fanfic-idjit

hunts always ended in different ways.

sometimes going back to the motel or bunker to shower and relax, going to the closest diner to eat, share some pie. other times you’d go out for drinks, spend a little time at the local bar.

every time, it would be you, dean and sam. just the three of you. often just you and dean at times when you wanted to be alone together.

it wasn’t often that you’d work a case with other hunters. maybe some old friends that sam or dean knew, people they’d worked with before, some that john knew before he passed.

while working the case, you’d stick with dean, pair off with him, do research and questioning with him. you weren’t all that fond of being around people you didn’t know, especially other guys. dean always understood that, made sure you were comfortable the whole time.

the hunt was fine, you didn’t mind that much. it didn’t even bother you when you had some lengthy discussions with one of the other hunters.

when it did start bothering you? one of the guys suggesting going out for drinks. knowing a bar that hunters often went to was close by. of course you’d all said yes, even though you knew it might not be your favourite way to settle down after a hunt.

it started off with everyone getting drinks, sat together to talk over the hunt, some teasing here and there for different techniques. until slowly a few would break off, have smaller talks.

first, was a few of the other hunters, then sam got up, going to talk to the guy he’d worked with on research for part of today. you thought you’d get some time with dean finally, until one of the guys called him over from across the bar.

“will you be alright for a couple minutes, sweetheart?” dean looked to you, saw you glancing over to the hunter. “or you can come over too.”

a shake of your head, “you go ahead,” you smile. “i’ll stay here. just me and my cocktail will be just fine.”

dean chuckled softly as he stood, leaning to kiss your cheek before heading to the bar. he’d been sipping on a beer, taking it with him as you saw him sitting down, already getting to chatting.

the lead hunter of the group went over shortly, starting a longer conversation. you were okay on your own, thinking you’d have some peace for a while. until one of the girls you’d worked with earlier in the day plopped onto the seat opposite you.

“nice work today,” she began, then motioning over to dean at the bar. “you two make a good team.”

“thanks,” a short but friendly reply. “big group you got going on.”

you looked around, feeling like half the bar was taken up just with them. it was different to you, dean and sam. with the addition of castiel being around sometimes. you functioned better in a small group.

“it works,” she shrugged. “we all have our place, what we do best, you know?”

you brought your drink up to your lips again, taking a bigger gulp as another joined you, this time sitting beside you. you sucked in a long breath, eyeing dean still talking. thinking you should’ve opted to go back to your motel room.

it wasn’t long before the conversations got flowing, starting off with you talking a little, and it got less and less as the night went on. maybe feeling a little drained, battery run out, too many people when usually you’d be curled up in dean’s arms by now.

instinctively, you reached for your necklace. something you often did without thinking, any time you were uncomfortable in a situation. moved the pendant back and forth, fiddled with it in your palm, it helped you to calm down.

the necklace being a gift from dean helped a lot. he got it a while back, something he thought you might like. a little heart on a silver chain, one you almost never took off now.

you would’ve stayed distracted, calming down, if your phone hadn’t buzzed in your pocket.

unsure of who would be texting you, since you could see sam across the room, dean was at the bar…

you pulled your phone from your pocket, switching on the front screen to see a notification from none other than dean. your brows furrowed, clicking his name to check the text.

dean: do you wanna leave?

oblivious, you didn’t know why he was asking. you glanced to him, saw he was talking again. under the bar, his phone was resting on his thigh, his hand over it as if waiting to feel the vibration of a notification.

you replied back,

no we can stay longer if you want

watching as he placed his beer down, turned his attention to his phone screen for a minute. you looked away again, sipping on your drink once more while zoning in and out of the conversation at your table.

dean: you’re sure?

you cleared your throat, smiling at sam as he walked past to head to the bathroom, one of the girls asking you a quick question. something about what bullets you’d used on the hunt today, to which you gave a fast answer.

then you quickly replied to dean again,

yea, why wouldn’t i be

turning off your phone this time, you expected him to carry on, probably get another drink, engage further into these lore conversations that seemed to be going on.

when, again, another vibration from your pocket.

dean: you’re fiddling with your necklace

you lifted your gaze to him again, he gave a quick look, small wave. then you sent an immediate reply with a slight frown.

how on earth could you have noticed that from over there

not that you saw, but a small smile grew on dean’s face as he read your reply. you’d been together for long enough that he knew your tells, knew what you did when you were uncomfortable. knew when he needed to get you out of there even if you didn’t say it yourself.

dean: you’re the only thing i notice sweetheart

before you had time to reply, you felt a hand on your shoulder, causing you to look up. right there, dean stood behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders gently as he leaned forwards.

“i don’t mean to interrupt, ladies,” he gave a nod towards them. “it’s getting a little late, think we should head out.”

nobody minding at all, dean took your hand, helping you to get up and out of your chair, seeing sam waiting at the door once you were standing.

leading the way, dean’s hand your back as you waked towards the impala, he unlocked it, sam getting in first. leaving time for you and dean to stand back for a moment.

“how you feeling?” dean asked, gentle palm cupping your cheek as if to check you over. “anything you need?”

a head shake, “i’m fine, dean, really.”

he grumbled slightly, “you’re stubborn, you know that?” your brow furrowed. “you’re overwhelmed, you’re still fiddling.”

that’s when your hand stopped, realising you had reached for your necklace again without even knowing it. not until dean pointed it out. you closed your eyes, sighing.

“it’s okay if you are, baby, this was a little out of your comfort zone, huh?” he stepped closer, taking your hand in his instead. “we can go back to the motel, or drop sammy off and get pie. just the two of us, like it usually is.”

you thought for a minute, looking to the ground first, to where you could see sam in the car, then back to dean. seeing his eyes shining in the light, how he just wanted to make sure you were okay before going anywhere.

how he always knew how you were feeling was beyond you. he seemed to notice it before you did yourself these days.

