The Orchestra’s Second Fiddle

He was already standing to greet you.

It shouldn’t have caught you off guard – your arrival must have caused some ruckus outside of the chambers and with him being a man whose survival depended on hearing the danger as it was coming if not before that, there was no wonder he stood alert – but it did.

Much like it did surprise you that for all the portraits and dreams you had dreamed of him in a stranger’s bed, for all you had thought you remembered his features sharply after only having met him for barely a moment, you had forgotten with just how fine care and reverence the gods and angels had carved his face.

How sweetly they’d diluted the blue of his eyes with kindness and warmth, warmer than the flames from the hearth that played across his cheeks and jaw and in the golden halo of his hair.

How your heart raced upon a single meeting of your gaze and his. How much you felt yourself sinking into the colours and wonders of the sky caught inside his irises.

And how it felt like drowning – to cast your gaze low, to the floor, when the heavy door behind you closed shut, the sound snapping you from your reverie enough to act with the respect a man like Steven Rogers I., The Just, deserved.

You bent in your knees so low they almost touched the floor, keeping the position unwaveringly despite every step you heard him take, his voice a caress, like the soft touch of a summer breeze.

“My lady… please, rise. And be welcomed.”

You obeyed, a shudder rushing through your body when you lifted your gaze slowly, trailing the impressive lines of his body until it reached his face again.

Open. Welcoming indeed. A brief flicker of his eyes all over, one corner of his lips rising higher in his smile as if whatever he was seeing pleased him greatly – and sincerely. As if the trial you had so desperately hoped to pass when you had found yourself at your wit’s end, wishing to choose a dress in likes to the king’s wishes, was the most successful when you had not thought about it at all.

When you let your heart guide you and left all worries behind.

You wished you could do so completely; the light in the king’s irises made you desire so, almost as if coaxing you to forget what had brought you here.

But you could not. Not with your heart having leapt to your throat, fear and cautious anticipation battling for your breath.

Your felt heat rise to your cheeks as you bowed just a fraction once more, to show profound respect and gratitude.

“Your Majesty,” you said, only rising when light scorn creased his brows. “Apologies for my tardiness… and for missing the dinner, that was not my intention in the least. I meant no offence if you could believe it.”

“I do believe you, my lady,” he replied, his frown smoothening. “Yet I wish for you to understand there was no offence taken. I meant what I said – what I wrote. I am glad you found peace and rest here. Would you sit with me for a moment?”

You gulped, willing your lips to curl up in a smile; with barely any effort in the face of his kindness, however surprising still.

He waited for you to nod before he set off, slow, but easily gaining several steps on you as you stood frozen for a moment, taking in the room for the first time. The fireplace with a heavy wooden table and three cushioned chairs at it dominated the spacious room, even if barely; the bed, not unlike the one in your temporary dwellings only with heavier dark blue canopy, took up the most space and was nothing short of a masterpiece. One wall was entirely lined with bookcases, while the three remaining ones were each adorned with a painting you were sure had been painted by the hand of the king himself; a landscape with mountains, the ocean, the golden fields. Three large windows, two of them hidden by thick curtains, one left exposing the view of the starry night.

With how clear the skies looked, it must have been freezing outside; yet, you felt like the cold could never touch you here, the room basking in endless warmth a part of you whispered could not come from the hearth only. 

Your gaze trailed over the interior with an absent smile, soon drawn back to the man who truly was at its centre. At its heart.

“Please,” he beckoned to one of the chairs, pulling it out for you. “Would you like wine or cider? It is still warm.”

Blinking, you finally followed him, whispering your choice with a breath of a please and thank you. Watching him pour you a goblet as if it was meant to be the work of a king rather than a servant – rather than your work, since you had been brought to this castle to please him – was utterly bewildering. Dreamlike.

It was almost as if you only watched yourself too, mind outside of your body, as you sat down, the goblet set in front of you before he poured himself one as well, sitting next to you, chairs angled towards each other, dangerously close – and yet, to your heart’s yearnings, too afar.

You observed him in mute awe, thousands of questions and hundreds of vague answers circling your head, the absurd – and absurdly natural – circumstance not lost on you. The only thing truly at loss – and lost in his gaze – was you. His eyes hadn’t left you either; he watched you with intensity which would have been unbearably unnerving had it not been so pleasant at the same time.

“I do hope you found the entirety of your chambers to your satisfaction. I wish you found yourself comfortable here.”

You nodded minutely.

But you did not understand.

You did not understand how you had deserved his hospitality.

Neither you could as much as hope to comprehend why, despite feeling so out of place, you felt right at home and safe.

But much like you knew to pray and thank to any higher power there was for being it so, you knew to express your gratitude here, to the man whom, at this point, you owed everything.

For he owed everything you had.

Including yourself.

A rational part of realised how utterly terrifying that should make you; another part which you could feel residing deep within your chest did not find it terrifying in the slightest. For if there was one man who you needn’t to fear, it was him.

Your gaze, unable to bear the power of his, lowered to your lap where your fingers fiddled with the skirt of the lovely dress you had been gifted.

“I… words cannot express how grateful I am for all your generosity, Your Majesty. I admit I am… not quite certain how I deserved such, but I assure you it is my every intention to repay your kindness with all I am.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw his hand twitch; as if he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“The gifts you have been given are given freely, without conditions, my lady.”

For you deserve everything, my sweetling, the soft breeze caressing your cheek seemed to whisper, an echo of the very voice that had just spoken. You deserve everything and I shall give you all that your heart desires.

You shook your head lightly, feeling the voice fill your ears sweetly, words of the kind you knew better than to believe:

The world, as different as this one seemed from the one you had known all your life, did not work in such ways.

For all the riches the man sitting across from you must have possessed, he could not afford such generosity to be true, to give so much away without conditions attached; for it would be too foolish. And to have gained such riches, to have been entrusted with them and to keep them, one could be no fool.

And yet – you would not look the gifted house in the mouth. You were not one who could afford to question.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” you whispered. “Even as I am certain I am far from the sole recipient of such kindness, I feel profoundly grateful. As… as no doubt the men who brought me here do,” you added, trailing off.

You were not sure why you’d even brought them up.

You had little reason to wish to think of Dimitri and Henry, for they had brought you nothing but misery, even as they were the sole reason why you were here, safe and warm and far away from the townspeople who had been secretly eyeing you for prize.

You had little reason to remind the king of them too; for they had angered him with the ways they had spoken at first.

To mention them was risking upsetting the man who was being nothing but pleasant and almost unbearably welcoming until that moment. And yet. Yet, something inside you had whispered you to tempt fate.

Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was fear of not having been done with the mercenaries just yet. Perhaps it was the inviting gentleness Steven had emanated, coaxing you to be all too honest and blunt even in subtlety of your claims.

The little breathy laugh erupting from the king’s chest was not an amused sound, not quite; it startled you enough to snap your gaze up, met with a storm in his irises, a glint like a flash of lightning born there.

“I am sure they do. But they more than earned the reward they received for their trouble… even as they shall not be joining the Royal Army.”

