas, but he’s not up for joining you in the hunt for el. steve has some nasty things to say to jonathon and you’re not impressed. in better news, you find el safe and uninjured. now you just have to find will.

chapter seven - the bathtub

summary: lucas warns you about the ‘bad men’ and all of you meet up, el throws a van with her mind and the kids finally make up. your dad shows up saves you and all of you are finally reunited. el can find will in the bathtub so you head to the school and set up; giving her an option to leave. you find out will is alive and joyce and your dad take off to find him. nancy, you and jonathon have a plan of your own.

chapter eight - the upside down

summary: after setting up and waiting for the demogorgon, steve decides to turn up. after the fight, you head to the hospital and get to see will; but find out el didn’t make it. steve and you talk and you decide to think with your head rather than your heart.

IN BETWEEN.

the return

summary: hopper has a surprise for you hidden in his cabin and you’re thrilled with what it is. your life just got a whole lot more complicated.

movie blues

summary: you and steve bump into one another and try to be ‘friends’, you come to the conclusion that you’re not sure you can be his friend.

SEASON TWO.

chapter nine - mad max

summary: you meet the new kid, billy hargrove, avoid steve like your life depends on it and get invited to tina’s ‘halloween bash’.

chapter ten - trick or treat, freak

summary: you go tina’s ‘halloween bash’ and make some drunken mistakes, you and steve are back to not getting along and your dad for the first time ever acts soft after you’ve annoyed him.

chapter eleven - the pollywog

summary: you’re too hungover to deal with el and hopper’s arguing and gym class. you have an altercation with billy and learn just how awfully he takes rejection and then you bump into a very worried joyce byers.

chapter twelve - will the wise

summary: will’s having the worst time of his life, you stick around with joyce to take care of him. he draws what he’s seeing and your dad decides to take off on his own when he discovers what the drawings are; typical men.

chapter thirteen - dig dug

summary: will tells you some worrying news about your dad and you decide to go out and look for him on your own, but that ends up with you bumping into steve and dustin and being dragged into dustin’s problem.

chapter fourteen - the spy

chapter fifteen - the mind flayer

chapter sixteen - the gate