𝓐𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓮

You duck into the dimly lit corridor of the Hydra transport hub, pace steady, eyes flicking once to confirm no patrol is coming your way before slipping into a communications room.

The door closes behind you without a sound. You take the terminal, pulling up truck routing and internal comms in one smooth motion. Your fingers move quickly, efficiently—

Redirecting the trucks. Not randomly. Precisely. Straight into a waiting military presence.

Then you shift to the comms feed, inserting a delay. Small. Controlled. Just enough to disrupt timing. Not enough to be obvious.

You wipe the access clean and stand, already moving. Back into the hallway. Posture relaxed. Measured. Like you belong.

By the time you reach the main room, the noise has already started. Inside the command center, voices overlap—sharp, rising, uncertain.

A tech pushes to his feet. “We have military engagement.”

Your commander turns toward him, expectant, saying nothing—waiting for the system to correct itself.

It does not.

Over the comms, two voices collide—contradicting orders, stepping over each other until the structure breaks completely.

The room shifts from controlled to chaotic in seconds.

Your commander studies the screens, tension pulling tight across his shoulders. “Status deviation detected.”

He turns to you. “Explain.”

You do not look at him. Your eyes stay on the data as it unravels exactly the way you designed it to. “External interference.”

He turns back to the screens, jaw tightening. “We had control of this operation.”

Under your breath—quiet, but not hidden—“You lost it.”

His posture stiffens. He watches the collapse a moment longer before speaking again. “There seems to be a leak.”

He turns to you again. “Find it.”

You nod once. No hesitation. Then turn and walk out of the command room as the comms fall silent—

Every Hydra agent either down or in custody.

Natasha finds Steve in the main living area, stretched out on the couch with a book from his list, one arm draped along the back, posture easy in a way it has not been in weeks.

He does not look up when she enters.

She takes the seat opposite him, settling in without a word. For a moment, she just watches him. “…You’re different.”

Steve’s eyes lift from the page, meeting hers directly. No hesitation. “Sam talked some sense into me.”

Then his attention drops right back to the book. Too smooth.

Natasha tilts her head slightly, studying him. “That all it is?”

He turns a page. Shrugs. “It’s working.”

Like that answers anything.

She leans back into the chair, one arm resting along the side, gaze still fixed on him—watching for a tell, a shift, something out of place.

There is nothing obvious. That, more than anything, is the problem.

Her tablet buzzes softly in her hand. She glances down at it, scanning the notification, then looks back at him one more time.

Long enough to make it clear she is not convinced. Then she stands. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

She turns and heads out to follow the lead. A beat passes after she is gone.

Then Steve’s eyes lift from the page, tracking the doorway she disappeared through.

He watches it for a moment. Then lowers his gaze again. Turns the page.

The team circles outside a Hydra research facility, spread across positions as Tony feeds them updates in real time.

“Alright, this is your stop,” Tony says over comms, already juggling drones and security feeds. “Next component’s inside. Let’s not let them plug it in.”

“Wings, go right—more drones incoming,” he adds mid-flight, veering off to intercept a cluster while simultaneously killing the alarm system.

“On it,” Sam replies, banking hard as Thor shifts above him, hammer already in motion.

Thor holds the roof again, clearing the initial guards before turning outward, joining Tony and Sam in the air. Lightning cracks across the sky as another wave of drones drops.

On the ground, Bucky, Steve, and Natasha move. The door goes down clean.

They are inside before Hydra realizes they are there. Corridors. Corners. Controlled, efficient. Agents drop before they can react.

Tony’s voice stays constant in their ears. “Two ahead—no, three—left side—Nat, you’re good—keep moving.”

They do. The server room comes up fast.

Natasha is already at the terminal, plugging in. “I’m in.”

“About time,” Tony mutters, diving through another drone. “Pulling everything—stand by—”

Data floods across his screens.

“Got it. And… deleting their homework.”

Inside, Steve and Bucky peel off without needing to say it, moving into the adjacent room.

They find the physical component quickly. No hesitation. Destroyed in seconds.

“Piece is gone,” Bucky confirms.

“Copy that,” Tony replies. “Then let’s wrap this up before—”

“Too late,” Sam cuts in. “Backup inbound. A lot of it.”

Hydra floods the perimeter.

Thor drops from above, hitting the ground hard and scattering the first wave.

The trio exits into the chaos, splitting instinctively—angles covered, lines held.

Steve and Bucky take the front. Natasha controls the side corridor, keeping pressure off the exit.

Tony tracks everything at once. Then—“There you are.”

His tone sharpens. “Cap—Copycat incoming.”

Steve is already moving. He feels her before he sees her.

The shield leaves his hand, passing cleanly to Bucky as he steps forward to meet her. They collide. Fast. Tight. A few exchanged blows—real enough to sell it.

Then she shifts—

Pulls him around the corner. Out of sight.

Tony’s voice spikes. “Cap, you just dropped off my—hold on—”

The feed stutters. In the narrow space, the fight stops. Clean. Immediate.

She hands him the folded paper. “Next piece.”

Steve takes it without question. A small nod.

She turns and disappears before the moment can stretch.

Tony’s voice crashes back in, already irritated. “—and she’s gone. Again. I swear she’s—”

Steve exhales once. Centers. Then steps back into the fight. Like nothing happened.

Bucky sees it. Every second of it. The timing. The lack of urgency. The way Steve just… returns.

Irritation sparks sharp in his chest. But there is no time to push it. The fight presses on.

Hydra gets pushed back. Lines break.

The team regroups and moves for extraction.

No one follows them out.

By the time they reach the quinjet, the fight is already behind them. Inside, the noise dies down quickly.

Sam and Thor trade a quick look—another clean op.

Natasha checks her tablet, already reviewing what they pulled.

Tony is still muttering about her vanishing act.

Bucky does not sit. His eyes stay on Steve.

Steve stands near the cockpit, one hand braced lightly against the frame, gaze fixed out into the distance.

Like none of it touched him. Like nothing happened at all.

The team moves through the debrief quickly—status, confirmation, next steps.

No one lingers on it. It was a clean mission. Another win.

Bucky says nothing. He does not sit back. Does not relax. His focus stays locked on Steve. And when Steve repeats it—

“She slipped.”

That does it. Bucky is on his feet before the words finish settling. His chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he steps forward and drives a finger into Steve’s chest. “You’re not missing her.”

The room goes still.

Tony stops mid-motion over the screens.

Sam freezes halfway through sitting back.

Natasha’s eyes snap between them.

Thor straightens where he stands.

Bucky’s voice drops, tighter now. “You’re letting her go.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. “Really?”

Bucky shakes his head once. "You don’t hesitate like that.”

Steve looks away, the movement small but deliberate. “We’ve already established she compromised me.”

Then his eyes cut back to Bucky. “Drop it.”

Bucky sets his jaw. Does not move. “She’s not just getting away anymore.”

The words hang there.

Heavy.

Steve turns, putting his back to him, gaze fixed out the window again.

Every wall up. Nothing getting through.

Behind him, Bucky narrows his eyes—

Not backing down. Just waiting.

Two days later, the quinjet hovers low over a sprawling compound carved into the ground, most of it buried beneath reinforced concrete and steel.

From above, it looks contained. It is not.

Heat signatures crawl across Tony’s display—perimeter patrols, interior movement, layered defenses stacked on top of each other.

Hydra is ready for a fight.

“Yeah… that’s not discreet at all,” Tony mutters, already dropping altitude. “We found the nest.”

He launches from the quinjet before it fully settles, Sam and Thor peeling off behind him to take the sky.

“Listen up,” Tony cuts in over comms, tone sharper now. “This is it. Main base of operations. She’s in there, along with everything she’s been building.”

He angles higher, scanning the perimeter as new signatures light up.

“Search and destroy. We are not leaving anything standing.”

“Copy that,” Sam replies, already circling wide.

Thor grips his hammer tighter, eyes fixed on the structure below.

Inside the quinjet, the ramp begins to lower with a hydraulic hiss.

Natasha stands near the edge, watching the compound—but her eyes flick, just once, to Steve.

He stands still. Too still. Calm in a way that does not match the target in front of them. She files it away.

Bucky does not look at him at all. His focus stays forward, jaw tight, tension sitting just under the surface.

The ramp hits the ground.

“Ground team, stand by,” Tony’s voice comes through. “Let me thin this out first.”

Natasha steps forward without waiting. Bucky follows. Steve moves with them.

Together, they step off the quinjet—and into it.

The battle is already in motion when it breaks wide open.

Thor has punched a hole straight through the structure, tearing into the facility and driving Hydra forces out into the open.

They pour out like ants. Too many.

Above, Sam and Tony control the airspace, diving in bursts—clearing drones, breaking formations, pulling pressure off the ground team.

Tony’s voice cuts constantly through comms, rapid and precise.

“Watch yourselves—some of those ground units are carrying energy weapons. I don’t like those.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam mutters as he banks hard, forcing a drone into a cluster of soldiers below.

On the ground, Natasha, Steve, and Bucky are spread across the field, each holding their own front, cutting through waves as they come.

Not together—But in control. For now.

Then something shifts.

Sam sees it first. “Copycat on the field—Cap, six o’clock.”

Steve turns—

Too late. She is already there. The first punch comes fast.

He meets it. They fall into it instantly—tight, controlled, no wasted movement.

They know each other now. Every adjustment. Every angle.

The fight narrows around them even as chaos rages everywhere else. Then—

Over Steve’s shoulder—

She sees it. A Hydra agent. Energy weapon raised. Locked on Steve’s back. No time.

She grabs his shoulder—

And flips them. The shot fires. It hits her.

Steve’s eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—Then he moves.

His arm hooks through hers, using the momentum she created, spinning through the motion—And driving straight into the shooter. The man goes down hard.

She resets immediately. No hesitation.

Now they are back to back. And the rhythm changes. They move together like it was always meant to be that way—

Shield passing between them without thought, strikes overlapping, space shared without collision.

Natasha sees it. Does not even break stride as she drops another soldier. “Of course.”

Across the field, Bucky’s jaw tightens. He does not look at them again. Just hits harder. Faster. Funneling everything into the fight.

Beside Steve, she snaps the neck of the next agent without pause. The shield arcs back into Steve’s hand.

“Try not to kill them,” he calls over his shoulder as he drops another.

“Habit,” she shoots back, already moving.

Behind them, the building erupts—

A chain of explosions tearing through what remains of the structure.

“Alright, that’s our cue!” Tony cuts in. “Fall back—now. Quinjet’s hot.”

He is already moving, pulling the jet into position.

The team breaks clean, fighting their way toward extraction.

Natasha clears a path.

Thor drives the remaining forces back.

Sam sweeps low, forcing Hydra to scatter.

Steve and her hold the rear. Together.

They move backward through the chaos, covering the team’s exit without needing to call it.

