barbie girl

The dead of the night was slowly lifting; but the meadow you had lied on to escape the festivities for a moment – even as they were for you – never seemed more alive, lit up by the first peeks of sunrays, glistening on the grass and flowers.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

Your vision was a little blurry, the champagne having gone to your head a little, your feet hurting from having danced so much; you had discarded your heels a long time ago, the pair of flats abandoned on the deck of the cabin too.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

You had walked barefoot here, the grass and late spring morning dew tickling your skin, the hem of your dress growing darker as you dragged it through the damp grass; the earth wasn’t all that cold, but pleasantly refreshing to lie on.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

You could feel the tiny drops of morning dew continue to fall into your hair, seeping into your burning skin, the sensation bringing a silly smile to your lips; or perhaps that was the alcohol and the warm feeling in your chest.

“Loves me… loves me not… Loves me—dammit!”

 You huffed, staring at the daisy with a frown, your heart skipping a frustrated beat.

“What is it?” sounded the voice above you, the amused note in it causing you to huff again and pout, showing off the daisy – now with the worst possible number of petals for you. You would get the wrong result, for sure. “Uh huh… I see. I think you peeled off two petals at some point.”

You frowned harder, shifting in your position, the grass suddenly colder under your back, a little unpleasant in comparison to the soft pillow made of Steve’s thighs under your head.

You met his sparkling gaze, your breath catching for a moment; he looked magnificent. Slightly ruddy cheeks illuminated by the early sun making his hair into a warm halo, soft if amused gaze observing you with adoration, his bowtie undone and hanging off his neck, drawing your attention to the column of his throat, to the loosened buttons. He had changed from his old uniform and you were grateful; as handsome as he had looked in it, he was also gorgeous in a suit. And his reasoning behind the change of clothes made your heart melt.

'I don’t want to live in and keep comparing to the past. I think today is just another proof that the future is much more important. I can’t wait to live it… especially after today.'

Your smile turned dreamy at the memory of his confession, the familiar sting of tears burning in your eyes for a moment.

And then you remembered. The daisy. That damn daisy.

“You’re just saying that,” you protested, sighing, all too aware you were being dramatic.

“Am I now?”

He leaned to his left for a bit, taking a fresh daisy, twirling it between his fingers with a grin.

“Yes! You would!... Now I have to start again.”

You reached for the daisy, only to have it pulled out of your reach, Steve’s smile widening as your eyebrow rose in question.

“Or...” he suggested lowly, leaning forward, filling all your vision as his face neared yours dangerously, his nose lightly bumping yours, “you could just ask me, sweetheart.”

Before you could protest – as if – his lips gently landed on yours, sweetness and love indeed pouring from the tender kiss, his fingers carding through your hair. You reached for his cheek, stroking over his cheekbone, leaning into his affection with a dopey smile forming on your lips.

“I love you, Mrs. Rogers,” he whispered to your lips before he pecked them one more time, retreating and weaving the daisy he had picked into your hair. “Beautiful.”

“You too. And you taste like happiness and champagne.”

Steve chuckled, your words having left you in a daze registering in your brain, causing you to join him.

“I think I’m a little drunk on both. And on you,” you admitted, earning a kiss to your forehead this time, lingering with tenderness.

“I think we both are.”

Dropping the deceptive flower from your hand, you took Steve’s left hand, interlacing your fingers, the rings adorning your hands not longer than twelve hours making a soft clinking noise, your and Steve’s smile growing wider – and full of love despite whatever a random daisy claimed.

“But I think we earned it, Mr. Rogers.”

-🌼💍🌼-

The dead of the night was slowly lifting; but the meadow you had lied on to escape the festivities for a moment – even as they were for you – never seemed more alive, lit up by the first peeks of sunrays, glistening on the grass and flowers.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

Your vision was a little blurry, the champagne having gone to your head a little, your feet hurting from having danced so much; you had discarded your heels a long time ago, the pair of flats abandoned on the deck of the cabin too.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

You had walked barefoot here, the grass and late spring morning dew tickling your skin, the hem of your dress growing darker as you dragged it through the damp grass; the earth wasn’t all that cold, but pleasantly refreshing to lie on.

“Loves me… loves me not…”

You could feel the tiny drops of morning dew continue to fall into your hair, seeping into your burning skin, the sensation bringing a silly smile to your lips; or perhaps that was the alcohol and the warm feeling in your chest.

“Loves me… loves me not… Loves me—dammit!”

 You huffed, staring at the daisy with a frown, your heart skipping a frustrated beat.

“What is it?” sounded the voice above you, the amused note in it causing you to huff again and pout, showing off the daisy – now with the worst possible number of petals for you. You would get the wrong result, for sure. “Uh huh… I see. I think you peeled off two petals at some point.”

You frowned harder, shifting in your position, the grass suddenly colder under your back, a little unpleasant in comparison to the soft pillow made of Steve’s thighs under your head.

You met his sparkling gaze, your breath catching for a moment; he looked magnificent. Slightly ruddy cheeks illuminated by the early sun making his hair into a warm halo, soft if amused gaze observing you with adoration, his bowtie undone and hanging off his neck, drawing your attention to the column of his throat, to the loosened buttons. He had changed from his old uniform and you were grateful; as handsome as he had looked in it, he was also gorgeous in a suit. And his reasoning behind the change of clothes made your heart melt.

'I don’t want to live in and keep comparing to the past. I think today is just another proof that the future is much more important. I can’t wait to live it… especially after today.'

Your smile turned dreamy at the memory of his confession, the familiar sting of tears burning in your eyes for a moment.

And then you remembered. The daisy. That damn daisy.

“You’re just saying that,” you protested, sighing, all too aware you were being dramatic.

“Am I now?”

He leaned to his left for a bit, taking a fresh daisy, twirling it between his fingers with a grin.

“Yes! You would!... Now I have to start again.”

You reached for the daisy, only to have it pulled out of your reach, Steve’s smile widening as your eyebrow rose in question.

“Or...” he suggested lowly, leaning forward, filling all your vision as his face neared yours dangerously, his nose lightly bumping yours, “you could just ask me, sweetheart.”

Before you could protest – as if – his lips gently landed on yours, sweetness and love indeed pouring from the tender kiss, his fingers carding through your hair. You reached for his cheek, stroking over his cheekbone, leaning into his affection with a dopey smile forming on your lips.

“I love you, Mrs. Rogers,” he whispered to your lips before he pecked them one more time, retreating and weaving the daisy he had picked into your hair. “Beautiful.”

“You too. And you taste like happiness and champagne.”

Steve chuckled, your words having left you in a daze registering in your brain, causing you to join him.

“I think I’m a little drunk on both. And on you,” you admitted, earning a kiss to your forehead this time, lingering with tenderness.

“I think we both are.”

Dropping the deceptive flower from your hand, you took Steve’s left hand, interlacing your fingers, the rings adorning your hands not longer than twelve hours making a soft clinking noise, your and Steve’s smile growing wider – and full of love despite whatever a random daisy claimed.

“But I think we earned it, Mr. Rogers.”

-🌼💍🌼-

The first sunrays of a new dawn are warm on his cheeks, the breeze of the brisk, foggy morning, wrapping him kindly in its arms as he enters the space hidden among the castle walls.

The dew is soaking his boots with every slow step he takes, the cold biting softly into his toes, but he cares little for it; it is his sense of smell and sight which are tuned in the most, the small private gardens welcoming him with aching familiarity. Like a garden of Eden; a peaceful solace breathing of love.

It rained last night. The heady scent of wet soil and roses fills his head and closes up his throat, but he continues walking, much like every single morning without fail.

Steve loves the garden; and he knows that so do you. It isn’t rich in many types of exotic precious flowers; in fact, many would call it simple. A few trees, one of which Steve had planted himself; a few soft-coloured flowerbeds; the pink roses climbing up the artistic constructions you had asked the smith to make. A few blooming bushes.

It’s the roses you brought to life yourself and cared for them with your own hands; with soft hands of the queen, letting dirt under your nails, skin scraped by thorns and bleeding to give birth to beauty, just like the hands of a commoner would.

The Queen of the People, they call you.

The King of the People is what they call Steve; and you both carry that title with pride.

Steve’s mother, the late queen, was the first one of that moniker, having learned how to treat wounded so she could follow her husband to the war camp and lend a helping hand to those in pain, to nurse them back to health.

In the time of peace, with the same care, you and Steve learned to grow and nurture flowers, the way you nurture your kingdom.

The time of wars seem eons away now, even as Steve himself wielded his sword alongside his men in its very battles; life has turned much quieter since then. Steve is glad for it. While fighting for the kingdom brought him sense of pride and brotherhood, he has been longing for sense of life instead. For love.

And he’s been blessed enough to have found it.

As he approaches the roses weaving up the metal construction, he breathes in deeply, his senses drowning in the overwhelming scent; a wistful smile forms on his lips, the memory of the smile you graced him with upon your first meeting wrapping around his heart.

He wrote a letter to your brother.

After King Howard’s death, the word was that the kingdom of Starkenburg had changed, progressive both in technology and social structing. The tales of King Anthony’s sister – a princess of wit quick enough to advise the king himself – intrigued Steve; and upon seeing your portrait, something in his very soul seemed to shift. Whoever the artist was, they had captured you admirably vividly; Steve almost felt as if you were looking straight into his soul and smiled.

He wrote to your brother of his intentions, but he wrote to you as well, to ask your opinion before he’d arrive to your home and attempt to court you. He had had a sense that excessive amount of gold sent with the letter would not impress you; he sent a single pair of earrings he had had commissioned instead, a well-loved book of poetry, and a vial of precious rose oil from his latest travels to the allied kingdom of the East.

And he had been right to do so.

In your response, while thanking for the jewellery, you seemed genuinely appreciative of the gifts of more personal nature, sending a book of fables in return.

You had exchanged two more letters before he made the journey, waiting only upon your request not to intrude on your brother’s wedding festivities; but as soon as Steve could arrive, he brought another three vials of rose oil among other riches to honour the royal family with.

Walking down the steps of the courtyard to greet him, your polite smile widened upon seeing his gift, a vivid spark – reminding him of your portrait so much – appearing in your eye as he brushed his lips over your knuckles, the scent of the very oil he had gifted you filling his head.

“A mind’s a maze, my wiseness sees me through… important truths lie beyond what eyes can see,” you whispered and Steve’s heart thundered in his ribcage upon recognizing those words – perhaps out of place, but all the more familiar. A little test, it seemed, you set upon him; and the spark in your eye might have been the mischief your brother was known for, but was all the more mesmerizing on you.

Warmth spread through Steve’s veins as he stood back to his full height, even as there was faint weakness in his knees already.

“‘tis through my heart I may appreciate true beauty,” he continued the poem softly, your smile turning most sincere in an instant, “’tis through your heart you reveal yourself to me… but I must say, Your Highness, you are an exquisite a sight for my eyes all the same.”

You accepted the compliment graciously, as well as the gifts – but more importantly, you accepted his courtship, warmly so.

Whatever longing Steve had felt in his chest for many years now, wearing your face since the moment he had set his eyes on your portrait, it was this very first encounter that ignited something beautiful and fierce in his heart.

And then, with every glance, word or touch exchanged, no matter how innocent, he found the fire kindled gently until it consumed him whole, the late afternoon sunrays following your steps in the royal garden having nothing on the genuine warmth of your smile, little shy, little cheeky, or the shine of your beauty.

Enchanted; that was what you made him with your presence and absence all the more. The scent of your skin with the notes of the roses haunted his dreams, day and night, and made him long and crave for more.

The day you agreed to the marriage, Steve realised he was at true peace for the first time in his life.

And the memory of that joyful day, too, was linked to the sweet scent of white roses, decorating the wedding feast.

I drew your shape in crystal shapes every single night I weaved a dream of fire for you under stormy skies In every life I've loved you so The only home I've ever known The magic part of me

The scent fills his nostrils now too. It wraps all around him with every breath as he instinctively moves closer, not worried he might step on and crush a single blossom. After all, he knows the garden like the back of his hand and could navigate it blind; he prefers it that way, in fact. With eyes closed, he can see you, your tender fingers caressing the petals, the fruit of your love and care. It is no wonder the garden used to bloom so wild upon your touch; Steve knows its effect, the way it awakes life in one’s veins, the way it fills his lungs with light and makes the very essence of him hum with the sense of rightness.

With well-practiced ease, he follows the way your fingers would run over the blossoms blindly; dew dampens his fingers, cold, but the rose itself feels almost warm, as if it holds your very soul. And soft. So beautifully soft it makes Steve’s ribcage ache with the next generous breath he takes.

He remembers the softness and the warmth of your body too well.

The line of your jaw he caressed before finally cradling your face, before leaning to kiss your lips on your wedding day, to commit your features to memory beyond what eyes could see; he thought of his fingertips like the extension of his heart that allowed him to appreciate your beauty properly. The exquisite happiness humming in his chest that day settled in your expression as well, in that vivid sparkle in your eyes, fluttering shut when his lips finally met yours after long weeks of dreaming of it.

The moment he did kiss you was written into his mind as revelation; for all the poetry he had ever read, for all the longing, for all the mad swirls of feelings and sensation haunting his days and nights ever since he had the fortune to meet you, it all made sense then; even the past bloodshed and pain. It all made sense for it had all led right into the blessed moment.

“My husband… my king,” you whispered to his lips breathlessly, your smile tasting like sunshine against his own and he could not but respond in kind before kissing you once more:

“My wife… my beautiful queen.”

And your lips were just as soft the night he took you to his bed for the first time; and if kissing you was revelation, to be able to touch your body and hold you close was what he imagined ascension felt like. The welcoming heat of your skin was a taste of heaven as he carefully stripped your chemise, breath wavering under his burning gaze, the silver of shyness soothed by his mouth exploring every exposed inch of you.

“Steve-“

You had been so careful to address him properly when in company he thought he could die right there, hearing the breathless sound of his name, a shuddering plea. He remembers the way your own touch turned him into a man possessed, your careful but burning fingertips appreciatively mapping out his body. He took you with a tremble in his very core and with an overwhelming sense of being right where the two of you were supposed to be. He loved on you for half the night, the air full of heady scent of your lovemaking and rose oil oozing off your thoroughly warmed-up skin.

“I love you more than the stars could ever know,” he whispered into your hair that night, as you laid on his chest, thoroughly exhausted, but with a serene smile on your face. As if you heard him, you pressed to him closer, and with your proximity, you brought love and peace into his soul.

Time changed none of it. The softness of your body against his, every night, so beautifully alive and warm under his greedy tender hands, the sensation never failing to fill his head and roar in his veins with need to claim, to mark, to love; always. Body as soft and warm as your belly was when you placed his hand over it one day, tears pearling in your eyes, telling him you were with a child before you even spoke a single word.

That day, Steve kneeled in front of you, pressing his forehead against your belly, and thanked the gods for all the blessings he received; and he thanked you all the same, silent words spilling from his lips before he looked up at you, your fingers having carded through his hair in appreciation of his joy and gratitude. With sudden burst of emotion, he jumped to his feet and picked up and spun and spun and spun with you, your joined laughter filling your chambers and probably raising quite a few questioning eyebrows Steve could not care less for at any moment, let alone at a moment like that.

The entirety of his world had been blessed; and he thanked the gods and you alike for it diligently every single day.

The day after he’d found out, he planted a tree, as common people said a father-to-be should; and he did so without care for whether his child – your child – would be a son or a daughter. He’d love and raise the child with tender care and dedication either way, the same way he would care for the symbol of his love for a new life planted.

You, in turn, planted roses into the very same garden, taking care of them ever since, come sunshine or rain, a new life growing under your hands as well as under your heart.

Steve never had the heart to scold you when you kneeled in the dirt, with barely any strength remaining to stand up with how you belly had grown; instead, he observed you with a smile, kissing your temple and helping you stand on the rare days when he didn’t feel like simply scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to your chambers to rest properly, like the Queen and a future mother should.

It never failed to make for a gentle laugh when moments later, cleaned up and in bed, he’d find you falling asleep as soon as your head laid down on the pillow. 

He’d kiss your forehead, brushing your untidy hair from your face with a smile, and went to kiss your belly, before covering you properly and thanking for all his blessing once more.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

Are you just a conjuring Or can I keep you?

Steve loves the garden and so do you; you love it still. He knows. He knows it with agonizing certainty because even now, this is where he feels you. This is where your warmth lingers, years after your passing. This is where he hears you whisper his name, in the rustle of leaves, feels your gentle touch in the breeze caressing his face, carding through his hair like your hands used to, especially on days when the weight of the crown became too heavy. This is where he feels your lips on his ear, whispering of your love, the softness of your kiss on his forehead, on his own lips when they brush the petals.

Here, he can hear you the clearest, tender; his chest tightens every time, a sharp memory of your screams behind the closed doors and the calming words of his friends that the cries he only knew from battlefields and sick tents, torn from your lungs, were but a part of the process of giving birth.

When the new voice cut the air and your screams turned into sobs and the softest murmur, no one could hold him back anymore, rules of propriety be damned; throwing the doors open, his eyes filled with tears upon the sight of the little miracle crying in your arms – your baby, your son. A little prince letting the world know there he was at last, loudly so; until you held him close enough for his cries to ease into sniffles and content hums.

That day too, Steve kneeled before you; by your bed, a few tears of undiluted joy rolled down his face as he welcomed James Samuel Anthony into his world and promised to love him for the rest of his days. To you, he thanked like he thanked to the gods, kissed your hands, your sternum, your lips. He could not imagine what pain you had endured, not even with the screams having echoed through the castle; but your smile and your tears, so warm on your soft skin, told him enough of how worthy of the struggle the result was.

“I love both of you, so much. You must never forget,” you whispered in a hoarse voice, tears rolling down your cheeks as you didn’t seem to know where to look – at your son, at Steve and back and forth, smiling through your tears.

Steve should have known then. He should have known the gods themselves had touched your soul and perhaps told you in their riddles what was to come to force you say those words. Perhaps they had told you what was to follow the most joyful night of Steve’s life; what the moments just before the dawn would bring.

But Steve was blind and deaf to it; all his senses and his heart alike caught in the precious moment, a cherished memory in making. The sensation of being touched by the divine in the most beautiful blessings of all; seeing you cradle the child to your chest, damp hair stuck to your forehead, skin glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with tears and exhaustion… an intimate voice whispering to your child like you had been to your bump since the day it had become visible: you are so, so loved, our sweet child, our little starlight. Humming a lullaby until you could not keep your own eyes open, passing the child to Steve for a longer while.

The child never returned to the arms of his mother, never felt her warmth or loving touch ever again.

And neither did Steve.

All he was given was a new memory, made out of the worst nightmares he had never dared to speak of out loud even as they had been haunting him from time to time: your motionless, cold body, cleaned of the blood but terrifying all the same.

Steve had seen men bleed out on the battlefield before, enough terror for a lifetime; but to have that happen to you, at the threshold of the happiest day of your life, broke his very spirit. For the second time in the course of mere hours in which his world had been turned upside down as easily as if someone had turned an hourglass, he fell to his knees by your bed; your deathbed. Forehead pressed to your icy hand, his heart comprehended something the rest of his body could not yet. Unlike when he had welcomed the new life, he did not shed a single tear upon saying goodbye to yours. His sobs were dry, even as his chest was heaving so violently his whole frame shook, a part of him still praying so your hand would move, fingers card through his hair to comfort him, his grip on you growing harder by the moment despite the numbing weakness in his muscles.

You didn’t move. You had left the earthly realm long moments ago, ripped suddenly and violently from the centre of Steve’s whole world, creating an unrepairable tear in his soul.

He loved; he still does. Both the life given and the life taken that night. But the scar of having half of his heart torn out never healed. It never would; he did not think he’d want it too. He kept his wound wide and open so the love could pour out, for your memory, for his son. Your son. The only living thing left of you.

Your son and your roses.

He had your ashes dispersed into the soil under the roses, to nurture them like you had been in life; and he has your thoughts, shared only in whispers of your bed chamber, and he has all your love nurture your child.

He takes care of, raises and loves his son for you and himself alike; he keeps the roses alive with the most tender and careful care for you only. To keep your love and spirit alive and present.

You loved the garden and you still do; Steve knows.

Here, in the garden, he can feel you the best. Hear you in the wind, feel you in the warmth of the sun and blossoms alike, wrapped in your scent and the ghost of your touch, soft and clawing deep into the gaping wound in his ribcage all at once.

Here, his memories of the most joyful moments with you feel vivid. The dew sings your whispers of affection and the rain carries your tears spilled for the grief of leaving your son and your husband all too soon.

