Multi-fandom Fangirl

He hears the beep of the key card on the door and turns, watching Dante hold the door for you before closing it with a soft click.

Your eyes flick to the drink in his hand, and your lips quirk slightly. He shouldn’t be this comfortable helping himself to your things, but he is, and you don’t seem to mind either.

“Thank you for coming,” You say, slipping out of your heels by the door.

“You make that sound like my attendance was optional.”

“Everyone has a choice, Steve.” Strolling over to the desk, you smile, “But I’m sure curiosity got the better of you.”

You're right. His partial smile indicates you both know it.

"Let me clarify." Reaching into the top drawer of your desk, you pull out a leather-bound notebook. “As of today, your attendance is optional.”

His brow furrows with confusion as you walk toward him and hand him the book. “The marked page,” you instruct, taking his empty glass as you pass to the alcohol cabinet.

Steve opens the book to where the ribbon page marker separates the pages. Maddox's name at the top of the page immediately has his attention.

There’s a transaction of increasing value on every line—debts owed. Except the last entry is written in your neat, precise calligraphy style handwriting. Eliminated.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and so Steve turns the page.

Another name. Another list of debts, some crossed off, some with a plus sign, and more values. Interest. He reads more pages, skimming over details, and then freezes.

Rogers, Steve.

Beneath his name is a list of items you've provided for him and his team, and each one is crossed through with a perfectly straight line.

At the bottom of the page, in bold capital letters, is the word, SETTLED. The date written next to it is immediately familiar. The day he tore through earth and wood with his bare hands to free you from an untimely demise.

“Why?” he asks.

Shrugging, you hand him a glass as you step nearer. “Because it was paid.”

“You said it wouldn’t clear it.”

“I changed my mind.”

He can tell you're sincere. It's not a misleading ploy or manipulation.

Taking a sip of his drink, he scans the ledger again. “You keep track of everything?”

“Of course.” You chuckle. “I find my method works better than yours.”

“My method?”

“You do favors and then forget they happened.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “That’s usually how favors work.”

“Not where I come from.” You carefully take the book from him, as if you think he might resist, and place it on the table.

“So I don’t owe you anything?” he asks, mind buzzing with the prospect of what this means. The relationship is no longer transactional. There is no imbalance of power.

You hold his gaze. “No,” you answer. “The safe house is yours for as long as you need it, but there are no debts owed. No favors to pay back. No obligation to me.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hope, something infinitely more dangerous, desire.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rogers.”

“Like what?”

You almost laugh because the answer is humiliatingly simple. You’ve been looking at each other like that for months. Every time he showed up unannounced. In his voice, every time you called to check in. Every time he smiled at you like he had forgotten who you were beneath the reputation and blood on your hands, it got a little harder to ignore.

You drop your gaze and set your glass down. “In my world,” your voice is quiet like you're telling him a secret and the office could be bugged, “Nothing is free. Nobody does anything without wanting something in return. Except you.”

“If I see a situation heading south, I can’t ignore it.”

How many times has he said that to justify his actions? And how many times has it led him directly into another situation heading south?

“I’ve noticed,” you give a small smile. “But actions have consequences, Steve.”

He takes a small step closer, filled with intention. “I can live with that.”

You hold his gaze for a heartbeat and then, reluctantly, step back once before turning your back. “I kept thinking eventually you’d ask for something. A deal to write off your debt. Something I could understand.” You continue, leaning against the front of your desk. “And then you rescued me, and I realized you weren’t ever going to ask.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, “and I think you know I’d do it again, without adding it to any ledger.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

That catches him off guard. The admission is a rare thing. You’ve never said you were afraid of anything. Not when you were in a shallow grave, or the one time you ‘checked in’ unannounced at the safe house, Dante-less. You never said it, but it was obvious there had been a threat, credible enough that you’d run and hidden yourself until Dante took care of it.

“That's why you never let me get quite close enough to do something about this.”