The quinjet lifts as they close the distance.

“Move, move—” Tony snaps.

They jump—

Catch the ramp—

Roll inside as it seals behind them. The noise cuts off.

Silence—Except for the engines.

Steve pushes up first, turning back toward her. He offers a hand. “Shoulder?”

She takes it, pulling herself up without strain. “Healed.”

That is when the room stills. Everyone finally looks.

Tony turns fully, staring between them—then at Steve.

“Spangles…you sneaky little shit.”

She smirks, glancing toward him. “What?”

A tilt of her head. “You thought you had the upper hand on your own?”

No one answers.

The team shares a look—

Quiet. Loaded.

Steve moves to the back without a word.

She follows.

They sit. Close enough to matter. Far enough not to explain it.

No one says anything.

Yet.

Part Thirteen

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You smirk and try to sit up. He shoves you back down; so easily it makes your heart somersault. The things he could do to you and what could you do to stop him?

"Hmm." He lifts a brow as he runs his tongue over his lower lip. "I'm an ideas man..." He slips his fingers under yours and swipes around your clit. "And I got a sweet tooth." He winks as he snickers. "So how about you give me another taste."

You nod and press down on his fingers. He tuts and shakes you off. You recoil, legs splayed unabashedly, and he smacks your pussy. You gasp, not just at the gesture but the tingle it sets off.

"You gotta ease me in," he pinches your thigh as he stands. "I just woke up so you gotta help me back to earth, sweetheart."

He grabs your wrist and tugs you up. You let him, standing on wobbly legs as you fight the urge to leap at him. You step up and brush your other hand up his stomach. He clenches and growls. He catches that hand too.

"You can't fucking help yourself, baby face. If every woman was like you... I'd be done for, huh?" He angles you around so his back is facing the chair. "Don't worry, I got a good seat for ya."

He sits and releases your wrists, his hands grazing yours. He shifts up onto the lounger, lifting his legs onto the end as he spreads his height out. His arousal flops onto his stomach and drags his hands across his chest and slaps it.

"Climb aboard, sweetheart." He drops one arm to lower the back of the chair until it's flat. "The SS Sex Stache is now taking passengers."

You make a face and giggle. He grins as his eyes scour you. You squirm and shimmy as the situation smacks you in the face. You're really here. You're really doing this. Again.

"Don't get cold cheeks on me, baby. You play with a man like that..." He lets the statement hang.

You shake off the nerves and hum. You step up and touch his shoulder. You feel his skin prickle and his muscle flex. You feel along his bicep, watching your fingers and the vein around his muscle.

"Pretty damn hot, huh?" He taunts.

You nod and knead his muscle, bringing your other hand to his chest. You lean on him and he taps your thigh. "Turn around, sweetheart."

Your lashes flutter and your smile blooms. You tickle his arm as you draw away and turn. You angle yourself over him as he guides you with a hand on your hip. He helps you straddle above his head as he adjusts himself on the lounger.

"I'm a nice guy. I'll share my breakfast," he kisses your thigh and his nose traces up your skin. "You can get a taste too."

He pulls you down until your lips are against his. You squeak at how cool his tongue is along your folds. Your clench then release, settling onto him as his mustache tickles further back.

You brace his stomach, feeling the thicker muscle there and the subtle softness woven in. He drags his tongue up and down then pauses. He feels along your side and dips his hand behind your shoulder. He pushes until you fold over him.

His dick twitches as you hover over it. You see him shiver as your breath glosses over him. You bring your hand along his firm thigh and wrap your fingers around his length. You squeeze and he groans into you cunt. You wriggle and press down onto him, smothering him as he hums in delight.

His hand moves to your lower back and spreads across it. His other reaches to stroke behind your neck as he urges you on. You brush your lips along his tip and feel him tense.

You're slow, more methodic than the day before. You think of the videos you watched on your phone and drag poke out your tongue. You run the tip down his length and stop right at his balls. He groans louder than before.

It's strange. The thought is a bit icky and yet the act has you rolling your hips over him. His hand slips further down to grope your ass as his tongue toys with you.

You swipe your tongue around his balls, one at a time. He pushes his heels down, jerking at each swirl. You giggle at how he reacts. To you.

You continue to tease him, flicking your tongue back and forth, then scaling up to his tip. He grips your neck as you press your lips around him and he urges you down.

You slide him into your mouth, just until he touches your throat. You pull back and he squeezes your neck. He tilts his lips from below you.

You clasp onto his thigh as you bob up and down slowly. His voice drones into your cunt as he laps at you. You quiver and rub against his mouth. He taps your ass in warning and pushes his face up into you. He's still in charge.

You delve back down and as he meets your throat, you don't relents. You take a breath through your nose and stretch out your neck. You ease him past your reflex though it hurts just a little. He growls and curls his fingers into your soft cheek.

You raise your self, little by little, and hold his tip between your lips. You descend once more, just as deliberately, and he shakes. You pull back again and he pushes you down impatiently.

He parts from your cunt for a second and murmurs, "faster."

You smile and plunge down again. The deep roll of his voice enlivens you. You pick up your motion, rocking your body in time with your head as you ride him as much as you play with him.

You grip him with your hand, pumping him in time with your mouth. He gulps and licks hungrily at you as your guts twist up. You feel it. That hot, vibrant pulse.

Almost there. Almost...

You whine around him as you cum, spasming against his face as you smear your delight all over his mouth and chin. He chuckles as he guides you through your orgasm. You quake and nearly collapse onto him completely.

He taps your hip.

"Stop." He rasps. "Stop, baby. You're gonna have a mouthful if you don't."

You slowly drag your lips off him, popping them off his tip. He growls and slaps your ass again. You sit up, resting lightly on his chest as you look over your shoulder at him. His hair is a mess, his lips are shiny, and his cheeks are flushed.

He kneads your ass with both hands and bounces it. He snarls.

"You want-- no, you need me inside you." He grins. "So go on and put me in that tight little snatch."

Your lips part as you stare at him. Your skin burns and your blood courses. You shakily mop the sweat off your forehead.

"Don't look at me all innocent. Just like this. You get on my dick." He pinches your ass. "I don't take kindly to being left hanging. Or throbbing in this case."

You turn back and look at his dick. It lifts slight and falls back down. Your body ripples in excitement and something else. A feeling you can barely understand let alone describe. This is a moment that can never be undone. A first that will, for better or worse, be etched into your mind and body.

You lift your knees over his shoulders and move down his body. You straddle above his pelvis as he runs his fingers up and down your back. You grab him and rub his tip along your cunt.

The sun glares in your eyes and sweat slakes down your back and chest. You glance up at the sky as everything comes clearer. As you put his tip against your entrance, you can hear every bird, every blade of grass, and smell every flower.

You exhale and look down as you push his tip inside you. You squeak as he grips your hips and grunts. You stop and squeeze him. He growls.

July 5, 20XX

Yesterday was Steve’s birthday, and we all went out by the lake. It was a lot of fun just being around everyone again. I feel like I haven’t done that enough lately.

There was another group there—some kids we go to college with—and they sort of joined us. Well, Bucky was talking to one of the girls and invited them over. I was a little annoyed at that since it was supposed to be about Steve, but whatever.

The girl kept hanging around Bucky, too. Not that I can blame him for wanting someone to talk to when I was focused on making sure Steve had a good night.

You sit back, your mind trying to make sense of the entry. It falls right between the ones you read yesterday, but something about it still does not sit right.

Under your breath, you find yourself questioning it—why you just let it go. Why Bucky openly flirting with someone else did not seem to matter more.

The feelings are starting to feel familiar now, like something just out of reach, but you still cannot say you loved him then.

That realization sits heavier than you expect.

This is officially frustrating.

A soft knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts as Steve peeks in. “Hey, tiger, you ready to eat or need a few?”

His smile is normal and easygoing, none of the tension from the day before in it. You relax slightly and smile back. “I can read more later. Breakfast sounds good.”

You set the journal aside as Steve walks in and moves to pick you up again. After setting you down near the bathroom so you can use the counter for support, he steps back, giving you space instead of hovering. Once you are done, he lifts you again and carries you to the kitchen, settling you on a stool at the counter.

After last night, letting him carry you feels different. You just cannot quite put a finger on how.

“So, find out anything new today?” Steve asks, pulling out cereal and fruit and starting to cut it up.

Leaning forward, you shake your head. “Not really. Just more of the same.”

He sets a bowl in front of you and takes a seat beside you, already digging into his own. His eyes linger on you for a moment before he nods.

Still frustrated, you exhale sharply and stab your spoon into the cereal.

Next to you, Steve chuckles. “Doesn’t seem like more of the same, tiger.”

You take a bite, avoiding the question for a second before deciding to just say it. “I just cannot figure it out. I mean, they are my memories, but I don’t understand the choices she made. It really feels like a different person.”

You slump a little, more annoyed than anything now.

Steve takes a bite of fruit as he studies you. “Wish I could help you there. I know you gave me whiplash a lot the past few years. Some days it was like you wanted to ring Buck’s neck, and other days you were over the moon.”

You frown slightly. “And I wasn’t like that before? I mean, swinging from one extreme to the other over everything?”

You need something to hold onto. Even a little.

He shakes his head. “No, not really. You had other relationships, sure, but… it was different with Bucky.” He shrugs. “I always figured it was because you cared more. Nothing else really made sense.”

You take another bite just to have something to do, your thoughts tangling tighter instead of loosening.

And underneath it all is something else you are trying not to look at too closely—how easy it is to just… reset with Steve. Like nothing happened.

Like something did.

The two of you sit in that quiet for a moment, until Steve clears his throat and stands, taking the bowls to the sink.

Then, a little more hesitant, “So… the others are coming over tonight. I figured you might want to shower before then.”

That makes everything in you pause.

This moment—this exact thing—is why Peggy and Bucky did not want him taking care of you.

You push that thought away, along with the nerves creeping in behind it, and nod. “Yeah… that would probably be a good idea.”

Looking at him instead of the floor takes more effort than it should, but you manage. “Um… we could just do it now. So my hair can dry.”

You do not say that you would rather get it over with.

But it lingers there anyway.

Steve nods and moves around the island to pick you up again, talking as he walks this time. “You okay with me choosing your clothes, or do you want to get them yourself?”

That should not be as loaded a question as it is. Because just the day before, Steve put all your clothes away—even the underwear. Somehow, him picking it out and knowing you were wearing it feels… different. Not bad. Just enough to leave you off balance. But pushing his help away feels wrong too.

With a small, dismissive gesture, you answer, “You pick. I’m sure it will be fine.”

He bypasses your room and carries you into his instead, setting you down on the wide counter of his ensuite bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

You sit there for a moment, staring at the shower, trying to picture how this is going to work.

When he comes back and sets your clothes down beside a few of his own, he notices your expression immediately and rests a gentle hand on your knee. “Hey, I can call one of the girls if you’d feel more comfortable.”