“maybe pie,” you mumbled.

“yea?” dean’s lips ever so gently curved into a smile. “we can get pie.”

you nodded, smiling softly as you let yourself fall against him. his arms wrapping around you in an instant. he felt as your fingers gripped onto his shirt, letting you release just a touch of the tension you were feeling.

“it’s okay, sweetheart, i’ve got you,” he kissed the top of your hair, rocking you back and forth to add to the comfort he knew you needed.

“love you, de,” you mumbled into his chest, blushing softly. something you still always did.

dean moved back just an inch, holding your chin between thumb and index finger to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

“love you too, sweetheart,” he moved back after, opening up the passenger side door for you. “now let’s go get some pie, hm?”

a slow nod, you climbed into the car, smiling back at sam, where he often was since dean wanted you to be up front. dean got in right after, starting up the impala to leave the busy bar, ready to end the night on a calm and quiet note with pie.

And your father would have done anything to bring you back, he would have done what they asked of him and ten other things that were just as bad. But the police wouldn’t let him. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” they said. All your father could think of was that he would negotiate with the devil himself if it would guarantee him your freedom.

Hydra told him, no police, no Avengers, and no attempts to cancel the gala. Otherwise, heads would roll.

At first, he thought they were empty threats meant to scare him or some jovial prank gone too far, so he called the police, just to make sure, because who were these Hydra folk anyway?

Then a video arrived the following morning: grainy footage of you bound to a chair while a Hydra operative calmly listed the names and home addresses of every employee working the charity event.

They weren’t bluffing.

So the gala continued.

Guests arrived dressed in designer gowns and tailored suits. At the same time, armed officers hid among them in silence, pretending this was still a celebration instead of a hostage situation waiting to implode.

And you stood beneath crystal chandeliers in a ballroom full of wealthy strangers, dressed for your own execution.

The gown they’d forged you into was a violent shade of red, the same red as the hydra insignia you’d been looking at for three days straight. Layers of tule brushed against your legs with every step. A black corset cinched your waist so tightly your lungs burned.

Alexander Fisher grabbed your arm tightly, making sure it would bruise. His breath fanned your cheek before he bit a command. “Behave,” and the sound of his voice alone made you shiver. His hand moved towards the small of your back to slow for your liking. “Cause a scene,” he continued softly, “and I’ll give you something to scream about.” Then he smiled at you. 

And you forced yourself to smile back.

When you looked across the room, there was something truly not worthy. You didn’t see an escape. You didn’t see your father. You only saw people enjoying the festivities, browsing around the room. Pepper potts talking with a colleague of your father. A woman with red hair dressed in black was smiling and pretending to drink the champagne. Another woman further ahead who looked way too young to be here, and a man with longer hair, with his back towards you, a glass of whiskey in his gloved hand.

The Avengers were scattered around the room, careful not to stand out. They had promised discretion after all, but Steve wouldn’t let Hydra just go around doing what they pleased.

So he was sitting outside on a bench in the park, far enough that he wouldn’t cause suspicion, but close enough to still see everything.

He kept his head down, but inside, the anger was stirring.

It wasn’t like him to sit here and do nothing. Hydra had threatened the mayor of New York City. This couldn’t stay unpunished. 

Meanwhile you were still trying to control your breathing. Looking around for a way out, for something, anything.

But Fisher kept you very close, one hand around your body, the other tucked into his jacket pocket, fingers curled around the handle of a gun. Every exit of the ballroom was guarded, every window sealed.

There was nowhere to run.

Then came your salvation.

A waiter stumbled over a loose cable.

The lights snapped out. Glass rippled over the floor, gasps rippled through the large space, just as a spotlight illuminated your father stepping onto the stage, looking rather concerned.

Champagne crashed across Alexander's suit.

And for one glorious second, his hand left you.

You ran.

The sound of gunfire exploded behind you almost instantly.

Screams echo’d through the ballroom, people ducked down and fled out of the building. Your heels crashed against the stone flooring, your hands holding the red tule up. You heard Fisher scream from the inside, but you paid it no mind. You had to get out of there.

And the moment you were almost out, a bullet flew by your ear, hitting the marble doorpost beside you. You didn’t look back, just kicked away your shoes, so you could run even faster.

Outside, the cold night air tore into your lungs as you bolted across the street towards the park bordering the gala hall. The tulle of your dress tangled around your legs while distant sirens echoed somewhere downtown.

You just needed people.

Noise.

Anywhere Hydra wouldn’t dare kill you publicly.

When Steve heard the gunshots coming from the gala hall, he was up. His soldier senses were back on, and the grubby feeling of not being able to help was gone.

He was here, and he was going to do whatever he could to protect the people inside from Hydra.

Then he saw her.

A woman dressed in red came tearing through the park like something out of a nightmare.

Barefoot.

Terrified.

The gown trailing behind her looked expensive enough to belong on a runway, but there was dirt smeared along the hem and panic written across every inch of her face. Loose curls had fallen from the pins in her hair, and blood streaked one ankle.

She looked over her shoulder instead of where she was going.

Straight into him.

Steve caught her before she hit the pavement.

For half a second, she simply stared at him.

Wide eyes. Shaking breaths. Fear and disbelief tangled together so intensely it almost knocked the air from his lungs.

“You’re okay,” Steve said quickly, steadying her upright.

Another gunshot cracked through the trees.

Her entire body tensed.

Right. Running. She’d been running.

Steve maneuvered himself before the woman in red, whom he had recognized as the mayor's daughter after looking at her in the dim light. His shield held before them, shooting a quick message towards Tony and Sam, who were positioned somewhere in a surveillance van.