He understands now. All the times you were close enough for him to reach out and touch, you’d back off. It wasn’t about protecting your investment. It was about not trusting that it wouldn’t come with strings.

“There was never supposed to be a this.”

He closes the distance you created. “But there is.”

“Rogers,” you warn, putting your hand on his chest to push him back, but he plants his feet. He holds your wrist, keeps your hand pressed against him.

“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know all the rumors are true. There’s probably a hell of a lot more I don’t know.” His eyes never leave yours. “And none of that has ever been what keeps me awake.”

The room goes perfectly still. Even the dust motes seem to freeze. He’s fought Nazi’s, aliens, and gods. You’ve ordered executions, negotiated ceasefires of rival gangs, stared down armed men who wanted you dead, and somehow neither of you was prepared for this.

It’s not about resources or influence. It’s gone beyond protection.

“And for the record, you’re wrong,” he says, softly. “I do want something from you.”

Your breath catches, and your gaze drops briefly to his mouth. A mistake, a terrible, wonderful, beautiful mistake, because now he’s certain you’re thinking the same as him.

He leans in, cupping your face with his hands to prevent you from pulling away, and draws you into him. It starts soft, tentative. A press of lips as if he’s afraid Dante will burst in and kill him on sight for having the audacity to touch the untouchable.

Until you softly exhale into him, body melting against him as you tiptoe to slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you even closer.

It deepens, months of longing distilled into a warm and rich kiss. tongues sweeping, hands firm and certain, holding the other as close as possible without force.

You’re the first to break it, breathless, but Steve steals two more before you’ve completely dropped down to the flats of your feet.

“I didn’t want to do that when I owed you something.” He admits, “Didn’t want you to think it wasn’t real or it was just another transaction.”

You smile, then bit your bottom lip. “That’s going to cost you, Rogers.”

“I look forward to it.” He grins before kissing you again.

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He hears the beep of the key card on the door and turns, watching Dante hold the door for you before closing it with a soft click.

Your eyes flick to the drink in his hand, and your lips quirk slightly. He shouldn’t be this comfortable helping himself to your things, but he is, and you don’t seem to mind either.

“Thank you for coming,” You say, slipping out of your heels by the door.

“You make that sound like my attendance was optional.”

“Everyone has a choice, Steve.” Strolling over to the desk, you smile, “But I’m sure curiosity got the better of you.”

You're right. His partial smile indicates you both know it.

"Let me clarify." Reaching into the top drawer of your desk, you pull out a leather-bound notebook. “As of today, your attendance is optional.”

His brow furrows with confusion as you walk toward him and hand him the book. “The marked page,” you instruct, taking his empty glass as you pass to the alcohol cabinet.

Steve opens the book to where the ribbon page marker separates the pages. Maddox's name at the top of the page immediately has his attention.

There’s a transaction of increasing value on every line—debts owed. Except the last entry is written in your neat, precise calligraphy style handwriting. Eliminated.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and so Steve turns the page.

Another name. Another list of debts, some crossed off, some with a plus sign, and more values. Interest. He reads more pages, skimming over details, and then freezes.

Rogers, Steve.

Beneath his name is a list of items you've provided for him and his team, and each one is crossed through with a perfectly straight line.

At the bottom of the page, in bold capital letters, is the word, SETTLED. The date written next to it is immediately familiar. The day he tore through earth and wood with his bare hands to free you from an untimely demise.

“Why?” he asks.

Shrugging, you hand him a glass as you step nearer. “Because it was paid.”

“You said it wouldn’t clear it.”

“I changed my mind.”

He can tell you're sincere. It's not a misleading ploy or manipulation.

Taking a sip of his drink, he scans the ledger again. “You keep track of everything?”

“Of course.” You chuckle. “I find my method works better than yours.”

“My method?”

“You do favors and then forget they happened.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “That’s usually how favors work.”

“Not where I come from.” You carefully take the book from him, as if you think he might resist, and place it on the table.