You shake your head right away, the response coming out before you can think about it. “No. I would crush Wanda, Natasha would leave bruises, and Pepper would mother-hen me to death before it was over.”

He huffs out a laugh, clearly agreeing.

You blow out a breath. “I think we just need to treat it like a bandage and just… rip it off.”

Steve rolls his shoulders a little, both of you wading through the awkwardness of it all.

Oddly, even knowing you have scars now, you are more worried about your own reaction than his. You are not afraid of being naked in front of him. That part does not bother you.

It is just… unfamiliar.

Meeting his eyes and seeing nothing but concern there, you grab the bottom of your shirt and pull it over your head.

Your gaze drops immediately.

The long scar running from your shoulder down across your abdomen catches your eye first. Then the others—smaller, scattered, already fading into pale lines.

For a second, you just… stare.

You are faintly aware of Steve pulling his own shirt off, stepping closer, his hand returning to your knee, but your focus stays locked on your skin.

It does not look like yours.

Even without remembering what you looked like before, something in your stomach turns.

Steve sees it happen. The way you go still. The way your breathing changes.

He does the only thing he can think of.

Hooking his fingers gently under your chin, he lifts your gaze to his. “Hey. Talk to me.”

You let out a shaky breath. “It feels like… even my body isn’t mine. Not just my mind.” You swallow, your vision starting to tilt. “I—I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Before you can tip backward, Steve steps in, bracing himself between your knees and pulling you flush against him.

You fold into him without thinking.

His arms come around you, solid and steady, and the warmth of his skin is immediate—grounding in a way you did not realize you needed. You cling to him, breathing shallow at first, then deeper as the dizziness ebbs.

He does not rush you. Does not try to fix it.

He just holds you.

And lets the quiet settle around you both.

After a few minutes, you take a deep breath, squeezing him tightly. “Help me stand so I can get the rest off.”

Instead of answering, he pulls back, helping you slide off the edge so your feet touch the floor. With a hand braced on his shoulder to steady yourself, you step out of your pajama pants and underwear. Once he is sure you are steady against the counter, he does the same, then moves to turn on the water, letting the temperature adjust.

The lines of muscle along his back should distract you, but your gaze drops instead—to your legs, where more faint scars mark your skin. Another long one runs down your right hip. You reach out and touch it, feeling the raised flesh, trying to reconcile the emotions rolling through you.

Steve pulls you out of your head again, this time with a hand settling gently on your shoulder. “Ready?”

When you nod, he wraps an arm around your waist to keep you steady, and together you step into the shower. He pulls the door closed behind you, sealing you both into the small space.

You close your eyes as the warm water hits your skin, letting it wash over you, trying to let it take some of the tension with it—the not knowing, the disconnect. Steve’s arm stays around your waist, loose enough to give you space but firm enough that you know he is there if you need him.

Your eyes open again to find his already on you, a small, gentle smile on his face.

You return it faintly and glance toward the shelf, spotting the toiletries you picked up the night before. “Let’s start with my hair. That should be easy.”

He hums in agreement and reaches for your shampoo, placing it in your hand. He lets you handle it, does not take over, just stays close—steady, patient—as you figure it out again.

You swap the shampoo for the conditioner, and as you rinse your hair, you wobble slightly. Steve’s hand comes to your hip immediately, steadying you. “Thanks.”

He nods, glancing toward the shelf. “What next?”

Normally, you would shave next, but you have a feeling that is going to be the trickiest part, so you opt for body wash instead. You point over your shoulder, and he hands it to you again.

This time, though, it takes a little maneuvering.

You lean toward him, your hand bracing on his shoulder so you can reach your back, and you feel him still slightly when you get close. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way he swallows before he quickly looks away.

He shakes his head like he is resetting, then offers you his hand again when you shift to wash your legs.

You take it, but as you lift one foot, your balance goes.

You tip backward, and even though his arm is there, the sudden weightless feeling makes you grab onto him, pulling him off balance with you. The two of you stumble, and he barely catches you both, one hand braced against the wet tile just behind your head.

Steve exhales sharply. “Careful, tiger.”

“Sorry.”

Your arms had wrapped around his neck when you fell, and for a second neither of you moves, both of you breathing through the spike of adrenaline.

Then, slowly, carefully, he rights you both.

You are closer than necessary now, and it takes a conscious effort to take a small step back.

Steve waits until you are steady before letting go completely, offering his hand again.

This time, you take it tighter. One foot. Then the other.

You manage it without incident, and when you hand him the loofah to rinse, you flick your fingers at him, sending a splash of water into his face.

He gives you an unimpressed look. It lasts all of two seconds before he ruins it by laughing.

You smile back, scrunching your nose. “Now to shave. This should be an adventure.”

Steve gives you a half grin, muttering a mock, “Women,” under his breath as he hands you the soap and razor.

“Hey, at least I don’t clog the sink once a week, mister,” you shoot back.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Now get to it. I don’t have endless hot water, and I still need to shower.”

When you quirk a brow at that, Steve just shrugs. “Two birds.”

Now you roll your eyes, but you lean back into the arm around your waist anyway and start to shave. When you get to your legs again, you pause.

Steve catches the hesitation immediately. “Maybe lean back on the wall, and I can help steady you—just hold your foot.”

You try to picture it, then nod. “Okay, but if I fall and take you with me, I’m tickling you again. No mercy this time.”

He snorts at that and helps you shift, guiding you back against the tile. Once you feel steady, you lift your leg, bent at the knee, and he catches your foot while keeping a careful eye on the one planted on the shower floor.

The position sends heat creeping up your neck, but he keeps his focus where it should be—on keeping you balanced.

You work through it, trying to be methodical, just getting it done.

When you finish one leg, you press lightly against his hand to shift, then lift the other. Again, his attention flicks between your face and your footing, more concerned with you slipping than anything else. Which is exactly why you knew you could trust him.

When you finish, you stay leaned back against the tile for a second, catching your breath. “Your turn.”

Steve is quicker than you—for obvious reasons—and as you watch him, you cannot help the thought that slips in. This moment right here is exactly why they did not want this.

You were right—he is different from the sixteen-year-old version of himself. Bigger, steadier. But the way he moves… that is the same. And somehow, that makes it easier to relax, to just watch him without overthinking it.

He gets you back for earlier, shaking his head after rinsing his hair and sending water droplets everywhere.

You laugh, the sound echoing softly off the tile.

Once Steve is finished, he turns off the water and, with his arm around your waist again, helps you step out of the shower.

A fluffy towel is already in his hands, and he stays close, steadying you as you dry off, still careful with your balance. You are both a little less stiff now, the worst of it behind you, and it shows in the easier way you move around each other.

Your back proves the hardest, and after a moment, you just hand him the towel. He does not comment, just helps—quick, efficient, nothing lingering. After you finish drying your hair, you lean against the counter while he dries off as well.

Then comes the trick of getting dressed.

Thankfully, he simply hands you the pile of clothes and lets you handle it yourself, only keeping a hand within reach in case you need the extra support. Once you get your underwear and pants on, the bra and shirt are easier.

As you pull on the last pieces, Steve starts dressing himself.

You let yourself watch him for a moment, trying to find your center again. Your thoughts drift—to that dream. The one that keeps coming back. Steve standing over you, bathed in sunlight, saying something you can never quite hear.

His eyes meet yours, and you snap out of it, heat creeping into your face.

Steve does not comment. He just steps closer and picks you up again. “Couch or bed?”

“Huh?” Your brain lags behind, still half in that dream, but then it clicks. “Oh—couch. And can you bring me my journals? I want to read some more.”

“Sure, tiger.” He adjusts his grip easily. “I’ve got some work to do from home today, but I’ll be in the study if you need anything.”

He sets you down on the couch, brings the crate of journals over, and hands you a bottle of water before heading off to the study.

The quiet settles back in once he is gone.

With a small shake of your head, you pull out the oldest journal again. Even through the immature ramblings, it starts to feel… familiar. Not clear. Not whole.

But closer than anything else has.

After working for a few hours, Steve comes out to join you on the couch, but you barely notice him, absorbed in your middle school self’s ramblings. He just picks up a book from the side table you had not noticed and begins to read.

You pass a few hours like that until a knock at the door makes you both look up. “Expecting someone?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, but with you here, someone might have decided to drop by.” He stands, leaving his book on the end table. “Don’t worry.”

You nod as he heads to the door, but when he opens it, you catch the quick flicker of surprise on his face—followed immediately by something more guarded.

Your curiosity spikes. Then you hear it. A throat clears. “Can I see her?”

Bucky.

He sounds… unsure. More unsure than he had even been when you broke things off.

Steve nods and steps back. “Of course.”

Bucky steps inside, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. You catch the way he winces slightly at the sight of you curled up on Steve’s couch.

Behind him, Steve closes the door. “I’m going to finish up in the study.” He glances at you. You nod.

Bucky notices the exchange and looks away as Steve leaves.

You drop the journal into the crate beside you and wait. This is awkward as hell, but you will be damned if you let him make you feel bad right now.

He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable, then exhales and rolls his eyes at himself before taking the chair closest to you.

“Hey, b—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly before finishing with just your name.

“Hi.” You let the silence stretch just a little.

He chose to come here.

Bucky licks his lips before finally meeting your eyes. “I just wanted…” He gestures vaguely. “…to make sure you were okay. Not that Steve can’t take care of you, but… well. You know.”

You bite your lip and nod faintly. “You okay?”

He swallows and looks away, and that is when you really see it—the dark circles under his eyes. “I’ve been better.”

“Bucky—” You start, instinctively, but he lifts a hand.

“Not your fault.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Just… dealing with the change.”

Everything you have learned, everything you are starting to piece together, sits right on the edge of your tongue—but without the full picture, you cannot bring yourself to say any of it.

So you take the safer route. “The others are coming over tonight. Kind of a ‘released from the hospital’ thing. As much of a party as I can handle.”

He gives a small smile at that. “That’s good. You should celebrate.”

You fidget slightly. He looks like a kicked puppy, and you do not know if you caused that—or if it was always there. It pulls at something in you, but with everything shifting the way it is, you are not sure stepping in would actually help.

Bucky leans forward, unable to relax enough to sit back. “Uh… how is Steve doing? I mean, helping you and all.”

Your thoughts flick—unhelpfully—to this morning. To last night. You force them away.

“He’s been good. Letting me do as much as I can myself. I think we’re going to start working on my at-home therapy later.”

“Right…” His gaze drifts again.

Then, abruptly, he stands. “I should go. Um… just text me if you want. Or call.”

You watch him, wishing—just a little—that you could stand, walk him out, offer something more than this distance. But you know how that would end. “Okay. You too.”

Bucky looks at you one last time, hands shoved into his pockets, then turns and heads for the door. It closes with a quiet click.