Steve shoved the woman behind him just as gunfire erupted through the trees.

Bullets ricocheted off the vibranium shield with deafening clangs. He felt her freeze beneath him, but to his surprise, she didn’t make a sound.

Three men emerged from the darkness of the park paths, dressed in black tactical gear marked with the crimson Hydra insignia. Alexander strode between them, champagne still staining the front of his suit.

“There she is,” he called calmly, as if this were all some amusing game. “You’ve been very difficult tonight, sweetheart.”

And when he looked at the way her face scrunched up, he was sure that if given the chance, she would have spit in his face. She was trouble, and something inside him lit up at the fact.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered quietly.

One of the agents opened fire again.

Steve moved instantly.

The shield slammed into the gunman’s chest hard enough to throw him backwards into a stone bench. Before the second man could react, Steve crossed the distance between them in seconds, wrenching the rifle from his hands and driving his elbow into the man’s throat.

A sharp crack echoed through the park.

The third operative charged from the side.

Steve ducked beneath the swing of a combat knife and drove the edge of his shield into the man’s ribs hard enough to send him sprawling across the gravel path.

Then Alexander fired.

Not at Steve.

At her.

Steve turned on instinct, catching the bullet against the shield barely inches from her shoulder.

Alexander smiled.

“Always the hero.”

Steve advanced slowly, positioning himself between Hydra and the beautiful woman clutching handfuls of red tulle behind him. She had a wide stance, like she was readying herself to do something, run or fight, he didn’t know, but he really hoped she knew that this wasn’t the time to use her self-defence training on trained soldiers carrying loaded weapons.

“You’re done,” Steve said coldly.

“Oh, Captain,” Alexander sighed. “You really think this ends tonight?”

Then, more gunfire exploded from deeper within the gala hall.

Steve’s comm crackled to life.

“Cap,” Sam’s voice barked sharply. “We’ve got movement inside. Multiple Hydra agents.”

But Steve couldn’t move. You needed him right there.

“Already handling it,” Bucky interrupted.

A golden streak tore across the night sky.

Iron Man landed between Steve and the remaining operatives with enough force to crack the pavement beneath him.

“Well,” Tony said dryly, repulsors glowing bright in the darkness, “this seems dramatically unhealthy.”

One Hydra soldier raised his weapon.

Tony blasted it from his hands instantly. “You know,” he continued casually, “there are easier ways to get kicked out of a charity gala.”

Alexander cursed under his breath before disappearing backward into the trees.

“Wilson’s tracking him,” Tony said immediately before Steve could move. “Go.”

Steve hesitated.

Not because of Hydra. But because of the woman behind him. She saw deathly pale, and he had an inkling that all the adrenaline had left her body.

Tony’s helmet retracted slightly as he glanced toward her, his expression softening for only a second.

“I’ve got this, Rogers.”

Steve looked back at her. Loose curls. Bare feet stained red. Fear was still written across every inch of her face despite the fight being over. And somehow beneath it all, he didn’t see a scared woman, he saw someone who had broken free of her captors. 

And he couldn’t help but feel admiration. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned towards her. 

“At ease, soldier,” He said to lighten the mood a little. “We got you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. And it felt like a weight was lifted off of you. The sounds of sirens and shouting echoed through the park while agents rushed past them toward the gala hall, but Steve barely noticed any of it.

Because you were still standing there, without shoes and breathing like every inhale hurt. But you were still standing, and somehow you were still holding yourself together.

You straightened slightly at his words, the softness in his tone releasing some of the tension in your gut. And all you wanted to do at that moment was let yourself fall on the ground and sleep for a week. But you couldn’t do that. Not yet. So instead, you lifted your head towards Captain America, and you said the least truthful words to ever come out of any woman's mouth. 

“I’m fine,” 

But Steve wasn’t born yesterday, and he had been living with two women for a few years now, so he knew exactly what that meant. So instead of believing you at your word, he gave you a once-over. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the red streaks dug into your shoulder, the bruise on your cheekbone that had been covered with makeup, and finally, the wounds on the back of your feet caused by you running barefoot.

“Right,” he said gently. “Clearly.”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face before she looked away.

That was when he noticed it.

You weren’t scared, you were exhausted. The kind that settled deep in the bones after days without safety. He saw your fingers still clutched handfuls of red tulle so tightly your knuckles had gone white. Like, if you let go now, you might fall apart with it.

And suddenly Steve understood.

The adrenaline was wearing off.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched down in front of you.

Immediately, your posture shifted again, guarded this time, uncertain. But when you remembered it wasn’t Hydra standing before you but Captain America, you relaxed a little.

“It’s okay,” he reassured softly. “Just give me a second.”

A few feet away, partially hidden near the park path, lay one of her abandoned heels. Steve reached for it before looking back up at you.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you dropped this.”

To his surprise, a small laugh escaped you.

Tired. Breathless. Slightly hysterical.

But real.

Steve felt something warm settle unexpectedly in his chest at the sound. He gently took your ankle before sliding the heel back onto your foot with impossible care, like he was afraid applying too much pressure might hurt you.

Your breath caught.

Not because of the shoe. Because no one had touched her gently in three days.

Steve looked up as he stood again, close enough now that you could see the concern softening every sharp edge of his expression.

“You did good tonight,” he told you quietly.

And for some reason, those four words nearly shattered the composure you’d been fighting so hard to keep.

Your eyes burned instantly.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Without thinking, his hand lifted toward your face before stopping halfway, giving you room to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

His thumb brushed softly beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall.

Behind you, Tony groaned loudly through the comms.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You two are literally in a Hallmark movie.”

And just like that, you laughed again.

This time, Steve smiled too.