“So I don’t owe you anything?” he asks, mind buzzing with the prospect of what this means. The relationship is no longer transactional. There is no imbalance of power.

You hold his gaze. “No,” you answer. “The safe house is yours for as long as you need it, but there are no debts owed. No favors to pay back. No obligation to me.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hope, something infinitely more dangerous, desire.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rogers.”

“Like what?”

You almost laugh because the answer is humiliatingly simple. You’ve been looking at each other like that for months. Every time he showed up unannounced. In his voice, every time you called to check in. Every time he smiled at you like he had forgotten who you were beneath the reputation and blood on your hands, it got a little harder to ignore.

You drop your gaze and set your glass down. “In my world,” your voice is quiet like you're telling him a secret and the office could be bugged, “Nothing is free. Nobody does anything without wanting something in return. Except you.”

“If I see a situation heading south, I can’t ignore it.”

How many times has he said that to justify his actions? And how many times has it led him directly into another situation heading south?

“I’ve noticed,” you give a small smile. “But actions have consequences, Steve.”

He takes a small step closer, filled with intention. “I can live with that.”

You hold his gaze for a heartbeat and then, reluctantly, step back once before turning your back. “I kept thinking eventually you’d ask for something. A deal to write off your debt. Something I could understand.” You continue, leaning against the front of your desk. “And then you rescued me, and I realized you weren’t ever going to ask.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, “and I think you know I’d do it again, without adding it to any ledger.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

That catches him off guard. The admission is a rare thing. You’ve never said you were afraid of anything. Not when you were in a shallow grave, or the one time you ‘checked in’ unannounced at the safe house, Dante-less. You never said it, but it was obvious there had been a threat, credible enough that you’d run and hidden yourself until Dante took care of it.

“That's why you never let me get quite close enough to do something about this.”

He understands now. All the times you were close enough for him to reach out and touch, you’d back off. It wasn’t about protecting your investment. It was about not trusting that it wouldn’t come with strings.

“There was never supposed to be a this.”

He closes the distance you created. “But there is.”

“Rogers,” you warn, putting your hand on his chest to push him back, but he plants his feet. He holds your wrist, keeps your hand pressed against him.

“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know all the rumors are true. There’s probably a hell of a lot more I don’t know.” His eyes never leave yours. “And none of that has ever been what keeps me awake.”

The room goes perfectly still. Even the dust motes seem to freeze. He’s fought Nazi’s, aliens, and gods. You’ve ordered executions, negotiated ceasefires of rival gangs, stared down armed men who wanted you dead, and somehow neither of you was prepared for this.

It’s not about resources or influence. It’s gone beyond protection.

“And for the record, you’re wrong,” he says, softly. “I do want something from you.”

Your breath catches, and your gaze drops briefly to his mouth. A mistake, a terrible, wonderful, beautiful mistake, because now he’s certain you’re thinking the same as him.

He leans in, cupping your face with his hands to prevent you from pulling away, and draws you into him. It starts soft, tentative. A press of lips as if he’s afraid Dante will burst in and kill him on sight for having the audacity to touch the untouchable.

Until you softly exhale into him, body melting against him as you tiptoe to slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you even closer.

It deepens, months of longing distilled into a warm and rich kiss. tongues sweeping, hands firm and certain, holding the other as close as possible without force.

You’re the first to break it, breathless, but Steve steals two more before you’ve completely dropped down to the flats of your feet.

“I didn’t want to do that when I owed you something.” He admits, “Didn’t want you to think it wasn’t real or it was just another transaction.”

You smile, then bit your bottom lip. “That’s going to cost you, Rogers.”

“I look forward to it.” He grins before kissing you again.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.

He hears the beep of the key card on the door and turns, watching Dante hold the door for you before closing it with a soft click.

Your eyes flick to the drink in his hand, and your lips quirk slightly. He shouldn’t be this comfortable helping himself to your things, but he is, and you don’t seem to mind either.

