#imstandinghere

He keeps his eyes trained on the menu as he places his order, casually but very deliberately avoiding eye contact. He’s grown out a beard in the months they’ve been apart, and, admittedly, she maybe wouldn’t have recognized him out on the street. But your mind never forgets faces, and you’d be surprised how much easier it is to recognize someone just by looking into their eyes.

She remembers, briefly, how out of his element he’d been while undercover once upon a time. She taught him well.

He steps near her table when as he waits for his order, and it’s busy enough that it’s perfectly believable of him to bump into her table as a mother and her two bouncing, babbling sons try to squeeze by him toward the restroom. He murmurs a brisk, “Sorry, ma’am,” as he pats her shoulder, and she almost closes her eyes. As pathetic as it sounds, she’s really missed his voice.

He steps out of the a few minutes, hides his smile behind the rim of his cup when he takes a sip. She tosses the last bite of her breakfast sandwich into the trash, slipping into the family restroom and clicking the lock into place behind her. Then she reaches into the breast pocket of her coat and slips out the hotel key card he’d slipped her earlier. She smiles.

-

His shoes are by the door when she lets herself in, his coat draped over the back of the armchair. He isn’t in the sitting room, but she can hear him in the bedroom, and she feels her breath hitch, her pulse picking up. She sets her purse onto the coffee table, starts shrugging out of her coat, and then he’s stepping through the doorway and stopping in his tracks when he sees her.

And then he smiles. Warm and bright, slowly pulling at his lips, until it takes up his entire face.

“Hi.” Her voice comes out breathy.

“Hi,” he echoes, crossing the room toward her in a few strides. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come right away.”

“I wanted to see you,” she admits. Her throat feels a little tighter, and her hand is shaking ever so slightly as she clutches onto the key card so hard she thinks it may actually snap. She blinks up at him, a little startled when her eyelashes dot with tears. God, she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. There are a dozen thoughts swirling around in her head, but she can’t grasp onto any one of them, can’t bring herself to form the words, to even move.

So Steve does instead. His smile softens as he steps forward, coming to stand right in front of her. He reaches down, grasps the hand that’s holding on the key card, and it’s as if the tension in her muscles dissolves as soon as his skin brushes against hers. He eases the card out of her hand, gently tosses it onto the coffee table before twining their fingers together. He brings his other hand up to wipe at the corner of her eye, stroking the pad of his thumb down her cheek, calloused but comforting. They’ve never, ever touched like this before but it feels natural. Even with her heart thrumming in her chest, even with her stomach fluttering, there’s something oddly familiar about this moment. Or maybe it’s just because she’s imagined seeing him so many times before that it’s been enough to forget how many months have gone by without being with him.

“You look well,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes trace down the front of her, no doubt checking for any visible sign of injury, any scars. Then his eyes slide back up to hers, and, softer, he adds, “You look beautiful, too.”

“I was wondering when you’d compliment the hair,” she teases.

He breathes out a chuckle, fingering the tips of her blonde hair. She’d cut it short again after she bleached it, but it’s grown out since then, grazing the tops of her collarbones. “You look good as a blonde.” Lips quirking at the corner, he adds, “I suspect you’d look good in any color. But I’ll admit, I do miss the red.”

Her heart does a flip. An honest-to-god flip.

She’s fucked. So entirely fucked.

“You grew a beard,” she blurts out like an idiot. His eyes twinkle.

“I did,” he indulges. “A lot’s happened since–”

Since. Since their family and their home came down in ruins. Since they chose different sides and were left to fend for themselves. Since she walked away from him in that church, and he’d flown away from her in that airport hanger.

“Yeah,” she breathes. His eyes glance down at her lips. A burst of heat unfurls in her stomach. “We should probably talk about things.”

“Probably.”

Her every nerve feels like it’s tingling, buzzing, humming. Here they are, teasing each other as if no time has passed, as if nothing has changed, but it has. Oh god, it has. They’re just standing here, and they’ve barely started talking, and it already feels overwhelming. As if every little thing she’s felt but never said out loud, and every single thought she’s hidden behind wry sarcasm and vague teasing, has been building and building over the last few months, and she feels like she’s about to burst into a thousand pieces.

“We should…” She swallows. “–talk first.”

“Nat,” he says, voice low and gravelly and tight, like he’s barely holding himself back. “Is that really what you want to do?”

She shakes her head.

He nods. And then licks his lips.

And then he kisses her.

He grasps her face with both hands and slants his lips over hers, kissing her hard and long and deep and desperate. She nearly tips backward with the force of it, the force of him, but she grasps onto his sweater and grips it tightly between her fingers. She thinks she might’ve let out a whimper, but she can’t hear anything over the blood pounding through her veins.