I know your face in fractured time, and I know our kiss A thousand lives, our love remains, pulling me back in Through all the dark, I've searched for light And found you waiting every night But are you even real?

The garden is where he feels you most tangible; but your spirit hovers around him at all times.

Sometimes the memories creep at him gently; a colour you liked catching his eye out of instinct, your words echoing in his head, your favourite book still lying on the table in your shared room. Sometimes they slam into him with violence that knocks air out of his lungs, having been filled with the sweet scent of roses; a royal celebration with a dance overflowing with emptiness without you in his arms, without you following his steps with elegance, utter faith in his lead, your wide sparkling eyes full of affection and fond memory of your first dance shared. His bed, a wailing void, swallowing him every night. And of course, the soft and so beautifully violent reminder of your absence, ever-present in the face of your son, in his questions about mama.

Steve talks about you. James cannot quite understand yet, he’s too young, his heart too pure and his mind too full of magic this world offers; but his little hand on Steve’s damp cheek when he fails to keep his tears at bay, his son’s worry about his father being sad, breaks his heart and mends it all the same. Steve answers James’s questions; he speaks of you out of turn too. Your son knows your face from your portraits, ones painted by artists, ones drawn by Steve himself, and knows all about your and Steve’s love for him. They prayed for you together. He knows your garden and the significance of the roses and he looks at them with the strangest affectionate expression in his soft, carefree features.

James has your smile, your eyes, and your wit.

In the grey of Steve’s days, he is his light. James and the garden, where he can feel you and the echo of your love.

Steve’s hand slips from the blossoms, the missing weight setting the flowers in motion, sending a small shower of droplets down his hand, on his face, nature’s blessing bleeding into his burning tears, his eyes fluttering open, the pink and rich green and grey of the stone swimming in his tear-filled vision. His lips are unsteady, trembling under the crushing weight of your absence; and yet, your voice is so clear in his mind as if you stood right next to him.

Don’t cry, my love, whispers the breeze, a warm breath as if tickling his ear. I miss you too.

“There is no day I do not miss you,” he whispers back soundlessly, blinking away his tears as a ghost of your touch caresses down his spine, “my wife, my precious, my heart.”

I know, love. I know. I wish I could take your pain away.

He grants himself another deep breath, all that used to be you – including the kindness and worry you probably did have for him even in afterlife – washing over him.

The sudden ruckus by the gates startles him, his heart skipping a beat; the bubble of his own world he still gets to share with you bursts as the rustle of cloth and quick little steps instantly followed by a sniffle push through the veils of solace the garden offers.

The only person who can be forgiven to do so bursts into the garden, red blotches on his damp cheeks, eyes finding Steve with relief and bottomless trust Steve will never fail to appreciate even as it squeezes his heart in a vice.

He’s crouching on instinct before the scene is even complete, James’s governess’ rushed steps and her scolding surprisingly far away.

Little James lands in Steve’s arms and clutches him with an awful vigour for a three-year-old, his choked cry of fa-eh muffled by the fabric of Steve’s attire.

“James-" he whispers gently, arms coming around him like thousands times before, one hand laid over the back of his head as he rises to his feet, encouraged by the grip of the little fingers on him tightening.

“James--! Your Majesty, I am-“

Steve shakes his head at the poor woman, an understanding smile on his lips before he turns his attention back to the toddler in his arms, careful to keep his voice soft despite the flash of fear in his chest – his son truly was getting stronger and faster by the day, able to run away quick and get into all sorts of trouble.

James Buchannan Bucky Barnes, his namesake, would always say Steve’s son was the payback from the gods. Steve does not disagree and swallows his pride and worry at that very fact every time little James is up to something Steve is sure he himself could have never come up with at his age. Bucky would probably argue about that and Steve might believe him, because Bucky knows him as well if not better than Steve knows himself; that was why Bucky is the only person who has not nagged him about a new queen, has not pushed him about a motherly figure needed in James’s life.

For now, and perhaps for ever, it is enough for Steve to know about his own mother and you.

His mother had the patience of the gods and their strictness all the same; Steve believes you would have been the same and he tries his best to live up to such standard of parenthood.

“Jamie, little starlight, what is wrong?" he inquires, the child wiggling in his arms to hold on tighter, face still hidden in Steve’s chest.

“Miss momma. Bad sweep.”

The unrepairable crack in Steve’s heart gapes open, his lips pressed tight as he runs his hand down James’s back, barely holding back a sigh. He knows the feeling all too well, even if in his world, your absence, however painful, translates differently.

“Did you not sleep well? Had bad dreams?”

James nods in confirmation, repeating his words. “Miss momma.”

“I see,” Steve hums, breathing in deeply, pondering. It is not the first time this has happened; Steve knows he’s partly to blame and guilt pangs in his gut, the familiar dilemma of honouring your memory and loving you, keeping you in your son’s memory, and reminding the child of your glaring absence in the process setting heavy in his ribcage. “I sleep badly too, when I miss her.”

Which is every night.

James pushes away from Steves chest a fraction, looking up at his face with tear-filled eyes and a pout that feels like a whiplash to Steve’s soul; he’s your mirror image painted with sincerity and innocence, his whole generous heart on display.

“Ya? Ugwy dweams?”

“Yes,” Steve says gently, even as his voice cracks with emotion. “That is why I come here every morning.”

James’s expression turns serious – and way too intelligent for a boy his age, Steve thinks, even as his heart flutters at his son’s words.

“Tawk to momma. Is why I wun heew.”

“Oh. Do you… want to say something to your mum too?” Again, James nods; and again, Steve’s ribcage constricts, the burn of tears in his eyes as familiar as the gentle warmth kindled in his veins. “I see. But first – you must not run away from Lady Brigitte like that, alright? She would be upset and get worried. Me too.”

Little James nods quickly, his pupils growing bigger.

“Sowy…. Sowy Wady Bwigitt.”

“Your Highness,” she smiles benevolently at the child, nodding at Steve, already stepping back, understanding her services are not needed at the moment, “Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Brigitte.”

With one last brief smile, she is gone; not too far for she might be needed soon, but far enough to grant privacy to the grieving family.

It is not the first time Steve explains what he is doing here to his son; that is how James knows in the first place to come here. It is, however, the first time the child has run here and Steve is not blind to the importance of the moment, his heartbeat rushing past his ears, his touch a little shaky with nerves as his son observes him with curious, sad eyes.

“Tawk now?”

“Yes, little starlight, talk now,” Steve assures his son with a smile with a heartbroken edge, crouching again by the bunch of flowers. “You don’t have to, but what I do, is that I stroke the roses first. Carefully. And then I tell her what I need to say.”

He licks his lips, a lump in his throat growing, voice cracking as he continues.

“And I tell her how much I love her and miss her.”

James nods, a single step from his father’s embrace, petting one of the blossoms with his fingertips with clumsiness but undeniable care, sending a few droplets falling.

“Miss you, momma. Wove you.”

Something digs its claws into Steve’s heart and lungs and yanks violently, tears springing from his eyes at the sincerity of James’s words, all the more touching as they are slurred through his wobbly lips. Steve smiles encouragingly when little James seeks his approval. He’s crying too; fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, but as he continues to caress the flower, the corners of his lips turned up tensely.

“She say she wove too.”

Steve clears his throat, swallowing the pitiful sound born there – profoundly proud and happy as only James could make him.

“Yes, she does that. She loved--- she loves you very much, little starlight. More than anything in this whole wide world.”

“Wike you wove me. Wike she wove you.”

“Yes, exactly that, son,” Steve says, breathing in shakily, slightly startled when James’s fingers slip to the stem.

Steve is too slow, his hand unable to catch James’s before blood pearls on the child’s index finger, a surprised yelp of pain torn from the his lips.

Steve opens his mouth, words of comfort ready as much as the comfort of his embrace; but to his awe, James frowns and moves back to the blossom, murmuring he loves you still.

Steve is not sure whether his chest is too heavy from bursting with pride, affection or grief.

Finally, his son smiles, abandoning the flower and showing off his little injury.

“Not cwy. Stwong wike dad,” he declares, arms rising in an universal gesture. “Up?”

Without a word of protest, Steve lifts him to his arms, suddenly acutely aware of the morning truly being rather brisk when he feels James’s cold hands on his neck and curses himself for not having thought of that.

“Of course you are. Let’s say bye to mum and go get some tea and breakfast, yes? If you want, I can tell you all about the most beautiful queen there ever was.”

James obediently whispers g’dbye, nuzzling into Steve’s neck, allowing him to shield James’s small body from the cold as he heads out of the garden, one last glance and a silent goodbye to his sanctuary and your spirit that seems to reside there.

Neither of them notices that the one flower little James has touched begins to wilt.

When morning comes Will you fade away Like all my dreams I never, ever want to wake This love we've made Is like a spell upon my soul I'm bound to you for now and evermore

Between playing with and trying his best to teach his son, between holding court and training with his brothers in arms and friends, Steve’s mind is occupied; too full to ponder and to feel.

The weight of the morning experience comes crushing him at night.

It had rained in the evening, but then the wind blew apart the clouds, moonlight streaming into Steve’s bedroom – his and yours – light and shadows playing wicked games on the walls. You are on Steve’s mind, memories haunting him with intensity he cannot remember since before James was taking his first steps and Steve wished you were there to witness it and celebrate it.

He hears your voice, a ghost of your touch stirring him awake every time he feels sleep might finally take him into its merciful arms; drifting between consciousness and dreamland, he sees things. He could swear the moonlight keeps taking your form by the window, taunting him to follow; but whenever he does, feet all but dragging from the lack of a shuteye, the mirage disperses, only to materialize in the armchair where you used to read to Jamie before he was even born, then in the bed where Steve held you for far too few nights, loved on you for too short of a time, the aroma of rose oil hovering in the air, an untouchable torment and bliss to his senses.

He ends up dozing off in the chair by the fireplace, shivering, and waking up too soon to the first crimson and fiery orange of a new dawn.

Dressing up, he refuses to take a look in the mirror to see the shell of the King of the People he must resemble. He knows it without looking; the red-rimmed glassy eyes, the dark circles under them, the pale skin, the numb lips he is not sure will be able to speak a single word today, let alone lead and inspire.

Should anyone come at him with a sword in the next few hours, he’d be dead before he could swing his own just once; and yet, he attaches the sword to his waist as a part of his attire, the weight comfortingly familiar. Today might be a battle where no sharp blade could help him win, but he had spent years with his trusted weapon. It was how he approached your court too; a man of riches and conquered lands, a soldier and a king, but also a simple man longing for love.

The castle is still and silent safe for the guards on duty, abandoning their proper stance only to pay him respect by shallow bows; the garden, as per usual, awaits him in its peaceful solitude.

The dew was still falling abundantly, Steve’s hair damp and sticking to his forehead by the time he walks through the gates, the first sunrays shining through the leaves of James’s tree, blinding Steve for just a moment, enough for him to have to shield his eyes before they adjust, drawn towards his destination.

He freezes mid-step so sharply it hurts; air is knocked from his lungs and it hurts more.

It was back at Harrigörn where an army skilled more any other they had encountered before massacred many of Steve’s own; where too many good men laid down their life for their kingdom, for their king. It was back at Harrigörn where Steve’s own blood soaked the lands, a lucky strike delivered after a significant part of his armour had been knocked off, exposing his left side, an opening his enemy eagerly took and pushed his sword right through under Steve’s ribcage the very moment Steve hesitated. That day, Bucky, striking the man and dragging Steve to safety, might have as well ripped Steve from the fingers of the gods themselves who were about to guide him into afterlife.

As a reminder, Steve has been carrying a nasty scar that sometimes aches still; and a piercingly sharp memory of blood on his tongue and brutal, numbing pain whose echo interrupted more than one of his nights.

He truly remembers the moment with shocking clarity; the way all the sensation came crashing down on him, stunning him motionless and speechless, mouth open, no sound coming out.

His body remembers.

He stands stunned just the same right now, a guttural no falling from his lips, pulse rushing past his ears; metallic taste of blood and tears and panic on his tongue.

Your smile flashes in front of his eyes and he can’t breathe; his stomach swings so violently he retches, his first coherent thought being a desperate prayer to all gods above to wake him up from the nightmare unfolded in front of his tired eyes.

He stands there stunned for a moment lasting an eternity.

And then he’s finally moving, frantic breaths fogging the cold air, dew soaking his boots and biting into his toes and he does not care; he does not even notice, a string of raspy no no no falling from his lips, desperation colouring his grey world black around the edges.

The roses.

Your roses.

Your precious roses, your flowery children, your memory: dead.

Every single one.

Dry and wilted and rotten, seemingly all three at once, the dew caught on them but a mocking, like a salve numbing pain on a dead body; beyond any salvation.

All of it gone, not a single blossom left. Just an image of utter devastation.

It strikes him harder and sharper than any sword, weighting his body down to the ground faster than armour made of lead.

He falls to his knees, hands landing in the soil, fingers digging in as if it could speak and tell him how to fix that – to tell him what and how and why has this happened in the first place, when he had studied and learned about how to enrich the soil and protect the flowers from disease, just how, over a single night, over the course of a few hours, could life be ripped away so suddenly and violently, a life that was blooming so fully and beautifully only a day ago-

A life ripped out just like yours.

A life that’s been a memory and a monument to yours.

The pain that rips through his chest has him digging his fingers deeper, his head falling between his shoulders with a cry that might not even be human, more akin to one of a dying animal.

He can’t let out more; he can’t let anything in. His chest feels too tight, air too heavy to breathe in, burning in his lungs as much as shame and self-loathing burns in his veins.

He failed. He failed to keep your memory alive, he failed you, a terrible letdown and it was just flowers, one would say, but they were not. The flowers are not the only thing gone.

Your spirit, usually so present, seems to have evaporated, having bled out from the sanctuary as if it had been tied to the roses; as if it has been keeping the roses alive or vice versa.

He has lost you, for the second time; that is the feeling tearing his heart apart.

The garden usually filled with memories of you screams with emptiness; the breeze bushing his damp hair is cold and dull and harsh despite barely being there. The warmth of your affection; gone.

He swallows the scream clawing its way up his tight throat, a violent shudder cutting through his spine, his eyes squeezing shut.

He hears the light steps but he cannot make himself to react, to open his eyes, to move; he does not recognize them even as there is a grief-struck part of his mind he tends to keep locked that tells him that he does.

It’s not little James; it’s not Bucky nor Bucky’s wife. It’s not James’s governess either; and no one else has been permitted to enter here unless Steve would have had to leave the castle for days and a gardener had to be appointed.

If a stranger came to slash his throat, the numbness in Steve’s fingers whispered of him not caring at the moment; if anything, Steve might call it an unjustified mercy to him.

The steps stop behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder making for a burning sensation in his nose, tears prickling in his red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” the ghost of your voice reaches him, the scent of rose oil enveloping him, a lovechild of a sob and chuckle of relief exploding from his lips.

Gods, you were still here. Still, despite it all, he could feel you, more tangible than ever, hear you even, the clearest in the past three years.

“I am so---- so--rry I couldn’t-“ he chokes out, but the phantom touch seems to grow firmer, reassurance he does not deserve.

“It was never your fault, Steve,” the breeze whispers kindly, and yet, his breath hitches as thousands of icy shards stab his broken heart.

It might as well be his conscience speaking, and it does not relent.

“I know of the guilt you carry and you need to let it go. It was never your fault.”

It was never your fault that the child born out of our love, the life you had given seed to, took me away.

At those words, the very guilt consumes him more than ever, burning like midnight oil and ice. Of course he had thought that; it was one of the nightmares haunting his nights. If he had only… he loves little James with all his heart, and it’s such blasphemous thought he asks penance for and loves his child all the more in the days that follow, but if Steve had only never—would you have lived? Or would have the gods ripped his happiness from his hands still and gave him no solace at all?

“You’ve given me a son. I love you and always will.”

The echo of your voice shakes with emotion and another sob is torn from Steve’s lips, shaking his whole frame, his hand instinctively moving to his shoulder where the warm memory of your touch lingers.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

His heart stops in his chest when the tips of his fingers, still covered in dirt from where he has dug them into the soil, meet skin instead of the fabric of his own coat.

He turns so fast he lands on his backside, his head spinning with the unexpectedly fast movement; and his heart stands still for one moment longer, his throat suddenly dry unlike his cheeks.

Gods, he can see you.

Beautiful and ethereal, the sun shining from behind you and yet overshadowed by your presence.

Steve’s lost his mind for certain; another of his sleepless nights finally having pushed him into the realm of insanity.

But by gods he’d trade it all if he could look at the smile, no matter how sad, adorning your lips for jus a minute longer.

You are in all white; a nightdress Steve knows like the back of his hand, an attire he held you in during your nights together or stripped it with tenderness or vigour. The very nightdress you wore the night you left this world. 

You crouch by him, the scent of rose oil filling his nostrils so intense a pitiful whine is born in his chest, even as his eyes adjust and he notices your hair ruffled rather messily, streaks of dirt on your skin, on your dress; you are barefoot.

You are the most gorgeous, divine mirage.

“It’s not your fault the roses died. You took care of them with as much precision as love, every single day. I know. I watched you.”

Steve only gulps, all coherent thought leaving him, his hands shaking; he must not touch you. He has never seen a mirage of you so vivid – he cannot afford to lose it, to have you dissipate into thin air if he tries to hold on too tight.

“It is my fault… the price to pay.”

Steve does not understand. Not your words, not the blessed image his mind has conjured, not even the wild swirl of suffocating joy and heartbreak upon seeing you; he only understands the terror of realisation that his own memory, until now, did not seem to do you justice. He has been forgetting your face despite the amount of time he has been spending looking at your portraits and reminiscing; he has almost forgot what your voice sounds like, a soothing caress to his soul.

But conjuring of you is kind and patient; it smiles warmly, tears gathering in its eyes Steve longs to kiss away.

“I was visiting town when she approached me, a blind fortune teller, a harmless youngling, beautiful beyond what my own eyes has ever seen… she told me she was bringing an important message from the gods,” you say, “but she told me she could only unveil it to me and no other living soul. Asked me to follow her.”

Steve’s breath hitches in fear; a fear that makes no sense. A story that has likely never happened and his broken mind had just dreamed up, and yet; the image of his wife, his precious heart, following a woman she had never encountered before without the trusted guards, shakes him. The Queen of the People they call you; visiting the commoners was no strange nor exceptional occurrence, but Steve would have never let you walk alone. Beloved as you are and were by most, there is always evil lurking and looking to hurt the crown; but you know as much. You always knew.

 And Steve knows that because beauty has not been the only quality of yours he loved and loves; it is your wit too. For all your kindness, you are no fool and do not trust without evidence.

A spark – a heart-wrenchingly vivid spark of affection – flashes in your eye as you continue, as if you can hear his thoughts.

“I would have never followed her had it not been for her next words and her gentle touch. As innocent as she appeared despite the air of something divine, there was no telling who could be hiding in her hut, to whom she wished to lured me to under false pretences.”

“What did she say?” Steve hears himself rasp, in the very back of his mind well-aware he is entertaining a conversation with the result of his own fatigued mind.

The tears pearling in your eyes fall over, making Steve’s hand twitch with the need to gently wipe them away.

“The paths laid down by gods are full of twists and turns… to know them all I would surely have turned mad,” you recite softly and Steve has to force himself to keep his eyes open as your voice washes over him, like the times you whispered this very first poem of the booklet he had sent you along with his first letter in the sweet darkness of your shared bedroom, like he whispered them to you back. He can’t. If he closes his eyes, you might disappear again. “Fate in the stars written by lighting dust of souls… if I’d known how, I would have rather read.”

Steve, having been mouthing the words along unwittingly, feels his lips moving almost soundlessly as he finishes:

“But I am but a man, I’m blood and heart and faith; Walking the one path that I believe to be true. I follow the path to which my heart’s been calling… for I have faith t’will lead me back to you.”

“Yes,” you nod, warmth blooming around Steve’s heart despite it all. This is a kind memory, he decides. Whatever has brought you here, whatever has killed the roses, your image has been sent here to sooth him. It might hurt all the more later; but for now, he finds himself almost, almost at peace. “So I did follow her. She told me that in quarter of a moon, I will find myself with a child. And I did. She told me to plant the roses… and so I did.”

You take a wavering breath and Steve finds himself doing the same; you face twists in grief before you continue.

“She told me to nurture them and cherish them like the child itself, and so I did – because once my son was born, I would not have but short moments to hold him.”