“Thank you for coming,” You say, slipping out of your heels by the door.

“You make that sound like my attendance was optional.”

“Everyone has a choice, Steve.” Strolling over to the desk, you smile, “But I’m sure curiosity got the better of you.”

You're right. His partial smile indicates you both know it.

"Let me clarify." Reaching into the top drawer of your desk, you pull out a leather-bound notebook. “As of today, your attendance is optional.”

His brow furrows with confusion as you walk toward him and hand him the book. “The marked page,” you instruct, taking his empty glass as you pass to the alcohol cabinet.

Steve opens the book to where the ribbon page marker separates the pages. Maddox's name at the top of the page immediately has his attention.

There’s a transaction of increasing value on every line—debts owed. Except the last entry is written in your neat, precise calligraphy style handwriting. Eliminated.

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and so Steve turns the page.

Another name. Another list of debts, some crossed off, some with a plus sign, and more values. Interest. He reads more pages, skimming over details, and then freezes.

Rogers, Steve.

Beneath his name is a list of items you've provided for him and his team, and each one is crossed through with a perfectly straight line.

At the bottom of the page, in bold capital letters, is the word, SETTLED. The date written next to it is immediately familiar. The day he tore through earth and wood with his bare hands to free you from an untimely demise.

“Why?” he asks.

Shrugging, you hand him a glass as you step nearer. “Because it was paid.”

“You said it wouldn’t clear it.”

“I changed my mind.”

He can tell you're sincere. It's not a misleading ploy or manipulation.

Taking a sip of his drink, he scans the ledger again. “You keep track of everything?”

“Of course.” You chuckle. “I find my method works better than yours.”

“My method?”

“You do favors and then forget they happened.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “That’s usually how favors work.”

“Not where I come from.” You carefully take the book from him, as if you think he might resist, and place it on the table.

“So I don’t owe you anything?” he asks, mind buzzing with the prospect of what this means. The relationship is no longer transactional. There is no imbalance of power.

You hold his gaze. “No,” you answer. “The safe house is yours for as long as you need it, but there are no debts owed. No favors to pay back. No obligation to me.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hope, something infinitely more dangerous, desire.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rogers.”

“Like what?”

You almost laugh because the answer is humiliatingly simple. You’ve been looking at each other like that for months. Every time he showed up unannounced. In his voice, every time you called to check in. Every time he smiled at you like he had forgotten who you were beneath the reputation and blood on your hands, it got a little harder to ignore.

You drop your gaze and set your glass down. “In my world,” your voice is quiet like you're telling him a secret and the office could be bugged, “Nothing is free. Nobody does anything without wanting something in return. Except you.”

“If I see a situation heading south, I can’t ignore it.”

How many times has he said that to justify his actions? And how many times has it led him directly into another situation heading south?

“I’ve noticed,” you give a small smile. “But actions have consequences, Steve.”

He takes a small step closer, filled with intention. “I can live with that.”

You hold his gaze for a heartbeat and then, reluctantly, step back once before turning your back. “I kept thinking eventually you’d ask for something. A deal to write off your debt. Something I could understand.” You continue, leaning against the front of your desk. “And then you rescued me, and I realized you weren’t ever going to ask.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, “and I think you know I’d do it again, without adding it to any ledger.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

That catches him off guard. The admission is a rare thing. You’ve never said you were afraid of anything. Not when you were in a shallow grave, or the one time you ‘checked in’ unannounced at the safe house, Dante-less. You never said it, but it was obvious there had been a threat, credible enough that you’d run and hidden yourself until Dante took care of it.

“That's why you never let me get quite close enough to do something about this.”

He understands now. All the times you were close enough for him to reach out and touch, you’d back off. It wasn’t about protecting your investment. It was about not trusting that it wouldn’t come with strings.

“There was never supposed to be a this.”

He closes the distance you created. “But there is.”