“Oh?” you chirped instinctively, unable to hide your surprise; and then quickly shook your head in a display of regret at failing to behave appropriately. Again. “My apologies, I did not--- I did not mean to pry-”

“It is quite alright, my lady,” he assured you, his features softening even as the stormy clouds remained in his eyes. “If you wish to know, ask.”

Ask me anything, my sweetling, his gaze whispered, his lips not moving an inch despite the heavy promise spoken in his voice echoing in your ears. I shall never lie to you.

You hesitated for barely three beats of your frantic heart, your question quiet.

“How so?”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs – and what an inconvenient moment for your gaze to flicker there and notice the powerful thickness of the muscle there – capturing your gaze with his without a chance to escape.

“Because, my lady, as much as you are a gift, you are not a thing to be dragged here under the threat of death, with your house burned to ashes so you’d have no home to return to.”

Your heart seized in your chest; your lips parted for a breath that caught in your throat instead.

Not because of the images he painted with his words, as painful as their shadow was, no; for the fact he knew.

“How— how did you-“

You knew the answer before either of you spoke a word, the realization creeping upon you much like the unamused smirk did to Steve’s lips.

‘Please, tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…’

That was what he had asked.

‘Tell me more of the trouble you went through…’

He had not asked to reward them.

He had likely never intended to do so; every word he had chosen carefully to coax them into telling him everything. Telling him of every wrong they had done beyond binding your hands hard enough to bruise and treat you as a commodity rather than a human being.

Oh he was no fool at all indeed.

“Perhaps I too am guilty of being such, but I hear men are known be quite the simple creatures. Have them believe they speak of their heroics, and they can no longer tell the difference between bragging and a confession.”

I hope you can forgive me if I ever behave such too, my sweetling. Forgive me if my words have misled you at first.

You caught yourself before you could nod in reaction to the echo of his voice in your head, stunned.

And with startling clarity despite the sudden spin your mind set off to, you were certain in your very bones that you would forgive him anything. Let alone worrying you while tricking the men who hurt you into confessing every single one of their crimes against a knight’s code. A code of an honourable man.

A man like the one facing you now.

Your throat felt tighter than before, even as something in your ribcage cracked with soft understanding, the images of Steve in your head – that of a good, just man, a fierce warrior and yet a tender artist – blending together seamlessly once more.

“But then--- then their reward-“

“Was what the law commands as punishment for arson and laying a hand on a woman in the ways they have,” he said, voice tender despite the embers of anger smouldering under. “A brand burned to their arm to mark arsonists. A broken hand to remember not to use their strength to hurt an innocent ever again.”

A shudder ran down your spine, a thrill of justice executed; but for the first time in the king’s company, one of true fear too.

For for all the relief you felt for having him understand the situation perfectly, guilt bit into your conscience. The king was no fool indeed; and he seemed a man with a sense of justice etched into his very core. You could feel the righteous fury on your behalf simmering under his skin despite the air of quiet gentleness.

There was only one justice for men like that, as it should be: a universal one.

And you, too, had already committed crimes that would require the intervention of justice; you did not need to know the precise law of Starkerbürg to know such. You had taken what was not yours to take; stealing was a such an offence it had even been written into the Scripture.

And so, there was a punishment awaiting you. As it should.

It was the will of the Lord, of the old gods, and men alike.

Thou shalt not steal, spoke the Scripture, recited so many times in your home by your father’s slurred voice.

Honour thy father and thy mother.

You knew what your father had thought the punishment should be for breaking even one of the commandments.

What was the punishment for theft in these lands?

What would be the punishment for other wrongs you had done?

“Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you… nor to remind you of your sorrows-”

You shook our head as another shudder followed the first one, colder, guilt taking another bite off of your soul.

“It is--  it is not that, Your Majesty,” you offered quietly, a little white lie; but not quite, for your fear could truly not be blamed on him, only on yourself. “I merely judge that the word has not been wrong about you – your mind is quite brilliant and cunning indeed.”

Something flickered in his eye as he sat a bit straighter at the praise, shoulders relaxing, a reassuring smile playing on his lips.

“It would not be just to leave a crime as grave as this unpunished.”

I would never stand for you to suffer while the bastards who are to blame for your tears and bruises and cuts walk free, the enticing voice swore, Steve’s eyes boring into yours with fire burning as gently as fierce. As the fire, you supposed, should be burning in your veins by your lineage.

Yet the only burn you felt was shame seated deeply in your stomach, slowly crawling out.

Your smile in response – however grateful for Steve’s sentiment, true or imaginary – was tight, eyes turning glassy as you took a wavering breath and looked away, unable to bear it.

There he sat; a good man, honourable and generous and brave and cunning, believing in justice with all his heart.

You could not hold pretence in face of that. You could not find it in your soul to lie or keep a secret. Not from him. Even if your heart clenched in horrifying anticipation at the mere thought of confessing your sins.

“You are admirably fair, Your Majesty,” you husked, clearing your throat to raise your voice from but a whisper. He was worthy of as much. “As you are just… it feels even worse a crime not to say I do not deserve half the kindness I have been offered.”

Steve tilted his head to side a bit, observing you with curiosity, his face, gods bless, such a beautiful face, twisting into a slight frown.

“Why would that be so? You deserve to be treated with decency and respect and more. More so since you have done no wrong.”

His voice was so sincere in that belief that the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, the harsh truth scratchy on your tongue:

“I threatened my father with gutting him if he tried to touch me one more time.”

And I might would have done so had it come to it, raged the blood in your veins, a memory of your nails digging into his skin to protect yourself, a fiery sensation as brief as the words themselves, before dread of facing the rightful judgement replaced it with ice.

Judgement.

Disgust.

Loathing.

Punishment.

You did not dare to as much as glance up from where your fingers were gripping your skirts; not until you’d swear you heard Steve teeth clank together and grind, making you to look up anyway.

His jaw was set tight. Fingers dug into the armrests. His shoulders – wonderful broad shoulders, right arm twitching towards where you remembered he had kept the sword by his throne, now leaned against the table – squared and prepared for battle.

He was positively shaken by your inappropriate confession; but his conviction was not. If anything, it seemed to grow tenfold.

“If he had touched you once, it was one time too many,” he spat. “I fail to see how wishing to be safe could ever make you less worthy of the treatment you have received here.”

I would have personally ripped his hand clear off for such offence, committed on his own daughter no less. A mere threat, my sweetling, seems a kindness. I am proud of you and grateful you kept what I hold dear safe.

Your breath caught in your throat.

But it was the gentle ghost of a voice, dark with a promise, warm, that somehow urged you to continue, to share your own darkness so it may touch light; it was the unshakable ghost of the hand of your father on your shoulder, cold, that spurred you to try and defend and justify his drunken actions.

Honor thy father. Do not speak ill of him.