With a wince, the outrage rushing through Steve has him straightening his spine, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. To protect his wife, to eliminate the person who dared to make such threat to his beloved.

But there is nothing to fight; it is all but the past that might have never even happened except for your painful passing. And yet, Steve’s mind is whirling, memories falling into place, of your thoughtful expression upon returning for the town one day, the abundance of tears upon your announcement you were with a child, your solid feeling it would be a boy, your words, spoken quietly but with conviction and finality Steve has wondered so many times about: “I love both of you, so much. You must never forget.”

“My love-“

“And I did,” you cut off his raspy voice. “And she told me that should my ashes nurture the roses, I would come back, once they’d meet the blood and tears of my love… and the blood of my blood.”

Steve watches, stunned, as you move to kneel next to him, the ghost of the warmth of your skin radiating and calling out for him, a temptation to catch the mirage and condemn it to disperse in this air smelling of freshly cut roses.

The image of little James, scratching his finger on the thorn yesterday, staining one of the pink blossoms with his blood is the last thing Steve thinks of – before your hand, much colder now, goosebumps having risen on your arms, settles tenderly on his cheek, damp with tears he cannot recall having cried.

It strikes him like a lightning, rushing through his soul, stunning him motionless.

You were touching him.

He felt your cold skin against his, your warm affection, your smile a thousand suns and your voice just as unsteady as his heart and as real as the dirt under his fingernails or the wet ground under him as you whisper, voice cracking with emotion:

“And I did.”

A single beat of his heart; and his hand is rising with a violent tremble, hesitating for just a moment before he dares to cover the back of your hand on his cheek.

You are still there.

Undeniably and completely true.

“Oh gods-“

He chokes on a sob so potent his whole ribcage vibrates, painfully so, but he does not care.

He is already moving.

He springs from the ground, dropping your hand only to throw his arms around your form and pull you against him, inhaling into his already tight chest when your solid warm body meets his, one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder, gripping your nape, tangling in your hair and gripping with violent force just so if anyone tried to pull you away he’d never let them, because you-

You’re still here.

You press your face against his neck, the tip of your nose making him shudder not because it’s cold, but because it feels as cold as it used to on a brisk morning like this one when you’d press yourself to him and smile into the skin of his throat when he’d faux-chastise you for not dressing warm enough and thus forcing him to give you his own coat.

--which is something he will absolutely do in just a second or two of hundred once it settles that your tears soaking into his skin are real and his own tears are seeping into your hair as he buries his face there and inhales, the scent of wet soil and rose-oil so intense and overwhelmingly familiar with years of grief and blissful memories he feels his muscles give out, sending both your you toppling over into the tall wet grass, the complete opposite of keeping you warm as he should but you don’t seem to care and he cannot think, let alone move.

Your name is falling form his lips, over and over, a prayer, a plea, a thank you, ragged breaths held just to keep still, to remember this moment for the rest of his days.

You are here.

You are here, somehow alive, right in his arms.

And you are saying his name, over and over, sweet endearment and apologies for not telling him, for being scared, for perhaps being foolish, for all the grief your absence has condemned him to and Steve just laughs.

He laughs so hard he is crying and he is not sure which came first, but he rolls over with you to protect you from the cold ground at last, your weight the most soothing thing he could ever conjure, perhaps safe for your blinding smile broken on its edges or your I love you, or your hands cradling his face for a long silent moment before your lips descend to his, sending tremble through his body, his heart, his very soul.

“My husband… my king.”

“My wife… my beautiful queen, my precious, my heart,” he whispers in return, choking on the last word, because his heart truly has just returned, beating its way out of his chest, brought by the woman the stars themselves had conspired to lead him to, only to steal her and then give her back. The stars, the gods, the fairies, it does not matter as long as you’d get to stay.

And again, your wit, your impeccable ability to read him like the very book of poetry he had given you years ago, have you caress his face with your fingertips, one of his hands leaving your nape to keep your other hand warm, and whisper to him:

“And she told me I’d get to kiss my husband again… and to hold my son, after only watching him grow in the loving hands of the kindest man there ever was and I shall have the chance to do it all for a very, very long time.”

Steve brushes the unruly hair from your face and kisses you softly – all but a meagre reminder of the overwhelming love humming in his very being. He sits up, wrapping you around him, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and stands up, rising full of life and strength as if he has not lied awake all night; he lifts you both, carrying you from the garden, to ensure you could do exactly as you said.

“You will, my love. You will.”

Of that – he vows to himself and to the gods above with gravity of the word of the king, a warrior, a father and a husband – I will make sure.

He will. For the rest of his days, he will.

Are you just a conjuring …or can I keep you?

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

There we go... I suppose that due to the magical elements here, this can be read as the fic for this year's Walpurgis Night. May yours mbe a good one, may you May be sweet 🌸

The first sunrays of a new dawn are warm on his cheeks, the breeze of the brisk, foggy morning, wrapping him kindly in its arms as he enters the space hidden among the castle walls.

The dew is soaking his boots with every slow step he takes, the cold biting softly into his toes, but he cares little for it; it is his sense of smell and sight which are tuned in the most, the small private gardens welcoming him with aching familiarity. Like a garden of Eden; a peaceful solace breathing of love.

It rained last night. The heady scent of wet soil and roses fills his head and closes up his throat, but he continues walking, much like every single morning without fail.

Steve loves the garden; and he knows that so do you. It isn’t rich in many types of exotic precious flowers; in fact, many would call it simple. A few trees, one of which Steve had planted himself; a few soft-coloured flowerbeds; the pink roses climbing up the artistic constructions you had asked the smith to make. A few blooming bushes.

It’s the roses you brought to life yourself and cared for them with your own hands; with soft hands of the queen, letting dirt under your nails, skin scraped by thorns and bleeding to give birth to beauty, just like the hands of a commoner would.

The Queen of the People, they call you.

The King of the People is what they call Steve; and you both carry that title with pride.

Steve’s mother, the late queen, was the first one of that moniker, having learned how to treat wounded so she could follow her husband to the war camp and lend a helping hand to those in pain, to nurse them back to health.

In the time of peace, with the same care, you and Steve learned to grow and nurture flowers, the way you nurture your kingdom.

The time of wars seem eons away now, even as Steve himself wielded his sword alongside his men in its very battles; life has turned much quieter since then. Steve is glad for it. While fighting for the kingdom brought him sense of pride and brotherhood, he has been longing for sense of life instead. For love.

And he’s been blessed enough to have found it.

As he approaches the roses weaving up the metal construction, he breathes in deeply, his senses drowning in the overwhelming scent; a wistful smile forms on his lips, the memory of the smile you graced him with upon your first meeting wrapping around his heart.

He wrote a letter to your brother.

After King Howard’s death, the word was that the kingdom of Starkenburg had changed, progressive both in technology and social structing. The tales of King Anthony’s sister – a princess of wit quick enough to advise the king himself – intrigued Steve; and upon seeing your portrait, something in his very soul seemed to shift. Whoever the artist was, they had captured you admirably vividly; Steve almost felt as if you were looking straight into his soul and smiled.

He wrote to your brother of his intentions, but he wrote to you as well, to ask your opinion before he’d arrive to your home and attempt to court you. He had had a sense that excessive amount of gold sent with the letter would not impress you; he sent a single pair of earrings he had had commissioned instead, a well-loved book of poetry, and a vial of precious rose oil from his latest travels to the allied kingdom of the East.

And he had been right to do so.

In your response, while thanking for the jewellery, you seemed genuinely appreciative of the gifts of more personal nature, sending a book of fables in return.

You had exchanged two more letters before he made the journey, waiting only upon your request not to intrude on your brother’s wedding festivities; but as soon as Steve could arrive, he brought another three vials of rose oil among other riches to honour the royal family with.

Walking down the steps of the courtyard to greet him, your polite smile widened upon seeing his gift, a vivid spark – reminding him of your portrait so much – appearing in your eye as he brushed his lips over your knuckles, the scent of the very oil he had gifted you filling his head.

“A mind’s a maze, my wiseness sees me through… important truths lie beyond what eyes can see,” you whispered and Steve’s heart thundered in his ribcage upon recognizing those words – perhaps out of place, but all the more familiar. A little test, it seemed, you set upon him; and the spark in your eye might have been the mischief your brother was known for, but was all the more mesmerizing on you.

Warmth spread through Steve’s veins as he stood back to his full height, even as there was faint weakness in his knees already.

“‘tis through my heart I may appreciate true beauty,” he continued the poem softly, your smile turning most sincere in an instant, “’tis through your heart you reveal yourself to me… but I must say, Your Highness, you are an exquisite a sight for my eyes all the same.”

You accepted the compliment graciously, as well as the gifts – but more importantly, you accepted his courtship, warmly so.

Whatever longing Steve had felt in his chest for many years now, wearing your face since the moment he had set his eyes on your portrait, it was this very first encounter that ignited something beautiful and fierce in his heart.

And then, with every glance, word or touch exchanged, no matter how innocent, he found the fire kindled gently until it consumed him whole, the late afternoon sunrays following your steps in the royal garden having nothing on the genuine warmth of your smile, little shy, little cheeky, or the shine of your beauty.

Enchanted; that was what you made him with your presence and absence all the more. The scent of your skin with the notes of the roses haunted his dreams, day and night, and made him long and crave for more.

The day you agreed to the marriage, Steve realised he was at true peace for the first time in his life.

And the memory of that joyful day, too, was linked to the sweet scent of white roses, decorating the wedding feast.

I drew your shape in crystal shapes every single night I weaved a dream of fire for you under stormy skies In every life I've loved you so The only home I've ever known The magic part of me

The scent fills his nostrils now too. It wraps all around him with every breath as he instinctively moves closer, not worried he might step on and crush a single blossom. After all, he knows the garden like the back of his hand and could navigate it blind; he prefers it that way, in fact. With eyes closed, he can see you, your tender fingers caressing the petals, the fruit of your love and care. It is no wonder the garden used to bloom so wild upon your touch; Steve knows its effect, the way it awakes life in one’s veins, the way it fills his lungs with light and makes the very essence of him hum with the sense of rightness.

With well-practiced ease, he follows the way your fingers would run over the blossoms blindly; dew dampens his fingers, cold, but the rose itself feels almost warm, as if it holds your very soul. And soft. So beautifully soft it makes Steve’s ribcage ache with the next generous breath he takes.

He remembers the softness and the warmth of your body too well.

The line of your jaw he caressed before finally cradling your face, before leaning to kiss your lips on your wedding day, to commit your features to memory beyond what eyes could see; he thought of his fingertips like the extension of his heart that allowed him to appreciate your beauty properly. The exquisite happiness humming in his chest that day settled in your expression as well, in that vivid sparkle in your eyes, fluttering shut when his lips finally met yours after long weeks of dreaming of it.

The moment he did kiss you was written into his mind as revelation; for all the poetry he had ever read, for all the longing, for all the mad swirls of feelings and sensation haunting his days and nights ever since he had the fortune to meet you, it all made sense then; even the past bloodshed and pain. It all made sense for it had all led right into the blessed moment.

“My husband… my king,” you whispered to his lips breathlessly, your smile tasting like sunshine against his own and he could not but respond in kind before kissing you once more:

“My wife… my beautiful queen.”

And your lips were just as soft the night he took you to his bed for the first time; and if kissing you was revelation, to be able to touch your body and hold you close was what he imagined ascension felt like. The welcoming heat of your skin was a taste of heaven as he carefully stripped your chemise, breath wavering under his burning gaze, the silver of shyness soothed by his mouth exploring every exposed inch of you.

“Steve-“

You had been so careful to address him properly when in company he thought he could die right there, hearing the breathless sound of his name, a shuddering plea. He remembers the way your own touch turned him into a man possessed, your careful but burning fingertips appreciatively mapping out his body. He took you with a tremble in his very core and with an overwhelming sense of being right where the two of you were supposed to be. He loved on you for half the night, the air full of heady scent of your lovemaking and rose oil oozing off your thoroughly warmed-up skin.

“I love you more than the stars could ever know,” he whispered into your hair that night, as you laid on his chest, thoroughly exhausted, but with a serene smile on your face. As if you heard him, you pressed to him closer, and with your proximity, you brought love and peace into his soul.

Time changed none of it. The softness of your body against his, every night, so beautifully alive and warm under his greedy tender hands, the sensation never failing to fill his head and roar in his veins with need to claim, to mark, to love; always. Body as soft and warm as your belly was when you placed his hand over it one day, tears pearling in your eyes, telling him you were with a child before you even spoke a single word.

That day, Steve kneeled in front of you, pressing his forehead against your belly, and thanked the gods for all the blessings he received; and he thanked you all the same, silent words spilling from his lips before he looked up at you, your fingers having carded through his hair in appreciation of his joy and gratitude. With sudden burst of emotion, he jumped to his feet and picked up and spun and spun and spun with you, your joined laughter filling your chambers and probably raising quite a few questioning eyebrows Steve could not care less for at any moment, let alone at a moment like that.

The entirety of his world had been blessed; and he thanked the gods and you alike for it diligently every single day.

The day after he’d found out, he planted a tree, as common people said a father-to-be should; and he did so without care for whether his child – your child – would be a son or a daughter. He’d love and raise the child with tender care and dedication either way, the same way he would care for the symbol of his love for a new life planted.

You, in turn, planted roses into the very same garden, taking care of them ever since, come sunshine or rain, a new life growing under your hands as well as under your heart.

Steve never had the heart to scold you when you kneeled in the dirt, with barely any strength remaining to stand up with how you belly had grown; instead, he observed you with a smile, kissing your temple and helping you stand on the rare days when he didn’t feel like simply scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to your chambers to rest properly, like the Queen and a future mother should.

It never failed to make for a gentle laugh when moments later, cleaned up and in bed, he’d find you falling asleep as soon as your head laid down on the pillow. 

He’d kiss your forehead, brushing your untidy hair from your face with a smile, and went to kiss your belly, before covering you properly and thanking for all his blessing once more.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

Are you just a conjuring Or can I keep you?

Steve loves the garden and so do you; you love it still. He knows. He knows it with agonizing certainty because even now, this is where he feels you. This is where your warmth lingers, years after your passing. This is where he hears you whisper his name, in the rustle of leaves, feels your gentle touch in the breeze caressing his face, carding through his hair like your hands used to, especially on days when the weight of the crown became too heavy. This is where he feels your lips on his ear, whispering of your love, the softness of your kiss on his forehead, on his own lips when they brush the petals.

Here, he can hear you the clearest, tender; his chest tightens every time, a sharp memory of your screams behind the closed doors and the calming words of his friends that the cries he only knew from battlefields and sick tents, torn from your lungs, were but a part of the process of giving birth.

When the new voice cut the air and your screams turned into sobs and the softest murmur, no one could hold him back anymore, rules of propriety be damned; throwing the doors open, his eyes filled with tears upon the sight of the little miracle crying in your arms – your baby, your son. A little prince letting the world know there he was at last, loudly so; until you held him close enough for his cries to ease into sniffles and content hums.

That day too, Steve kneeled before you; by your bed, a few tears of undiluted joy rolled down his face as he welcomed James Samuel Anthony into his world and promised to love him for the rest of his days. To you, he thanked like he thanked to the gods, kissed your hands, your sternum, your lips. He could not imagine what pain you had endured, not even with the screams having echoed through the castle; but your smile and your tears, so warm on your soft skin, told him enough of how worthy of the struggle the result was.

“I love both of you, so much. You must never forget,” you whispered in a hoarse voice, tears rolling down your cheeks as you didn’t seem to know where to look – at your son, at Steve and back and forth, smiling through your tears.

Steve should have known then. He should have known the gods themselves had touched your soul and perhaps told you in their riddles what was to come to force you say those words. Perhaps they had told you what was to follow the most joyful night of Steve’s life; what the moments just before the dawn would bring.

But Steve was blind and deaf to it; all his senses and his heart alike caught in the precious moment, a cherished memory in making. The sensation of being touched by the divine in the most beautiful blessings of all; seeing you cradle the child to your chest, damp hair stuck to your forehead, skin glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with tears and exhaustion… an intimate voice whispering to your child like you had been to your bump since the day it had become visible: you are so, so loved, our sweet child, our little starlight. Humming a lullaby until you could not keep your own eyes open, passing the child to Steve for a longer while.

The child never returned to the arms of his mother, never felt her warmth or loving touch ever again.

And neither did Steve.

All he was given was a new memory, made out of the worst nightmares he had never dared to speak of out loud even as they had been haunting him from time to time: your motionless, cold body, cleaned of the blood but terrifying all the same.

Steve had seen men bleed out on the battlefield before, enough terror for a lifetime; but to have that happen to you, at the threshold of the happiest day of your life, broke his very spirit. For the second time in the course of mere hours in which his world had been turned upside down as easily as if someone had turned an hourglass, he fell to his knees by your bed; your deathbed. Forehead pressed to your icy hand, his heart comprehended something the rest of his body could not yet. Unlike when he had welcomed the new life, he did not shed a single tear upon saying goodbye to yours. His sobs were dry, even as his chest was heaving so violently his whole frame shook, a part of him still praying so your hand would move, fingers card through his hair to comfort him, his grip on you growing harder by the moment despite the numbing weakness in his muscles.

You didn’t move. You had left the earthly realm long moments ago, ripped suddenly and violently from the centre of Steve’s whole world, creating an unrepairable tear in his soul.

He loved; he still does. Both the life given and the life taken that night. But the scar of having half of his heart torn out never healed. It never would; he did not think he’d want it too. He kept his wound wide and open so the love could pour out, for your memory, for his son. Your son. The only living thing left of you.

Your son and your roses.

He had your ashes dispersed into the soil under the roses, to nurture them like you had been in life; and he has your thoughts, shared only in whispers of your bed chamber, and he has all your love nurture your child.

He takes care of, raises and loves his son for you and himself alike; he keeps the roses alive with the most tender and careful care for you only. To keep your love and spirit alive and present.

You loved the garden and you still do; Steve knows.

Here, in the garden, he can feel you the best. Hear you in the wind, feel you in the warmth of the sun and blossoms alike, wrapped in your scent and the ghost of your touch, soft and clawing deep into the gaping wound in his ribcage all at once.

Here, his memories of the most joyful moments with you feel vivid. The dew sings your whispers of affection and the rain carries your tears spilled for the grief of leaving your son and your husband all too soon.

I know your face in fractured time, and I know our kiss A thousand lives, our love remains, pulling me back in Through all the dark, I've searched for light And found you waiting every night But are you even real?

The garden is where he feels you most tangible; but your spirit hovers around him at all times.

Sometimes the memories creep at him gently; a colour you liked catching his eye out of instinct, your words echoing in his head, your favourite book still lying on the table in your shared room. Sometimes they slam into him with violence that knocks air out of his lungs, having been filled with the sweet scent of roses; a royal celebration with a dance overflowing with emptiness without you in his arms, without you following his steps with elegance, utter faith in his lead, your wide sparkling eyes full of affection and fond memory of your first dance shared. His bed, a wailing void, swallowing him every night. And of course, the soft and so beautifully violent reminder of your absence, ever-present in the face of your son, in his questions about mama.

Steve talks about you. James cannot quite understand yet, he’s too young, his heart too pure and his mind too full of magic this world offers; but his little hand on Steve’s damp cheek when he fails to keep his tears at bay, his son’s worry about his father being sad, breaks his heart and mends it all the same. Steve answers James’s questions; he speaks of you out of turn too. Your son knows your face from your portraits, ones painted by artists, ones drawn by Steve himself, and knows all about your and Steve’s love for him. They prayed for you together. He knows your garden and the significance of the roses and he looks at them with the strangest affectionate expression in his soft, carefree features.

James has your smile, your eyes, and your wit.

In the grey of Steve’s days, he is his light. James and the garden, where he can feel you and the echo of your love.

Steve’s hand slips from the blossoms, the missing weight setting the flowers in motion, sending a small shower of droplets down his hand, on his face, nature’s blessing bleeding into his burning tears, his eyes fluttering open, the pink and rich green and grey of the stone swimming in his tear-filled vision. His lips are unsteady, trembling under the crushing weight of your absence; and yet, your voice is so clear in his mind as if you stood right next to him.

Don’t cry, my love, whispers the breeze, a warm breath as if tickling his ear. I miss you too.

“There is no day I do not miss you,” he whispers back soundlessly, blinking away his tears as a ghost of your touch caresses down his spine, “my wife, my precious, my heart.”

I know, love. I know. I wish I could take your pain away.

He grants himself another deep breath, all that used to be you – including the kindness and worry you probably did have for him even in afterlife – washing over him.