A moment later, Steve walks back in. “You okay?”

You let your head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “No. That was the most awkward thing that has ever happened… that I can remember.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh and sits beside you, draping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you gently into his side.

You go easily, still tangled up in it.

“I feel bad,” you admit. “For hurting him. But at the same time… I’m so confused. Everything I think I know keeps changing.” You close your eyes, frustrated.

Steve squeezes your shoulder. “I know, tiger. I wish I could promise you that you’ll get your memories back and everything will make sense, but… life’s messy.”

He hesitates. There is more he could say. That you will find your way back to Bucky. That things will settle.

But the words catch. Because of what you said last night. Because of what it stirred up in him. And because he still has Peggy—even if they have not spoken since she walked out.

So instead, he just holds you a little tighter.

Part Six

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The music was too loud.

That was the first thing you thought whenever you watched one of Steve’s USO shows.

Too bright, too polished, too full of cheering strangers who only knew the version of him printed on posters. The broad shoulders. The perfect smile. The shining uniform. Captain America as an idea.

Not the boy who used to cough into his sleeve in the cold, the boy who sketched in the margins of newspapers, or the boy who once offered you the last half of his sandwich when he barely had enough for himself.

Not your Steve.

You stood near the side of the stage, hands clasped in front of your dress, watching him bow dramatically to another screaming crowd.

He caught your eye for half a second.

And smiled differently.

Softer, real and loving.

Your heart did the same foolish thing it had done for years.

-

By the time the audience was gone and the dancers had disappeared backstage, the hall felt like another world entirely.

The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere in the distance, a record crackled softly. Glitter still shimmered across the stage floor, forgotten remnants of costumes already packed away.

And in the middle of it all, Steve held you close.

You swayed together in the empty space, moving slowly to music meant for no one else.

His hand rested at your waist with such careful reverence it made your chest ache, as though some part of him still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you there.

Your arms circled his neck.

He was larger now… stronger.

Everything they had wanted him to become.

But when he looked at you, he was still Stevie.

Still the boy who blushed if your fingers brushed his.

Still the boy who got flustered when you stood too near.

Still yours.

“You were wonderful tonight,” you murmured, unable to resist.

He blushed instantly. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. I counted at least twenty girls screaming your name.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing you a little closer. “But only one of them matters.”

Your breath caught.

Even now, after he’d changed, after the serum and the fame and the spotlight, he could still surprise you.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, suddenly shy.

The song drifted around you like a secret.

Then, quietly, before you could stop yourself, you asked the question that has been on your mind, “Stevie… would you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

He stopped moving just enough to tilt your chin up.

There was no hesitation in him.

No confusion. Only certainty.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Of course I would.”

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

He smiled and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d love you when we’re old and grey and arguing over the radio on the porch.”

You laughed through the tears threatening to rise.

“And if I’m grumpy?”

“You already are.”

You gasped, smacking his chest playfully, “Steven Grant Rogers.”

He grinned.

Then he kissed you for the first time under dim stage lights and fading music, with the whole world waiting outside and neither of you caring.

-

The world changed anyway.

War took what it wanted.

Time took the rest.

And Steve Rogers fell into the ice, while you…. you had lived your life, alone.

-

When he woke, nothing felt right.

New York City was louder, brighter, and busier.

People rushed past with glowing boxes in their hands and empty urgency in their eyes. Streets he had once memorized had vanished beneath towers of steel and glass.

Everyone he had loved belonged to history.

Until they didn’t.

The file had been thin. Inside contained a name, a picture, and history and the address that stuck out like a sore thumb.

Current residence: assisted living.

Steve had stared at the paper so long Natasha eventually plucked it from his hands, pressed it back into his chest, and told him to go.

So he did.

-

The retirement home smelled like honey and polished wood.

His heartbeat hadn’t steadied since the ride over.

What if it wasn’t really you?

What if it was?

What if you hated him for disappearing?

What if you’d forgotten him entirely?

A nurse guided him down the hall and stopped outside a half-open door.

“She’s been expecting you,” she said gently.

Steve froze.

Then stepped inside.

You were sitting by the window with a blanket over your knees, a book in your lap and the glowing sun covering your skin.

You were older, your hair silver at the temples. Fine lines at the corners of your eyes. Hands softer with age.

But you, were still you.

You looked up.

And smiled like he’d only been gone a week.

“There you are, Stevie.”

His heart shuttered and his breath staggered.

He crossed white and black tiles in three desperate strides and immediately dropped to his knees beside your chair.

Your trembling hands reached up to move his hair, “My handsome boy,” you whispered.

Steve laughed once, choked and wet, and gently grasped you hands guiding them to his lips as he presses a soft kiss to them.

“I’m late.” He managed to choke out.

“Terribly late,” you replied. “Same as always.”

He bowed his head into your hand.

“I thought you’d have… more. A family. A husband. Children and grandchildren.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then you gave him a small smile, the same smile that made his 20 year old scrawny self melt.

“I had a good life.”

His eyes met yours.

“But no,” you said gently. “None of those things.”

Pain and hope tangled painfully in his chest.

“Why not?”

Your smile turned wistful.

“I suppose I was waiting for someone to finish our dance.”

The room fell silent.

Steve looked away towards the window, overcome by every lost year standing between you.

You saved him from drowning in it, just as you always had.

“Stevie.”

He turned back immediately.

Your gaze was soft and certain.

“Do you still love me even though I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

His throat tightened.

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles with reverence.

“You are still beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely. “And i will always love you, always..”

Tears shimmered in your eyes.

Good,” you said. “I wanted to hear it again.

-

Unfortunately Steve had lost you once more, but this time it was peaceful for you.

Only a quiet hospital room, your hand in his, and a final breath so gentle it somehow hurt more.

Steve stayed beside you long after the room went still and the line on the monitor stayed straight.

And for the first time in nearly a hundred years, he didn’t know who he was meant to be next.

-

Then came the stones. The mission.

The chance to put everything back where it belonged.

One last job.

He returned each stone.

Each weapon that took away family from each other.

Each borrowed piece of time.

And then, standing in a world that was no longer asking anything of him, Steve made one selfish choice.

He went back to you.

Not the older version in the quiet room, or the one who’s breathing had stoped.

The younger version, the girl in the dance hall, the one who still had years ahead of her, the one who hadn’t had to wait alone, and the one who he had loved the most.

-

When the platform glowed to life, Sam stepped forward first.

But there was no old man waiting.

It was Steve. Still young. Still dressed like Captain America. Smiling with a peace none of them had ever seen on his face.

The only new thing about Steve, was the woman standing next to him who had her hand intertwined with his.

Young, radiant, and laughing softly.

Bruce blinked. “…How…who?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s complicated.”

Sam stared, then broke into a grin.

“You rewrote history for a woman?”

Steve squeezed your hand.

“For my woman, Sam.”

Warmth climbed your cheeks.

Then Steve looked past them.

“Buck.”

Bucky stopped dead.

His eyes moved from Steve, to you, then back again.

“You vanish for five minutes,” Bucky muttered, “and somehow come back married?”

“We never married,” you said quickly.

Steve glanced sideways at you, entirely smug.

“Not yet.” He snuck in.

You hit his arm.

Sam doubled over laughing.

Bucky just shook his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely him.”

-

A few weeks later, sunlight filled your now shared apartment. Your dog, Isla, lay curled at your feet as you finished washing the dishes, the warm water running over your hands in a steady rhythm that almost made everything feel normal.

The sound of the front door opening and closing made both you and Isla perk up instantly. A second later, the two-year-old German Shepherd was already on her feet, tail thumping wildly as she rushed to greet the man who had saved her.

Steve.

You smiled before you even saw him.

“Hey,” you called softly.

He appeared a moment later, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake the weight of the world off with it. “Hey,” he said, voice lighter the second his eyes found you.

Isla nearly tackled him. He laughed under his breath, crouching down to scratch behind her ears like she was the best part of his day—and honestly, she probably was.

You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment. “Long day?”

“Avengers meeting,” he answered, standing back up slowly. “Tony tried to turn it into a debate about shawarma again.”

That earned a soft laugh from you. “Sounds serious.”

“World-ending, apparently.” His eyes softened as they came back to you. “How was your day?”

“Quiet,” you said. “Just Isla being dramatic and me pretending I have my life together.”

He hummed like that was acceptable information, then crossed the room toward you.

You opened your arms without thinking.

He stepped into you immediately.

Warm. Solid. Safe.

But after a second, he gently pulled back just enough to rest his hands over your stomach.

Your breath caught softly.

His thumbs moved in a slow, careful circle over the small curve there, like he was still getting used to the idea that this was real—that you were real, that this little future between you was real.

“How are my girls doing?” he asked quietly.

You smiled down at him. “We’re good,.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, softer than anything the world ever saw from Captain America.

The room felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

For a moment, neither of you moved—just stayed there, like the world outside didn’t exist, like time wasn’t something trying to steal you both away anymore.

Then Steve leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your heart softened instantly.

“I love you too, Stevie.”

The quinjet touches down inside the compound hangar, engines winding down as the ramp lowers.

No one moves right away. Not because they are unsure—

Because no one quite knows what this is yet.

So you move first.

Onto the ramp. Into the compound. Your gaze tracks immediately—structure, spacing, materials, exits. Confirming. Adjusting. Noting. “More metal than I thought.”

It is quiet. Offhand. But it lands.

Sam’s head tilts, just enough to catch it.

Tony’s eyes flick toward you for half a second before snapping back to his systems.

Natasha stills.

Bucky’s attention sharpens instantly.

“Thought?” Sam asks, casual—but not really.

You shrug. “I’ve only seen the schematics.”

Then, almost as an afterthought—“And the roof.”

That lands harder.

The air shifts. Something small. Something wrong.

Steve exhales through his nose, gaze dropping as he shakes his head once—subtle, almost to himself.

No one calls it out.

Not yet.

But the silence changes.

Loaded. Waiting.

They move into the briefing room, taking their usual positions.

You do not.

You take the window. At Steve’s side.

Half-turned toward the room, half toward the outside—positioned to leave if necessary.

Tony pulls up the screens, jaw tight as data flickers to life.

Then he stops. Shifts. “No, you know what—”

He turns, locking onto Steve. “You want to tell me how she knew the layout of my compound?”

Steve shrugs. “You told us after finding the bug. She’s had access before.”

Tony’s glare sharpens. “Not like that.” He steps forward. “You didn’t tell me.”

Steve’s mouth twists. “It didn’t change the mission.”

Tony fires back without hesitation. “It changes everything.”

The air thickens. No one moves.

Natasha does not look up from the data. “How long?”

Steve exhales. Looks at her. Says nothing.

The air leaves the room.

Natasha lifts her head now, eyes sharp. “How many times has she made contact?”

Tony throws his hands up, pacing once.