I love it when an old fic turns into something I do like!

I'm a sucker for strong men, saving reader. Yes, please save me from the horrible world we live in currently! Or am I the only one?

PRIOR 

It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else. 

Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating. 

Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there? Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together. 

The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave. 

Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out. 

And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·

PRESENT

Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering. 

“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once. 

“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?

“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion. 

But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.

You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall. 

“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.” 

You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him. 

You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark. 

Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with. 

It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for. 

You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.

Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal. 

Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.

You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission. 

But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders. 

You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?” 

But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable. 

That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.” 

The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently. 

The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question. 

“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.

“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you. 

He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.” It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet. 

Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet. 

Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.

“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine. 

“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.” 

“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge. 

Fine then. 

You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees. 

“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place. 

“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation. 

His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”

Okay, ouch, but fair. 

“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person. 

You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany. 

“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”

“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”

“Well you might as well have–”

“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.

Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth. 

“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!” 

“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength. 

“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires. 

“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew. 

Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this. 

Small victories. 

You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.” 

Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring. 

Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit. 

After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear. 

Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve? 

You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck. 

You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear. 

You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door. 

“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond. 

“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.” 

It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in. 

“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”

With her. 

With her? 

You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain. 

Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite. 

Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you. 

You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. 

When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.” 

His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.

He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.” 

Right. 

Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.

Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.

“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent. 

The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy. 

When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better. 

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening. 

“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out. 

“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–” “That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”

You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry. 

He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you. 

You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff. 

So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much. 

“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing. 

He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing. 

Your eyes widened, was he…? 

“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?”  He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.

“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering? 

As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature. 

You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.

A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good. 

He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?” 

You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.” 

He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.

“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing. 

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”

You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either. 

He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled. 

And there it was. 

You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.

Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged. 

The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name. 

By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing. 

You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away. 

“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument. 

You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie. 

When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.

“Bucky–”

“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move. 

“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”

“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant. 

He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—

“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE. 

You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–” 

He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly. 

“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”

“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.” 

You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”

“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin. 

You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth. 

Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth. 

An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.

But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.

The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern. 

Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just. 

You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…

“Okay, come here.”

His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead. 

“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours. 

“Are you not…?”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you. 

He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere. 

His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain. 

You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back. 

What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture. 

You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question… 

“…Why?” 

You were asleep before you could hear his response. 

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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light. 

The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome. 

So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms. 

You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–

You stood, took several steps back.

That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy. 

You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver. 

One more time.

You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…

Little more to the left.

Angle, and–

Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system. 

Rock… country… rap… pop…

“What are you doing?”

His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching. 

You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was. 

You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.” 

Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said. 

You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least. 

You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood. 

“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment. 

You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”

He growled your name, but it was too late. 

The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers. 

You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.

You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–

Until the music stopped completely.

You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you. 

Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.

But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong? 

You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door. 

But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it. 

You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go. 

You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for. 

It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.

 “Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?” 

“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.” 

You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will. 

“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.

“Because you go and do shit like this!” 

“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”

“You remind me of the 40s!”

His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place? 

You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra. 

“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”

“What are you–”

“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–” 

You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything. 

The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.

Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved. 

“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”

“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger. 

“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!” 

“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–” 

“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!” 

“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.

It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns. 

But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks. 

“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst. 

“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them. 

“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha. 

She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.

You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.” 

You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight. 

When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day. 

The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen.  What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?” 

You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention? 

She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…” 

You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.

Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.” 

“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more. 

“Maybe you need a distraction?” 

“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”

“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother. 

But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”

“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’ 

She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory. 

You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble. 

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“You wanna talk about it?” 

Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress. 

He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record. 

Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.” 

Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get? 

There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.” 

Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest. 

Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all. 

And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked. 

Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.” 

He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it. 

When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.” 

“Did you try to make it right?” He asked. 

“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.” 

“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.” 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”

Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.” 

Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”

“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement. 

And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.” 

Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”

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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you. 

You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor. 

You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers. 

Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner. 

It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.

You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.

You cleared your throat, “Yes?” 

There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”

Oh. Straight to the point. 

You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.

But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them. 

You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard. 

And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”

“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”

“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?” 

The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet. 

You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–” 

“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.” 

What? 

You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words. 

But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”

“I walk in a room, and you leave–”

“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant. 

But he couldn’t possibly–

“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.” 

Oh. 

But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”

“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.” Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels. 

“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.” 

You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words. 

He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…” 

Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…” 

He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.” 

That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was… 

You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!” 

He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–” 

But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you,  and you knew better than to get your hopes up. 

He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head. 

You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–” 

You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt. 

And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.

Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this. 

The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into. 

And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.” 

And your father would have done anything to bring you back, he would have done what they asked of him and ten other things that were just as bad. But the police wouldn’t let him. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” they said. All your father could think of was that he would negotiate with the devil himself if it would guarantee him your freedom.

Hydra told him, no police, no Avengers, and no attempts to cancel the gala. Otherwise, heads would roll.

At first, he thought they were empty threats meant to scare him or some jovial prank gone too far, so he called the police, just to make sure, because who were these Hydra folk anyway?

Then a video arrived the following morning: grainy footage of you bound to a chair while a Hydra operative calmly listed the names and home addresses of every employee working the charity event.

They weren’t bluffing.

So the gala continued.

Guests arrived dressed in designer gowns and tailored suits. At the same time, armed officers hid among them in silence, pretending this was still a celebration instead of a hostage situation waiting to implode.

And you stood beneath crystal chandeliers in a ballroom full of wealthy strangers, dressed for your own execution.