The sudden ruckus by the gates startles him, his heart skipping a beat; the bubble of his own world he still gets to share with you bursts as the rustle of cloth and quick little steps instantly followed by a sniffle push through the veils of solace the garden offers.

The only person who can be forgiven to do so bursts into the garden, red blotches on his damp cheeks, eyes finding Steve with relief and bottomless trust Steve will never fail to appreciate even as it squeezes his heart in a vice.

He’s crouching on instinct before the scene is even complete, James’s governess’ rushed steps and her scolding surprisingly far away.

Little James lands in Steve’s arms and clutches him with an awful vigour for a three-year-old, his choked cry of fa-eh muffled by the fabric of Steve’s attire.

“James-" he whispers gently, arms coming around him like thousands times before, one hand laid over the back of his head as he rises to his feet, encouraged by the grip of the little fingers on him tightening.

“James--! Your Majesty, I am-“

Steve shakes his head at the poor woman, an understanding smile on his lips before he turns his attention back to the toddler in his arms, careful to keep his voice soft despite the flash of fear in his chest – his son truly was getting stronger and faster by the day, able to run away quick and get into all sorts of trouble.

James Buchannan Bucky Barnes, his namesake, would always say Steve’s son was the payback from the gods. Steve does not disagree and swallows his pride and worry at that very fact every time little James is up to something Steve is sure he himself could have never come up with at his age. Bucky would probably argue about that and Steve might believe him, because Bucky knows him as well if not better than Steve knows himself; that was why Bucky is the only person who has not nagged him about a new queen, has not pushed him about a motherly figure needed in James’s life.

For now, and perhaps for ever, it is enough for Steve to know about his own mother and you.

His mother had the patience of the gods and their strictness all the same; Steve believes you would have been the same and he tries his best to live up to such standard of parenthood.

“Jamie, little starlight, what is wrong?" he inquires, the child wiggling in his arms to hold on tighter, face still hidden in Steve’s chest.

“Miss momma. Bad sweep.”

The unrepairable crack in Steve’s heart gapes open, his lips pressed tight as he runs his hand down James’s back, barely holding back a sigh. He knows the feeling all too well, even if in his world, your absence, however painful, translates differently.

“Did you not sleep well? Had bad dreams?”

James nods in confirmation, repeating his words. “Miss momma.”

“I see,” Steve hums, breathing in deeply, pondering. It is not the first time this has happened; Steve knows he’s partly to blame and guilt pangs in his gut, the familiar dilemma of honouring your memory and loving you, keeping you in your son’s memory, and reminding the child of your glaring absence in the process setting heavy in his ribcage. “I sleep badly too, when I miss her.”

Which is every night.

James pushes away from Steves chest a fraction, looking up at his face with tear-filled eyes and a pout that feels like a whiplash to Steve’s soul; he’s your mirror image painted with sincerity and innocence, his whole generous heart on display.

“Ya? Ugwy dweams?”

“Yes,” Steve says gently, even as his voice cracks with emotion. “That is why I come here every morning.”

James’s expression turns serious – and way too intelligent for a boy his age, Steve thinks, even as his heart flutters at his son’s words.

“Tawk to momma. Is why I wun heew.”

“Oh. Do you… want to say something to your mum too?” Again, James nods; and again, Steve’s ribcage constricts, the burn of tears in his eyes as familiar as the gentle warmth kindled in his veins. “I see. But first – you must not run away from Lady Brigitte like that, alright? She would be upset and get worried. Me too.”

Little James nods quickly, his pupils growing bigger.

“Sowy…. Sowy Wady Bwigitt.”

“Your Highness,” she smiles benevolently at the child, nodding at Steve, already stepping back, understanding her services are not needed at the moment, “Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Brigitte.”

With one last brief smile, she is gone; not too far for she might be needed soon, but far enough to grant privacy to the grieving family.

It is not the first time Steve explains what he is doing here to his son; that is how James knows in the first place to come here. It is, however, the first time the child has run here and Steve is not blind to the importance of the moment, his heartbeat rushing past his ears, his touch a little shaky with nerves as his son observes him with curious, sad eyes.

“Tawk now?”

“Yes, little starlight, talk now,” Steve assures his son with a smile with a heartbroken edge, crouching again by the bunch of flowers. “You don’t have to, but what I do, is that I stroke the roses first. Carefully. And then I tell her what I need to say.”

He licks his lips, a lump in his throat growing, voice cracking as he continues.

“And I tell her how much I love her and miss her.”

James nods, a single step from his father’s embrace, petting one of the blossoms with his fingertips with clumsiness but undeniable care, sending a few droplets falling.

“Miss you, momma. Wove you.”

Something digs its claws into Steve’s heart and lungs and yanks violently, tears springing from his eyes at the sincerity of James’s words, all the more touching as they are slurred through his wobbly lips. Steve smiles encouragingly when little James seeks his approval. He’s crying too; fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, but as he continues to caress the flower, the corners of his lips turned up tensely.

“She say she wove too.”

Steve clears his throat, swallowing the pitiful sound born there – profoundly proud and happy as only James could make him.

“Yes, she does that. She loved--- she loves you very much, little starlight. More than anything in this whole wide world.”

“Wike you wove me. Wike she wove you.”

“Yes, exactly that, son,” Steve says, breathing in shakily, slightly startled when James’s fingers slip to the stem.

Steve is too slow, his hand unable to catch James’s before blood pearls on the child’s index finger, a surprised yelp of pain torn from the his lips.

Steve opens his mouth, words of comfort ready as much as the comfort of his embrace; but to his awe, James frowns and moves back to the blossom, murmuring he loves you still.

Steve is not sure whether his chest is too heavy from bursting with pride, affection or grief.

Finally, his son smiles, abandoning the flower and showing off his little injury.

“Not cwy. Stwong wike dad,” he declares, arms rising in an universal gesture. “Up?”

Without a word of protest, Steve lifts him to his arms, suddenly acutely aware of the morning truly being rather brisk when he feels James’s cold hands on his neck and curses himself for not having thought of that.

“Of course you are. Let’s say bye to mum and go get some tea and breakfast, yes? If you want, I can tell you all about the most beautiful queen there ever was.”

James obediently whispers g’dbye, nuzzling into Steve’s neck, allowing him to shield James’s small body from the cold as he heads out of the garden, one last glance and a silent goodbye to his sanctuary and your spirit that seems to reside there.

Neither of them notices that the one flower little James has touched begins to wilt.

When morning comes Will you fade away Like all my dreams I never, ever want to wake This love we've made Is like a spell upon my soul I'm bound to you for now and evermore

Between playing with and trying his best to teach his son, between holding court and training with his brothers in arms and friends, Steve’s mind is occupied; too full to ponder and to feel.

The weight of the morning experience comes crushing him at night.

It had rained in the evening, but then the wind blew apart the clouds, moonlight streaming into Steve’s bedroom – his and yours – light and shadows playing wicked games on the walls. You are on Steve’s mind, memories haunting him with intensity he cannot remember since before James was taking his first steps and Steve wished you were there to witness it and celebrate it.

He hears your voice, a ghost of your touch stirring him awake every time he feels sleep might finally take him into its merciful arms; drifting between consciousness and dreamland, he sees things. He could swear the moonlight keeps taking your form by the window, taunting him to follow; but whenever he does, feet all but dragging from the lack of a shuteye, the mirage disperses, only to materialize in the armchair where you used to read to Jamie before he was even born, then in the bed where Steve held you for far too few nights, loved on you for too short of a time, the aroma of rose oil hovering in the air, an untouchable torment and bliss to his senses.

He ends up dozing off in the chair by the fireplace, shivering, and waking up too soon to the first crimson and fiery orange of a new dawn.

Dressing up, he refuses to take a look in the mirror to see the shell of the King of the People he must resemble. He knows it without looking; the red-rimmed glassy eyes, the dark circles under them, the pale skin, the numb lips he is not sure will be able to speak a single word today, let alone lead and inspire.

Should anyone come at him with a sword in the next few hours, he’d be dead before he could swing his own just once; and yet, he attaches the sword to his waist as a part of his attire, the weight comfortingly familiar. Today might be a battle where no sharp blade could help him win, but he had spent years with his trusted weapon. It was how he approached your court too; a man of riches and conquered lands, a soldier and a king, but also a simple man longing for love.

The castle is still and silent safe for the guards on duty, abandoning their proper stance only to pay him respect by shallow bows; the garden, as per usual, awaits him in its peaceful solitude.

The dew was still falling abundantly, Steve’s hair damp and sticking to his forehead by the time he walks through the gates, the first sunrays shining through the leaves of James’s tree, blinding Steve for just a moment, enough for him to have to shield his eyes before they adjust, drawn towards his destination.

He freezes mid-step so sharply it hurts; air is knocked from his lungs and it hurts more.

It was back at Harrigörn where an army skilled more any other they had encountered before massacred many of Steve’s own; where too many good men laid down their life for their kingdom, for their king. It was back at Harrigörn where Steve’s own blood soaked the lands, a lucky strike delivered after a significant part of his armour had been knocked off, exposing his left side, an opening his enemy eagerly took and pushed his sword right through under Steve’s ribcage the very moment Steve hesitated. That day, Bucky, striking the man and dragging Steve to safety, might have as well ripped Steve from the fingers of the gods themselves who were about to guide him into afterlife.

As a reminder, Steve has been carrying a nasty scar that sometimes aches still; and a piercingly sharp memory of blood on his tongue and brutal, numbing pain whose echo interrupted more than one of his nights.

He truly remembers the moment with shocking clarity; the way all the sensation came crashing down on him, stunning him motionless and speechless, mouth open, no sound coming out.

His body remembers.

He stands stunned just the same right now, a guttural no falling from his lips, pulse rushing past his ears; metallic taste of blood and tears and panic on his tongue.

Your smile flashes in front of his eyes and he can’t breathe; his stomach swings so violently he retches, his first coherent thought being a desperate prayer to all gods above to wake him up from the nightmare unfolded in front of his tired eyes.

He stands there stunned for a moment lasting an eternity.

And then he’s finally moving, frantic breaths fogging the cold air, dew soaking his boots and biting into his toes and he does not care; he does not even notice, a string of raspy no no no falling from his lips, desperation colouring his grey world black around the edges.

The roses.

Your roses.

Your precious roses, your flowery children, your memory: dead.

Every single one.

Dry and wilted and rotten, seemingly all three at once, the dew caught on them but a mocking, like a salve numbing pain on a dead body; beyond any salvation.

All of it gone, not a single blossom left. Just an image of utter devastation.

It strikes him harder and sharper than any sword, weighting his body down to the ground faster than armour made of lead.

He falls to his knees, hands landing in the soil, fingers digging in as if it could speak and tell him how to fix that – to tell him what and how and why has this happened in the first place, when he had studied and learned about how to enrich the soil and protect the flowers from disease, just how, over a single night, over the course of a few hours, could life be ripped away so suddenly and violently, a life that was blooming so fully and beautifully only a day ago-

A life ripped out just like yours.

A life that’s been a memory and a monument to yours.

The pain that rips through his chest has him digging his fingers deeper, his head falling between his shoulders with a cry that might not even be human, more akin to one of a dying animal.

He can’t let out more; he can’t let anything in. His chest feels too tight, air too heavy to breathe in, burning in his lungs as much as shame and self-loathing burns in his veins.

He failed. He failed to keep your memory alive, he failed you, a terrible letdown and it was just flowers, one would say, but they were not. The flowers are not the only thing gone.

Your spirit, usually so present, seems to have evaporated, having bled out from the sanctuary as if it had been tied to the roses; as if it has been keeping the roses alive or vice versa.

He has lost you, for the second time; that is the feeling tearing his heart apart.

The garden usually filled with memories of you screams with emptiness; the breeze bushing his damp hair is cold and dull and harsh despite barely being there. The warmth of your affection; gone.

He swallows the scream clawing its way up his tight throat, a violent shudder cutting through his spine, his eyes squeezing shut.

He hears the light steps but he cannot make himself to react, to open his eyes, to move; he does not recognize them even as there is a grief-struck part of his mind he tends to keep locked that tells him that he does.

It’s not little James; it’s not Bucky nor Bucky’s wife. It’s not James’s governess either; and no one else has been permitted to enter here unless Steve would have had to leave the castle for days and a gardener had to be appointed.

If a stranger came to slash his throat, the numbness in Steve’s fingers whispered of him not caring at the moment; if anything, Steve might call it an unjustified mercy to him.

The steps stop behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder making for a burning sensation in his nose, tears prickling in his red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” the ghost of your voice reaches him, the scent of rose oil enveloping him, a lovechild of a sob and chuckle of relief exploding from his lips.

Gods, you were still here. Still, despite it all, he could feel you, more tangible than ever, hear you even, the clearest in the past three years.

“I am so---- so--rry I couldn’t-“ he chokes out, but the phantom touch seems to grow firmer, reassurance he does not deserve.

“It was never your fault, Steve,” the breeze whispers kindly, and yet, his breath hitches as thousands of icy shards stab his broken heart.

It might as well be his conscience speaking, and it does not relent.

“I know of the guilt you carry and you need to let it go. It was never your fault.”

It was never your fault that the child born out of our love, the life you had given seed to, took me away.

At those words, the very guilt consumes him more than ever, burning like midnight oil and ice. Of course he had thought that; it was one of the nightmares haunting his nights. If he had only… he loves little James with all his heart, and it’s such blasphemous thought he asks penance for and loves his child all the more in the days that follow, but if Steve had only never—would you have lived? Or would have the gods ripped his happiness from his hands still and gave him no solace at all?

“You’ve given me a son. I love you and always will.”

The echo of your voice shakes with emotion and another sob is torn from Steve’s lips, shaking his whole frame, his hand instinctively moving to his shoulder where the warm memory of your touch lingers.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

His heart stops in his chest when the tips of his fingers, still covered in dirt from where he has dug them into the soil, meet skin instead of the fabric of his own coat.

He turns so fast he lands on his backside, his head spinning with the unexpectedly fast movement; and his heart stands still for one moment longer, his throat suddenly dry unlike his cheeks.

Gods, he can see you.

Beautiful and ethereal, the sun shining from behind you and yet overshadowed by your presence.

Steve’s lost his mind for certain; another of his sleepless nights finally having pushed him into the realm of insanity.

But by gods he’d trade it all if he could look at the smile, no matter how sad, adorning your lips for jus a minute longer.

You are in all white; a nightdress Steve knows like the back of his hand, an attire he held you in during your nights together or stripped it with tenderness or vigour. The very nightdress you wore the night you left this world. 

You crouch by him, the scent of rose oil filling his nostrils so intense a pitiful whine is born in his chest, even as his eyes adjust and he notices your hair ruffled rather messily, streaks of dirt on your skin, on your dress; you are barefoot.

You are the most gorgeous, divine mirage.

“It’s not your fault the roses died. You took care of them with as much precision as love, every single day. I know. I watched you.”

Steve only gulps, all coherent thought leaving him, his hands shaking; he must not touch you. He has never seen a mirage of you so vivid – he cannot afford to lose it, to have you dissipate into thin air if he tries to hold on too tight.

“It is my fault… the price to pay.”

Steve does not understand. Not your words, not the blessed image his mind has conjured, not even the wild swirl of suffocating joy and heartbreak upon seeing you; he only understands the terror of realisation that his own memory, until now, did not seem to do you justice. He has been forgetting your face despite the amount of time he has been spending looking at your portraits and reminiscing; he has almost forgot what your voice sounds like, a soothing caress to his soul.

But conjuring of you is kind and patient; it smiles warmly, tears gathering in its eyes Steve longs to kiss away.

“I was visiting town when she approached me, a blind fortune teller, a harmless youngling, beautiful beyond what my own eyes has ever seen… she told me she was bringing an important message from the gods,” you say, “but she told me she could only unveil it to me and no other living soul. Asked me to follow her.”

Steve’s breath hitches in fear; a fear that makes no sense. A story that has likely never happened and his broken mind had just dreamed up, and yet; the image of his wife, his precious heart, following a woman she had never encountered before without the trusted guards, shakes him. The Queen of the People they call you; visiting the commoners was no strange nor exceptional occurrence, but Steve would have never let you walk alone. Beloved as you are and were by most, there is always evil lurking and looking to hurt the crown; but you know as much. You always knew.

 And Steve knows that because beauty has not been the only quality of yours he loved and loves; it is your wit too. For all your kindness, you are no fool and do not trust without evidence.

A spark – a heart-wrenchingly vivid spark of affection – flashes in your eye as you continue, as if you can hear his thoughts.

“I would have never followed her had it not been for her next words and her gentle touch. As innocent as she appeared despite the air of something divine, there was no telling who could be hiding in her hut, to whom she wished to lured me to under false pretences.”

“What did she say?” Steve hears himself rasp, in the very back of his mind well-aware he is entertaining a conversation with the result of his own fatigued mind.

The tears pearling in your eyes fall over, making Steve’s hand twitch with the need to gently wipe them away.

“The paths laid down by gods are full of twists and turns… to know them all I would surely have turned mad,” you recite softly and Steve has to force himself to keep his eyes open as your voice washes over him, like the times you whispered this very first poem of the booklet he had sent you along with his first letter in the sweet darkness of your shared bedroom, like he whispered them to you back. He can’t. If he closes his eyes, you might disappear again. “Fate in the stars written by lighting dust of souls… if I’d known how, I would have rather read.”

Steve, having been mouthing the words along unwittingly, feels his lips moving almost soundlessly as he finishes:

“But I am but a man, I’m blood and heart and faith; Walking the one path that I believe to be true. I follow the path to which my heart’s been calling… for I have faith t’will lead me back to you.”

“Yes,” you nod, warmth blooming around Steve’s heart despite it all. This is a kind memory, he decides. Whatever has brought you here, whatever has killed the roses, your image has been sent here to sooth him. It might hurt all the more later; but for now, he finds himself almost, almost at peace. “So I did follow her. She told me that in quarter of a moon, I will find myself with a child. And I did. She told me to plant the roses… and so I did.”

You take a wavering breath and Steve finds himself doing the same; you face twists in grief before you continue.

“She told me to nurture them and cherish them like the child itself, and so I did – because once my son was born, I would not have but short moments to hold him.”

With a wince, the outrage rushing through Steve has him straightening his spine, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. To protect his wife, to eliminate the person who dared to make such threat to his beloved.

But there is nothing to fight; it is all but the past that might have never even happened except for your painful passing. And yet, Steve’s mind is whirling, memories falling into place, of your thoughtful expression upon returning for the town one day, the abundance of tears upon your announcement you were with a child, your solid feeling it would be a boy, your words, spoken quietly but with conviction and finality Steve has wondered so many times about: “I love both of you, so much. You must never forget.”

“My love-“

“And I did,” you cut off his raspy voice. “And she told me that should my ashes nurture the roses, I would come back, once they’d meet the blood and tears of my love… and the blood of my blood.”

Steve watches, stunned, as you move to kneel next to him, the ghost of the warmth of your skin radiating and calling out for him, a temptation to catch the mirage and condemn it to disperse in this air smelling of freshly cut roses.

The image of little James, scratching his finger on the thorn yesterday, staining one of the pink blossoms with his blood is the last thing Steve thinks of – before your hand, much colder now, goosebumps having risen on your arms, settles tenderly on his cheek, damp with tears he cannot recall having cried.

It strikes him like a lightning, rushing through his soul, stunning him motionless.

You were touching him.

He felt your cold skin against his, your warm affection, your smile a thousand suns and your voice just as unsteady as his heart and as real as the dirt under his fingernails or the wet ground under him as you whisper, voice cracking with emotion:

“And I did.”

A single beat of his heart; and his hand is rising with a violent tremble, hesitating for just a moment before he dares to cover the back of your hand on his cheek.

You are still there.

Undeniably and completely true.

“Oh gods-“

He chokes on a sob so potent his whole ribcage vibrates, painfully so, but he does not care.

He is already moving.

He springs from the ground, dropping your hand only to throw his arms around your form and pull you against him, inhaling into his already tight chest when your solid warm body meets his, one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder, gripping your nape, tangling in your hair and gripping with violent force just so if anyone tried to pull you away he’d never let them, because you-

You’re still here.

You press your face against his neck, the tip of your nose making him shudder not because it’s cold, but because it feels as cold as it used to on a brisk morning like this one when you’d press yourself to him and smile into the skin of his throat when he’d faux-chastise you for not dressing warm enough and thus forcing him to give you his own coat.