“Rogers,” you warn, putting your hand on his chest to push him back, but he plants his feet. He holds your wrist, keeps your hand pressed against him.

“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know all the rumors are true. There’s probably a hell of a lot more I don’t know.” His eyes never leave yours. “And none of that has ever been what keeps me awake.”

The room goes perfectly still. Even the dust motes seem to freeze. He’s fought Nazi’s, aliens, and gods. You’ve ordered executions, negotiated ceasefires of rival gangs, stared down armed men who wanted you dead, and somehow neither of you was prepared for this.

It’s not about resources or influence. It’s gone beyond protection.

“And for the record, you’re wrong,” he says, softly. “I do want something from you.”

Your breath catches, and your gaze drops briefly to his mouth. A mistake, a terrible, wonderful, beautiful mistake, because now he’s certain you’re thinking the same as him.

He leans in, cupping your face with his hands to prevent you from pulling away, and draws you into him. It starts soft, tentative. A press of lips as if he’s afraid Dante will burst in and kill him on sight for having the audacity to touch the untouchable.

Until you softly exhale into him, body melting against him as you tiptoe to slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you even closer.

It deepens, months of longing distilled into a warm and rich kiss. tongues sweeping, hands firm and certain, holding the other as close as possible without force.

You’re the first to break it, breathless, but Steve steals two more before you’ve completely dropped down to the flats of your feet.

“I didn’t want to do that when I owed you something.” He admits, “Didn’t want you to think it wasn’t real or it was just another transaction.”

You smile, then bit your bottom lip. “That’s going to cost you, Rogers.”

“I look forward to it.” He grins before kissing you again.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.

Catching Bradley's eye and seeing the firm set of his brow despite the smile, emotions begin to surge. Apparently sensing the rising tension in you, he broadens his smile and proudly quips, "I deserve extra points for style.”

“Negative, Rooster,” Hangman says, pocketing a ball on the table. “I think you lose points for almost becoming a cautionary tale.”

Of course, the teasing doesn’t stop. The worry they all carried released in their taunting jabs. Silently, you agree with Hangman, though you’d never say it aloud.

Rooster rolls his eyes, then focuses back on you, still getting one last taunt in. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Hangman.” He gives you a subtle nod toward the back door.

“Someone’s still high on surviving,” you tease, trying to sound amused.

Hangman smirks. “He’s been insufferable for three hours.”

“Three?” you ask, moving toward the back door.

Fanboy snorts into his drink. “Three hours, twelve minutes,”

“And seventeen seconds,” Phoenix adds as if they’d rehearsed it.

Holding the door open for you, Rooster points at her. “Nobody asked you.”

The evening air outside is cool, and you welcome the crisp ocean breeze and the soft sounds of waves rolling onto shore—a backdrop to the now muffled laughter spilling from inside. It's a little surreal. Life would have carried on even if today had turned out differently.

Bradley is here, flesh and blood. You could reach out and touch him, gaze into those soulful eyes, but you don't. Those terrifying moments are playing on a loop in your mind, churning up all the 'what ifs'.

Sliding up next to you, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says carefully.

“So.”

A beat passes.

“You mad?” The incredulous look you give him makes him bob his head. “Right. Stupid question.”

“Affirmative,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh crap," he stands up straighter, "you’re using the voice.”

“What voice?”

“That voice.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Except you do. It’s not his fault, but seeing him drinking and laughing with the team after struggling through the rest of the day with the weight of what could have been is overwhelming. He’s had hours to process it, move past the fear, and get to the point of being able to joke about it. While you've had the same amount of time, you've had to hold it in, stay disciplined, and stoic.

Walking to the rail, you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze until it hurts.

“Babe?”

“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

He’s at your side immediately. “Lieutenant Bradshaw?” he repeats.

You nod, completely serious. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do because you decided to audition for Survivor: Naval Edition?”

“I didn’t...”