The gown they’d forged you into was a violent shade of red, the same red as the hydra insignia you’d been looking at for three days straight. Layers of tule brushed against your legs with every step. A black corset cinched your waist so tightly your lungs burned.

Alexander Fisher grabbed your arm tightly, making sure it would bruise. His breath fanned your cheek before he bit a command. “Behave,” and the sound of his voice alone made you shiver. His hand moved towards the small of your back to slow for your liking. “Cause a scene,” he continued softly, “and I’ll give you something to scream about.” Then he smiled at you. 

And you forced yourself to smile back.

When you looked across the room, there was something truly not worthy. You didn’t see an escape. You didn’t see your father. You only saw people enjoying the festivities, browsing around the room. Pepper potts talking with a colleague of your father. A woman with red hair dressed in black was smiling and pretending to drink the champagne. Another woman further ahead who looked way too young to be here, and a man with longer hair, with his back towards you, a glass of whiskey in his gloved hand.

The Avengers were scattered around the room, careful not to stand out. They had promised discretion after all, but Steve wouldn’t let Hydra just go around doing what they pleased.

So he was sitting outside on a bench in the park, far enough that he wouldn’t cause suspicion, but close enough to still see everything.

He kept his head down, but inside, the anger was stirring.

It wasn’t like him to sit here and do nothing. Hydra had threatened the mayor of New York City. This couldn’t stay unpunished. 

Meanwhile you were still trying to control your breathing. Looking around for a way out, for something, anything.

But Fisher kept you very close, one hand around your body, the other tucked into his jacket pocket, fingers curled around the handle of a gun. Every exit of the ballroom was guarded, every window sealed.

There was nowhere to run.

Then came your salvation.

A waiter stumbled over a loose cable.

The lights snapped out. Glass rippled over the floor, gasps rippled through the large space, just as a spotlight illuminated your father stepping onto the stage, looking rather concerned.

Champagne crashed across Alexander's suit.

And for one glorious second, his hand left you.

You ran.

The sound of gunfire exploded behind you almost instantly.

Screams echo’d through the ballroom, people ducked down and fled out of the building. Your heels crashed against the stone flooring, your hands holding the red tule up. You heard Fisher scream from the inside, but you paid it no mind. You had to get out of there.

And the moment you were almost out, a bullet flew by your ear, hitting the marble doorpost beside you. You didn’t look back, just kicked away your shoes, so you could run even faster.

Outside, the cold night air tore into your lungs as you bolted across the street towards the park bordering the gala hall. The tulle of your dress tangled around your legs while distant sirens echoed somewhere downtown.

You just needed people.

Noise.

Anywhere Hydra wouldn’t dare kill you publicly.

When Steve heard the gunshots coming from the gala hall, he was up. His soldier senses were back on, and the grubby feeling of not being able to help was gone.

He was here, and he was going to do whatever he could to protect the people inside from Hydra.

Then he saw her.

A woman dressed in red came tearing through the park like something out of a nightmare.

Barefoot.

Terrified.

The gown trailing behind her looked expensive enough to belong on a runway, but there was dirt smeared along the hem and panic written across every inch of her face. Loose curls had fallen from the pins in her hair, and blood streaked one ankle.

She looked over her shoulder instead of where she was going.

Straight into him.

Steve caught her before she hit the pavement.

For half a second, she simply stared at him.

Wide eyes. Shaking breaths. Fear and disbelief tangled together so intensely it almost knocked the air from his lungs.

“You’re okay,” Steve said quickly, steadying her upright.

Another gunshot cracked through the trees.

Her entire body tensed.

Right. Running. She’d been running.

Steve maneuvered himself before the woman in red, whom he had recognized as the mayor's daughter after looking at her in the dim light. His shield held before them, shooting a quick message towards Tony and Sam, who were positioned somewhere in a surveillance van.

Steve shoved the woman behind him just as gunfire erupted through the trees.

Bullets ricocheted off the vibranium shield with deafening clangs. He felt her freeze beneath him, but to his surprise, she didn’t make a sound.

Three men emerged from the darkness of the park paths, dressed in black tactical gear marked with the crimson Hydra insignia. Alexander strode between them, champagne still staining the front of his suit.

“There she is,” he called calmly, as if this were all some amusing game. “You’ve been very difficult tonight, sweetheart.”

And when he looked at the way her face scrunched up, he was sure that if given the chance, she would have spit in his face. She was trouble, and something inside him lit up at the fact.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered quietly.

One of the agents opened fire again.

Steve moved instantly.

The shield slammed into the gunman’s chest hard enough to throw him backwards into a stone bench. Before the second man could react, Steve crossed the distance between them in seconds, wrenching the rifle from his hands and driving his elbow into the man’s throat.

A sharp crack echoed through the park.

The third operative charged from the side.

Steve ducked beneath the swing of a combat knife and drove the edge of his shield into the man’s ribs hard enough to send him sprawling across the gravel path.

Then Alexander fired.

Not at Steve.

At her.

Steve turned on instinct, catching the bullet against the shield barely inches from her shoulder.

Alexander smiled.

“Always the hero.”

Steve advanced slowly, positioning himself between Hydra and the beautiful woman clutching handfuls of red tulle behind him. She had a wide stance, like she was readying herself to do something, run or fight, he didn’t know, but he really hoped she knew that this wasn’t the time to use her self-defence training on trained soldiers carrying loaded weapons.

“You’re done,” Steve said coldly.

“Oh, Captain,” Alexander sighed. “You really think this ends tonight?”

Then, more gunfire exploded from deeper within the gala hall.

Steve’s comm crackled to life.

“Cap,” Sam’s voice barked sharply. “We’ve got movement inside. Multiple Hydra agents.”

But Steve couldn’t move. You needed him right there.

“Already handling it,” Bucky interrupted.