--which is something he will absolutely do in just a second or two of hundred once it settles that your tears soaking into his skin are real and his own tears are seeping into your hair as he buries his face there and inhales, the scent of wet soil and rose-oil so intense and overwhelmingly familiar with years of grief and blissful memories he feels his muscles give out, sending both your you toppling over into the tall wet grass, the complete opposite of keeping you warm as he should but you don’t seem to care and he cannot think, let alone move.

Your name is falling form his lips, over and over, a prayer, a plea, a thank you, ragged breaths held just to keep still, to remember this moment for the rest of his days.

You are here.

You are here, somehow alive, right in his arms.

And you are saying his name, over and over, sweet endearment and apologies for not telling him, for being scared, for perhaps being foolish, for all the grief your absence has condemned him to and Steve just laughs.

He laughs so hard he is crying and he is not sure which came first, but he rolls over with you to protect you from the cold ground at last, your weight the most soothing thing he could ever conjure, perhaps safe for your blinding smile broken on its edges or your I love you, or your hands cradling his face for a long silent moment before your lips descend to his, sending tremble through his body, his heart, his very soul.

“My husband… my king.”

“My wife… my beautiful queen, my precious, my heart,” he whispers in return, choking on the last word, because his heart truly has just returned, beating its way out of his chest, brought by the woman the stars themselves had conspired to lead him to, only to steal her and then give her back. The stars, the gods, the fairies, it does not matter as long as you’d get to stay.

And again, your wit, your impeccable ability to read him like the very book of poetry he had given you years ago, have you caress his face with your fingertips, one of his hands leaving your nape to keep your other hand warm, and whisper to him:

“And she told me I’d get to kiss my husband again… and to hold my son, after only watching him grow in the loving hands of the kindest man there ever was and I shall have the chance to do it all for a very, very long time.”

Steve brushes the unruly hair from your face and kisses you softly – all but a meagre reminder of the overwhelming love humming in his very being. He sits up, wrapping you around him, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and stands up, rising full of life and strength as if he has not lied awake all night; he lifts you both, carrying you from the garden, to ensure you could do exactly as you said.

“You will, my love. You will.”

Of that – he vows to himself and to the gods above with gravity of the word of the king, a warrior, a father and a husband – I will make sure.

He will. For the rest of his days, he will.

Are you just a conjuring …or can I keep you?

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

There we go... I suppose that due to the magical elements here, this can be read as the fic for this year's Walpurgis Night. May yours mbe a good one, may you May be sweet 🌸

Beautiful.

In the dim lights peeking through the worn curtains of a motel room – another one you hadn’t been to before to avoid coming back where they might have tracked his steps only to be days too late to catch up with him – Steve’s face was nothing short of beautiful.

And you were thinking – if they caught you and asked you when, how and why you had fallen in bed and into trenches with an international fugitive, you’d tell them you couldn’t remember.

But you remembered all of it.

You remembered your first chance meeting. The second meeting that had been all but accidental too. You remembered falling in love long before falling into the sheets with him, and not just because the first time you made love, there were no sheets involved; only thick ropes of hot water, the tension having built over weeks bubbling over when you offered to help him clean up when he had showed up at your doorstep in the dead of the night, bruised and bloodied in search of calm, safety and careful tenderness.

You’d tell them you didn’t remember who kissed who, but it was you. With only your bikini and his boxer briefs between you, both drenched as you helped him wash his body and hands clean, you kissed a scar over his collarbone to sooth the memento of pain. It elicited a goddamn whimper from him, your lips spilling apologies in an instant only to get silenced by Steve’s mouth, desperately latching onto yours like you’d both wanted to for eternity.

It became a habit.

It had grown from fruitless pining and softness and comfortable silences with stealthily lingering looks into a relationship that was to be your doom – yours or his, you didn’t used to be sure.

Now you knew it was about to be both and more.

But he was heartbreakingly beautiful. An angel who fought for humanity so fiercely it offended God so he banished him to Earth and sent the wrath of hundred nations after him.

His hair was longer again, his beard still thick, and your mind distantly compared the image of him now, head laid on your chest, wrapped in a peaceful sleep that made him look younger, to the image of the golden boy they used to present him as.

You wondered if his eyes had always looked so tired as when you met him when not smiling for the camera. You wondered if they had ever looked so soft and pained as when he felt your tender touch.

You wondered if you or anyone in the whole damn world saw his eyes so feral, pained and hopeful as when you had shyly placed his broad hand over your throat tonight in a moment of reprieve between desperate fucking.

He had stopped, gaze boring into your soul, touch hesitant as he tested out the feeling, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Oh… you… like that?”

You too had been shy even as he’d been buried deep inside you, the aroma of sex heady and filthy in the air; mind racing, you desperately tried to figure out what had possessed you to do that, to reveal that to him; and if you could reveal more.

“I… didn’t know,” you had admitted, gaze falling to his chest, where his heart, that precious heart that had got so many hits it was a miracle it was still beating so vigorously, laid, open and vulnerable. “…not until you. But it… it feels like you’re holding my life in your hand...”

Steve’s fingers had twitched on your throat, not squeezing, but not pulling away as you reluctantly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“…and you’re the only person in the world I’d ever trust with it.”

He had been silent for a long time, motionless, safe for the frantic scanning of your face, his features gradually softening further.

“It feels that way too.”

I feel that way too.

“Is that okay?” you had asked, breath catching when awaiting the answer, his thumb carefully stroking over your pulse point.

It had brought memories of how he had done the very same thing, over and over, so many times since you had met him. A caress over your wrist. A touch of his little finger over your carotid when cradling your face to kiss you. A tender kiss to your temple. His large hand resting over your inner thigh.

When you thought about it, that was the only way you had ever slept; with him, feeling or listening for your heartbeat, like now, when he laid his head on your chest.

And so you had had no reason to doubt his next words.

“Your life’s the one precious thing I had the selfish privilege of having in the past months. I… I’m not sure if you’re right to trust me with it,” he had whispered, voice dropping an octave as his lips neared yours, brushing over your willing mouth like he was whispering a prayer and a confession at once, “but I’ll protect it with all I am. I swear it.”

The next kiss had been hunger and desperation and being cut open and mended together all at once; what had followed then, even more so. You had thought you’d fall asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow, exhausted and sated.

You hadn’t.

You had too much on your mind.

And Steve was so breathtakingly beautiful. The arch of his brows, relaxed for once; the elegant slope of his nose; the cut of his jaw, softened by the beard, muscles unclenched as he slept the sleep of the righteous. The large shape of him, curled around you under the thin blanket, warm and real and grounding to you as you hoped you too could be the solid ground under his feet when nothing else seemed steady.

You loved him. You loved him and you wanted to give him everything, to cradle his cheek and kiss him, to run your fingers through his locks as he enjoyed so much when he allowed himself to be taken care of and for, to gently take his heart into your hands and protect it with your life.

He had fought for so long, the constellation of scars on his knuckles but an echo of those on his soul and all he deserved and secretly longed for, you knew, was peace. He had fought the injustice in this world for so long and yet, the world failed him when he was the one who’d been done wrong. It wasn’t fair.

If you could, you’d give him a little world on his own and now, in a twisted, strange and beautiful and absolutely terrifying way, perhaps you could.

It made your ribcage ache with just how much you wanted, for him, for yourself; and anxiety curled in your gut as your head buzzed with brain noise too loud to let sleep take you.

There was no point; you knew from the experience of a the last few nights before he came that sleep would evade you for a while.

As much as you basked in Steve’s proximity and the safety of his arms, you weren’t going to fall asleep any time soon. It was almost too hot in the cage of his embrace; you couldn’t scramble for a coherent thought, you couldn’t stay there, not a second longer, as much as among the million ungraspable thoughts, there were those screaming at you to enjoy the time you had with him to the fullest, because you never knew when he could come back, when you’d be able to see him, let alone touch him.

As carefully as you could manage, you untangled from his gentle hold, breath catching when even in his sleep, he tightened his grip minutely before he relaxed again and you could slip away.

Reaching for his hoodie and a pair of warm socks, you kept your steps as light as possible as not to disturb his sleep. The door creaked a bit as the fresh air hit your face – but when you glanced back towards the bed, Steve didn’t even stir, his arm now draped over the pillow still soaked in your warmth and scent.

The metal chair wasn’t exactly comfortable and the small coffee table was far from clean; the view of the sky littered by stars was dimmed in contrast to the neon signs and the light pollution from the nearby city, and you could still see two people in separate seating areas of their room getting their midnight smoke. None of them minded you or vice versa; you still left the door open for a slit, just in case you needed to get in quickly. You had none of Steve’s training, but that didn’t mean you were a half-wit and didn’t know what motels could be like.

And still; there was something peaceful in the dead of the night despite the white noise, a meddle of a passing car here and there and the crickets from the nearby field. The night was peaceful, even as your mind was not. The night was now and you tried to take it in; the night was sure and your future everything but.

Ever since you had been thrown into adulthood, there had been more uncertainty than ever before – and yet, this was the shakiest ground you had ever set foot on. And the one thing you were certain of, the one solid point of your life in the form of Steve, could still be taken away at any moment.

That terrified you.

Because as much as you believed his words, as much as you believed his actions, the world – at least the part of the world that mattered in the long run and had power to keep ruining his life – was against him.

You wished for him to have a life and have a life with you, you wished to give it to him, but if it was just you against the world, you’d lose.

And with you, so would he.

The door creaked once more, startling you minutely.

You sighed and closed your eyes, lamenting. Of course you had woken him up. That man had been a soldier – still was in body and heart – and a man on a run from about hundred different governments. He didn’t get the luxury of a deep sleep.

The next second the comforter, still warm, was draped over your shoulders, Steve’s lips pressed into your hairline with a sigh.

“I’m sorry I woke you up-“

“Don’t be… not sure I was actually sleeping or just dozing off.  I’m sorry you’re losing sleep.”

You craned your neck to look as him as he stood behind you, a gentle hand on your shoulder – keeping the comforter in place, the heat of his skin the real source of warmth. His hair was ruffled way too adorably for a man his size and posture, but his eyes spoke of a mind lost to deep thought and worry too heavy for his actual age.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

His lips twitched, the raise of their corner amused and sad at once. “Probably the same reason as you.”

You almost snorted. And nearly sobbed.

For some reason, I really, really doubt that.

He must have read those words in your eyes before you moved to stare ahead again and shivered; both of his hands settled on your biceps, rubbing gently to keep you warmer, your hand automatically covering one of his as the other one kept the hems of the blanket to cocoon you.

“Would you like the extra blanket?” he asked sweetly, something grave and meaningful in his voice causing your heart to race, even as you couldn’t put your finger on what exactly that was. “Can’t get you getting cold… now more than ever.”

You stilled. The comforter slipped from your suddenly lax hand.

And your heart starling in your ribcage felt like a punch against your sternum from the inside, and proceeded to keep punching with every wild rapid beat.

Your throat turned dry but your eyes welled-up with tears.

Of course he knew.

You couldn’t remember why you had ever thought he wouldn’t.

You didn’t even have to ask how; he squeezed your shoulders, a little too hard, before he went to wrap you in the blanket again, the closest to fussing you had ever seen him, though less fussy than you had imaged he would be.

He crouched in front of you, hands on the armrests bracketing you, his gaze, a bit teary too, meeting yours.

“Your heartbeat’s different,” he explained softly and the sound torn form your chest was a lovechild of a chuckle and a sob and you glanced up to the heavens, blinking away tears.

“Of course it fucking is-”

“I can’t… I can’t hear their heartbeat yet, but it’s in your scent too. Your…” You looked at him when he cleared his throat, a blush, a blush visible even in the limited light, creeping up his neck, causing you to giggle a little to relieve the unbearable tension and anxiety curling in your stomach. “You taste different too.”

“Uh-huh, right.”

“It’s just… it’s the enhanced senses,” he said, almost apologetic.

You just chuckle-sobbed again, hand running down your face. As funny and slightly mortifying as that was, that really was the least of your problems.

Steve’s hands clasped over one of yours, warmth and safety incarnate, and you couldn’t resist looking into his eyes, full of stars and worry.

The tips of his index and middle finger touched to your wrist, right over your pulse point.

It occurred to you that his earlier determination, his ‘I’ll protect it with all I am, I swear it,’ might have been about more than just your own life.

He had already known then; it was about the life growing under your heart too.

A life he had had a generous hand in creating, even as neither of you had planned to and had in fact taken measures to prevent it. At least it warmed your heart it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask if it was someone else’s with who you would have had been less careful perhaps; he always had been a smart man. He had to be. And you liked to think you weren’t an idiot either.

You weren’t sure if either of you had the brainpower to figure this out though. To align your desires, your lives; hell, hadn’t it been for the dim stars in his eyes, you wouldn’t even assume what was it that he wanted.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered, gaze boring into yours with determination that could move mountains and deny world order if that was what he’d put his mind to. His hold shifted so one of his hands pressed directly over your inner wrist. “This is the one and only and the most precious thing I have. You. And I need you to know that.”

You gulped, even as your heart fluttered, the shiver running down your spine everything but cold or fearful.

Safe. Cared for. Loved. That was what you were, no matter what, Steve’s gaze promised.

And then so did he.

“Whatever you decide, whatever life throws at you, I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”

“I think I want to keep them,” you breathed out almost soundlessly, a grave confession you weren’t sure you wanted heard, a few tears rolling down your cheeks.

Steve smiled tightly, eyes glimmering with tears, his grip on your tightening.

“Okay.” I love you, whispered the breeze, the dark blue of Steve’s irises brimming joy and worry all at once. “Then I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re comfortable too.”

You blinked at he released your hands, reaching into the pockets of his sweats.

First, he pulled out a credit card; before you could as much as breathe in so you could protest, he was pressing it into your hand and curling your fingers around it with a hard uncompromising stare.

You weren’t expert at law, but you had enough wits to know that whoever Steve once had been, a war hero, an Avenger, an idol, however potentially rich, they must have frozen his accounts. You hadn’t talked about money much, but you knew he paid in cash. If he did have a credit or debit card, he hadn’t been using it with you; and if he was giving one to you, it must have meant that using it was safe. You didn’t know how that could be, but he would never give it to you if it had any ties to him and anyone could connect the dots and follow the breadcrumbs to you as a person who was harbouring a fugitive.

“You’re taking it and you’re using it however you need, sweetheart,” he said, the same note of non-negotiable in his voice despite the tenderness of his touch. “It’s safe.”

“Then you need it.”

Steve smiled, warm. “No, I don’t. It’s not the only thing I have. I promise you: we do have allies. Not just Wakanda – which is open to us, to you, by the way, if that was the direction you wanted to go-“

“I don-“ 

“-once we figure things out. Figure out what we want,” he added, guessing your arguments against.

You glared at him, even as relief was spreading from your chest to your fingertips.

You had options. You had him. And perhaps he was less alone against the world that you had believed.

“Nat helped us set it up; and this kid who was once against us but decided there was error in his ways. People have been… donating.”

Your jaw fell a little slack and Steve’s smile grew wider, turning more genuine – and hopeful, which was something you didn’t want to allow yourself to be as not to have your hopes crushed. But the traitorous light and shiny feeling blossomed in your chest anyway.

“And I… Tony and I aren’t speaking, but… I think he might have been helping us out too. Keeping the accounts safe, monitoring the donors, running background checks, making sure it’s not the government trying to track us down. Which reminds me…”

He pulled out the second item, causing you to frown in confusion, even though you were still processing what he had just said and given you.

A burner phone.

He had already got you a second one over the course of the months you knew each other and were together, making sure you could securely contact each other. The second burner came not a bit more than a month ago when he had last visited to replace the original one.

It was too soon to replace it again.

“There’s one single number programmed into it, not more. Not even mine. If anything goes south, or you can’t reach me, you call him.”

A beat of silence, confused and tense.

And then your eyes went wide, heart stumbling anew.

Not a replacement then. Just another one. A burner phone specifically to reach---

“Steve, you’re not serious.”

Steve, for his part, didn’t even flinch at your incredulous tone.

“Deadly serious.” You just shot him a sharper glare at his choice of words. He didn’t relent. “I mean it. If anything happens to me-“

You squeezed his hand, hopefully hard enough to make it hurt, nails digging into his skin.

“Don’t-“

“If anything happens to me,” he repeated as if you weren’t a millimetre into his skin from drawing blood, “the chances are it’s happening to Nat or Sam or even Wanda too. So Tony is the safest bet. And we might not be on great terms, we disagree on a lot of things, but trust me – he would not turn his back to this.”

“I’m not taking Tony St- Tony’s charity if you get hurt or arrested or worse, Steven-“

Faster than you could comprehend – and more careful than you ever remembered him manhandling you and that was saying a lot – he pulled you into his lap and really, it was the least convenient time for your hindbrain to marvel at how easily he balanced you both or how hot and firm his body was, but you were only human in a rather fragile emotional state.

His hands framed your face firmly, face but three inches from yours, his gaze boring into your very soul and making you shiver even before he spoke – and it had nothing to do with the comforter sliding off your shoulders. Steve’s touch, like always without fail, found your pulse on your throat, his broad palms making his job easier. Your palms landed on his chest, the damn credit card and phone an uncomfortable barrier between you.

“I’m not asking you to accept his charity, even as he’ll probably try to bully you into doing so,” Steve said, every word carefully articulated, holding your gaze and attention unrelentingly. “I’m begging you to accept his protection. Physical or legal. It’s been on my mind for a while now.”

You gulped as tears sprung from your eyes, not doubting his words for a second.

If there was one thing Steve was deadly serious about, it was the safety measures. The burner phone. Never the same motel twice. Once he was in your home and never again. Paying in cash. Dark corners. You had seen the shadows in his eyes, even as he rarely mentioned it, that he wished he could give you more than lurking around in secret – because your safety had been the absolute priority. If he had ever felt like he was in danger, he hadn’t even called for a full week, let alone visited. It was a little ironic that the caution now flew out of the window as you were still outside, but at least you were whispering.

Even though you could tell Steve noticed the salty streaks down your cheeks – how could he not as they soaked his palms – he continued, words turning hoarse.

“Knowing this… that’s just the impulse for me to stop being a coward about how important you are to me. I wish the circumstance was different, so fucking different, but right now, I can’t give you what you deserve and need. So I’m begging you to---” his breath hitched, as he forced himself to inhale slowly and you mimicked him on instinct, realizing you had been to stunned and torn wide open to breathe yourself. His forehead gently rested against yours, his eyes slipping shut.

“I need you to be safe. And I need the mother of my child to be safe too.”

You didn’t bother to try and swallow the whimper at hearing the latter spoken out loud, spoken with such raw emotion, and the crystal-clear distinction he drew to let you know you had always mattered in the first place. God, he really was one in a million and you wanted to give him everything in return of the love he had for you.

“Do you understand that, love? Can you do that for me, please?”

“Yeah, yeah I can,” you husked and then you were kissing him, or he was kissing you and this time, you truly weren’t sure which came first.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was his mouth on yours and his arms around you, easily lifting you as he stood up, blindly reaching for the comforter as he walked back inside, never once tearing his lips from yours as he kicked the door shut with a loud crack.

A silent curse against your mouth was the only acknowledgement and you cursed with him – because you wanted your hands empty of the generous gifts he had given you and wanted to appreciate the gift he was instead and to forget for a moment that you were terrified of the future. And perhaps be appreciative of the good things that awaited you there instead.

If his enthusiasm was anything to go by, he felt the same, laying you down on the too-soft bed carefully, dextrous fingers taking the items from your hands and still, without as much as coming out for air, moving them wherever you could find them if you ever needed them later.

When his mouth did part from yours, he let his lips wander to your throat, pressing a lingering kiss to your pulse point, as if drinking in the precious sound of your frantic heartbeat, obediently speeding up under the affection.

When his hand slipped under the hoodie you were wearing, lingering over your belly with a new purpose, you’d swear you could hear his heartbeat accelerate, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, just like yours.

The caring and yet possessive gesture stirred scorching heat in your belly as if to respond to the heat of his touch, body arching against it in kind.

“Steve-“

“I love you and I’m holding you personally responsible for being perfectly well and taken care of when I’m not around,” he whispered to your skin, fingers already teasing places that he seemed to want to take care of right now, causing you to sigh and reach for him so you could feel his mouth on yours again. He went willingly, but wouldn’t kiss you until he said his piece. “And when I’m here, I’m going to take care of you myself and I’m gonna give you everything and you’ll let me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer it.

You accepted it and let your hands roam and caress and squeeze and hold and tease, once more basking in his proximity and affection and able to breathe even as you barely ever let your lips part from his.