“He… he’d be too drunk to tell whether I was his daughter or a thief or… whether—whether I was my mother-”

The wood of the armrest cried under Steve’s grip, causing you to fall silent in an instant, palm flying to your mouth.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. Please… forgive me. Such talk is not for polite company,” you whispered swiftly, ignoring the sharp itch of tears in the base of your nose, the burn of shame in your cheeks. “…suppose should only serve to prove my point of not-”

“Yes, indeed. Proves my point perfectly.”

You met his gaze, not uttering a single word, hand slowly falling back into your lap.

For a quiet moment, you simply observed each other, each lost in your own thoughts.

You would not hope to image what his thoughts were beyond pity for what you had been through.

He, in turn, could not hope to imagine how deeply beyond overwhelmed by guilt you grew with every passing moment of the silence that had settled, interrupted only by your stumbling, frantic heart.

Sweet. Compassionate. Patient.

A flavour of silence you were not worth of tasting.

You closed your eyes as the fatal confession fell from your lips, unable to face the sincere warmth in his gaze, built up on the lie of you being but a victim, a good person through and through.

“… I stole a knife from your kitchens. When they brought me food, I--- I took it. And hid it… I—I hid it.”

Silence again.

Deeper than before; deep enough for you to drown in your own ragged heartbeat.

Darker too, in your sudden loneliness.

And yet all but such.

The air was cold and stiff and terribly still until it wasn’t.

A whisper of an instinct as ancient as this world, a whisper of what was to come just before it did, was the only thing that prevented you from nearly jumping out of your skin when you felt the touch.

A tender brush of a hand over yours, steadying the tremble by closing around it.

A stunningly, bafflingly gentle squeeze.

Endless warmth seeping through your skin to the very marrow of your bones, golden threads of a profound sense of right threading through your veins all the way to your heart.

The hot tears rolling down your cheeks from your tightly squeezed eyelids were as much shame and as sweet heaviness of relief.

You felt the absence of judgement whispering through your very soul, but you were sure it would coming. It had to.

It had to, for you had sinned, for you had taken what was not rightfully yours, abused kindness-

He might have steadied our hand, but your lower lip began to wobble.

“I am so sorry, there is no--- Your Highness—Your Majesty, no penance, but please-- please forgive me, I-“

I shall make it right, somehow- I--

“I heard.”

A shaky intake of breath caught in your lungs, eyes snapping open.

You were met with Steve, Steve Steve Steve watching you earnestly, the blue of his eyes brimming with emotion.

No anger. No judgement.

Not pity either, not quite.

Compassion.

And a profound understanding already assuring you that despite all logic, despite your confession, no punishment was coming for your crime.

I know of your shortcomings, my sweetling, his touch whispered, I do not blame you; I see you. Gods, do I see you.

He knew. He had known.

And still, he observed you without as much as minute change of expression, without malice or accusation.

Your face was damp with tears, but your throat felt dry, your voice but a scratchy sound.

“They--- they told you… And after all you have offered to me so generously and beyond, you knew I stole from you… and you--- you let me get away with it. So far.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” you choked out, the answer coming written all over his face, nonsensical and yet so right you had no reason to question it.

Because it’s you. Because you are mine.

Steve hummed a soft noncommittal sound. His free hand took your other hand, engulfing it in warmth.

“My mother used to say that one must always fight for what they believe in, for what they deem just – by sword, if necessary. And that yet, oftentimes, the greatest power one can wield is mercy and compassion.”

You shuddered.

You should already be whispering of gratitude. You should be falling to your knees. You should be swearing loyalty.

But you could not move, words growing heavier and heavier on your tongue you as he kept looking at you, hands cradled in his, eyes serious and so deeply kind, patiently waiting for you to process and fully understand what he was saying.

This is the time to exercise that compassion and mercy, my sweetling, and I shall do so.

You cleared your throat, only prepared to state the obvious.

“She... she sounds like a wise woman.”

Steve’s irises lit up with fondness and longing all too familiar; one of love lost, affection for the person who loved you despite your flaws and made you, fundamentally, into who you were.

“She was. Had she not fallen ill in the sick tents where she had been tending to the injured and ill, she would have died of the number of grey hairs I had given her.”

With the smallest of smile tempting your lips, you could not but recall Bucky’s words, all too similar, all too fond too. And you could not but notice how Steve’s voice, slow and reverent, translated perfectly into the affection the portrait of her you had seen had been painted with.

“I do not hold your actions against you. You do not deserve punishment for taking the knife,” he said, tender but firm. “You deserve to feel safe as that is the basic right of all. I stand by that and I shall continue to do so, all the more after what you have just told me. As much as I wish that my right hand, the best soldier and protector in the kingdom, stationed in front of the door to your chamber would make you feel so, I shall not deny you the comfort you are accustomed to.”

For all your confusion at what he meant by that and what by gods he was suggesting, for all the fresh tears rolling down your cheeks, you could not look away; you could not look away from the depth of the blue you were drowning in, the golden threads weaving through your body by Steve’s touch, reaching out through your skin, interlaced into a quilt warmer than anything you had ever felt. Safer than any armour you imagined you could ever wear.

Words failed you.

But perhaps you did not need them just yet.

“I rose from nothing. My father died too young in a senseless war, my mother was a healer serving the Royal army. I was barely a soldier without any chance of ever climbing ranks, until I was fortunate enough to end up fighting side by side with the king… I used to sleep with a rusty knife under my rag of a shawl instead of a pillow too.”

Your breath hitched deeper in your lungs, the sensation of your very soul being seen raw but not entirely unpleasant. For most of the fear people ever felt of being seen stemmed from the fear of being judged if it happened so; and there was nothing but profound understanding staring back at you.

And perhaps your own understanding, however impossible after knowing the man sitting in front of you less than half a day and having spent but half an hour with him, was staring right back at him.

Steven Rogers I., The Just.

The king who believed in justice driven by morality and compassion and mercy rather than cruelty and rigidity inspiring fear. Inspiring loyalty instead.

“So I shall not have you punished and I shall not take your comforts from you. Only, should you accept it, I would rather gift you a dagger as that is a much more proper weapon than a butter knife.”

Your exhale was almost a huff of laughter, a wave of fresh tears flooding your face; for he could not mean that.

And yet; yet you had no doubt he did.

He would reward a theft by another gift. And somehow, at the same time, he was not foolish in the slightest, however incomprehensible his actions were.

The gods and angels must have not only carved his handsome face; they had built his soul and heart with the same tender love, extending their care through his late mother.

The sudden urge to fall to your knees – not to beg forgiveness as it did not seem he would give it if he felt there had been no crime, but to display your respect and gratitude – was halted by the smallest squeeze to your hands. As if he knew; and as if he warned you not to. For to him, there was no need for as much as a thank you.

Perhaps there was a little piece of fool in him; for there was no world where you would not give that at least. 

And yet; when you vision cleared, there was something glimmering in his own eyes, that brought a little smile to your still wobbly lips.

“As grateful as I am, your Majesty, for your mercy and such kind offering, I am afraid a knife is all I know how to use. A gift of a dagger would be rather wasted on my hand.”