A golden streak tore across the night sky.

Iron Man landed between Steve and the remaining operatives with enough force to crack the pavement beneath him.

“Well,” Tony said dryly, repulsors glowing bright in the darkness, “this seems dramatically unhealthy.”

One Hydra soldier raised his weapon.

Tony blasted it from his hands instantly. “You know,” he continued casually, “there are easier ways to get kicked out of a charity gala.”

Alexander cursed under his breath before disappearing backward into the trees.

“Wilson’s tracking him,” Tony said immediately before Steve could move. “Go.”

Steve hesitated.

Not because of Hydra. But because of the woman behind him. She saw deathly pale, and he had an inkling that all the adrenaline had left her body.

Tony’s helmet retracted slightly as he glanced toward her, his expression softening for only a second.

“I’ve got this, Rogers.”

Steve looked back at her. Loose curls. Bare feet stained red. Fear was still written across every inch of her face despite the fight being over. And somehow beneath it all, he didn’t see a scared woman, he saw someone who had broken free of her captors. 

And he couldn’t help but feel admiration. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned towards her. 

“At ease, soldier,” He said to lighten the mood a little. “We got you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. And it felt like a weight was lifted off of you. The sounds of sirens and shouting echoed through the park while agents rushed past them toward the gala hall, but Steve barely noticed any of it.

Because you were still standing there, without shoes and breathing like every inhale hurt. But you were still standing, and somehow you were still holding yourself together.

You straightened slightly at his words, the softness in his tone releasing some of the tension in your gut. And all you wanted to do at that moment was let yourself fall on the ground and sleep for a week. But you couldn’t do that. Not yet. So instead, you lifted your head towards Captain America, and you said the least truthful words to ever come out of any woman's mouth. 

“I’m fine,” 

But Steve wasn’t born yesterday, and he had been living with two women for a few years now, so he knew exactly what that meant. So instead of believing you at your word, he gave you a once-over. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the red streaks dug into your shoulder, the bruise on your cheekbone that had been covered with makeup, and finally, the wounds on the back of your feet caused by you running barefoot.

“Right,” he said gently. “Clearly.”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face before she looked away.

That was when he noticed it.

You weren’t scared, you were exhausted. The kind that settled deep in the bones after days without safety. He saw your fingers still clutched handfuls of red tulle so tightly your knuckles had gone white. Like, if you let go now, you might fall apart with it.

And suddenly Steve understood.

The adrenaline was wearing off.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched down in front of you.

Immediately, your posture shifted again, guarded this time, uncertain. But when you remembered it wasn’t Hydra standing before you but Captain America, you relaxed a little.

“It’s okay,” he reassured softly. “Just give me a second.”

A few feet away, partially hidden near the park path, lay one of her abandoned heels. Steve reached for it before looking back up at you.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you dropped this.”

To his surprise, a small laugh escaped you.

Tired. Breathless. Slightly hysterical.

But real.

Steve felt something warm settle unexpectedly in his chest at the sound. He gently took your ankle before sliding the heel back onto your foot with impossible care, like he was afraid applying too much pressure might hurt you.

Your breath caught.

Not because of the shoe. Because no one had touched her gently in three days.

Steve looked up as he stood again, close enough now that you could see the concern softening every sharp edge of his expression.

“You did good tonight,” he told you quietly.

And for some reason, those four words nearly shattered the composure you’d been fighting so hard to keep.

Your eyes burned instantly.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Without thinking, his hand lifted toward your face before stopping halfway, giving you room to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

His thumb brushed softly beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall.

Behind you, Tony groaned loudly through the comms.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You two are literally in a Hallmark movie.”

And just like that, you laughed again.

This time, Steve smiled too.

I love it when an old fic turns into something I do like!

I'm a sucker for strong men, saving reader. Yes, please save me from the horrible world we live in currently! Or am I the only one?

You look up at him, cheeks red, eyes suddenly filled with dramatic sorrow. You walk towards him, a sway in your hips. Dean furrowed his brows. What was going on here? You propped your leg up on the bed, your knee touching him, and you sat down, facing Dean. Your fingers brushed over his, and Dean's heart picked up, not getting the memo that his brain was sending out. Because when his heart went pitter-patter, all he could think was danger with a capital D.

“Dean, I don’t think I can take it in anymore.” You breathed, as if it pained you to say it. 

That was when he knew. Whoever was sitting in front of him. It wasn’t you.

That was when the bathroom door opened, and Sam stepped out. You sprang up quickly, like you were caught. Sam gave you a questionable look before he spoke. “Your turn.”

The moment you closed the bathroom door behind you, Dean grabbed a marker.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, oblivious to what had transpired before he walked in.

“Our girl is possessed.” 

This got Sam's attention. He didn’t question his brother. He just went and grabbed the salt. Sealing all the exits.

Steam curled under the bathroom door.

Water running.

Time ticking.

Dean finished the Devil’s trap just as they heard the water turn off.

Quickly, Sam and Dean went their separate ways. Weapons tucked away to stay inconspicuous. 

The door opened, you stepped out. Your pyjama set flowing loosely around your figure. Dean swallowed. 

You froze. Looking down at the devil's trap you stood in the middle of. “What is this?” You asked, confusion mixing with annoyance. 

“You are not as subtle as you think you are.” Dean's voice was low. Dangerous. A bite in it that he never used with you. But this wasn’t you. He was sure of it.

“Dean, what are you talking about?” You looked at Sam. As if he was going to help you. But his features remained stoic, ever the loyal brother.

“Is this because of earlier?”

Dean stayed quiet. Now standing before you, his eyes are determined.

“Dean I…” You started. Looking at Sam, hesitation laced in your eyes. “I was just trying to tell you how I feel. How I have felt in a long time.”