Hope bloomed in your chest, wrapping around the love in your heart and when Steve let the desire in your core burn hot and quenched it all the same, his loving affection and desperation aligned, you sank into it, for a moment without care for the world but the two of you together, with the testimony of your love fighting all odds humming under your heart.

And in the morning, Steve lingered; then again, you barely got any sleep in the first place.

But for the first time, you saw more than peace in his eyes when he lied by your side, hand gently laid over the side of your throat, your heartbeat obediently singing for him under his palm. There was hope. And joy.

And for the first time for a while, you allowed yourself to truly feel these things too, reaching for his lips over and over; until he’d have to go and it would be your turn to take care of the most precious thing Steve Rogers had and protect it with a fierceness of his love and the mother of his child.

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Please weep with me over gorgeous precious Steve getting gently fussy and all🥺🥺

You ran a hand through your greasy hair, wincing at how disgusting it felt. But not feeling human, a shower hadn’t been something you’d pursued in days, wandering from your bed to the couch and then the bed again as you simply rotated where you took your exhausted shifts of sleeping, only downing cold medicine and a myriad of typically-useful home remedies. 

You reached for the tissue box on the coffee table, pulling out the last one and blowing your nose with a sound that would make anyone cringe. The pile of used tissues beside you was embarrassingly large. You should really clean up, but the thought of moving hovered on the edge of possible but also too exhausting. You sighed and willed yourself to actually look at the pile to assess how much longer you could let it pile up. 

Only it was gone. 

One lone tissue only there - the one you’d just dropped. 

Your frowned. 

You tilted your head. 

Your brain was fuzzy and slow. 

Where did your disgusting pile go?

A clatter from somewhere else in your apartment made you tense. You were absolutely certain you'd been alone all day, all week even. Your muddled brain tried to make sense of this. Who else would be here? You have no roommates. Had you called someone? Had your mom learned you were sick, made a roadtrip to take care of you, and somehow gotten a key to your place? 

You heard more noises from the kitchen, and your heart started hammering in your chest because another foolish thought crossed your cold-addled thoughts…

And then that thought appeared before your eyes.

“Hey invalid,” he greeted, and Steve came into the living room, holding a tray. 

You burst into tears. 

The suddenness of your emotional reaction seemed to catch you both off guard. The sob that escapes you is so sudden it triggers another coughing fit. You cover your mouth with your elbow, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath through the tears and coughing.

"Whoa, hey," Steve soothed, quickly setting the tray down on the coffee table. The ceramic mugs clinking against the wood as he sunk onto the couch beside you, one large hand coming to rest on your back. "Easy, breathe."

You couldn’t answer, your tears mixing with your already congested sinuses until you were a snotty, hiccuping mess. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized. 

You shook your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "It's not that," you managed.

It was mortifying. You were sick, disgusting, and now a blubbering mess in front of this man who kept appearing in your life like some beautiful ghost. You haven't seen him in weeks, and he shows up now? When you're at your absolute worst? It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," you said, sniffling. "I'm just—I'm disgusting right now." 

Steve's hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back. His touch was gentle, so at odds with how he usually handled you. 

"You're sick," he corrected, his voice soft. "Not disgusting." 

You looked up at him through watery eyes. He was as perfect as ever—that irresistible beard, hair neatly combed, wearing a simple gray henley that stretched across his broad chest. Meanwhile, you were in the same ratty t-shirt and sweatpants you'd been wearing for at least three days, hair unwashed, face puffy from crying and congestion.

"I made you some soup," Steve said, nodding toward the tray. Soup and tea. 

You hiccuped, trying to gather yourself. "I just... I didn't expect to see you. And I'm a mess and I feel horrible and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at yourself. 

Steve's expression softened. "You think I care about that?"

You couldn't meet his eyes. "This isn’t what you came here for.” You reached for another tissue, because even though you had stopped sobbing you were still crying, so exhausted from being ill, so overwhelmed by him being here. “I can’t bear you seeing me like this. I haven’t showered in days. I can hardly… I’m so tired, and I just–”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” he firmly interrupted you, voice soft but firm. He cupped your cheek in his hand, turning your face up to look at him. “I came here to spend time with you, and that’s what I’m doing."

Your breath hitched at his words. This wasn't the Steve who fucked you against walls and made you scream his name. This was something else entirely. You searched his face for any sign he was just being polite, but found none. Only genuine concern reflected in those impossibly blue eyes.

"You're really not here for..." you gestured vaguely, unable to even say the word 'sex' in your current state.

Steve shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything has to be about that."

He reached for the mug of tea on the tray, passing it to you. The warmth seeped into your palms, the steam carrying the scent of honey and lemon to your clogged nostrils. You took a tentative sip, the hot liquid soothing your raw throat.

"This is good," you murmured, taking another sip. The honey coated your throat, bringing blessed relief. 

Steve watched you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I wasn't sure if you had food in the house. I brought groceries." 

You blinked, processing his words slowly through your congested haze. "You... brought groceries?" 

He nodded, reaching for the bowl of soup. "Chicken noodle. Nothing fancy, but it should help." 

Your fingers trembled slightly as you accepted the bowl, warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your palms. The steam rising from the broth carried the comforting aroma of chicken, herbs, and vegetables. Your stomach rumbled in response—when was the last time you'd eaten a proper meal? 

"Thank you," you whispered. The domesticity of it all was so jarring compared to your usual encounters, you truly didn’t know what to think.

Steve settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching. The British baking show continued playing in the background as you cautiously spooned the soup into your mouth. The flavors burst on your tongue, a well-seasoned chicken broth, tender vegetables, soft noodles. It was exactly what your body needed.

"This is really good," you said between spoonfuls. "Did you make this?" 

Steve nodded. "It's my mom's recipe. Well, as close as I can remember it." 

The mention of his mother surprised you. Steve rarely spoke about his past, especially not the distant past before the war and the ice. You glanced at him, curious. 

"She used to make it whenever I got sick," he continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Which was pretty often, before the serum." 

You were struck by the moment, but continued eating the soup. 

"How long have you been sick?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

You took another spoonful of soup, not realizing how much you needed it after days of barely eating. "Almost a week," you admitted. "It hit me hard Wednesday night."

Steve frowned, his eyes scanning your face. "Have you seen a doctor?"

You shook your head. "It's just a cold. A really bad one."

"Hmm," he hummed, not sounding convinced. His hand came up to rest against your forehead, checking your temperature. The gesture was so tender, so caring, it made your chest ache with something that had nothing to do with your congestion.

"You're still warm," he noted. "After you’ve eaten, you should take a shower.”

“Cause I smell?”

He chuckled. “You do,” he admitted, “but I think it will help you feel a little better, too.”

The thought of a shower was both appealing and exhausting. You wanted nothing more than to feel clean again, but the mere idea of standing upright for that long seemed impossible. 

"I don't know if I can stand that long," you admitted, setting the now-empty soup bowl back on the tray. "I get dizzy." 

Steve's eyes softened. "I'll help you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, so matter-of-fact. In all your encounters with Steve, this level of care, of tenderness, was uncharted territory. You'd seen glimpses of it, fleeting moments after sex when he would clean you up or hold you close, but nothing like this.

You set your now-"Steve, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted gently. His eyes held yours, and there was something in them you hadn't seen before—a vulnerability, a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Let me take care of you." 

Those five words hung in the air between you. This was so far outside the parameters of whatever it was you had with Steve that you didn't know how to respond. Sex was one thing—intense, but the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable, so weak, had you feeling hesitant.

But this was Steve. The man who had seen every inch of your body, who had made you come undone in ways you never thought possible. Why was this so different? 

"Okay," you finally agreed, your voice small. 

Steve helped you up from the couch, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The room spun slightly as you stood, and you leaned into him gratefully. 

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your legs shaky beneath you. Steve matched his pace to yours, patient and solid beside you. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature with one hand while keeping the other on your waist.

Steam began to fill the small space as hot water cascaded from the showerhead. Then Steve turned to you, his hands coming to rest at the hem of your t-shirt.

"May I?" he asked quietly. 

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve gently lifted the shirt over your head, his movements clinical and careful. There was nothing sexual in his touch, only care. You felt oddly shy as he helped you undress completely, his eyes never lingering inappropriately. It was so different from every other time he'd removed your clothes.

"Almost ready," Steve said softly. He helped you remove your underwear with the same gentle efficiency, then guided you toward the shower. "Can you stand?"

You nodded, though you weren't entirely sure. "I think so."

"I'll be right here," he promised, helping you step under the warm spray.

The water felt heavenly against your skin, washing away days of fever sweat and lethargy. You closed your eyes, letting it cascade over your face and hair, breathing in the steam that helped clear your congested sinuses. 

For a moment, you felt almost human again. You reached for your shampoo bottle, but your arms felt like lead weights, and you swayed slightly.

"Easy there," Steve said, quickly stepping into the shower behind you, having discarded his own clothes. His strong hands steadied you, holding you upright as the water cascaded over both of you. The sudden feeling of his bare skin against yours was startlingly intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

"I've got you," he murmured, reaching for your shampoo bottle. He poured a generous amount into his palm and began to work it through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with gentle pressure. You closed your eyes, leaning back against his solid chest as he washed your hair with careful, methodical movements. 

The feeling of his hands in your hair was hypnotic, soothing in a way you hadn't expected. This wasn't the Steve who pulled your hair during passionate encounters—this was someone else entirely, someone tender and nurturing. 

"Turn around," he said, gently turning you in his arms so you faced him. 

The warm water flowed down your back as Steve carefully tipped your head back, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. His hands were gentle as they worked through the strands, making sure every bit of soap was washed away. You kept your eyes closed, dizzy from the heat and the proximity of him, though not in the way you usually were around Steve. 

Once your hair was rinsed, he reached for your body wash, squeezing some onto a washcloth. With methodical care, he began washing your body, starting with your shoulders and working his way down your arms. His touch was clinical, respectful in a way that made your heart ache. 

"This okay?" he asked softly. 

You nodded, unable to find your voice. There was something so personal about this moment, something that transformed all the physical encounters you'd had into something more meaningful, more real. Steve continued washing you, his movements gentle but thorough. When he finished, he helped you rinse off, supporting your weight as the warm water cascaded over both of you.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low. 

"Much," you whispered. The combination of the hot water, the steam, and Steve's gentle care had eased some of your misery. Your head still felt stuffed with cotton, but the heavy weight of illness seemed slightly lighter. 

"I think I need to get out now," you murmured, your legs starting to feel like jelly beneath you.

"Okay," Steve agreed, turning off the water. He stepped out first, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before reaching for your fluffy bath towel. He enveloped you in it as you stepped out, using another smaller towel to gently blot the water from your hair.

The bathroom was warm and steamy, but you still shivered slightly. Steve noticed immediately.

"Let's get you dressed," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He kept one arm around you for support as he guided you into your bedroom. The familiar space was welcoming, though you noticed immediately that the tangled sheets and scattered tissues that had been in here too were gone. The bed was neatly made with fresh sheets, a glass of water and your medication waiting on the nightstand.

"You cleaned my room," you murmured, touched by the gesture. 

Steve shrugged, the movement casual but his eyes watchful as he steadied you. "Thought it might help you feel better." 

He helped you to the edge of the bed, then moved to your dresser. "What do you want to wear?" 

"T-shirt, second drawer. Underwear in the top left," you instructed.

Steve returned with a soft t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cotton underwear.

"Arms up," he instructed softly, helping you into a clean t-shirt. His hands were gentle as he guided the soft fabric over your damp hair and down your body. Next came the underwear, Steve kneeling before you to help you step into them. The role reversal was striking—you were usually the one on your knees before him.

Once you were dressed, Steve guided under the covers. The fresh sheets felt heavenly against your skin as you sank into the mattress. Steve tucked the blankets around you with careful hands, then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his voice soft. 

You nodded, your eyelids already growing heavy. The shower had helped clear your head somewhat, but it had also drained what little energy you had. 

Steve reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. "You should take your medicine."

You obediently took the pills he offered, washing them down with water. As you handed the glass back, your fingers brushed his. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick.

Steve brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his touch lingering against your skin. "You should rest."

"Will you..." you hesitated, suddenly unsure. This was uncharted territory for both of you. "Will you stay?"

Something flickered in Steve's eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Of course, I'll stay," he promised softly, “for as long as you need me to.” 

You felt a wave of relief wash over you.

"Thank you," you murmured, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. The combination of warm soup, a hot shower, and clean sheets was quickly pulling you toward sleep. 

You expected Steve to leave the room, perhaps go watch television or sit in the chair in the corner. Instead, he stood and shed the towel from his waist, quickly pulling on his boxer briefs that you now noticed were sitting on the dresser. The bed dipped as he slid in beside you, his body radiating warmth as he settled against the pillows. 

Without thinking, you shifted closer to him, seeking his warmth. Steve's arm came around you, drawing you against his chest. You rested your head in the crook of his shoulder, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. 

"Sleep," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple so naturally. 

As you surrendered to unconsciousness, your last thought was that while you would recover from this awful spring cold, you didn’t think you would ever recover from this. 

next part: FOR KEEPS THIS TIME read more Exiled Nomad Series

For those keeping track of the chronological timeline, this is the end of April 2018. I'm going off this theoretical idea that Avengers Infinity War happened "sometime between April 19th and June 3rd, 2018."

...

just

you know

for reference...

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The bridesmaids getaway trip to Aspen, Colorado, had been a piece of all the wedding festivities you had actually been looking forward to. The use of a timeshare had been generously provided by your sister’s new soon-to-be in-laws, and you generally liked the group bridesmaids. It was a happy mix of active and read-at-the-resort types as well as a mix of single and in relationship among the six of you.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t planned on stepping into a nightclub while you were there.

It hand’t crossed your mind as a possibility even once.

And yet here you were.

You had never been to a club in your life.

You felt completely out of place in the dimly lit, crowded nightclub. The pulsing music was so loud you could feel it vibrating in your chest. Your sister and the other bridesmaids were already on the dance floor, laughing and moving to the beat. You, on the other hand, were planted firmly at the bar, nursing a vodka soda and trying not to look as uncomfortable as you felt.

"Hey, wallflower!" Your sister's voice somehow cut through the thumping bass. She appeared at your elbow, flushed and grinning. "What are you doing over here all alone?"

You raised your glass. "Just enjoying my drink."

"Come on! You can't just sit here all night. Come dance with us!"

You hesitated, but the pleading look in her eyes weakened your resolve. With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and allowed her to lead you onto the dance floor.

The crush of bodies was overwhelming at first, the heat and energy palpable as you wove through the crowd. Your sister found a small clearing where the rest of the bridesmaids were dancing, and they cheered as you joined their circle somewhat awkwardly.

To your surprise, it wasn't as terrible as you'd feared. As you swayed to the beat, you found yourself relaxing slightly. The music was still too loud for your taste, but there was something freeing about letting your body move to the rhythm. Your sister and the other bridesmaids danced around you, their energy infectious. You even managed a laugh when one of them attempted a particularly ridiculous dance move.

The DJ transitioned seamlessly from one song to the next, each beat blending into a continuous wave of sound. Flashing lights swept across the dance floor, painting the crowd in ever-changing hues of blue, green, and purple. The air was thick with the mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and alcohol.

After a few songs Melissa, one of the other bridesmaids, leaned in close to shout over the music. "I need a break! It's so hot in here!"

"I'll keep you company," you offered, grateful for an excuse to step away from the crowded dance floor.

Melissa smiled in relief. "Thanks! I'm dying of thirst."

“You find us a table, I’ll get us some drinks!”

She nods, and the two of you part ways and meander through the crowd.

As you made your way to the bar, you found yourself swept up in the pulsing rhythm yet again. Without even realizing it, you began to move with the music, dancing your way through the crowd, gliding through so much more easily then before.

You spun, laughing as you narrowly avoided collision with a tall man in a glittering shirt. He grinned back, raising his drink in a silent toast before disappearing into the crowd. The anonymity was intoxicating.

You continued making your way to the bar, and a particularly catchy song came on, its infectious rhythm impossible to resist. You began to singg, hips swaying sensuously to the beat. You lifted your arms above your head, lost in the moment, until you felt strong hands grip your hips from behind. The touch was firm, almost possessive, as whoever it was pulled you back against a broad, muscular chest.

For a moment, indignation flared within you at the stranger's audacity. You whirled around, ready to give the presumptuous man a piece of your mind.

But the words died on your lips as you found yourself face to face with Steve Rogers.

Your heart nearly stopped. The flashing lights painted his features in alternating hues, but there was no mistaking those piercing blue eyes, that strong jaw now covered in a fuller beard than you'd ever seen on him. He wore a plain black t-shirt that clung to his muscular frame, and a sinfully intense look on his face.

"Steve?" you breathed, your voice lost in the pounding music.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "Dance with me."

It wasn't a question. His hands remained firmly on your hips as he began to move, guiding you to sway with him to the pulsing beat. You were acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - his broad chest against yours, his powerful thighs brushing against you as you moved together.

The rational part of your brain screamed that this was dangerous, that he shouldn't be here. But the way he was looking at you, touching you, made it impossible to think clearly. You found yourself melting into his embrace, your arms sliding up to wrap around his neck.

Steve's hands roamed your body as you danced, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding down to grip your round ass. The possessive touch sent tendrils to wrap around your now pulsing core.

Your mind reeled, trying to process his sudden appearance. "What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice barely audible over the thumping bass.

"I could ask you the same thing," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard over the music. "This doesn't seem like your usual scene."

You laughed, the sound lost in the pulsing music. "It's not. It’s my sister’s bachelorette party."

Steve's eyes darkened at the mention of your sister. "Where is she now?"

You glanced around, suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be getting drinks for Melissa. "On the dance floor with the other bridesmaids, I think. Wait, are we safe?" your mind suddenly rushing to the logic of why he would probably be here at all.

His grip on your hips tightened fractionally, and he nodded. “We stopped what we came here to stop tonight. But I shouldn't stay long."

Steve's eyes scanned the crowded dance floor, his body tensing slightly. You could almost see the tactical assessment happening behind his eyes. After a moment, he relaxed marginally, his gaze returning to you.

As one song transitioned into the next, Steve's hand slid up your back, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. He tilted your chin up, his intense gaze meeting yours. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was heated and hungry.

His tongue teased at the seam of your lips, and you parted them eagerly, deepening the kiss. Steve's hand tightened against the back of your neck, angling your head to deepen the kiss further. You melted into him completely, your body molding to his as if you were made to fit together.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Steve rested his forehead against yours. "I shouldn't have done that," he murmured, though he made no move to release you from his embrace.

"You shouldn’t have stopped," you replied, your voice barely audible over the music.

Steve's eyes searched yours, a mix of desire and conflict swirling for only another moment, and then his lips were on your again, demanding. The kiss was electric, igniting every nerve ending in your body. His hands roamed your curves possessively as you lost yourself in the sensations. The pulsing music faded into the background, your world narrowing to just the two of you in this moment.

One of his hands found your neck again, holding you steady, but the other found its way to your inner thigh, sliding up, up to your aching pussy, fingers ghosting over your sensitive skin. Your breath hitched as his hand reached the apex of your thighs, cupping you intimately.

"Steve," you gasped against his lips, torn between desire and the awareness that you were in a very public place.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers began to move, stroking you through your underwear. "You're so wet already," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "All for me?"

You could only whimper in response, your hips rocking against his hand almost involuntarily. The music and the crowd faded into the background as Steve's fingers worked their magic, teasing and stroking until you were trembling in his arms.

Steve's fingers continued their relentless teasing, stroking you through the thin fabric of your underwear. The crowded dance floor provided some cover, but you still felt exposed, vulnerable. Yet the thrill of potentially being caught only heightened your arousal.

"Steve," you gasped, clinging to his broad shoulders as pleasure coursed through you. "We can't... not here..."

He nipped at your earlobe, his beard scratching deliciously against your sensitive skin. "Why not?" he growled. "No one's paying attention to us."

To prove his point, he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear, his fingers finally making direct contact with your slick folds. You bit back a moan, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound.

Steve's fingers explored you expertly, circling your clit before dipping lower to tease your entrance. The pleasure was almost unbearable, laced with the adrenaline at the risk of discovery. Yet you clung to him desperately, your hips rocking against his hand as he worked you closer to the edge.

"That's it," he murmured directly in your ear, his voice low and husky. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

One more particularly well-timed stroke of his thumb over your clit sent you careening over the edge. You bit down on his shoulder to muffle your cry as waves of ecstasy washed over you. Steve held you close, his fingers working you through your orgasm until you were trembling and oversensitive.