You poke a finger into his chest. “I’m not done!” Pressing his mouth closed, he stands nearly at attention. “You disappeared. You went quiet. Hangman could see you, and then...” You jab him again. “You said I love you, and then you were gone. I thought...” Your throat closes around the rest because you can’t say it.

You feel the tears well, and take a deep breath to try to find some control.

“You gave me a heart attack.”

“I know.”

Bradley holds out his arms, and you finally surrender, falling into his chest, letting him hold you until the tears stop.

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

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“I’m sorry,” Rooster fires back, “didn’t Phoenix just leave your ass in the dust?”

“Okay,” You interrupt before it turns into the predictable back-and-forth bickering. “Let's lock in pilots.”

They descend into kindergarten warfare, but they listen to the instructions they are given. Phoenix beats her own record, and then it all goes south.

“Control to all aircraft. Weather pattern change.” Petty Officer Parker’s voice suddenly cuts through.

What? It was clear seconds ago.

You stand up, looking for the issue. Your stomach drops. On the horizon, closer than it should be, moving with terrifying speed, is a dust cloud that temporarily blots out the sun.

One by one, the pilots report in, Phoenix and Bob, Fanboy and Paycheck are directed to return and land. Hangman reports he’s behind the cloud, following it in.

Shit.

“Control,” Hangman says. “You have approximately three minutes before you’ll be blind.”

“Rooster.” You whisper-shout into your mic. He’s the only one who has not checked in. “Rooster.”

Nothing. In the stillness, it feels as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.

Inhaling sharply, you shake your hands out to dispel some of the anxiety as you watch Phoenix land. “Does anyone have a visual on Lieutenant Bradshaw?”

“I got him," Hangman calmly relays. "I can see his tail. He's …” The pause feels like a lifetime in a situation where seconds count. “It's gone.” This time, there's a bit of reticence in his tone.

A lump clogs your throat. It’s not your job to keep an eye on the weather, but it’s something you find yourself doing regardless, because Rooster's a pilot. Because somewhere along the line, weather patterns, wind shifts, and cloud formations stopped being data on a screen and became something that could take him away from you.

Except today.

Today you’d been distracted, mind up in the clouds with him. This morning, Bradley stood in your kitchen, sunlight spilling over him while he stole your coffee and smiled at you over the rim of your mug. He’d looked at you with soft eyes and sleep-rustled hair and said the three words you didn't expect to hear.

I love you.

The universe feels cruel enough to make it the first and last time.

NO!

Slamming your finger onto the microphone button, you try again. “Control to Lieutenant Bradshaw. Report.”

The sand-filled gust hits the tower, and the sunlight vanishes. Glass rattles as dusty debris scrapes against the windows.

It’s over as quickly as it started, and as he said, Hangman has followed it in. From your position, it looks as if the nose of his jet is nudging it forward. It wouldn’t surprise you, he likes to flirt with danger.

Silence fills the room as the storm moves beyond the field. Seconds tick by—a minute passes. When your legs refuse to hold upright, you collapse into your chair.

Then comes a triumphant, “Woohoo.”

He made it!

His laugh, loud and breathless, has everyone cheering. Still, beneath it, you hear the tiny tremor in his voice. “Holy shit, that was close.”

There's still no visible sign of him, though. “Rooster. Location.” You need to see him to believe your brain isn’t playing tricks.

“I’m righhhhhhhhht here!” he shouts, a split second before buzzing the tower.

A deafening roar, and everyone ducks as the building shakes. Someone yells, someone else curses. Laughter erupts.

Opening the comms, you smile as Rooster's jet circles back to land. “Phoenix, he just beat your record.”

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

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Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.

After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.

"I’m not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.

“Okay, that’s better,” Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. “Now we’re both dry and warm.”

Her eyes begin to droop as if she’s fighting sleep.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, “You can sleep, you’re safe now.”

Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.

“Oh crap,” he sighs. “I’m keeping you, aren’t I?”