Dean stepped into the circle, slammed your body against the bathroom door, trapping you between it and him. “Dean?!” Sam sprang up from his chair, startled by the actions of his brother. 

“You think I am stupid?” Dean hissed, face close to yours. Anger in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was going to kill you.

“Dean, please. You are hurting me.” You said as tears welled up in your eyes.

Doubt flickered across Sam's features.

“You think I don’t know her?” He spat, voice rough. “I know every damn tell she’s got.”

He paused. The air in the room stilled. Sam is still looking between the two, his whole body on guard.

“She’d never look at me like that.”

Something in your eyes lit up. A dangerous glow that didn’t seem human. Your lips curved, forced. Wrong.

“Like what?” Your voice was different now, no longer holding up the pretence that you were hurt. The Demon knew it was caught. All it could do now was wreak more havoc. “Soft?” It offered. “Hopeful? In Love?”

Dean’s grip tightened.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on.” It leaned into Dean’s grip instead of away. Trying to tie the hunter around its finger. “I thought hunters were supposed to be observant. And you mean to tell me you haven’t seen the longing looks she gives you.” A wicked smile is plastered on its face as it continues. “I hear her screaming for you right now. She loves the feeling of your hands on her skin. I am guessing she likes it rough.” It winks.

“I said shut up!” Dean gritted through his teeth.

“Every time you hold her hand, every time you call her ‘sweetheart.’ Her whole body lights up.” It leaned into Dean, whispering in his ear. “Right now she is begging me not to hurt you, there is not a single thought about herself in here. Only you. She cares more about you than she does herself, isn’t that sweet?”

Dean’s jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, his mind racing. It is lying, trying to get inside his head, trying to get out of here. Dean was sure this was all a trick. He would never be that lucky.

“Have you never wondered why she is so protective of you? You must have noticed it’s different with you than it is with Sam. "Haven't you?”

Dean shook his head. “You are lying.”

“You sure about that?”

A wicked smile is stretched across your face. A cruelty that makes Dean do a double take. Nothing in there looks like you anymore.

“She thinks she is not enough for you, not a good enough hunter, too emotional, too weak. So she just shuts up, pretends it's nothing.”

Dean didn’t move, his eyes still locked on you, searching for a glimmer of truth but he didn’t find anything. He just felt Sam’s eyes burning at the back of his neck, begging to cut it out, to start the exorcism already, but Dean hesitated. He likes the pain the demon caused him. It was a reminder. The bittersweet words were stinging deliciously reminding him of something he wanted so desperately but could never have.

“Tell me? Is that what you think? Or do you love her too?”

For a second Dean faltered, shocked by the balls this demon possessed.

And it grinned, like it had won a battle Dean didn’t even know was happening.

“Thats what I thought.”

That was the last straw. Dean was done. A tired smirk grew on his lips. The dream was over.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, he just started the exorcism.

Your body started shaking violently. Your voice twisting into something inhuman as the demon screamed through you. Until it started laughing.

“I still won Winchester. I’m in your head now.”

Dean didn’t stop, didn’t falter. Not this time. Not until the last words were spoken. Not until silence crashed down together with your body. Caught in Dean's strong arms.

“I got you sweetheart, I got you.” The nickname burned something in his chest, but he chose to ignore it.

Your eyes fluttered open. And you tried to regain your footing, but failed miserably. And Dean's arms wrapped around you once more. “Dean?” You began, voice completely yours now, still shaking lightly. “What happened?” You asked.

Dean looked at you worry lacing with sorrow. But before he could say anything it was like memories came rushing back.

“I was possessed.” You said. Straightening your back as you pull up your sleeve, a gash through your anti-possession tattoo. “Are you allright?”

Dean laughed quietly.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

—

Weeks went by after that. Weeks where your voice kept playing in Dean’s mind. Words that weren't yours. Feeling that wheren’t either.

But the Demon had been right either way. The feelings may not have been yours, but they were his.

You noticed he started drinking more, stayed up even later than usual, but he always came home. That was new.

He noticed things too. Noticed you looking at him. Stolen glances when he was driving. He caught you looking at him through the rear view mirror more times than he could count. Notice that you always checked if he was okay before you checked Sam.

He told himself it was the demon talking. That it didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

He wasn’t that lucky.

You tried to be normal. But you weren't stupid. You remembered being possessed. Remembered hearing your voice without saying anything yourself. You remember feeling trapped and helpless. Remembered Dean’s words, his anger and his hesitation. Remembered the way he looked at you, the disbelief. The sliver of hope. The look in his eyes when your voice asked, if he loved you too.

Blue light flickered from underneath the door of the “Dean Cave”. Muffled sounds and suspenseful music coming from the western movie Dean was probably watching. You knocked.

Twice.

The third knock hanging in the air like you were scared of the scene that would follow.

His voice boomed from inside, inviting you in.

The movie was paused, Clint Eastwood stared at you like he knew what was going to happen, his brows knit together, a cigar in his mouth.

“What are you doing up.” He asked. Glass of cheap whiskey in his hand.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You said as you went to sit on the couch beside him.

A silence wrapped around the two of you. And you almost thought he would put the movie on play again.

“I remember you know.” You began. Doubt sounding in your voice. “What I said.. "What it said.”

Dean looked at you now, putting his whiskey away. “You don't have to explain.” He said quickly “It was just demon crap.” His words sounded almost rehearsed. Like he had been telling himself that for weeks. And something deep inside him broke. Because however many times he told himself, there was a part of him that didn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Because he still had hope. And if you were here to set the record straight. To tell him those exact words, that last sliver of hope would be gone.

You were quiet. Dean's words were like gasoline on a fire that had been slowly burning inside you since the moment you met him. “Is that what you want me to say?” You asked.