Steve answers, quiet. “Enough.”

Natasha stands, hands on her hips. “And you didn’t tell us.”

Not a question. A conclusion.

Bucky breaks. “I called it.”

No one responds.

He is already moving. “I told all of you something was off.”

He steps into Steve’s space, voice low, controlled. “And you lied.”

Steve starts—

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Bucky cuts him off clean.

His eyes flick to you, then back to Steve. “You don’t get to play both sides.”

That lands. Hard.

Sam finally speaks, not looking at Steve. “So… what, she’s helping us?”

No answer.

He looks at you. “Or are we helping her?”

Thor exhales slowly. “She reminds me of someone.”

No one asks who. They already know.

“Someone who walks between sides until it suits them.”

You stay where you are. Relaxed. Unbothered. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Steve’s eyes cut to you—just for a moment. He says nothing.

Tony drags a hand through his hair and turns again. “You trusted her over us.”

Steve meets his gaze. “I trusted the outcome.”

Bucky lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “That’s not the same thing.”

Steve’s attention shifts to him, something sharper underneath now. “It is when it works.”

That settles it. For now.

You push off the glass and hold out a folded slip of paper toward Tony. “Guess I should give this to you now.”

Tony eyes it like it might bite him. “A little analog for my tastes.”

You smile slightly. “It’s worked so far.”

He snatches it, still glaring at Steve. “What is it?”

You lean back against the window again. “Their next move. They’ll adjust, but it’s time-sensitive.”

Tony turns back to the screens immediately, already inputting the data, reasserting control—checking feeds, confirming his system is still intact.

Natasha watches both of you now. Not the data. The connection.

Bucky turns and stalks out without another word, anger rolling off him in waves.

Sam lingers, watching Tony, then you—still trying to find his footing.

Thor remains still, eyes fixed on you, measuring. Weighing.

You say nothing. Let them adjust.

Then glance sideways up at Steve.

He meets your eyes. Steady. Quiet.

Understanding passes between you.

No one else sees it.

The control room is dark, lit only by the glow of the screens.

Footage plays on a loop. The fight outside the compound—

Then the moment. You grab Captain America, flip the angle—

Take the hit. Fight at his side.

The video resets. Plays again.

“Run that again,” one of the analysts says, leaning forward.

The clip loops.

Another analyst watches closely, frowning. “She broke formation.”

At the back of the room, your handler does not move. “No.”

His voice is flat. Certain. “She made a choice.”

The footage zooms—tight on the impact.

The energy blast tears across your suit, light flaring against the dark.

Your handler’s eyes narrow. “That confirms it.”

The second analyst glances over. “Compromised?”

A beat.

“No.” The word is sharper now. Final.

“Defective.”

The loop continues.

You and Steve—back to back. Moving in sync.

The handler watches it once more.

Then:

“Adjust protocol.” A pause. “Terminate her on sight.”

The screen freezes. On the two of you.

Steve walks down the hallway a few steps ahead of you.

You follow at an even pace, taking in everything—panels, doorways, sightlines—without breaking distance.

He stops at a nondescript door. It slides open. “It’s not much.”

You step inside. Small. Contained.

A bed. A desk. A dresser. Spartan. Functional.

“It’s enough.”

You turn back to him. “Thank you.”

Steve nods, shifting his weight slightly, like he is not entirely sure what to do with his hands.

“I’m that way if—”

You cut him off. “I know.”

A small pause.

He exhales, giving a half-gesture—something between a wave and a dismissal. “Yeah.”

He steps back. The door slides shut. Leaving you alone.

Steve walks the short distance to his own room, pushes the door open, and steps inside.

It closes behind him with a soft click.

He leans back against it, head tipping against the surface as he lets out another slow breath.

The next morning, you are all back in the briefing room.

You take the same place as before—leaning against the glass beside Steve.

Tony is already moving through a wall of screens—maps, satellite feeds, the intel you gave him—hands flying, motions sharp, irritated.

“Alright, new rule—”

He does not slow down. “She comes with us.”

Sam leans forward, brows drawing together. “That feels like a terrible idea.”

Tony does not turn, just keeps working, flicking through data. “Yeah, well, so is leaving her here.”

No one argues that.

He finishes, tone flat: “No way I’m letting her wander around my compound unsupervised.”

Natasha’s eyes shift to you, but she addresses Tony. “You trust her enough to bring her?”

Tony pauses—just for a second. “I trust her where I can see her.”

You smirk.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his glare snapping to you.

Steve says nothing. Does not move.

Thor watches you carefully, like he might catch something in the space between breaths.

An hour later, you are in the air again.

This time seated near the front—next to Steve.

No one quite knows where to look. So they do not.

Sam shifts in his seat, glancing once toward you before looking away again.

“This is weird,” he mutters.

Tony does not even look up from the data scrolling across his display. “Not helpful.”

Natasha watches the two of you openly now—eyes sharp, tracking every small interaction, still trying to map the line between you.

Bucky does not bother hiding it.

His gaze stays locked on you, hard and unyielding, like your presence alone is enough to set him off.

Thor watches too—

But differently. Quieter. Curious. Measuring.

Steve says nothing.

He reaches over, offering you an earpiece.

You take it, slotting it in without hesitation. Calm. Unfazed.

The tension in the cabin does not shift.

If anything—

It settles in deeper.

Thirty minutes in, the fight has gone wide. Chaos.

Hydra is everywhere—pouring across the field, regrouping faster than they should.

Tony’s voice cuts constantly through the comms, sharp and rapid.

“Left flank—Nat, two behind you—no, three—Bucky, watch your—”

A blast cuts him off.

“—okay, that’s new.”

Above, Sam is pinned in the air, weaving through heavy fire as drones lock and relock onto him. “Little busy up here—”

Thor is on the far side of the field, holding an entire line alone—lightning cracking down in bursts as he keeps the pressure from collapsing inward.

On the ground, Natasha and Bucky cut through the center—tight, efficient, brutal.

They don not slow. They do not need to.

You stay with Steve. Right at his shoulder.

Moving fast—faster than the rest of the field can track.

The shield moves between you like it belongs to both of you—

Passed, caught, redirected—

No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You do not follow Tony’s calls. You follow Steve.

Mirroring him—angle for angle, step for step—

Like you are not separate at all.

Tony hears it. Sees it. Does not like it. “Stay in formation—both of you.”

You ignore him.

Steve does not correct it. That is answer enough.

Then something shifts. You see it first.

A flicker in the airspace. A trajectory that does not line up.

You peel off. Fast. Breaking from Steve without warning.

Tony catches it immediately. “—and there she goes.” A pause. “Cap, your girl’s running.”

Bucky turns just enough to track you.

Natasha notices—files it—but keeps moving.

Sam does not have the bandwidth.

Thor is too far out to see it.

You cut into open space and stop. Turn. “Steve.”

He reacts instantly. No question.

Drops low—

Shield up. Locked.

You are already moving. Sprinting straight at him.

Tony’s voice spikes. “Oh, this is new—what is she—”

You hit the shield. Feet planted.

Steve drives upward—strong, controlled—

You push off at the same moment—

The force launches you skyward.

Above—

A drone locks onto Sam. “Uh—guys—little help—”

He does not finish. You are already there.

Midair—

You twist, driving your foot straight through the drone before it fires.

It shatters on impact. Debris scatters into the open sky.

Sam blinks—still dodging the rest. “…uh—thanks?”

You are already dropping. Landing clean. The shield snaps back toward you—

You catch it without looking, turning into the motion to block an incoming strike.

“Okay… not running,” Tony mutters, irritation bleeding through. He still cannot read you.

Natasha rolls her eyes as she absorbs a hit, then drops the man in one clean motion. “Seriously.”

Across the field, Bucky’s jaw tightens. He does not look at you again. Just hits harder. Faster. Taking it out on everything in reach.

You hand the shield back without looking. Steve catches it mid-motion.

No break. No acknowledgment.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like nothing happened.

The fight keeps moving. And so do you.

You make it out clean—with the data and the tech Hydra needed.

The quinjet lifts, carrying all of you away from the field.

Inside, the only sound is the steady hum of the engines.

No one speaks.

Sam sits forward, breathing heavy, slowly coming back down.

To your left, Thor is still, composed—but watchful.

Natasha stands a few feet away, eyes distant, already turning the moment over in her head—what it meant, what it changes.

In the back, Bucky paces, restless, agitation rolling off him in waves.

Steve sits to your right.

His gaze drops—just briefly—to the blood on your arm.

A question, unspoken.

You shake your head once.

Nothing.

He accepts it. Looks forward again.

Tony does not.

He is already deep in the data, screens flickering across his face as he pulls everything apart and puts it back together again.

Then he stops. Turns. Locks onto you. Then Steve.

“Okay—new rule—no improvising mid-air combat maneuvers without telling me first.”

Sam lets out a half-laugh, still catching his breath. “I mean… it worked.”

Tony snaps back immediately. “That’s not the metric.”

He turns back to the screens, already moving again. “The metric is I know what’s happening before it happens.”

Natasha’s voice cuts in—cool, even. “You didn’t.”

No accusation. Just fact.

Tony’s hand tightens briefly. “I will.”

From the back, Bucky does not stop pacing. “Or we stop letting her run wild.”

You tilt your head slightly, almost amused—but say nothing.

Steve’s voice cuts through the space, quiet but firm.

“She didn’t run wild.”

Bucky turns on him. “She broke formation.”

Steve does not look at him. He looks at you. “She saved Sam.”

Sam exhales, finally steady enough to speak. “…also true.”

That hangs there.

The engine hum fills the space again.

No one pushes further. No one agrees.

But something has shifted—even if nothing has changed.

In the briefing room, everyone takes up their now-familiar positions.

No one sits.

Tony has the mission playback running, footage looping across multiple screens as he continues tearing through the data they pulled. “We got what we needed. That part worked.”

Natasha does not look at him. Her focus stays on the footage—tracking you as you move with Steve across the field. “She’s not random.”

Tony tilts his head, irritation creeping in. “She’s unpredictable.”

Natasha shakes her head once. “No.” She takes a deliberate breath. “She’s deliberate.”

Across the room, Bucky turns toward Steve, taking a step closer. “You’re still not answering the question.”

Steve lifts a brow. “Which one?”

Bucky does not miss a beat. “Why you trust her.”

Steve does not hesitate. “Because she hasn’t been wrong.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “That’s not trust.” His eyes narrow. “That’s gambling.”

Sam steps in, a hand landing on Bucky’s shoulder—pulling him back just enough to keep things from tipping.

When Bucky looks at him, Sam speaks, slower, more careful. “She didn’t have to save me.”

Bucky looks away almost immediately. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Sam’s gaze shifts to you—measured, uncertain. Then back to Bucky. “Means something to me.”

From the corner, Thor finally speaks, arms still crossed as he watches you.