A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasn’t disturbed the tiny creature. But she’s too warm and content to notice.

Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she won’t roll off.

A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.

“Miss Livingston,” he says, pulling the door open.

Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, “Do you have a cat in there?”

“No,” he answers immediately.

“I heard something screeching.”

“Television.”

“Where did you get those scratches?”

“Uhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.”

Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. “The bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.”

“I know,” he says.

“Breaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.”

“I know,” he smiles, wide, too wide. “Good night, Miss Livingston.”

He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.

Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, “Shit.”

Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.

The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!

Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.

It’s the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.

Until the one time it isn’t funny anymore.

Two minutes. Maximum.

Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now she’s gone.

Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.

The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.

She’s gone.

“Okay, Alpine,” he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. “Not funny.”

He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.

“Alpine.”

The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.

Bucky freezes.

Denise.

Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now he’s going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.

He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

“Hey,” he says warily.

You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. “I think this belongs to you,” you whisper.

Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. “I can explain.”

“It’s a cat, not a body,” you chuckle.

Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.

“She came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldn’t get out my side.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” He takes Alpine carefully, like she’s made of glass. “She’s apparently committed to ruining my life.”

You grin. “If all the laughter I’ve been hearing is you, I don’t believe that for a second.” You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.

You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.

Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.

“Help me hide her,” he panics.

“In my hood, quick.”

You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.

“What if she moves?” he whispers.

“She won’t, she’s already snuggled up.”

“She likes you.”

Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.

“I heard it again,” Denise complains.

Neither of you responds.

Denise elaborates. “I heard crying through the vents.”

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That was me.”

Denise squints. “You were crying through the vents?”

“We were playing a game,” Bucky adds.

Denise’s eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. “A sex game.”

Denise goes scarlet.

Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.

You smile brightly. “Very immersive.”

Denise looks moments away from passing out. “Well,” she splutters, clutching her necklace. “Keep it down.”

“Let me guess,” you mock, “there are Bylaws about that?”

She nods once, “Indeed,” before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.

Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.

Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.

Bucky points accusingly at her. “You are a menace.”

The kitten blinks at him innocently.

“Okay,” you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. “We need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.”

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“You look disappointed.”

Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”

You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.

You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”

“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.

The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.

You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”

His brow lifts. “A house?”

“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.

“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.

“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.

His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.

“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.

He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”

The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.

“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."

"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."

The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.

“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.

He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.

The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.

His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.

Part 3 - Buried Feelings - When Steve learns you’re missing, he doesn’t hesitate to join the search for you.

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Which is how you find yourself standing in the gardening section of a hardware store with multiple packets of seeds, three large bags of soil, and a tiny watering can decorated with cartoon bees in the shopping cart.

“You don’t even know what half of those are,” you point out.

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

He shrugs like it doesn't matter. You know him well enough now to know that he will be researching for hours when you're not around, and inwardly smile. It makes you happy that the brooding man from a few months ago in the apartment next to yours seems to be happier these days.

“You don't have room for this many pots.”

His mouth curves into a smile. That smile. The one that somehow still catches you off guard when it happens. Warm and charming and just cocky enough to be dangerous.

“No,” he agrees, “but if you’d be so kind as to loan me some of your balcony space, I’ll make you dinner with whatever grows.” The wink is the final blow. He somehow knows you won't refuse him.

“Deal,” you sigh and look away before you do or say something you shouldn’t.

Three weeks later, your balcony looks surprisingly good. There are colorful pots of all sizes scattered about, way more than the original batch that was purchased. Between your space and Bucky's, it looks like a mini botanical garden, filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few flowers for a splash of color. Everything is thriving.

It wasn't as big a jump as you thought it would be to go from house plants to cultivating actual food. Still, you half expected Bucky to lose interest at some point.

Instead, he’s become alarmingly invested. Not only does he bring home stacks of books from the library about urban gardening, but he's also joined online gardening communities. Every morning before breakfast, he diligently checks each plant.