His smile seemed almost proud; a brush of his thumb over the sensitive skin of your wrist, a warm shudder rushing up your arm, only turned his smile wider.

“Then we shall teach your hand to handle a dagger as well as needed. I can show you – or have Natasha or Bucky teach you. I have yet to meet a person more skilled with blades smaller than a sword than them… should you wish so.”

“…thank you, Your Majesty,” you said, no other words making sense, no words at all able to encompass the entirety of the storm of emotion and wonder raging in your mind and heart alike.

“It will be my pleasure, my lady, to ensure that whichever you choose will be done.”

For I shall fulfil your every wish, my love.

He squeezed your hands gently once more, hesitant as their warmth slowly withdrew, along with the golden tendrils of comfort and profound understanding threading around your heart.

Silence settled on the room once more, sweet and heavy; and too quiet for your mind, swirling with too many loud questions and conjectures, too quiet for your pounding heart and still burning eyes.

And you could not bear it; not for but a few rapid beats of your heart so strong in your tight ribcage you worried the muscle might break free off your chest. Not when he observed you with the steady bottomless kindness you had just understood he had a capacity for – but still made little sense.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I—I do not understand. I don’t--- for all you said, for the kindness I can see you have abundance of, I do not understand,” you husked, your voice betraying you, as the intrusive and profoundly evil echo of Henry’s voice whispered slimy answers to the questions you were yet to ask. “Why would you do such? What should I--- what is expected of me? What would you wish me to do in return? What-”

The king’s mouth barely opened when the assault of your questions ceased and you were already apologizing swiftly for it.

“I am sorry. My apologies, for— I should have not--- I-“

The hand to grasp yours returned in an instant; and it should not sooth you as much, for it made no sense, but it did. It did, for it allowed you to breathe again, to meet his gaze, to keep your heart steady. For the warmth and calm returned.

With a single touch.

How? Was that one of the blessings the gods had graced him with? Magic?

“I expect you to be honest with me, my lady,” he said simply, slowly. “I expect you to be honest with yourself. I expect you to do as it is in your power to find happiness in life and I hope you can accept my aid in doing so.”

Why? You wanted to ask, but he was not done, and his thumb drew a soothing circle over your wrist and you lost yourself in the tender gesture, tense shoulders falling, mirroring his own.

“And my hopes are that… perhaps, while staying true to yourself and without any duty you might think you’d have to repay me for that aid… that you might give me a chance.”

“A chance?” you echoed quietly.

“To prove myself a good man to you… worthy to be allowed to try and win over your heart.”

For that is all I wish for, my sweetling, my love, my queen, his voice whispered in your mind, his eyes most sincere despite the utter madness the words carried.

And yet the beat your heart skipped was not one of a startle nor a doubt, as much as your mind protested such reality. It was one of bliss.

He is a king, your mind argued.

He is mine, the heart hummed peacefully in return, and I am his.

The question fell from your lips nevertheless, breathless, but entirely justified.

“Why?”

Why me, the single word implied, even as with any lesser man, the question could also ask why bother proving anything and asking for a chance, when he could simply take.

With Steve, you already knew the answer to the latter, long before he could continue to prove to you as he apparently wished; for he was a good man.

The first shadow of uncertainty in the entirety of the evening passed over his face, hesitation clear as his hand twitched over yours just a bit, his gaze flickering to one of the documents on the edge of the table you had been politely ignoring for you had barely even noticed them, let alone thought to pay them any mind without a grave breach of a law, politeness and trust.

It was a single sheet of parchment, dark ink masterfully curled into letters just as beautiful as the letter you had received from His Majesty; while you could not read the words, for they were too afar and partly concealed by the natural curve of the parchment, you had no doubt the author of the words was holding your hand.

He took a wavering breath, drawing your gaze back to his, and his eyes turned the softest yet, even as his sudden determination shone through, his voice carrying an almost ceremonial note as he recited words that touched your very soul, the warm threads of gold travelling through your veins and bones, blooming inside your chest in an inevitable masterpiece.

“The first snow, like the last ashes, is settling down

A phoenix from them ashes rises, worthy of a crown.

A gentle soul, tireless spirit, bound by chain

Of exquisite beauty, heart restless, clothing plain.

A lonely soul soaked in gold’s already defied fate

Set aflame once it meets eye of its one true mate.

The glory of just rule is one of long-lost precious arts

The key to just world lies in two pure and content hearts.”

You listened with bated breath as the words rolled off Steve’s tongue with reverence; and with familiarity of something one had read and recited to themselves a thousand times before.

You had never heard those words spoken before in your life, you were certain; and yet you’d swear you could have recited them along with him, for you knew them. You would swear on your mother’s grave you knew them; a whisper as old as time itself in the back of your head, goosebumps rising on your skin at the touch of something, an entity that did deserve reverence indeed.

“That is beautiful…” you whispered, a ghost of a smile passing on Steve’s lips, soft. “Where does this come from?”

“A prophecy. Made by the Scalet Witch the day I was crowned the king.”

A prophecy I wrote down and learned by heart for I understood the fatal importance of it, the squeeze of his hand to yours murmured, the brush of his thumb over the back of your hand having your lips part. The importance of you, my sweetling.

A prophecy, your mind echoed, the likeliness of his wordless claim as absurd as the unlikeliness.

It would have been preposterous to believe a prophecy made by a figure as legendary as the Scarlet Witch could be speaking of you of all people.

But it would have been downright foolish to ignore the obvious. You would have to be nothing short of stubbornly blind to not see the reasons why Steve should believe it coming true with your arrival.

‘The first snow.’

‘Fire and ashes.’

‘Bound.’

‘Clothing plain.’

Clothing plain, rang in your mind with more familiarity than anything, your free hand instinctively curling in your skirts, the one dress you had put on and never changed from, almost mindlessly, driven by a force you did not quite understand; and yet you understood it quite well for it was a deep longing to see Steve as soon as possible.

‘Set aflame,’ a whisper sounded in your very soul, the fire your mother had always spoke of, the thing that was meant to keep crackling in your soul and was all but gently kindled by the threads of golden warmth seeping into you through Steve’s touch.

‘Soaked in gold.’

‘Defied fate.’

‘Just rule.’

As clear as these words were to speak of Steve Rogers I., The Just, it seemed as if they, of all things to be said of him, were not chosen by accident. You were feeling the consequences of all these qualities of his at the very moment; basking in the warmth of his touch, having found a relatable experience, having benefited from his merciful sense of justice.

And yes; one might argue other things mentioned were questionable at best and yet, you did not believe the Scarlet Witch said anything at all accidentally.

And neither did Steve.

Steve, who waited patiently for you to process what he had had years to come to terms to.

Had he been waiting, with every arrival of winter, for the prophecy to come true? Looking out of the window awaiting the first snow with longing for the one person, the one thing that seemed most unattainable and yet was the sweetest promise of the prophecy, foreseeing one true love, dooming all other love conquests as possibly futile in the process?