“She chooses her actions carefully.” A pause. “That is not chaos.”

Natasha turns to you now, her expression changed—less accusation, more calculation. “The question is why.”

You shrug, like the answer should already be obvious. “You already know why.”

Tony cuts across the room, voice sharp again. “Doesn’t matter why.”

He turns just enough to look at you over his shoulder. “What matters is I can’t predict her.”

Steve shifts—subtle, but enough—angling himself slightly between you and Tony’s line of sight. “You don’t have to.”

Tony turns back to the screens. “Yeah, I do.”

No one answers it.

The room falls quiet again—

Everyone watching you. And each other.

Part Fourteen

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Tony turned toward you with a wide grin. "And let's not forget the star of the show, our very own wunderkind, analyst-strategist extraordinaire!"

The adrenaline from the Bus incident still coursed through you, and for the first time since this whole Times Square ordeal began, you felt like you had earned your place in the world.

Steve gave you a nod of encouragement before glancing at Tony. "Alright, Tony. Show us what you've got."

With a dramatic flourish, Tony pulled back a cover to reveal a sleek piece of equipment resembling an advanced arcade simulator. All gleaming curves and pulsing lights. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... OmniSight."

Clint whistled. "Looks fancy. What's it do?"

Tony wagged a finger. "Patience, Legolas. OmniSight is the ultimate tactical support system. It's designed to process mission data, threats, terrain, tactical opportunities, and feed you all real-time intel."

Bruce, who had transformed into his not-so-mean, green alter ego for the simulation, offered you a small, encouraging smile. "Alright, Y/N, quick rundown... The simulation will generate random threats. Your job is to process the incoming data and guide the team through without anyone 'dying'."

You nodded.

"You don't need to micromanage every move. Just focus on the big picture. Spot threats, call out openings, and keep them on track. Trust your instincts."

You nodded again.

"The simulation adjusts based on your decisions. If you take too long to act, the threats escalate. No pressure."

Yeah. No pressure at all. Just processing mission-critical data for a team of superheroes while sitting in what looked like the world's most expensive gaming setup. You were sure you had performance anxiety dreams that started better than this. If you could remember them, that is.

Sam smirked, sensing your trepidation. "You alright?"

You chuckled awkwardly, trying to hold on to the memory of what had pushed you to fix the breach in the hull. Muscle memory, instinct, whatever it was. "Oh, yeah. I'll... do my best."

Tony pressed a button on the console, and the building's systems went into lockdown mode. A safety measure to contain any potential energy surges or dangers resulting from the simulation and experimental tech.

Sliding into the OmniSight chair, you slipped on your headset and took a deep breath as the holographic interface flared to life. This wasn't just a simulation, it was your moment to prove that the trust they'd placed in you wasn't misplaced.

Within seconds, the room transformed into a dense, holographic jungle, complete with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant water. You could almost taste the dampness in the air. Your fingers hovered over the controls, each monitor a window into a different aspect of the mission. Terrain analysis, heat signatures, tactical projections.

"Here's the deal, folks. Hydra operatives stole a piece of S.H.I.E.L.D. tech and are attempting to smuggle it across the border. Our job is to intercept them before they flee. Y/N will guide us through every step... Y/N, whenever you're ready..."

It took you a minute to process the data running across three monitors. In theory, this was an amazing idea. Practically? Daunting AF. Perspiration prickled along your hairline as you felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on you, all waiting for you to say something. Give an order, an alert, a heads-up. Anything. You'd felt it before. In the library with Natasha, on the Bus during that heart-stopping crisis. But this was so much worse.

Someone shifted their weight. Clint, probably, always restless before a mission. A sigh followed. Sam, you'd bet money on it. Then a throat clearing that could only be Bruce, trying to be supportive in his awkward, endearing way.

Steve's footsteps approached the console. "Y/N... Just start with what you see."

The monitors flickered with data, patterns emerging like constellations. "Two enemy squads ahead." Your voice surprised you with its stability, as if some other, more confident version of yourself had temporarily taken control.

"Good. Where should we go? Give us a path to take."

The tactical display painted a story in heat signatures and elevation contours. "The northern trail's a trap. Go west. It's tougher terrain, but you'll bypass the ambush and cut them off before they reach the extraction point."

Sam's exhale of relief was audible. "You heard the girl. Let's move."

This was your life. Your home. Your family.

You were already half asleep when Bucky settled behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You were surprised you weren’t out the moment your head hit the pillow. His arm slid around your waist automatically, his palm resting on your stomach protectively. He exhaled against your neck, his chest solid and warm against your back.

Everything felt right when he held you like that, his presence wrapping around you as naturally as the blanket keeping you warm.

“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his thumb brushing the curve of your belly like he was trying to memorize the feeling.

You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. “Hmm. Just fine.”

The room felt more calm and quiet, like the world and time itself slowed down for the two of you.

Well, three of you.

“Not hungry?”

“You made sure we ate plenty,” you answered.

“Good.” Bucky nuzzled your skin, drawing a small laugh from you when his stubble tickled you. “And now you need rest.”

“That’s why I’m already in bed,” you teased.

“Good,” he said again.

The last few weeks had been chaotic. Not bad, thankfully, but busy in a relentless way. Appointments and every day life stacked on top of you until you felt stretched thin. Your energy seemed to go just as quickly as it came. Some days you felt like you were chasing the clock, always a step behind when your body was working overtime to accomplish everything. You just couldn’t seem to keep up.

Bucky noticed.

Of course, he did.

It was in the way his brows pinched when he looked at you, cataloguing every yawn and when your shoulders slumped. His voice softened whenever he said your name, the sound soothing when exhaustion seeped in. He began to carry you around without you asking, leaving no room for argument. He tried to take things off your plate, too, even when he had his own things to do.

“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this level, sweetheart.”

“Bucky, I’m pregnant. Being tired comes with the territory. That’s just how it is.”

You said that because you believed it. Because you had to be strong and prove you could handle it. Life wasn’t about to give you a pass because you two decided to have a baby.

But Bucky saw through that.

“I’m your husband and the father of our child. You can lean on me instead of trying to do it all by yourself. Just like I lean on you some days.”

The words carved their way into your heart and didn’t leave.

Because he was right. Some days when the world felt too heavy, he looked to you for support. You were there for him without question. And he was there for you, too.

It wasn’t out of obligation to give and take nor was it the kind of thing where you kept score. It was out of love and devotion, something that made you both stronger. Neither of you had to carry anything alone anymore.

The truth of that eased something in your chest you hadn't realized was there until you exhaled.

“Guess what?” he asked, his voice light and breaking through your thoughts.

“I thought I was supposed to be resting, not talking,” you replied, giggling again when his teeth nipped your skin. “Okay, okay. What?”

“We should be getting the pictures tomorrow.”

You smiled happily. “Really? That’s great!” you replied, your baby moving around as if they felt how excited you were.

A bright light within the business was the recent maternity photoshoot. The weather had been perfect, you wore a beautiful dress, and Bucky smiled so much in and out of the photos you were certain his cheeks ached. He already picked out the space on the wall where he wanted them hung up and there was an empty frame on his desk waiting for the right picture. He was so happy.

You both were.

“I know they’re going to be perfect,” he said quietly, chuckling under his breath. “And Sprout’s been busy today. Kicking like they’ve got somewhere to be.”

Your smile widened and you shifted just enough to press back against him. “I think they get that from you.”

Your baby must’ve picked up his old dancing skills because they did a fantastic number on your bladder earlier in the day.

At least you made it to the bathroom in time.

He huffed under his breath. “Hey. I was a perfectly calm kid.”

You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to give him a look over your shoulder. He smiled and your heart beat faster. His blue eyes softened when his fingers traced your belly again, touching one of your stretch marks through your shirt. He traced it like it was something sacred.

You both bore life-changing marks on your skin, your bodies telling stories that only the two of you would ever fully read.

“You keep touching them,” you whispered, not accusingly. More like awe.

“I do,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck and shifting your body so you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. “I know you don’t think they’re pretty, but they’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked, only semi-surprised. “Really?”

Bucky always found a way to make you feel beautiful and desired. Whether it was through his actions or words, he never wanted you to doubt yourself or how much he craved you. You were certain he would do that for the rest of your lives. But since you got pregnant, he took it to another level of worship.

Not that you would ever complain about having his attention and focus.

“I mean it. Your body is changing because our baby is growing and it’s so beautiful. We made this. You and me.” His fingers moved again, tracing each mark with intention. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Stuff I wish I could forget. But this?” He let out a shaky breath, his hand pausing to cradle your stomach tenderly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”

Your throat tightened. Your eyes watered. Damn hormones kept making you emotional. Except it wasn’t the hormones at all. It was just you in love with this man.

A man who loved you and your baby with his entire being.

“How are you so perfect?” you asked.

His nose scrunched when he laughed, the sound making your heart feel full. “Sweetheart, I’m so fucking far from perfect.”

You took his face in your hands, refusing to let him think of himself as anything less . “Bucky Barnes, listen to me.”

“I always listen,” he swore, solely focused on you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

It took you a second to speak since having his full attention was overwhelming in the best way. “You are the best husband and provider. And not just because you fix the sink and bring me ice cream and validate my feelings when I’m insecure. You love, take care of, and respect me. You remind me that I don’t have to go it alone,” you said, your gaze affectionate when he leaned into your touch. “And I know you’ll be the perfect father.”

“You think so?” he asked after a moment, his voice thick.

“I know so,” you said.

He quickly closed the small gap between you, kissing you so deeply that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Thank you.”

Your heart beat wildly. “You have nothing to thank me for,” you said, your face twisting at the particularly hard kick in your stomach and making Bucky frown slightly. “Our baby really is a mover.”

Along with his dancing skills, you guessed your baby would have his agility and strength. You were thankful they hadn’t kicked through your stomach. Your husband may have gone off on someone who suggested it could be a possibility thanks to the serum. They hadn’t looked you in the eye since, much to your better half’s satisfaction.

No one would ever look out for you more than him.

“Hey, Sprout. Your Mama’s been working extra hard lately. Growing you takes a lot out of her.” The fondness in his voice was enough to make a tear fall. “She’s magical and stronger than I’ll ever be, but we need to make sure she gets enough rest for both of you. Maybe we can start with gentler kicks? Can you do that?”

The kick under his palm was much softer, like they understood.

His eyes lit up and your chin wobbled. He looked so happy. You knew some days he still couldn’t believe he got to have this, but no one deserved it more.

“They really can understand me,” he said in awe.

“Of course, they do.”

They loved the sound of his voice.

“Thank you, Sprout,” he whispered, sliding down the bed enough to kiss your stomach. “You get some rest, okay? We love you.”

You sniffled when he moved back up to hold you again, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. “And did you, a super soldier, seriously call me strong? And magical?” you asked so you wouldn’t ugly sob from how sweet he was being.