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

You pause halfway through making coffee and call out, “Are you giving advice to a plant?”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

You softly laugh at the total lie. It's hard to deny the contentment you feel knowing the hobby brings joy to Bucky, or that you revel in the serenity of sitting on your balcony in the evening, watching the sunset among the lush foliage and heavenly scent of the garden he's created.

It's beautiful and peaceful until the White-furred Assassin Disaster.

You return from the grocery store, arms full of shopping bags, and immediately notice two things. One: the balcony door you'd left closed is now open. Two: dirt everywhere. Not the normal type of dust tracked in from your daily routine, but clumps of dark soil litter your floor and furniture.

“Bucky?”

Silence.

Setting the bags down, you follow the trail outside and find the culprit. Alpine. The now tan-streaked menace is sitting proudly atop a turned-over pot that, up until recently, held flowers.

“Oh no.”

A muffled voice comes from Bucky's balcony. “Don’t laugh.”

Making your way over to where the two spaces nearly meet, you ignore his request and immediately start laughing. Bucky is kneeling, carefully placing an uprooted plant back into its home. He looks as if the empty bag of soil next to him was poured over his head—hair nearly matching the color of the dirt sprinkled in it, streaks of brown litter his jeans, and a tiny leaf is plastered to his cheek. His once white shirt is covered in tiny dark paw prints as if she’d been using him as a climbing frame.

“What happened?”

“I was re-potting the basil,” he sighs, “A butterfly caught her attention, and when she jumped, she landed in the bag of soil.”

“Mm-hhhmmm.” You press your lips together, trying your best to keep the laughter contained while he finishes his explanation.

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

“When she launched herself directly at my face, I tripped, and we both fell. She climbed the railing and then hopped onto your balcony. I came over to get her, and then the butterfly returned,” he sighs heavily, “and honestly, I lost track after that.”

You lose the battle, but still try to maintain control, and end up snorting.

“It wasn’t funny,” he groans, but is fighting his own grin. He points at the tiny terror, “There were claws,” who blinks innocently.

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

With a final chuckle, you unnecessarily state, “You both need a bath.”

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

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Dean grumbles at your newly purchased car accessory. “You are not putting that thing in Baby!”

Pouting, you stare at the box containing a sleek black car caddy. You specifically chose black over the bright purple one you really wanted, hoping he might be more willing to install it. It makes perfect sense for you to have one. There are holders for pens, a book, your travel mug, and your phone. Plus a tray that folds down to hold your laptop. Sure, it will stick out a little bit, even when folded closed, and maybe it's a bit ugly, but it's practical, and you need it.

“Come on,” you plead. “I’m almost always relegated to the back, and I get neck cramps trying to read with a book on the seat and juggling my computer in my lap. I don’t have anywhere to put my things, so they don't roll all over the place. It's a matter of health and safety.”

“No.”

“So you don't care about my health or the possibility of one of us being knocked out by a flying thermos of coffee?” Yes, it's an exaggeration. No, you don't care that it's never happened.

“No." Noting your shocked expression, he tries to correct. "I mean, yes, I care about your health, but nothing defiles Baby. I’m not letting some cheap plastic crap mar her beauty.”

“Fine,” you shrug, “then I’ll send your present back, too.”

Though he tries to hide it, his eyes light up with intrigue as you start repacking the items. “Sam would hate it anyway.”

Dean slides up beside you. “What would he hate?”

Slowly reaching into the larger box the delivery had come in, you quickly scan the area to ensure the younger Winchester isn’t around, then pull out a small box and hand it to Dean.

Surprise slinks over his features as he reads the description. “Bring your favorite songs to life with this mini cymbal for cars." Eyes now wide, he finishes with a head bob, "Fixes to the air vent."

Choking back a laugh, you reach for the gift. “But, nothing defiles Baby.”

Dean twists, holding the item out of your reach. “Maybe we can give them both a go?”

“Mhmmm. I thought so.”

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