The tender crystals of blue in his irises – as he didn’t shift his gaze away from you, not once in your prolonged silence – were an answer enough.

“One true mate?” you questioned quietly. “…a soulmate?”

“That is my understanding, yes,” he said, not needing a second longer to think. “The one true love one only meets once in their lifetime… if they are fortunate.”

If I could ever be so fortunate, my sweetling, after all the blessings I have already received.

Earned, you wished to argue, fingers twitching, releasing the fabric of your skirts, gravitating towards the hand that held yours, fingertips brushing the skin of his knuckles, roughened by battle and scattered with scars that deserved nothing but a careful, soft touch.

The hitch of Steve’s breath a was tender music to your ears.

“…do you believe it? That…” Your voice faded out, unable, unwilling perhaps, to finish the exhilarating and yet fragile thought.

Not to believe that soulmates existed – you’d like to hope that they did, however they would come to be, written across the stars in your skies, the book of fate, a red string threading through people’s lives – no.

To believe, for some inexplicable reason, that the person for him could be you.

Reluctant to believe it despite fate having toyed with the pair of you more than he was yet to know.

He gulped and cleared his throat at your question, straightening in his seat.

“Yes. The Scarlet Witch has been with the court since I was a boy. She has not once been wrong.”

The Scarlet Witch, yes, you thought, unable to entirely swallow your disappointment at the sheer rationality of the answer while what was blooming inside you was all but.

Without doubt, however, his point was undebatable – for the Scarlet Witch was larger than life.

The mystical woman living everyone and nowhere, in the woods, in the streams, in the wind. No one knew of her true origin, only of her power.

An incredibly gifted prevoyant.

A god-like figure only few were fortunate enough to have seen for longer than a passing moment, let alone spoke to her.

Some believed her to be the daughter of the gods, others whispered she had made a horrible sacrifice of her own children to the gods in exchange for the gift of clairvoyance and other immeasurable powers. Some thought her but a charlatan with clever ways of speaking things; others called them fools for that for they swore that their grand grandfathers had seen her being the witch who would not burn at the stake several kingdoms over. And many had witnessed her to warn kingdoms of floods and fires and diseases killing the crops; many a warning which would be ignored by some and had them pay the highest price for they always came true. 

You had no doubt she could see things that were to come… for all you knew, she might even be the sister to Lady Fortuna herself or was able to read her scribbles.

She had not once been wrong indeed; and if she had been, no one dared to speak of it, out of fear and respect alike.

“And yes, my lady. Yes, I do,” Steve added softly, the answer to your true question.

Almost as if he could hear your thoughts; or read in your face that legitimacy of a prophecy was not quite what mattered to you the most, even as it probably should have.

But how could it, if fate, Lady Fortuna, the gods, or whoever or whichever, had led a kind, generous, brilliant and undeniably handsome man into your path?

“Do you believe then that was it fate that brought me here?”

That brought me here to you?

A contemplative furrow appeared on Steve’s brow as his gaze fell lower, his hand shifting on your thigh to cradle your palm, thumb tracing your lifeline almost absently, a small smile playing in the corner of his lips when your other hand instinctively turned palm-up as well, an offering for him to place his free hand there.

Acceptance.

Of him. Of fate. Of whichever brought you here in his path.

Regardless of where that path would lead you.

He laid his hand into yours willingly, warmth seeping through even as it was your hand that cupped his, attempted to despite how large it was. It sent a shudder through your entire body, all but unpleasant, and the smile on his lips grew a fraction.

Does it matter whether it was fate, my sweetling, if you are here with me?

“I believe there is a higher power. The gods, the Lord, Fate, Fortuna – I do not know which. Perhaps all at once,” he mused, thumb still stroking your palm, as if he was trying to commit the sight and feeling to memory. “I… I believe in paths we are offered, perhaps in certain fates which are indeed inevitable… but I believe in free will too. We make choices. And those choices make us who we are and make us responsible for the consequences our actions have. To us or to others.”

His eyes snapped to yours with gravity and it was not difficult to guess what – and whom – he was thinking of; of men who treated others, who had treated you, wholly differently than he was now.

“Should the prophecy, and thus perhaps fate, speak of me meeting you – and I shall hope so and I believe so – then it is still my responsibility to treat you best to my ability and conscience. And I will,” he promised. “…And yes, it might mean then, that perhaps those men were always meant to bring you here, one way or another – but how they chose to try to earn my favour and how they mistreated you, that was their choice and it sent them on the path they walk now.”

The path they walked… in the dungeons, a brand burned on their skin, hands broken—

A tremor whispered along your spine, cold and strangely satisfied yet – and all the higher it reached, the more it made you shiver in reverence and respect in front of that higher power, perhaps fate or Fortuna indeed, who had threaded carefully to lead you here.

And yet, with a choice.

You thought of all the moments you had considered trying to escape but chose not to.

You thought of your choice, however subconscious and desperate, to grab a knife to your protection and giving into the strong urge to confess it to Steve, only to witness him being merciful.

You thought of your father’s choice to drink as much as he had those few fateful nights ago, getting into a brawl; a choice that had made you all the easier target for Henry and Dimitri.

You thought of the men’s decision to take you, to bring any woman to the king in the first place, by any means necessary, all but shy of violence and threats to your life and destroying what could have been left of it right in front of your eyes, such wicked actions, irreversible harm--

You drew in a sharp breath as the realisation landed on your chest heavily, the gravity of the thought this could all have been destiny lit anew.

“You have punished them for arson… and for laying a hand on me…” you whispered, and even as you were staring at your joined hands, you could feel Steve’s gaze on you.

Gaze thoughtful, sorrowful, and heavy with guilt.

You did not have the heart to finish your thought out loud. To voice the accusation, one you would have barely had the right to made, since what he had done was already more than you could ever ask for. To speak of it as of something to hold against him and blame him for.

You could not; for with humility which a deity as large as Fate deserved, you understood.

And so instead, you simply stated the facts.

“You did not punish them for taking me... For whether they were aware of such or not, they were but fulfilling their destiny. Guided by Fate…”

You dared to glance up, strangely certain of your assumptions, eyes falling on Steve’s face torn by guilt, anger and regret for having solved a dilemma the way he had.

“And as powerful as a hand of a king is, any wise man knows to respect the hand of Fate and that of the gods,” you added softly.

Something flashed in Steve’s eyes, his hand twitching in yours, thumb pressing against your palm.

“You are not wrong, my lady,” he admitted, hesitating but briefly before he continued. “But I also… I alone did not feel adequate to give punishment of a gravity fitting the crime since you were the one who has been done irreversible harm.”

Your lips parted, a violent shiver rushing through your very soul, a lick of a justified angry flame at your veins, a fire put out just as fast at the mere thought of holding someone’s fate – someone’s life, entirely possibly, the most precious entity – in your hand.

As empowering and all too terrifying as the thought was, it did not blind you. You were not unaware of the heat that settled in your stomach at the chivalrous and almost savage gesture of giving you the power to choose, instead of doing it himself; nor that you did not see, once again, how justice worked in Steve’s mind and how much you approved of it.