“You are strong and magical. Sprout agrees,” he said gently but firmly before he kissed your tear away. “But even the strong and magical need rest.”

You stifled a yawn, your eyes slipping shut. You did need the rest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He nuzzled your neck again and kept you close. “I love you both so much.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “We love you, too.”

“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this,” he admitted quietly. “You. Sprout. All of it.”

Your hand covered his and your baby rolled beneath his palm, both of you leaning into him and seeking to comfort him before his thoughts spiraled. “You already have,” you assured him. “Trust us.”

You and Bucky built a life and home together, one that he more than deserved. You were partners in life and love. That love extended to your baby and would only continue to grow.

Tonight you didn’t have to think of anything beyond the walls of your bedroom. You could simply rest in his arms and let everything else be. And he’d watch over you while you slept like the hero he was.

And a man in love.

I hope you lovelies all have enough spoons, get the rest you need, and have someone to lean on. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

“Now.” There’s no room for argument in his voice. Not tonight. And that’s what scares you.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady as you shove clothes into a bag minutes later.

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s pacing—slow, controlled, like a caged animal trying very hard not to lose control. “They said your name.”

That stops you cold. “…Who did?”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s something dark in his eyes—something that doesn’t belong to the man who brings you coffee in the mornings and fixes your sink without being asked.

“Stark.” The word lands heavy.

You knew, of course. You weren’t stupid. You knew Steve had… connections. That people listened when he spoke. That sometimes he disappeared for days and came back with bruised knuckles and silence in his eyes.

But hearing it like this? Out loud?

“They don’t get to know you,” he continues, voice low, dangerous. “They don’t get to touch you. They don’t even get to think about you.”

Your throat tightens. “Steve—”

“I should’ve kept you further away.” There’s anger there—but not at you. Never at you. “That’s on me.”

You take a careful step toward him. “You didn’t do anything—”

“I did,” he snaps, then exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Softer now, but worse somehow. “I let myself get comfortable.”

That hurts more than it should.

“Comfortable… with me?”

His eyes flick back to yours. “Yeah.”

The ride to his place is quiet. Too quiet. Steve’s hand never leaves your knee the entire time. Not gentle. Not exactly. More like… grounding. Like he needs to feel you there. Real. Safe. Every time the car slows, his grip tightens. Every time someone walks too close to the vehicle, his gaze sharpens, calculating, ready.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not fully. And it fucking terrifies you in ways you couldn't begin to describe out loud.

His house is something out of another world. Guards. Cameras. Gates that look like they could survive a war.

You hesitate as you step inside. “I can’t stay here,” you murmur. “Steve, this is—this is your world, not mine.”

He shuts the door behind you with a quiet, final click. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

You turn to face him. And suddenly he’s right there. Close. Too close. Hands braced on either side of you against the wall, caging you in without touching. “They dragged you into it anyway,” he says quietly. “So now you stay where I can see you.”

Your pulse jumps. “That sounds a lot like kidnapping.”

His mouth twitches—just barely. “If I wanted to kidnap you,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly, “you wouldn’t be standing.”

Your breath catches. Because you believe him. And somehow… that doesn’t make you want to run.

“You’ll have a room,” he says later, a little more composed now. “Anywhere you want. Top floor’s the safest. Fewer access points.”

“And you?”

He pauses. Then, casually—too casually: “I’m right down the hall.” Of course he is. Of course you’re not far from him. Not tonight. Not ever again, if he has anything to say about it.

The first night, you can’t sleep. Every creak feels too loud. Every shadow too sharp. So you wander. Barefoot. Quiet. And you find him. Steve’s in his office, sleeves rolled, tie gone, staring at a map spread across his desk. Red marks everywhere. Names. Routes. Plans.

War plans. For you.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. “I told you to stay in your room.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

That gets his attention. His expression softens—just a fraction. “…Come here.”

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer.

He pulls out a chair beside him. You sit. Close enough that your knees brush.

“You’re safe here,” he says, voice low.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

His jaw tightens again. “I am,” he corrects. “I just don’t like risks.”

You study him. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers tap against the table like he’s counting down to something violent.

“You’re going to hurt him,” you say quietly. "All of them."

It’s not a question.

Steve finally looks at you. And there’s no softness left this time. “They threatened you.”

Your stomach flips. “Steve—”

“They don’t get to walk away from that.”

Your hand finds his before you can stop yourself. His fingers still instantly. “Hey,” you whisper. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not gone. Not fixed. But… anchored. His thumb brushes against your knuckles. “…You shouldn’t be,” he mutters.

“Why?”

“Because people like me,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “ruin things like you.”

Your heart stutters. “Then why am I here?”

Silence. Heavy. Loaded.

And then, “Because I’m not letting anyone else have the chance to.”

He walks you back to your room. Stands in the doorway a second too long. Like he wants to say something. Like he won’t. "…Lock the door,” he finally says.

You nod. He turns to leave. “Steve?”

He stops.

You swallow. “Stay. Just until I fall asleep.”

There’s a long pause. You can practically hear the war inside him—discipline vs. desire, control vs. something softer, more dangerous. “…Alright.” He sits on the edge of your bed. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just watches. Waits.

But when your hand drifts toward his, half-asleep, seeking— He takes it. Firm. Steady. Like a promise. Like a warning. And somewhere in the quiet, guarded dark of his world— You realize something terrifying. You’re not just under his protection anymore. You’re his.

You hit the ground running.

Gunfire cracks across the space, echoing off concrete and steel as Hydra scrambles to respond.

They are late. That is the first problem. The pattern is wrong.

You see it before anyone says it—spacing, timing, reaction.

A beat off. Like they are out of sync—

Or waiting.

You adjust without thinking.

Tony does not. “Alright, we’re clean—keep it tight—”

Natasha rolls with a blow, but she sees it too. “They’re not reacting. They’re anticipating.”

Then the sound cuts through the air—

Not standard gunfire. Sharper. Cleaner. A sniper.

Steve says your name—low, controlled.

It lands. The others hear it. Register it.

He has not said it before.

You move. The shot cracks past you—

Buries itself in the Hydra agent standing where your head was a second ago.

Tony catches up a beat too late. “—okay, that was not random—”

Then everything shifts. Hydra units redirect—

Angles tightening. Focus narrowing.

On you.

Bucky blinks as a soldier blows past him without engaging. “They’re not after us.”

Above, missile drones break formation, targets snapping to a single point.

Sam veers hard, chasing the one that peeled off him. “Uh—guys? They’re tracking her.”

Your enhanced hearing catches the comms from the agent in front of you—

Cold. Efficient. “Target acquired.” A breath. “Engage.”

Then the chaos hits. Harder. Faster.

Steve closes the distance immediately, shield snapping into place to cover your blind side as you flip an agent and drive him into the ground.

Natasha adjusts without hesitation, shifting her line to match yours.

Tony’s voice cuts in—less certain now. “Okay—new plan—protect the asset—”

A frustrated exhale. “…protect Copycat.”

He still will not say your name.

Thor drops from above, landing to your left with a shockwave that clears the immediate pressure.

Sam starts tearing through drones while Tony reroutes midair, diverting incoming missiles before they reach you.

Bucky rolls his eyes—but moves anyway, closing in despite himself.

You do not stop moving. Cannot. “Protocol’s updated.”

The pressure builds fast. Too many angles. Too many weapons trained on you.

More than once, Steve has to intercept another shot—shield ringing as it catches fire meant for you.

You do not slow. You cannot afford to.

The team compresses inward, forming around you—

Not planned. Just necessary.

Tony makes the call. “We’re not winning this one clean—fall back!”

Thor answers first—lightning cracks down, forcing space open.

You take it. All of you moving at once—

Later that afternoon finds you and Steve on the lawn, already squared off.

You throw a right hook—he slips it, counters with a left.

No hostility. Just movement. Familiar. Clean.

Sam, fresh off a run, drops onto the grass a few feet away. “This feels like a bad idea.”

Neither of you respond.

Steve pivots. You adjust with him.

You trade a few more blows before you catch his fist in a clean block.

“The blood,” he prompts.

You twist his arm back—he slips it almost immediately. “Tank breed.”

He strikes for your middle—you block, seamless. “Designed to counter you.”

You drop low, sweeping for his legs. Steve jumps it, already striking as you come back up. “I was in the ice.”

You pivot away from a kick aimed at your center. “They calculated survival.”

Steve’s movement stutters—just a fraction—barely enough.

He avoids your next strike by inches. “They couldn’t know that.”

He catches your arm, drives an elbow into your side.

You absorb it, shift. “They didn’t need to.”

Dodge. Strike. Parry.

“They only needed to be right once.”

He goes quiet. You press forward—

A right—he slips left—

You land one to his shoulder, but he rolls with it, turning the motion into a strike to your middle that connects.

You swing again—faster, less calculated—

He avoids it easily. Then you say it.

“If you hadn’t come out when you did—”

He blocks. You pivot away.

“—I would have been frozen.”

Steve frowns, striking toward your head. “For how long?”

You raise your arm—the hit glances off. “Until you did.”

You sweep his legs again—this time he goes down.

You follow immediately, dropping onto him before he can recover.

For a second, he does not push back—

Still processing.

Then he moves. Fast.

He flips the position, the two of you rolling across the grass before he slides under, arm locking around your neck.

You end up pinned against him, back to his chest, his hold tight.

You struggle—shift—test the angle. No break.

After a moment, you tap.

He releases immediately.

You roll free, pushing up onto your feet with a smirk.

“See? You can beat me every once in a while.”

Sam laughs from the grass.

Both of you turn—almost forgetting he was there.

He grins. “You two are terrifying.”

You push to your feet fully, brushing grass from your hands.

A small smile. “Thanks.”

Steve stands as well.

He and Sam exchange a look—both of them shaking their heads slightly as you head back toward the compound.

Sam steps up beside him. “We’re gonna talk about that, right?”

Steve watches you disappear inside. Then glances at Sam. “Nope.”

Up on the roof, Bucky and Natasha sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge as they watch you and Steve spar below.

Bucky already looks annoyed—and maybe, just a little, something else.

Natasha tracks the movement as the two of you roll through the grass. “That bothers you.”

Bucky exhales. “No.”

A beat. Another breath. “It bothers me he didn’t say anything.”

His jaw tightens. “Still won’t.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly as you smile at Sam. “Calculated risk.”

Bucky turns to her.

She meets his look without flinching. “So far, it’s paying off.”

He scoffs, looking away again. “That’s not how this works.”

Natasha turns her attention back to the lawn, watching you head inside. “It is right now.”

Bucky does not answer. His mouth sets into a hard line.

Natasha lets him sit with it.

You find Tony in his lab, a dozen screens suspended around him as he digs through layers of data.

You lean against the doorframe and just watch him for a moment.