Dean looked at you confused. This was not what he was expecting to happen. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head a million times, and never had you said that.

“Is that what you have been telling yourself for the past few weeks?”

Dean shook his head. Trying to make sense of the words that were pouring out of your mouth.

“Because it isn’t what I feel, Dean.” Your voice was sharp, almost harsh. Your tone didn’t fit with the underlying message of your words. The way you said his name came out almost accusatory.

“Stop” He said low, warning you. His face showed warmth when he spoke, the complete opposite of what you had given him. “This is what they do sweetheart, they twist your memories, your feelings. This isn’t you.”

You grew quiet, baffled by the words coming out of his mouth. “I remember. I remember losing control, doing things that weren’t of my own design, but I could still feel everything.”

Dean shook his head. “That doesn’t mean…”

“Yes it does!” You cut in, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. You were standing now. Not able to contain your emotions anymore. “It didn’t make anything up, it just told you what was already there.”

There was something in Dean’s eyes that you couldn't place. Pity, hurt, maybe both. He leaned towards you. His fingers ghosting above yours, hoping you wouldn't catch that.

“Why would it do that?” He asked.

You looked down at him. “I don’t know, why do demons do anything?” You stumbled. “To get to you, to hurt you.”

Dean latched onto that immediately. 

Of course he did. 

“Exactly,” He said, almost relieved. He stood up. At your level now. Brushing your hair out of your face before he noticed doing it. “ That's what I have been saying. It wasn’t real. It was just trying to mess with your head. It was trying to hurt you.”

“It wasn’t trying to hurt me, Dean.” You said, he paused.

“Maybe at first, but after you captured it, I wasn’t its target anymore.” Your voice was soft. Steady.

“So I ask you, Winchester. Because you seem to have all the answers. Why would admitting my feelings hurt you?”

Dean stared at you, quiet, frozen.

His voice was lost somewhere in the abis.

Searching for an answer that would satisfy you. But he knew that the only thing you’d believe right now was the truth. And he wasn’t ready to give it.

“Because I think it is because you are terrified.”

Dean let out a breath, sharp, almost a laugh. But you didn’t think it was funny.

“Terrified?” He echoed, shaking his head. “Of what?”

“Of wanting something you don’t think you deserve.”

That sentence landed like a dart into a bullseye, right on the money.

“You don’t know what you are talking about.” he tried, but the fact that he looked away when he said it told you all you needed to know.

“I think I do.”

He scoffed, “You think you know me so well?”

“Oh please.” You scoffed. “I know you better than you know yourself.” There was that fire again. “You are scared Dean, scared of losing people. And that is fine. I am too. But if you keep pushing me away you are going to lose me either way.”

Dean's head snapped back at you. His eyes burning trough your skull. “I’m not pushing..” 

"Yes, you are.” You said. “You are doing it right now.”

Dean grew quiet. Took a step back creating space, space you didn’t want but you knew he needed.

“You don’t get to decide how I feel.” Your voice is softer now.

He didn’t argue this time. He just looked at you. Jaw cleansing mind racing.

“And then?” 

Your breath got stuck in your throat. You didn’t know what you expected. More arguing maybe? Yelling and screaming. You were hoping for some angry desperate kiss, but you know those just happened in your wildest dreams. Those were reserved for when you couldn't sleep and you were talking to Dean in your mind, making up stories to make you sleep better.

“What do you mean and then?”

“This whole conversation, say you are right, say you do care for me.”

“I do.”

"Yeah yeah.” He waved your comment away. “Say you are right, what happens then?”

You stilled for a moment. Not really getting what he was getting at.

“I’m not good at this.” He said pointing between the two of you. You looked at him with a small smile tugging at your lips, but you were careful to not let it show too much. “You think I am?” You began. “You think I know how to do this?” 

You stepped towards the hunter, looking up at him. “I don’t expect this to be perfect. I just expect you to try.” Dean’s hand wrapped around your wrist, warm hands caressing your skin. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said, voice soft.

“You probably are.” You laughed. Dean’s brows knit together. “Way to reassure a guy.” 

“You are going to hurt me, probably as much as I am going to hurt you. As long as we try to make up, I don't see what the problem is.”

“You really want to do this?

“I do.”

Dean stared at you. Really stared. Like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

As if he was trying to figure out if this was real.

His grip on you tightened slightly.

“You don’t make this easy, you know.” He muttered.

You huffed. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Silence returned. Sticky, heavy. 

Dean's eyes searched for you, for a flicker of hesitation. For doubt. But he didn’t find any.

“I’m going to screw this up.” He said. You nodded. “Sounds like you.”

But something about the way you said it made him wonder. You said it like you didn’t care if he screwed this up. He could try all he wanted because you knew that whoever screwed up. You were going to fix this, together.

“Okay,” he breathed. 

And that was it.

Dean stepped forward, slower this time, giving you the chance to change your mind, to stop him. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You had been dreaming about this moment for weeks, years even. So had he.

He cupped your face in his hand and brought your lips towards his. It was like fireworks exploded in your stomach. All the worry and anger you felt before melted off your body as all that consumed you was the feeling of him. His calloused fingers on your skin and his warm lips on yours.

The kiss was desperate and hurried and it completely stole your breath away. Stilling you completely. Dean consuming every fire of your being. 

Your hands found his flannel, grounding you into something real.

Into him.

The kiss softened. Shifted into something that felt like it could last forever.

He was the first to move away, his forehead resting against yours slightly. His dumb gliding across your cheek lovingly. His eyes were warm and safe. You could drown in them.

“I love you too.” He said, before connecting with your lips again. And there was nothing desperate or uncertain about it.

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

I love me some Dean angst! And I love some passionate fighting!!