“And so if you choose their punishment and bestow me the power to do so, I will see to it that it is done,” he vowed, eyes boring into yours with intensity that made you see the very flame inside you mirror in his cerulean irises, before his gaze fell in what could only be shame. “But I am but a man too, my lady. Selfish in my ways like any other, despite priding in acting as just as I can. And I… I do struggle to—it is quite difficult for me decide a grave punishment for someone whose actions, however undisputably wicked and condemnable, I benefit from immensely… for you are here.”

And I am trying my damnest to be a good man, my love, for you the most… but I am not perfect. Far from it, whispered your mind in his voice, an apology, an atonement, a plea for forgiveness.

You observed the sorrow on Steve’s face, softened by his last words that made your heart sear, and you could not think of how wrong he was.

Not far from it in the slightest, was what you thought and almost as if he could hear it – or merely understood what the gentle squeeze to his hand meant – his features softened further, gaze lifting back to yours, the faintest hints of a smile in one corner of his lips.

“Can you forgive me for my shortcomings, my lady?”

You reciprocated the small smile, barely fazed anymore but no less grateful for his kindness and self-awareness.

“I cannot forgive for what I do not see as wrong, Steve. ----oh no, I mean-“

Faster than you could comprehend, faster than you could finish your apology for the too familial of an addressing that had no place in your mouth, for in your mind he might have had turned Steve long moments ago, but he remained His Majesty--- three tender fingers were laid over your lips, pressing lightly, sending delightfully dizzying tingle straight into your core, mind coming to a halt as all you could see and feel was him.

His eyes, tenderness incarnate, boring into yours.

His lips, plush and parted.

The touch of his fingers, roughened by hard work but all the more careful, no longer pressing but caressing your mouth, tracing its shape and feeling the stolen air.

His voice, echoing in your mind, resonating within your bones.

“Have never heard a sweeter sound, my sweetling… my lady.”

My love.

His gaze flickered to follow the touch of his fingers, so overwhelmingly warm you were sure you’d never feel a day of cold ever again, your heart racing miles a minute in sinful harmony of the pulse you could swear you could feel on Steve’s fingertips.

Your breath stuck deeper in your throat, a whisper of his name falling from your lips again, his gaze an inferno inviting you to say it over and over again; you only felt your chest finally expand with an inhale when his hand shifted, leaving your lips suddenly cold with but a sweet aftertaste, his knuckles caressing your cheek instead, the tenderness of the gesture filling your lungs with light and sweetness.

My sweetling, he’d said, the true sound of the echo you’d been hearing in your head like the headiest wine, making your head spin – letting you rise into heights you never wanted to leave.

But you did; his hand fell back into yours, a bliss nevertheless, however faint compared to the sensation still pulsing inside your veins and burning in your stomach.

You blinked, gathering your wits, a nearly lost cause given the hypnotizing smile on Steve’s lips.

My sweetling, my love-

“Where are your thoughts, my sweetling?”

Your cheeks burned at the addressing; burned with the urge to smile, gaze where your fingers laid interlaced still, a sight no less alluring with the protective hold Steve’s hands seemed to have on yours.

It took you a while to school your thoughts into coherence, the wild carousel of questions and answers and destiny and choices spinning still.

“Merely thinking about fate and choices… Perhaps Doctor Erskine was always meant to invent his great experiment… but you asking to the be one to undergo the risk brought you to the throne. A little bit of fate. A little bit of choice changing the courses of the lives of many,” you mused, raising your gaze to find Steve observing you, exasperated surprise blended with fondness all over his expression.

“Bucky has been talking.”

Indeed he had.

You smiled, remembering all too well he had clearly told you many things not only to paint Steve in the best possible light, being good a friend, but also to showcase his glee. Glee at Steve meeting someone at least half as stubborn as himself, ready to challenge him – and exasperate him too, to repay his for all the years he had been doing so to others with all the choices he was making in life.

Insane choices made for a greater good. Choices… made on carefully built paths and crossroads of fate itself, steered by the choices of others.

“Yes,” you admitted, seeing no point in denying so. “He also spoke of how--- how much pain it cost you… and how you might have not survived had it not been for the Doctor’s wife’s choice to run off with him from another kingdom and join his efforts.”

Steve’s eyebrow rose; no trace of anger, only surprise. You wondered briefly, if you had revealed too much, knowing more than Bucky could have told you; and whether Steve realized such or not. There was no telling whether the story of the woman – your grandmother – was known to many.

“Bucky truly has been talking… but yes. I believe that might be the case.”

“Her choice… or her fate. Fortune, really.”

‘Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love,’ your mother’s voice echoed in your ears for many a time that day, tempting you to believe. Believer her. Believe in fate. Believe in you. ‘The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.’

Steve smiled warmly, nodding, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand. “Yes. Whichever it was, all there is to know is that I owe them both a great debt.”

For I have lived. For I have lived and have been given the chance guide the lives of many towards a better life.

For I have lived long enough to meet you.

None of those words were spoken and yet – you read them so clear in Steve’s irises they might as well have been.

And whichever choices had been made… you had no doubt they were the right ones, indeed, if they had, eventually, led you here.

Here, where despite all circumstance, everything felt right on such a fundamental level it must have been so.

“They certainly seem to have chosen well.”

Steve’s chest subtly puffed out at the praise, his chin inching higher, a spark of pride appearing in his irises; and it pleased you to have such effect on him, so simply as to speak—

And yet fright seized your mind at once, heart stumbling in your chest painfully, throat tight as it hit you that Steve, ever so slightly, turned into a vision of pride.

And pride… pride was a dangerous thing.

There was no doubt Steve deserved to feel so and had earned your every word of appreciation – to deny you thought so might as well be a crime.

But His Majesty the King was a wholly different entity than you.

For you, you were short of a virtue and exceptionality.

Under Steve’s gaze, with all his sweet words of soulmates and prophecies, with his touch pouring a sweet mist into your head and into your lungs expanding so wildly it affected your heart, it was all too easy – all too tempting – to be led astray. To believe it all to be true.

That you were exceptional.

Special enough to have been chosen by Lady Fortuna to be by his side.

Special enough to be mentioned in a prophecy made by one of the most powerful figures of the entire generation.

‘The women of our family have been blessed; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls,’ your mother used to say, the dreamer, the believer in great things, her light having been dimming every day as if to deny her words.

‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,’ your father used to say, your daily bread, the deadly sins, the ten commandments, the warnings not to be seduced by evil that not o rarely wore a pretty face, all gold and promises glinting. ‘Humility, obedience – such is the true way of a good life. The way of a good woman. Honour thy father and thy mother.’

“I am trying to make the best choices possible too,” Steve’s gentle murmur snapped you from your dark reverie.

“From what I have seen, you have done so…” you said, words leaving your lips absently as your mind roamed shadowy places, doubt beginning to sprout in your chest despite the sweet threads of gold still blooming around your heart. “Me, however… it is still difficult to believe, despite all evidence, should we call it such, that a fate so great has been bestowed on me of all people.”

‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall—'

Steve’s gaze was inquisitive as it roamed your face, a myriad of emotions suddenly hard to read playing across his features, until a shadow of well-masked sadness covered it, his hold on you growing rather slack.

“I believe it,” he whispered, earnestly so. “And you know already that I believe in fate, in higher power, as much as in choice… What I do not believe in, however, is forced affection.”

Your heart skipped a startled beat, confusion no doubt showing on your face for you were at loss as to why he would say such thing. Unless his displays of affection, so warm and perfect and the incarnation of a home yet to be tainted by grief of a loss, were so.

Forced.

Pretend.

The mere idea was a cold stab straight to your heart, beating vigorously in opposition of the possibility of such being true.

“Please know… Should you not find me worthy, should you find that you do not feel the same… I would never force you to stay, never forced you to charm affection where there is none,” he continued, realization dawning to you and stealing your breath even as your lips parted to disprove the terrible misinterpretation of your own words--- “I would never take back what I have given and never laid a hand on you or otherwise punish you. Should you wish to leave… I would not stop you. I could not… but least I would ask you if you’d accept a chest of precious gems to ensure you were well off.”

But do not, my sweetling. Please. I could not bear it.

My heart would break, half my soul leaving with you.

You blinked, the ache of the loss as if already pulsing inside your ribcage, knocking all air from your lungs.

But it was the last sentence, so nonsensical and so contradictory to the truth of life that has proved to you that you always had to earn the fortune’s favour and the gods’ and Lord’s benevolence – and kindness of strangers, kindness of men – that urged you to ask questions; rather than reassure Steve that leaving was the last thing on your mind. For your heart, your soul, your mind, however foolish to have already fallen for him, would not bear separating from him either.

The loss of the warmth of his touch alone poured potency into the ache in your chest. To leave him altogether would rip you apart.

And yet… how could what he had said ever make sense?

“How would I deserve so? After all you have-“

“For I would never wish you any harm,” he said, his grip on your hand firmer again, his gaze a sea of regret. “And yet, it has already been done.”

Many people have been done harm in the course of their life, you thought to argue, but the touch, the blissful touch returning stopped you at once; and offered clarity without words, Steve’s hold on your hand as strong as the cage of his gaze he trapped yours with.

But none of them are you, my sweetling – and none of them, none, suffered in my name.

And those who had done so, serving me or my kingdom, had done so willingly; and even those, if it were possible, were compensated.

He did not speak those words yet you did not have the faintest doubt that they were true.

For he was the king of the people, serving, like the rest of them.

For he was the king responsible for his people.

And you were one of his already, in one sense of the word or another. A gift to him; whether he had asked for it or not, whether it was fate or someone else’s choice.

In the dim lights of the hearth, you nearly moved your hand to shield your eyes from the strikingly clear sight of him offered, his very soul speaking to you in tongues ancient and never learnt; and yet perfectly comprehensible.

He was not wearing a crown now; not even the simple circlet of gold he had worn when holding the very court you had been dragged to and yet, the shadow of the crown sat on his head heavier and more apparent than a few hours ago. And it was not the precious metal of it that weighted on him; it was the very responsibility he had told you he believed came with being given a choice, grown hundredfold as it came with the power bestowed to him as the king.

And gods help you, you never wished for him to be weighted down, weary with pain or as much as worry – but looking at him now, he was the most beautiful you had yet seen him. A fundamentally, undeniably good man.

And despite that, somehow, he had read your reluctance to belief in being so blessed as something to have anything to do with him not being enough. As if being a soulmate to the embodiment of kindness and fierceness was a feat rather than the most generous gift you had never done anything to deserve and had been given nevertheless.

And perhaps accepting it made you proud.

Perhaps it made you a sinner.

But you would atone for your sins the only way that, seeing the man in front of you, felt right in every fibre of your being.

By loving him.

“I see,” you rasped, emotions thickening your voice as it constricted your throat. “Your kindness sees no bounds… but I believe you misunderstand me.”

He winced as if you slapped him; but the brave man he was, wishing to understand, he held your gaze.

And thankfully, your hands too, still.

You let a small smile curl your lips, causing his head to tilt minutely to the left, some of the previous shadow falling away.

“I do have trouble believing, still… but I do not wish to leave or this not to be true. Quite the opposite. I… I only fear--- there so little sense in all this, and I fear that if there were any chance we might be wrong after all… that in all the hopes and--- wishes of such to be true, that we are— that you are forcing yourself into something you do not… yet-- feel…” Your voice trailed off, weaker with every word while hope grew in Steve’s eyes, determination rising and fleshing out right in front of your eyes.

You suddenly recognized how your worry seemed so silly with all you were feeling and was mirrored in Steve’s face, how it made little sense indeed, but it made all sense, with how you could still feel the touch to your lips, still tingling, still humming in your blood-

Warm.

So warm as his hand left yours, palm cradling your cheek instead, crystal-like blue shining around dark pupils observing you like you were the night skies with the most wonderful and rarest of constellations known to men visible for the first time.

Your breath hitched as the golden warmth seeped into your skin anew, rushing through your veins like the most potent wine and cider combined, neither of which you had touched tonight, but the touch, gentleness and firmness aligned, lit you alive like one of the stars on the skies indeed; and so did Steve’s voice.

“My sweetling… there is no doubt in my mind, in my heart, in my body nor soul,” he whispered and you caught yourself leaning into his touch, nuzzling into his palm, sinking into his tenderness and promise, for nothing had never felt like the touch of divine itself like this before. His eyes crinkled at the edges as you did so, a brilliant soft smile curling his lips. “Seeing you… having the privilege of touching you… it awoken something in me. We only have just met, I barely know your name, and yet I feel like a part of me, deep within me, my heart or my soul-“

“-has known me for a lifetime,” you finished the thought gingerly, finding yourself leaning in, gravitating closer to him, a force of nature you, at last, gave in to, the distance slowly erased.

Much like your doubts; and you were not bothered by either, not in the slightest.

Steve’s expression – and gods, he was nothing short of stunning, even up close, so close his exhale would almost tickle your lips, so so far – grew warmer.

“Yes. Is that…?”

You lowered your gaze, incidentally, glancing over his mouth, the curve of his broad shoulders in your peripheral, all exquisite things to observe.

“I… am not unaffected myself. I do not know how… or why.”

Yes, you do, my sweetling. Yes, you do.

You licked your lips. Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Though I suppose I do… or I believe so,” you added, reluctantly raising your gaze only to meet Steve’s, a soft inferno of emotion staring back at you.

“Should you wish, we could explore that path together… I certainly wish so, if I have not made myself clear yet.”  

You have, my love, you almost pushed past your lips, the last worry of yours the only obstacle.

That and the fact that Steve’s proximity was much like a spell you were quickly falling under, the sweet vertigo of a free fall making words lose all meaning.