Without looking up, he says, “That’s not creepy at all.”

You smile, push off the frame, and step in beside him.

Before he can react, you pull one of the screens closer and start typing.

He frowns immediately, moving toward you. “—hey—what are you—”

You hit enter. The data shifts. Resolves. Clean.

Tony tracks it instantly, eyes narrowing. “What did you just—”

He pulls the screen back, already dissecting what you changed—

—but you have grabbed another.

Typing again.

He reaches for it—too late. “You’re not touching that one—”

You finish the command before he can drag it away. “Too late.”

You are already on another screen.

Tony exhales sharply. “That’s my system.”

You do not even look at him. “It’s inefficient.”

“FRIDAY,” Tony snaps, “tell me I didn’t just hear that.”

FRIDAY responds calmly, “She is assisting, Mr. Stark.”

Tony points at the nearest display without looking away from you. “Oh, shut up.”

He snatches another screen from your hands.

You counter by pulling a different one into your space.

Now both of you are moving—fast—cutting into each other’s work, redirecting processes midstream, hands crossing paths as data shifts between you.

Natasha steps into the room—and stops. Watches.

The two of you do not slow down.

Screens passing back and forth, code rewriting in real time—too fast to follow unless you are already in it.

She tilts her head slightly. “Do I need to put you both in time out?”

Tony does not look at her, already pulling another screen away from you. “She started it.”

You grab a different one without breaking stride. “He’s wrong.”

Natasha watches for another second—unimpressed.

Then she exhales softly and takes a seat, already pulling up her tablet.

Letting you both continue.

As the sun sets, Steve sits in the equipment room, methodically cleaning blood and dirt from his gear. His brow is furrowed, his focus just a little too tight.

Thor steps in. He does not speak right away—just watches Steve for a moment. Then he takes the seat across from him, picking up a piece of gear and beginning to clean it as well. “You are troubled.”

“I’m fine.” Steve does not look up.

Thor glances at him, tone light. “You are not.”

They work in silence for a moment, hands moving automatically. Then Thor speaks again. “You fight as one who has found an answer—”

Steve pauses.

“And does not like it.”

Steve exhales, rolling his neck once before deflecting. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

Thor smiles faintly. “When do you not?”

He looks back down, giving Steve space. “She does not behave as your enemies do.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head slightly.

“Nor as your allies.”

That pulls Steve’s attention up. He looks at Thor, then past him—focus slipping as he turns the thought over.

After a moment, he gives a little. “She said something.”

Thor lets that sit. “And it unsettled you.”

Steve nods once, faint, then returns to his task.

Thor pauses his own work, watching him. “There are those who are shaped for a purpose—”

Steve looks up again.

“—and those who choose one.”

Steve’s brow tightens further. “You think she chose this?”

Thor shakes his head gently. “I think she is choosing now.”

Steve licks his lips, gaze drifting again—back to the memory. “She said she would’ve waited.” A sharp exhale. “Frozen.”

Understanding settles over Thor immediately. “Then you are not her target.”

Steve’s focus snaps back to him.

“You are her measure.”

Steve looks down again, pulling another piece of gear toward him. He exhales again. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“No.” Thor resumes cleaning, calm and steady. “But it makes it true.”

Silence settles between them. Steve keeps working—still thinking. Still turning it over.

Thor remains where he is. Not pushing. Just there.

Part Fifteen

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There's one haven and it isn't so far, you just have to get in the front door. Better yet, the back.

It won't be so easy. You have to time your exit and weather through one more battle. And prepare.

When you're certain the house is still, you slowly shift the chair from in front of the door. You inch it back on the hinges and peek out. Steve might be deranged but he still has to work in the morning.

You tiptoe out with your towel and bath pouch. You slowly descend the stairs and dip into the first floor bathroom. You lock the door behind you and listen. Nothing. Alright.

You strip down and flip on the shower. You tidy up your shave and ponder over the curly hair along your pelvis. You trim that up too and exfoliate your entire body.

You finish up and take your time moisturising with scented lotion and pluck out any strays from your brows. You've never been this meticulous. Your nerves are bouncing from more than just the all too eventful night.

You sneak back up in your towel, freezing at the creek of a floorboard. You hold your breath and stare down the hall. Nothing.

You quickly barricade yourself in your room again. You strip away your towel, emboldened by your goal. You soft through your top drawer. You have exactly one bikini and it's nothing special. Simple, black, a ring between the cups and at the sides of the bottoms. Your mom bought it for you and you pretended to forget about it.

Now, is the hard part... Waiting.

☀️

You wake with a start as someone hammers at your door. Jeez. Somehow you dozed off.

You sit up, still in the black bikini, and rub your cheek. Your lashes flutter as Steve growls through the door.

"Gonna be late for work." He warns.

You don't answer. You stare at the door as he shakes it, trying to dislodge the chair. He growls.

"This really isn't professional." He barks. "You made a commitment--"

You didn't. You never asked for the favour he keeps throwing in your face. You never wanted anything from him. He's your mom's problem, not yours.

"You're going to go no where if you don't do anything... You're gonna age out of laziness real quick, girl." He snarls.

You flinch. There it is. Mask off. You've seen behind it this whole time but he's nasty, in more ways than one.

There's a clamour further down the hall. A door strains on it hinges as clumsy foot falls thump around. "Stevie! Please. You're making too much noise." Your mom whines. "My head is caving in, baby."

Steve sighs as friction drags down the door. "Maybe next time you'll slow down then, Melissa."

"Baby, don't be mean. I was missing you. I was all alone." She mopes. "And you took care of me, didn't you?"

"Don't." He snaps. "You're rubbing off on your daughter's. You know she walked out on me yesterday because she couldn't hand one day of work."

"Oh, honey, she's young..."

"She's an adult. You let her keep doing this and she'll end up just like you. Drunk and helpless."

"Steve!" Your mom exclaims. "That's mean."

"It's true. I didn't marry this, Melissa."

"And I didn't marry a jackass!" She shrieks and the sharp impact of flesh on flesh follows.

A low snarl rolls through the door and the tension pricks your ears. You can't tell who hit who but you're not brave enough to open the door. You swallow and stare at the chair.

"Get out of my house!" Your mother demands. "Now!"

"Your house?" Steve hisses.

"Get the fuck out!" She screeches and her heels batter the floor in retreat.

Her door slams and you sit in the silence. It's broken only by a heavy sigh. Your door handle jiggles once more and another deep huff blows out from his chest.

"You really wanna be like her?" He hits the door.

You flinch and listen to him storm off. Your stomach is bubbling and your skin is boiling. You can't make yourself move. Not right away.

If you weren't afraid before, now you're goddamn terrified.

☀️

It's probably not the best plan but you wouldn't say you're that creative. Typically, not this bold. Yet, the more you think about it, the more confident you are.

After yesterday, you know that you won't be turned away. You hope he thinks it's sexy. Or at the least, funny?

You sling a towel over your shoulder and step into your slides. You warily make your way through the house. It's like walking through a minefield.

You exhale in relief as you find Steve's car gone. You checked through the window but half-expected him to play some trick. Sooner or later, you will have to deal with him.

You strut down the sidewalk in your swish caftan and stop in front of Lloyd's gate. You didn't think of this. You wanted to surprise him...

Well.

You retreat and head to the backyard. You stand in front of the fence where all this mess began. You toss over the towel and your sunglasses, then your slides.

You're not the most graceful climber. You are pretty weak actually. You're breathless as you manage to hook your legs over the top. As you straddle the flat wood, you nearly trip from the dizziness.

This is the hard part. You could easily twist an ankle. You carefully lower both feet and hang from your hands. You're like that poster of the kitten; 'hang in there's.

You drop down and bounce off your heels onto your ass. Graceful. The very image of sexiness.

You get up and gather up your things. You catch your breath and approach the pool. You glance up towards the house. It's almost noon. He can't be sleeping that late... Right?

You put on your sunglasses and set the towel over the back of lounger, placing your slides on the stone. You peel off the caftan and drape it with the towel then recline over the long chair.

You try not to fidget in impatience. What if he doesn't come out? What if he's not even home? Well, you can't leave anyway.

You close your eyes as the sun beams down hotly. You're so tired, you could fall back asleep. The smell of coffee wafts through the pollen and sandals slap the stone. Don't panic.

"Well, well, well," Lloyd snickers. "Is this a wake up call? Cause little Lloyd's already up and at 'em."

You open your eyes and turn your head lazily. It takes everything you have not to squirm. He's shamelessly naked with a mug in hand. The hair on his chest makes you want to drag your nails down it. You bite your lip and smirk.

"I can see," you glance at his rigid length.

"I thought I heard the system chirp." He pauses to slurp. "So, you finally decided to come test the waters, huh?"

"Something like that," you purr.

"Well, sweetheart," he turns and sits on the other lounger. His dick stands against his stomach. "You owe me a show."

You tilt your head at him as his eyes skim your figure. You pout innocently. "What kind of show?"

He chuckles but doesn't answer. He watches you over the brim of his cup and he takes another gulp. Your lips part and your blood surges.

"Oh..." You slowly drag your and down your stomach and trace along the top of your swimsuit.

He nods as his gaze follows your hand. You stick the tip of your tongue out and quiver as your dip your fingers under the elastic. You bend one leg and your other slips over the edge of the chair.

"Goddamn, baby, how long have you been dreaming of this?" He leans forward as you feel along your pelvis.

"How long have you?" You counter, your voice willowy.

He growls and reaches to place his mug down. He keeps his eyes on you as he sits up and squares his shoulders. He leans back, his knees wide, and pushes his chest out.

"You wet?" He asks.

Your fingers glide between your lips and you hum. "Very."

"Uh huh? And what are you thinking of when you're all fucking dripping?" He teases.

"You," you flick your clit and whine.

"What about me, huh?" His dick twitches.

"About yesterday..." You quaver.

"Oh? Yesterday?" He lifts a brow. "What about today? Huh? Don't you want more than a taste?"

You nod and bite your lip again, rubbing yourself beneath the fabric. He clucks and stands up. He nears and you tense up. He tuts and points at you.

"Don't stop." He lifts your leg and sits on the end of the chair, hanging your leg over his knee. He pulls the fabric away from your cunt and exposes your glistening folds. "Jee. Sus. You're not lying." He pauses to listen to your slickness. "You are fucking desperate."

You nod and giggle, a thrill course up your spine. He puts his fingers over yours and guides your motion. You gasp.

"And what are we gonna do today?" He licks his lips. "Huh? Does good ole Lloydy Poo get a warm welcome?" He pushes your fingers down to your entrance. "Gonna get all nice and stretched out?"

You shiver and moan, nodding eagerly. "You can do anything..." You let your fingers dip just inside and clench. "You want."

He forces his fingertips in next to yours and you squirm at the tightness. He shakes his head and smirks.