As you came down from your high, reality began to seep back in. The pulsing music and flashing lights of the club reasserted themselves. You became acutely aware of how exposed you were, even in the crowded darkness.

Steve slowly withdrew his hand, his intense gaze never leaving yours. Without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

The sight sent another jolt of arousal through you, but it was tempered by a growing sense of urgency. You glanced around nervously, suddenly remembering your sister and the other bridesmaids.

Steve sensed your growing unease and pulled you closer, one of his strong arms encircling you protectively. He cupped your face gently, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "I have to go," he said, his voice barely audible over the pulsing music.

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat. Of course he had to leave. This stolen moment was all you could ever have.

Steve leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. "I shouldn't have sought you out," he murmured. "But when I saw you, I couldn’t…" He trailed off, his eyes roaming your face as if memorizing every detail.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. "I'm glad you did," you said, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

For a moment, Steve looked as if he might say something more. But then his expression hardened, resolve settling over his features. He leaned in, capturing your lips in one final, searing kiss that left you breathless.

When he pulled away, his voice was urgent. "Be careful. Stay with your friends."

Before you could respond, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd as swiftly and suddenly as he had appeared.

You stood there for a moment, feeling dazed and bereft. The pulsing music and flashing lights seemed garish now, the crowded dance floor oppressive rather than exciting. You were in a crowd, people pressed up around you, and yet the wave of loneliness that washed over you was so overwhelming you almost couldn’t breathe.

Why did you have to see him again when you thought that maybe, just maybe, you had finally gotten him out of your system?

Your heart ached, but all you could do was make your way to the bar on unsteady legs, order drinks for you and Melissa. And when you found her and later when you all went back to the timeshare, you’d have to pretend as if you hadn’t just been taken apart in the middle of a crowded dance floor by Captain America.

It’s not something you would have told all the women, of course, but you trusted your sister enough you would possibly have told her.

But it would make no difference.

And what would you tell her anyway?

Steve had rocketed into your life for what was clearly a fling in the summer. When he’d shown up at your door in September, you had felt the tone of shouldn’t be here cast its shadow over the night. Tonight that last look he gave you - the angry resolve was so clear. You knew before he wasn’t going to stumble into your town again, but now you knew that if you somehow crossed paths again, you would never know - he wouldn’t insert himself into your life again.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I've known since mid-September that this was the next time you would see our Exiled Nomad (you the reader fictionally in the storyline, but also that I wanted to wait to share any more of their story until when the calendar aligned with it). We know you'll see him again in March (that's where this whole 'verse started, remember?), but the question is will you see him before that?

read more in the Exiled Nomad Series

YOU: Are you okay?

You typed and sent the quick text back.

You saw the three dots that indicated his typing, then they disappeared. You frowned. This was really unlike him. Mark had been nothing but reliable and a gentleman since you’d met him. He worked in the accounting firm on one of the other floors of your office building, and you had seen each other a few times at the coffee shop on the main floor in the morning. He was smart, funny without being a goof. You felt wholly normal around him.

And after having your world rocked on earthquake levels by Captain America over the 4th of July holiday, normal was what you wanted.

MARK: Everything’s fine, but we should probably call this off.

“What?” you couldn’t help actually exclaiming out loud.

You scanned up and down over your texts.

YOU: Did I do something wrong or misread the situation?

You really didn’t think that you had. In fact, you were sure of it, but you’d let him explain just in case.

It had been a few weeks, and the texts had ebbed and flowed naturally. After your second date last Sunday, you’d exchanged a kiss that had been modest but had enough heat to it that it left you starting to think about more. And last night the texts between the two of you had gotten a little spicier than any previous exchanges. Nothing vulgar, but flirty enough that you had shaved your legs and had been debating all day over what to wear.

In your silk robe, makeup finished, and hair nearly done, apparently you didn’t need to make any wardrobe decisions other than slipping into a comfy t-shirt and leggings now.

MARK: No, it’s nothing you did, and I hope we can just be friends.

Your jaw dropped and you threw your phone across the room.

Friends?

You abandoned your mirror, no need to finish getting ready at this point, and went to pick up your phone.

Fuck Mark.

But you opened your text thread with him one final time.

YOU: No hard feelings, if it’s over it’s over, and we can be cordial if we run into each other, but honestly I’m not looking for more platonic friends.

Run-on sentence aside, you felt good about the text after you hit send, and you promptly blocked Mark’s number and deleted all the texts.

And what you said was mostly true.

You actually could use some more platonic friends in this town you’d lived in for less than a year, but you weren’t looking to be friends with guys who did but then didn’t want to date you.

But well into your thirties, you were so used to and exhausted by the runaround of talking, of the dating apps, of the first dates that fizzled into nothings – first dates that you rarely even agreed to go on anymore because it usually turned out to be a waste of time with men who were too boring or too horny. For a moment Mark had been a breath of fresh air, normal and nice and endearing.

And apparently not worth the time and effort you had sunk into the beginning of the blossoming relationship either.

Even at that thought, you were glad you had already followed your self-imposed rule of deleting messages, because you already had the itch to go back and re-read, and so it was good you had removed that temptation. No need to torture yourself.

You turned on your favorite album, cranked up the music, and ordered delivery from your favorite Italian restaurant with tiramisu and extra garlic bread.

You would watch your favorite movie, indulge in your favorite food, and later put yourself to bed with another chapter of the spicy romance novel you were reading and a nice session with your favorite vibrator.

Fuck Mark.

The app said your dinner would arrive in thirty-five minutes, so you slipped into leggings and one of your old comfy t-shirts, and flopped onto the couch to wait, the song from the opening credits of the movie making you feel just a little bit better.

At this stage of life, it was just annoying that Mark had called it off. Make it through dates three and four and people your age were reasonably sure they were headed down the relationship road together. At least that’s how you operated. You knew yourself enough that you weren’t dating someone to try and figure out who you were like you maybe had at times when you were younger, trying to live up to some expectation of society. You were busy enough that your free time was precious, and so you didn’t go on frivolous dates. Most important, as seemingly everyone around you had peeled off and gotten married while you remained perpetually single, you had to figure out if you could be happy alone, and you’d spent time to figure that out and truly find happiness. It was lonely sometimes, but overall you had built a good life, put your time into things that really satisfied you.

When you realized you were more annoyed at having to start over again than over losing Mark, you sighed and realized that was both a good and a bad sign. Good because you clearly weren’t going to be hung up on Mark, but bad because he really hadn’t meant much – you’d just wanted him to.

A small ache in your chest resurfaced.

The person you did miss was Steve Rogers.

And you held no bitterness there – it had been so clear for both of you that it was a summer holiday fling – but you did have some leftover longing.

Who could blame you?

When The Avengers had come together in New York in 2012, you had swooned over Thor, but there was something so steady, charming, and trustworthy about Captain America down to the bone that your admiration had developed into quite the crush. You knew the parasocial relationship that you and the rest of the world developed with him over the years was synthetic. It was fun and harmless.

But then you had met the real Steve Rogers in the flesh – and spent time flesh to flesh with him over the Fourth of July weekend.

The days you spent with him had been both intense and surreal. You had context to who he was from history books and the public persona, but the man behind the shield was naturally and infinitely more than what screens, books, and social media could ever portray. It was clear that being in exile from his country and on the run from most of the world due to their signing of the Sokovia Accords had changed him. But as you talked and spent time together, you suspected that losing his freedom had also freed him in some ways from the burdens of expectation and the colossal mantle and responsibilities of being Captain America.

He hadn’t given up his sense of duty to still help when and where he could, but he could simply be Steve.

In the nearly two days and two nights you’d spent together almost constantly in each other’s company, you’d shared so much, talking over things that were both trivial and meaningful as the conversations evolved. You’d spent time in serene silence together as well.

All of that felt stolen out of the pages of a book on its own.

But then there had also been the sex.

So much super soldier sex.

Rough, intense, sensual, exquisite, and all-consuming.

All of it – the physical and emotional – had been more intimate than anything else you had ever experienced.

Logically you had also come to realize that the pure fact that you both knew the time was so limited and fleeting undoubtedly allowed both of you to suspend boundaries and open up in ways you wouldn’t have if it had been a more conventional coupling up situation.

Yet it didn’t take anything away from the memory of those days together.

Logically you also knew no one would ever compare to him, and you had been realistic about that.

But tonight you wouldn’t worry about letting your thoughts drift to Steve.

It was more difficult to think of the emotional, and so your mind diverted quickly to the physical.

The way he had looked at you, touched you, kissed you, pleasured you. The feel of his cock inside of you. His fingers and his mouth ripping more orgasms from you than…

“No,” you scolded yourself out loud and groaned. “It’s too early on a Friday night to be thinking about sex with Steve.”

Not that it did any good to say so.

You pressed your thighs together, feeling the ache the worst at your core.

No longer paying any attention whatsoever to the movie you had going on the tv, it was the doorbell ringing with your food delivery that saved you from the spiral of desperately horny thoughts you were caught in.

There were two bags deposited on your doorstep, and you snatched them both up eagerly. The larger brown paper bag was emanating some heat, so you opened the smaller one first, assuming correctly that it held your tiramisu. You snatched a spoon from your silverware drawer and went for a sweet, indulgent bite. A little spoiling before you turned to the savory feast.

That bite made you moan in satisfaction. You savored the way the cream was perfectly smooth and balanced with the coffee and liqueur-soaked ladyfingers.

Your doorbell rang again, and you rushed over to open the door, assuming the delivery person probably realized they had forgotten a precious part of your meal – likely the garlic bread, and that would have been a sin!

Spoon still in your mouth, you opened the door and then froze.

Wearing the same aviators and non-descript baseball cap, Steve Rogers stood before you, as if it hadn’t been nearly three months since your once-in-a-lifetime encounter.

This couldn’t be real.

And yet his aggressive grip on your hip as he backed you into your place and kicked the door closed behind him was irrefutable.

Your heart raced as Steve pressed you against the wall, his body flush against yours. Your spoon clattered to the floor. He discarded his sunglasses on the table by the door and then captured your lips in a searing kiss. His beard scratched your skin, a delicious friction that sent shivers down your spine. Your lips parted for the demands of his hungry kiss, and when he licked into your mouth, his tongue slid against yours slowly for a moment, and you knew he was tasting the sugary sweetness of the bite you’d just savored, savoring it himself.

When he finally broke away, you gasped for air. "Steve? What are you doing here?"

"I shouldn't be here," he murmured against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "But I couldn't stay away."

Your mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. "Isn’t it risky for you to come back?"

Steve's thumb traced your lower lip. "Some risks are worth taking."

You melted into his touch, your body quickly abandoning reason. You yanked him closer by his shirt collar, kissing him fiercely. You removed the hat that was already askew on his head and tangled your fingers in his hair. It was longer now than when you'd last seen him. He groaned, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the couch.

Steve laid you down on the cushions, his body covering yours as he kissed a trail down your neck. His beard scratched deliciously against your sensitive skin, making you shiver. Your hands roamed over his broad shoulders, feeling the tight muscles beneath his shirt.

"I've thought about this so much since I left," Steve murmured against your collarbone. His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, caressing the soft skin of your stomach.

You arched into his touch, desperate for more. "Me too," you breathed, that confession opening a dangerous door you had tried to keep closed inside of you.

Steve's hands pushed your shirt up, exposing your breasts. His eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight of you. Slowly, reverently, he lowered his head to take a nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you gasp and clutch at his neck. He gave it a hard, long suck before letting his tongue swirl around your nipple again, laving at it as his hand kneaded the other. It was all you could do to moan, arch into him more, and hold onto him like a lifeline.

Steve kissed his way down your body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your leggings, looking up at you with a nearly feral hunger in his eye, something dark that sent a thrill of both adrenaline and desire through you, and you lifted your hips because no one had ever looked at you with so much need.

Steve slowly peeled your leggings down, his eyes never leaving yours as he revealed more of your bare skin. You shivered as the cool air hit your exposed flesh, goosebumps rising on your thighs. Steve's large hands caressed up your legs, leaving trails of heat in their wake. He settled his broad shoulders between your legs, spreading you wide beneath him. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then nipped at your tender flesh, making you yelp, before he soothed it with his tongue and then another kiss, even softer than the first. Then he shifted, and you could feel his hot breath against your most intimate parts, already slick for him. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he placed an open-mouthed kiss to you there, and you sucked in a breath.

"God, I've missed your taste," he growled.

Without warning, he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, making you gasp and arch off the couch. His strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with his tongue. He circled your clit teasingly before sucking it into his mouth, the pressure making you cry out in pleasure.

Steve's tongue was relentless, alternating between broad, flat strokes and precise flicks that had you writhing beneath him. He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them to stroke your inner walls as he continued his assault on your clit. The dual sensations quickly had you climbing towards your peak.

"Steve," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He hummed against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your thighs began to tremble as you teetered on the edge of orgasm. Steve redoubled his efforts, his fingers pumping faster as his tongue flicked rapidly over your sensitive bud.

With a cry, you came undone, your body shuddering as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Steve worked you through your climax, lapping up your release until you gently pushed his head away, oversensitive.

But he growled and bit at the inside of your other thigh. “I’m not done eating my fill of this pretty cunt yet.”

You gasped at Steve's words, a fresh wave of arousal pulsing through you despite your recent orgasm. His blue eyes were dark with desire as he looked up at you from between your thighs.

"Steve," you breathed, torn between wanting more and feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

He seemed to sense your hesitation. "Color?" he asked, his voice husky but almost gentle.

"Green," you replied. How could you deny him? This? When you assumed you would never see him again.

Steve's lips curled into a wicked smile. "Good girl," he purred, before diving back in.

This time, his tongue explored you even more thoroughly, dipping inside you to taste your essence before returning to your clit. He alternated between broad strokes and precise flicks, keeping you on edge. When he slipped two fingers back inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot, tears were creeping up on you for the mingled overstimulation and ecstasy.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against Steve's face as he worked you towards another climax. The coarse hair of his beard rubbed deliciously against your inner thighs, adding to the overwhelming sensations.

"That's it," Steve murmured against your flesh. "Let go for me, sweet girl."

His words, combined with a particularly well-timed curl of his fingers and another hard suck on your clit, sent you careening over the edge once more. You cried out, your back arching off the couch as your second orgasm ripped through you, even more intense than the first.

Steve didn't let up, his tongue and fingers working you through the aftershocks until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess. Only then did he pull away, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels.

You lay helpless, trying to catch your breath. He leaned forward and caught the tears on your cheeks with strong swipes of his thumbs. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be ruined for anyone else.”

Your breath caught in your throat at Steve's bold declaration. The intensity in his eyes made you shiver with anticipation.

"I already am," you confessed softly.

Something flashed in Steve's eyes - possessiveness, pride, and a hint of vulnerability. He surged forward to capture your lips in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue as he devoured your mouth.

Steve's hands roamed your body, relearning every curve and plane. When he cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, you arched into his touch with a gasp.

"Please" you mumbled against his lips.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours.

You surged forward for another kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. "I need you inside me."

Steve groaned, his hips grinding against yours. You could feel the hard length of him through his jeans, and you ached to have him fill you completely. He sat back, quickly stripping off his shirt to reveal his chiseled torso. Your hands roamed over his muscled chest and abs, marveling at the perfection of his body.

As Steve unbuckled his belt and shoved his jeans down, you took the opportunity to remove your shirt fully, leaving you both gloriously naked. He paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of you laid out before him, flushed and wanting. His eyes raked over your body with such intensity that you felt more exposed than you ever had before, curves and scars and imperfections on full display. You felt yourself flush under his gaze.

You reached for him, pulling him down on top of you. The feeling of his bare skin against yours was electrifying. Steve captured your lips in another passionate kiss as he settled between your thighs. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and you rolled your hips, silently begging him to take you.

Steve broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside. You both groaned at the exquisite feeling of him stretching and filling you. When he was fully seated, he paused, but not long enough for you to adjust to his size. But the painful pleasure of it only fueled your hunger for more of him.

"You feel so good," he breathed, his voice strained, words hot against the crook of your neck. "So tight and perfect for me."

You whimpered in response, overwhelmed by the fullness and the intensity of having Steve inside you again after so long. Your fingers dug into his broad shoulders as he began to move, starting with slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping with each roll of his hips.

"Steve," you moaned, arching into him. "More, faster."

He growled low in his throat, picking up the pace. The couch creaked beneath you as Steve's powerful thrusts drove you into the cushions. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle so he hit that perfect spot inside you with each stroke.

"That's it," Steve panted, his voice rough with desire. "Take all of me."

Your world narrowed to the feeling of Steve moving inside you, the sound of skin on skin, and the increasingly desperate noises falling from both your lips.

Steve's rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, nails digging into his back as pleasure built within you. Each powerful stroke sent shockwaves through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Look at me," Steve commanded, his voice husky and strained.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The raw emotion you saw there – desire, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

"I want to see you fall apart," he growled, never breaking eye contact as he continued to drive into you relentlessly. “I want to watch what only I can do to you.”

One of his hands snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with the precision he perfected in the heat of July.

"Come for me," Steve commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words and the relentless pressure on your clit sent you spiraling into ecstasy. You cried out Steve's name as your orgasm crashed over you, your inner walls clenching tightly around him. The intensity of your climax triggered Steve's own release. He groaned, burying himself deep inside you as he came.

For a moment, you both lay there, panting and trembling in the aftermath. Steve's weight pressed you into the couch, but you relished the feeling of being surrounded by him.

When both of you settled back into even breathing, he planted slow kisses along your jaw and blazed a trail back to your mouth. Cock still inside you, he kissed you slowly. Slow and unrepentant, in no hurry now, only drinking you in, and you let your hands stroke up and down his back, relishing in the impossible and stolen closeness.

You could survive a second encounter with this super soldier.

READ their next part/later that night: Put Me Back on My Shelf read more of the: Exiled Nomad Series

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Being invisible somewhere had been easier than carving out the opportunity to do so solo over the 4th of July – less because it was America’s Birthday and more because it was his. Steve had suggested Wanda finally reconnect with Vision (they’d been on the run long enough, it should be safe for her to reach out and discreetly stay off the grid). The case he made to Sam was that he’d been on the run for over a year, and the 4th was less expected for a sentimental return to stop in on family but would still afford a holiday’s community celebrations and to give him reasonable cover to slip in and out. Nat hadn’t needed convincing. She saw, asked if he was sure, but understood without him needing to explain, and said she had things of her own that she’d take care of.

He just didn’t want any of the fuss of them trying to make him feel better on his birthday.

Steve was sitting on a shaded grassy knoll in the city park, hundreds of people around him, all weaving in and out of booths with games, vendors, and food, a vibrant temporary set up for a few days around the 4th, and on the far side of the park the sounds of carnival rides underscored it all.

He hadn’t come to this place to find someone.

But the moment he first noticed you, the plans started forming in his head before he could stop them.

And why should he stop them?

As he alternated between sketching in his notebook and people-watching, people watching turned into watching only you – you wandering this place clearly alone. Must be on your own in this city.

It would be so easy to harmlessly bump into you.

So he did.

When you recognized him, he could easily use the moment to draw you into keeping his presence in such a public place secret, getting you to trust him by him “trusting you” with his secret.

And he did.

He could easily ask if there were any good places to eat in town, then ask if you would join him.

He did, and you did.

After walking you home, it would be so easy to get you to invite him in, an afternoon and evening of conversation, compounding moments, and more and more casual touches on your arm, your shoulder, the small of your back, the back of your hand, having your body attune to him.

And it worked.

You hesitated, but invite him in you did.

And he tried for a moment to convince himself that being invited in had been all he wanted – to be someplace that wasn’t a stolen moment or a hotel room or a safe house that itself wasn’t very safe, just to be someplace private, someplace normal, someplace that felt like home.

But that was not the only thing he wanted.

And why shouldn’t he take the rest of what he wanted? After everything, didn’t he deserve it?

You didn’t notice that he locked the door behind him. You’d been apologizing for the state of your place, though after a quick glance around, he assured you it only looked lived in, not a mess.

Not like the mess he was so eager to make you into beneath him.

After insisting you didn’t need to get anything for him, he sat on your couch. He told you how nice it was just to sit there, nowhere to be, no reason to hide, how tired he was of running. You listened; you soothed him. He leaned in and kissed you.

You kissed him back.

All he did was kiss you until you leaned back on the couch and urged him along with you.

He let his chest press into your deliciously soft body. He groaned into the kiss, and you opened your mouth to his. This kisss grew in fervor, tongues exploring and tangling with each other. His hand ran up and down your thigh, slowly coaxing you to hitch it up around his waist. You moaned when he ground gently against your core – gentle only to test the waters. His need was mounting exponentially, and he knew the damn would break soon. He intended to let it.