“My only worry then is-“

“Isn’t it weary to worry as much, my sweetling? No need for it… I shall protect you from any further harm. From the gods themselves if I must…”

You sighed, weary indeed, where the weight of his crown seem to have but fade away when he held you.

And how tempting would be to believe him, to let your heart alone guide you, to set your fears and doubt free as if you were the one clutching at them and not the other way around.

“I am not of noble blood,” you husked, the issue seemingly so insignificant with the little distance between Steve’s lips and yours, his fingertips brushing your hair, his palm cradling your face oh so gingerly, his other mirroring the gesture, holding your face like the most precious gem with the fragility of a spring blossom- “Surely-- surely the laws-“

The instinctive flicker of your eyes to his mouth as he licked his lips was nothing short of devastating and delightful, the gentle thud on his forehead against yours almost comically tender compared to the violent pulse and rush of your blood past your ears and temples.

Your eyes slipped shut.

“I am the king… I am the law,” he spoke firmly, even if barely audible, sending a shudder down your spine, not at all cold. “I do discuss all important matters with my council, my trusted ones, the former queen, my friends… but if I wish to make you my queen, if you wish the same--- I shall see it done.”

My sweetling, my love, my queen-

All these wonderful unshakeable vows dissipated the last traces of hesitance and doubt like the very magic the Scarlet Witch possessed was at work, and tangled the words on your tongue.

“If it lightens your soul, my sweetling, Tony-- the late King, was not quite known for standing by the rules as old as his lineage either. I am the living proof of how much. I do not have the faintest care whether you are of nobility or not. I came from nothing. And I rule to my best conscience all the more for it, perhaps… if anything, a wife who understands such is the perfect partner… the perfect queen.”

My queen, sounded possessive and decisive and alluringly sweet and tempting in your ears, Steve’s breath tickling your lips, his warmth, his touch, the vision of him behind your closed eyelids an overwhelming assault on your senses tempting you to give up. To let go.

And you did.

The release of the air stuck in your lungs made you as light as a feather, as warm as the summer midday sun on your skin.

“Are you saying I am nothing, Your Majesty?” you whispered, an intimate tease more than anything.

And what a gorgeous reward you received, hearing his smile in his voice when he spoke again, feeling his fingers twitch on your face, tipping your head back a bit as if on pure instinct.

“Oh no, my sweetling, not at all…”

His lips a hair’s breadth from yours, he stole your breath and gave his in return, offering a torturously long time to withdrew as if you had the slightest intention of doing so--

“You… are everything.”

The small sound born in your throat at the sincerity in his voice was drowned in a sea of bliss.

In the light poured into your veins, sunshine and moonlight and stardust born in your bones and consuming your heart and soul alike.

In the heat spreading through every fibre of your being, from your fingertips to your core, beginning and ending where Steve’s lips pressed against yours with delight of the first kiss and deep familiarity of it having been done thousand times for a lifetime. 

In his kiss.

Your hands laid against his chest and shoulder, the most solid anchor in the storm of sensations, his lips warmth and softness incarnate; hesitant but sure, cupping your face still for his hesitance neither stemmed from lack of desire, only fear of rejection.

Your lips parted with a breath, heat thrumming though your body when Steve’s deepened the kiss, thighs clenching at the not unfamiliar but shockingly powerful pulse in your core, your fingers clutching on the fabric of his chemise.

The action must have not gone unnoticed, for he shifted, a silent rumble in his chest and he retreated, parting with pressing a small chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth and a sigh.   

Your ragged breathing meddled with his, forehead once more resting against yours, your grip on the fabric unrelenting; the idea of letting go painful despite it being the only logical thing to do.

Later then.

Never.

Steve caressed your hair, another kiss brushing your lips, drunk eagerly like the sweetest cider and the most delicious of wines.

You savoured the taste and let it sink into all your senses, refusing to open your eyes just yet.

“My sweetling, my queen…” Steve rasped, the rumbling noise bringing a tickling swoop into your stomach, “as belated as my questions seems… would you do me the honour of allowing me to court you?”

You huffed a surprised laugh, a quiet delightful sound that felt awfully foreign, an echo of a distant past, and yet so natural in his company. You opened your eyes at last, offered the gorgeous sight of him still savouring the moment, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones, mouth kiss-swollen and red, and gently raked your fingers over his nape, his smile joining yours.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When he met your gaze, sparkling with joy and the gentlest scold, only then you spoke what your heart had been whispering since the first time you had set your eyes on him, as reluctant as you had been to hear and listen:

“… yes, Steve.”

Another sweet kiss to your lips, before his hands slowly released your face, only to cradle your hand again and press one more kiss to your knuckles like the gentleman he was, a promise to court you and sweep your off your feet indeed.

“Thank you, my lady, for allowing me such honour… I feel I should escort you to your chambers, for the hour must be rather late…”

Before you could protest, for away was the furthest from where you wished to be at the moment-

– Forever, my love, for ever-

-he did so for you.

“Yet I cannot imagine parting from you for the night, not just yet… Would you sit with me for a moment, my sweetling?” he asked for the second time that evening, all respectful despite the profound plea you could not but hear, for it echoed your own, written all over his expression, all over his cheeks dusted with the faintest pink.

Your body sifted closer to him as he let your hand fall between you, never releasing it, and you pressed your free palm to his sternum, glancing up at him with an ever-present smile on your lips.

“It would be an awful shame to waste a drink, wouldn’t it? And a night so wonderful so far… I should wish to stay, my love.”

The endearment rolled off your lips with such ease – so nonsensically true and so right – that you could not find yourself regretting it, less so upon seeing Steve’s gaze light up like the starry frozen night outside, brilliant happiness shining brighter than the sun and the moon together.

“Indeed, my sweetling. Your wish is my pleasure to follow.”

And so after another passing moment of indulging in indecent proximity, you inched away far enough from each other to clear your minds at least a bit, yet not once not touching – a hand, a knee brushing the other, a kiss to your hand, a caress to his knuckles – and toasting to a new courtship.

And your heart – while racing, excited and perhaps a little scared of the future still, and with gentle fire crackling in your soul, with golden threads of affection interlacing with the red thread of fate in your veins – was content and blooming with pure love.

And never once taking your eyes off Steve, you could tell that you were not alone in feeling such.

One next to another, beating in hopeful harmony, sat two pure and content hearts, with a promise of a bright future ahead.

For both of you – and for the entire kingdom too.

S.R. masterlist

Hello esteemed readers 🥰 Thank you for reading all the way here, hopefully with a dreamy smile 😌 I am considering a fourth part where they would... consumate their marriage and union, but have nothing specific in mind, nor a solid plan... for now, their story on paper/screen ends here even as it is their beginning 🥰

Please, remember interaction is love and food for writer's thought, as well as greatly appreciated 💕

Steve:

@definitelynot-dana

@nekoannie-chan

CEvans:

@stargazingfangirl18

@talesofadragon

@felicitylemon

Everything:

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

@thehumanistsdiary

@chase-your-dreams-away

@butterflies-on-my-ashes