He moved his lips from your mouth to your shoulder, kissing there before teasing his lips and teeth and tongue along your collar bone to the sensitive point of your neck. You sighed in bliss, and he moved his hand back up your thigh, over your hip, across your stomach, undid the top button he found there, and started to reach into your jeans.

Your breath hitched, and your hands flew to his.

“Steve, wait,” you said.

But you didn’t say stop.

He waited.

He could hear the wild racing of your heart beneath him.

The pressure of your hands on his body didn’t change, no part of you shifted to move away. Your eyes closed, the only sign of your reticence were your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

Steve slid his hand down to cup your pussy and his fingers found the wetness growing there that he expected. You let out a shuddering breath as his fingers worked your labia, but he didn’t linger there. He pulled his fingers out and then pushed them into your mouth.

“Neither of us wants to wait,” he snarled as you licked your slick from the pads of his fingers. “And it’s summer, we’re supposed to be having fun.”

Super soldier serum running through his veins, Steve picked you up with ease, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, while he held one of your thighs and pressed his other hand at the base of your spine, pinning you securely to him while he captured your lips to kiss you again.

He easily found your bedroom, and he lowered you to the bed in a kneeling position. He didn’t relent in his kissing, devouring you, demanding your supplication. He only broke off the kiss once you were breathless, moaning, and pulling at his clothes. Then he stepped back and told you to undress. Steve quicky removed all his own clothing while keeping his eyes on you. You only removed your shirt and jeans, leaving you in your underwear, but he could work with that for now. He’d have you willing to shed the rest soon enough.

Steve got up on the bed with you, pleased that he could see your eyes darkening with the lust and the want. He recognized exactly the kind of want he was dealing with – it was how he imagined he would have behaved before living the harsh life of denial he’d lived while exiled and on the run for the past year. The old him would have wanted but been hesitant, gone slow, paid attention to more of the dance before even getting into bed.

He didn’t have the luxury of time or the patience for that.

He only had an insatiable need that he’d pushed down and ignored – ignored for years even before becoming Nomad. He’d denied himself so many things, sacrificed for others, for missions, too many legitimate and imagined reasons holding him back.

He wouldn’t hold back now.

But he would coax you into needing him as much as he needed you.

You only glanced at his naked groin with a moment of hesitance as he pulled you into his lap, but you still let him. He resumed your kissing, and you were quick to continue making out with him. He allowed you take the reins to steer the kissing, letting you lap up at the pace you wanted. He let his hands roam over your back as he eased you along, seemingly unhurried. But his hands soon made their way to your hips, and he secured his grip there and began grinding you down against his hard cock. He moaned unabashedly into your mouth as he adjusted the angle of your hips and continued rocking your core against him.

He was insistent on torturing you where your most intimate parts met until, clinging to his shoulders, you threw your head back, gasped for air.

“Steve,” you keened his name, clearly in the early stages of sweet ruin that he wanted.

He smirked against your neck and laid you down on your back with deceptive sweetness. He kissed slowly down your chest, between your breasts, down over your belly button. His fingers hooked into the top of your panties just as his lips arrived at the top of that fabric, and he peeled them down and fully off your legs. Your fingers worked anxiously over the sheets beneath you as he made you wait for him to touch you more.

His hands opened your legs back up, pushing at your knees to splay you open like a butterfly beneath his attention.

He worked both of his thumbs up and down over your labia, smearing your cunt with your juices, studying what he was about to claim and ruin. Then he looked up at your face and said, “This is mine now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” your voice was soft, nervous, but also eager.

It hadn’t actually been a question, but he wanted you to say it out loud.

The only question was how he wanted to take you first.

Since he planned on taking you in every way, he went with the most convenient first, easing his cock into you slowly, but with no apologies for how thick he was, pressing into you despite the resistance – not that of a virgin, but of a cunt that had never taken a cock so big before. You cried out – but he knew the tone of it was pain drenched with bliss, he could hear it. What’s more, when he was fully sheathed inside you, he waited, unmoving. He watched your chest rise and fall with a few breaths. When you finally shifted your hips against his, he knew he had won. You wanted more. The beast inside of him surged in satisfaction, and then he began to aggressively thrust in and out of your tight channel.

He leaned forward, and your knees hitched up around his waist to urge him on. You clawed at his back, and when he reached between your bodies and found your swollen clit, he rubbed furious circles over it until he was rewarded with the clenching of your cunt around him, the seizing up of every muscle in your body, as he delivered your first orgasm of the night.

He continued pumping in and out of your spasming cunt until he was right at the edge, then pulled out and fisted his cock with only two more strokes before releasing hot ribbons of cum over your stomach.

Your fingers inched hesitantly toward the mess, and he put his hand over yours and pushed your fingers and his through the mess, pressing it into your skin. Then he moved your hands away and lowered his body down onto yours, the sticky spend between your skin and his there.

“I…” you started, but then paused.

He slipped his other hand beneath your head, cradling it in his palm. “Mmm?” he hummed against the spot behind your ear.

“I’m clean and have an IUD.”

He groaned and nipped at your neck. “You want me to continue to fuck you more. You want me to cum inside you.”

“Yes, Steve,” you simpered.

“Mmm, such a good girl,” he pressed a hot kiss against your neck, then rolled off being on top of you, and to his side next to you. “Best give you what we both want, then,” he said as he turned you onto your side, back pressed to his chest, and felt below to press his dick into your hole again.

Hours later when its far past midnight, you’ve passed out from exhaustion.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

But when he slipped back onto your bed after taking a piss, you scooted your body in next to him, put your hand on his chest, and muttered the sleepiest, “Happy birthday,” to him he’d ever heard. He almost wondered how you knew switching from the third to the fourth meant it was his day, but then he remembered the time when seemingly everyone knew it was Cap’s birthday.

While he wasn’t Cap anymore, it still struck something in him and made his chest warm.

But he didn’t feel like you would make a big deal out of it or make him feel bad and that maybe it would be nice to be with someone on his birthday, so he decided to stay. He told himself it was to be distracted chasing more bliss with your body. He ignored the other thoughts working through his mind. He only wanted – only needed – the distraction. Nothing else.

NEXT: July 4, 2017. read more Exiled Nomad Series

I'M GLAD Steve's POV won in the poll I ran earlier this week... clearly since I made the poll my muse was leaning heavy towards it anyway, but this was certainly illuminating to see more of where Steve's head is at in this ... situationship.

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To test his theory, he spends the entire night baking muffins. You've always been a sweet tooth, he remembers fondly still when you were gushing over his description of the baked goods his Ma made. He's a little nervous as he tops the muffins with chocolate. They weren't perfect like his Ma's, but he tried his best.

He's not doing this because he's upset. He's been meaning to bake the muffins for you anyways. His own Ma had sent the recipe over two weeks ago, after he updated about your excitement regarding her baking, demanding him to make some for you. He's doing this because he wants to, and it has nothing to do with you and Jimmy. By the time he's stored the muffins into a container, his heart is little more well-rested and reassured that he's just being a good colleague and friend who is not jealous whatsoever.

He shows up the next day, muffins in a container as he waits anxiously at his desk, watching the door for your arrival. He hears you before you even enter, and he jumps up from his chair as you pass through the doors.. with Jimmy.

He tries to stand taller to hide the deflation in his confidence. Now you're arriving at the same time? It couldn't be that you were now walking together to work, were you?

You're too caught up in your conversation to notice Clark watching you from afar, container in hand.

"Hey, Clark!" Jimmy greets as he plops his bag down at his desk. "Did you see the news this morning about- Woah, hang on a second. Are those muffins?"

Clark winces at not being able to say it for himself, but he holds out the container to you. "Yeah, remember my Ma's recipe I told you about last week? You said you wanted to try it so I baked it for you."

"Clark!" He tries to not enjoy the delighted surprise evident in your voice too much. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Maybe he's being too obvious, but that light in your eyes directed at him feels like the sun on his skin after winter.

"No way you're saving this all for yourself!" Jimmy cuts in, hitting you on the arm with his elbow. "They look delicious, dude. Can I have at least a bite?"

"Hey! He said he made them for me, keep your hands to yourself." You interject, taking the container from Clark. Your hand brushes his, and he tries not to smile at your protective instincts over the muffins.

"Come on-" Jimmy calls you by a nickname he's never heard, and his smile freezes. Nicknames? He has a nickname for you now? A panic room is being built in his head as the conversation continues, words exchanged about 'assignment' and 'leaving'.

"Clark?" You wave a hand in front of him, and he blinks, focusing back on your voice. "Thanks for the muffins, I really appreciate it."

"Yeah." He mutters weakly, his heart throbbing over the sudden closeness you had with Jimmy. Jimmy was also his friend, but seeing you drift further away from him made it hard to see the situation in a positive light.

"We gotta go." Jimmy points out, checking his watch before going to grab his camera.

"Right, nice seeing you, Clark." You say with a warm smile, unaware of the inner turmoil going on in his head. "We'll catch up some other time, yeah? And thanks again for the muffins, I can't wait to try them!"

He watches you leave, and tries his best not to storm after the both of you to join in on the assignment. It's silly, childish. He's not the jealous type and you're all working professionals in this office. He drops down into his seat, and he knows that heavy weight in his chest won't go so easily. He's not upset, there's nothing wrong.

You smiled at him and thanked him at least three times. You're clearly still happy to see him, the same as always. He rubs at his chest, where he feels his heart thudding like a traitor. Maybe he's thinking about it too much. You and Jimmy are just attached to the hip because you're both workaholics who love a good story.

'Attached to the hip..' He groans, and he could only hope that things will return to normal soon. He might go crazy if you walk through the doors with Jimmy again tomorrow.

The next day, he's admittingly a little too prepared for your arrival. He has his article open in one window, and a perfect excuse to get your attention today.

He's practiced it at least ten times in the mirror. 'I've really been struggling on this article for awhile and I would love for your insight on it.' It's not completely detached from the truth, he really was struggling- but it was for a reason different to writer's block.

He hears you before you enter again, and this time, he's relieved to hear it's only you. He turns around, clearing his throat and preparing himself.

"Hey, Clark!" You greet him, smiling wide as you place your bag down at your chair. Big smile, that's a good sign.

"Hey." He waits a few seconds, pretending to look at his computer with a purse of his lips. "I was wondering if you could help me out on something?"

"Oh?" There's that glimmer in your eyes from the possibility to brainstorm with someone. "What is it?"

"I've really been struggling on this article for awhile and I would love for your insight on it." He moves his monitor to your direction, and you lean in, narrowing your eyes as you read through the text.

"Oh! The Gotham fugitive!" You take a spare chair, moving it beside his, armrests bumping into each other as you take a seat. "Okay, I've heard some stuff about this that I could help you with- but honestly, Jimmy might be your best bet if you want accurate info."

There's only so much a man can take, he thinks as his smile drops. Is the universe playing with him? Is this 'mention Jimmy Olsen' week, and he wasn't aware? It's okay, he can still redirect this.

"I mean, I would love to help out." You continue on. "I could ask Jimmy to pass you his Gotham contact if you need it though. It might be better than third party information from me."

"No, I would love to hear your thoughts." He interjects so quickly, you could only blink. "I mean-" Play it cool. Play it cool. "I already have the evidence, I just want to hear about it from your perspective, to help think of a point of view to write it from."

"My perspective?" You smile at him so warmly, he almost forgets what he was upset over in the first place. "I think you're the only person who wants to hear it sometimes. Thanks, Smallvile. It means a lot."

He may have hit the jackpot today. He's earned a nickname.

"It's- no problem." He stammers, averting your gaze to look back at the monitor. "So, I was thinking- there's already been some articles with explanations on how the fugitive escaped to Metropolis. I was thinking of focusing more on why."

"I knew you'd say that." You said with a knowing look.

He looks back at you, almost surprised. "How?"

"You always look for the good in people, Clark." You affirm. "When everyone's so focused on the hard facts and evidence, you're the only one who sees past it for what matters. That's why you're a good journalist. You write what matters."

You've been gone nearly a week for your assignment, but here with him, he realises why he's been so upset over your absence. You're looking right at him, when others have only ever seen past him. He's a nobody as Clark Kent. He's untouchable as Superman. Yet, under your gaze, he's just Clark, and that's all he needs to be.

"I have some ideas for the why." You continue on, as if you hadn't shaken his whole world. "If we bring it back to Gotham's current political situation, as well as the increase in unemployment.."

Staring at you wordlessly, he comes to a realisation that should've been obvious to him the moment you stepped into the Daily Planet, with your orange notebook and fiery determination to make a mark in this world. He's in love with you.

Your assignment with Jimmy ends today. Clark feels guilty for the way his steps have a little skip to them as he heads to work. After you submit your assignment to Perry, he's going to ask you to dinner.

There's that lump in his throat as he thinks about it- but after being apart from you for an entire week, he needs to be brave. Not having your silly expressions across his desk to wake him up when he's feeling tired during the 4 pm drought, the stealing of his peanut butter stack to lather on your toast during break, the debates about his alter ego that has him breathless with laughter when you comment on Superman's trunks- not being near you. It nearly drove him insane.

He's scared, but he's done things scared before. He can do it again, especially if it's you.

He arrives at the office, peering at Perry's office where both you and Jimmy were receiving feedback. There's the muffled sounds of 'good work' and 'looking forward to it', though his super-hearing doesn't give much else before the door opens and the both of you walk out with giddy smiles.

He's about to ask you both on how the assignment went when Jimmy exclaims loudly- "Can't believe we get to work on another assignment together!"

Clark drops his briefcase against the floor, causing a loud thud to echo across the hall. He doesn't hear much else other than that, he doesn't need to. He's already walking over to you, briefcase all but forgotten.

"I need to talk to you." He breathes out.

You shift your head to look at him, eyes widened in surprise at his sudden appearance. "Oh? Sure, what do you want to talk about-"

He's grabbing your hand, leading you away to somewhere more private. He doesn't notice Jimmy's smirk directed at you.

There's not many places that aren't exposed to the open in the office, and he's not thinking clearly either when he opens a random door, and leads you in. A cleaning closet- he's led you to a cleaning closet.

He’s practically a barrier, leaving little space for you in the tiny, dusty closet, causing you to stumble over a few brooms left unused on the creaky floor. He grabs you by the waist, holding you steady and unintentionally closer to him so you don’t fall.

“I just don’t understand.” He blurts out.

"Understand?" You furrow your brow.

"Why you're working with him again."

“We make a good team.” You say with a shrug. With the close proximity, you have to crank your chin to the highest point just to meet his eyes. “I think this is the highest praise Perry's ever given for an article."

"Well-" He can't take this anymore. "Does it have to be Jimmy?"

"Why not him? He's the best photographer we've got, you know that."

“Well, I don’t know- you seem to know him better than me now.”

You stare at him incredulously. “So, is this you being upset that I’m stealing Jimmy away from you?”

“What? No!” His voice reverberates through the small confinement, and you hit him softly at his chest as a sign to quiet down. If anyone were to hear his voice and come in, the situation would look- safe to say, you didn’t want to be the gossip feed for an office full of journalists.

“So? I don’t get why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.” He mumbles more to convince himself than you. He meets your unimpressed gaze and sighs. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”

“About what?” You push.

“I-” He averts his gaze, growing frustration visible through the grit of his teeth. “I just feel like I haven’t seen you at all the entire week.”

“Clark.” Realisation dawns you and a shit-eating grin appears on your face. “Are you jealous?”

“Not really.” Yet, his gaze is behind you, trained on the dusty, dark walls. “I’m just wondering what you and Jimmy could possibly be up to that you won’t come back to the office till six.”

“You keep track?” There’s nothing that can stop the tilt of your voice, obviously having caught on to his dilemma.

He rolls his eyes but he can’t help but smile down at you, and you bet if you trace his face, you could feel the deep indent of his dimple that you loved so much. “Your absence is very distracting.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t focus on my work when you’re not around.” He huffs. “I’m just used to you coming to my desk and distracting me by stealing my peanut butter.”

“Hey, your mum makes amazing homemade peanut butter.”

“I missed you talking to me to solve your brain fogs when you can’t figure something out.” His voice is growing softer, his gaze focused on you as if he could see you in the dark. “And my stupid brain keeps wondering if you do that with Jimmy instead of me because you’re out all day, and I’m stuck in here waiting.”

“For me?”

“Yeah.” He responds weakly, but he’s never been the type of back down from his words. "I've been waiting to see you the entire week." Despite his supposed demeanour, you knew to never underestimate how direct he could be.

“Well, I’ll have you know that I talk to him about you all the time whenever we’re not doing our assignment.” You admit. “He’s probably relieved you dragged me in here so that I wouldn’t keep talking his ear off about you.”

His voice hitches, his eyes blinking in confusion behind his glasses. “What did you talk about?”

“Just how I missed annoying you, and that you’re probably super bored in the office without me.” You smirk, knowing he can’t deny it either after his own confession. “That I can’t wait to come back and see you- only for Mr. Jealous here to give me the cold shoulder.”

Sweet Clark of course frowns, looking dejected over his own behaviour.

Before he could apologise, you stop him by placing a finger to his lips. “And most importantly, being away from you the entire week made me realise that I don’t want to do that ever again. And that I should probably ask you out before Jimmy wrings my neck out of annoyance.”

You feel his lips part against your finger, clearly not expecting any of your words. A few seconds pass, then his frown morphs into the largest grin you’ve ever seen. “You beat me to it.”

“As always.” You shrug. “I mean, this is why I got the assignment from Perry in the first place before you-”

He grabs your finger, gently and kisses the side of it. Whatever you wanted to boast about leaves your mind as quickly as it came, and this time, you’re the one left speechless.

His gaze is trained on you, hungry and desperate. “I really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

You barely manage a nod before he’s on you, lips meeting yours with a push. He’s clumsy, with his glasses bumping against your nose, and it almost makes you want to laugh- but it transitions into something heated when one of his hands lifts from your waist to caress your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. The long endurance of your playful banters and glances feel like they’re being rewarded in this very moment, where he’s holding you as if you’re the only thing that exists.

He's good, and not only because he's really making it feel good, but because you can feel just how earnest he is- that he really wants this. He's handling you so gently, as if he's savouring you and doesn't want it to end. You don't think you've ever met someone who could translate their feelings through a simple kiss, but it's almost like he's conveying everything he's kept hidden to you right now. You don’t know how much time passes before you have to pull away for air. He follows after you, but you have to raise your hand to clamp his face before he kisses you again.

"You know this was all Jimmy's plan?" You slip out.

Clark blinks, still reeling from the kiss. "What?"

"He said we were going round in circles for too long, so he dragged me out all the time to see how'd you react."

He groans, head lowering and bumping softly against yours. "Of course he did."

"He'll be estastic." You laugh. "I owe him 50 bucks."

"What were the odds?"

"That you'd give in before the week ends." You admitted. "I thought he was being delusional."

"Why?"

"Cause I thought you didn't like me as much as I liked you." You look at him with that same adoring gaze you gave him when you complimented his writing. "If I saw you running around with someone else for an assignment, I would've gone crazy in less than two days."

He chuckles. "Oh, trust me. You had me insane on the first."

"That's the best thing I heard all day."

"Oh, really? Me telling you that I missed you didn't do the trick?"

"No, but it comes close." You tease. "Also, we should probably get out of here before anyone thinks we're doing more than hooking up."

You can't see clearly in the dark, but you could bet his cheeks were on fire. As he opens the door, letting you exit first, you meet Jimmy’s eyes across the room- who’s grinning like a cheshire cat at your tangled hair and reddened cheeks.

“Finally!” He words silently to you, as to not attract the others who were typing away at their desks.

You roll your eyes, feeling the heat of Clark near your back and knowing Jimmy must have put two and two together faster than he swipes through his DMs. Clark leans down, whispering to you. “So, do you want to come by my place after work? I could cook us dinner.”

“Hm, I don’t know.” You tease. “I’ll have to check with Jimmy to see if he needs me for our article.”

He gives your waist a soft squeeze, a little warning. “Don’t worry, I can negotiate with him. So how about 6?”

“What's on the menu?"

"A special." He grins. "Breakfast for dinner."

"Pancakes?"

"Anything you want."

"That's a dangerous proposition." You pretend to consider. "I have a notorious sweet tooth."

"I think I can handle that." He murmurs. "So say yes, please."

Intertwining your hand with the one he held on your waist, you lean back against his chest. "Only since you asked so nicely."