“Nat.”

His breath comes our sharp and harsh against her lips and she pulls away just barely, hisses out, “Touch me.”

He groans and nods, wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her to his chest. She thinks he’s leading them toward the bedroom, but he tugs them to the wall instead, making it shake as he all but throws her against it, pinning her beneath him as he grasps at the material of her shirt and tightens his grip. He pauses to meet her gaze, his eyes storming and hungry, and then he yanks at her shirt. It’s silky and much more expensive than it looks, but it tears like tissue paper in his hands, and she’s too desperate to be even a little pissed about it.

“Thank god for super serums,” she breathes out.

He chuckles, kisses the curve of her neck as he pops the front of her leather pants open, starts pushing it down her legs. She steps out of them, then sucks in a gasp, her head falling back to hit the wall when he reaches between them and cups his hand over her sex. She’s wet. God, she’s ridiculously wet.

“I can’t believe–” He swallows, stroking over the front of her, the heel of his hand grazing just above her bundle of nerves. She bites down on her lower lip. “Tell me this is too much.” He presses harder. “Tell me to stop, Nat.”

She kisses him again, and again, and again, rolling into his hand. Her head is hazy and dizzy and spinning. It is too much, but also not enough, not at all.

“Don’t you dare, Rogers,” she all but growls out. He latches onto the pulse in her neck and suckles it between his lips, dipping his hand into her panties. Her knees all but buckle underneath her when his calloused fingertips stroke over her soaked flesh, and she grasps onto his bicep, digs her fingernails in. Maybe she can tell, somewhere in the back of the desire clouding over her thoughts, that he’s still looking for reassurance, or even permission. Or maybe she’s trying to convince herself that it isn’t as pathetic as she thinks that he’s pulling her apart so quickly and so easily, but she adds, “We’ve been waiting for this. Oh, god, we… we’ve been chasing this forever, Steve. It’s not too much.”

He pulls his hand away, kisses the whimper that falls from her lips.

“Good.” He swallows, hard. “Because I… I don’t know if I can hold back, Nat.”

She can tell. His body is wound tight and tense against her, rigid in his restraint. But she doesn’t want that at all.

“Good. Don’t hold back. Don’t hold out on me, Rogers.”

“Nat,” he starts, but she scrambles forward, tugging at the hem of his sweater and his shirt and tugging it over his head. She pauses just briefly to take in the sight of his muscles, toned and hard and perfect underneath her fingertips as she smooths her palms over the contours of his chest. And then she grasps at the front of his jeans, popping it open and dragging the zipper down and dipping her hand inside.

Oh, fuck.

She wraps her fingers around him, letting out a mewl. He’s hard and pulsing against her palm as she slides it over him. He groans, rolls his hips into her hand once, twice, three times, before grunting and pulling her hand off of him and backing her into the wall again. He pushes his pants and his boxers off, and she doesn’t even realize that she’s still wearing her heels until he goes to yank her panties down her legs and his knuckles graze the straps still wrapped around her ankles.

His eyes are glinting as he meets her gaze, and he steps closer, covers her body with his. She can feel his length brushing against the inside of her thigh, and she reaches between them, lines him up at her entrance.

He presses his forehead to hers, kisses the bridge of her nose. She laughs.

“You have changed me forever, sweetheart.” His voice quivers as she strokes over him. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you when we were apart. Wondering if you were alright. Wanting to see you again. Wanting to protect you.”

“I didn’t need protection.”

“I know. I’ve always known.” He reaches down, pulls her hand off of him and brings it up to his lips, brushes a kiss to her knuckles. “But you know I would’ve stayed right by your side if I could’ve. You know I’ll always protect you.”

She nods, murmurs, “I know, I know,” as she cups the back of his neck and brings their lips together.

Then he’s grasping her hips and pressing into her slowly, too slowly, and god, she never thought something could feel so perfect. He’s hard and thick, and she swears she’s so sensitive that she can feel every little press, ever little pull. Her lips fall open as he bottoms out, and he reaches down, hooking her legs around his hips and opening her up even more as he starts moving. She moans, fingers scratching at the wall. His muscles are quivering in restraint, no doubt trying to savor this, to make it last, to take their time, and it’s sweet. It really is.

But it’s not what she wants. Not right now, at least.

She tries to roll her hips to meet his thrust, clenches around him, and he groans and snaps his hips, hard and sudden and so good.

“Nat.”

She grasps his face with both hands, kisses him once, twice. “We’ll have time later, Steve,” she promises. He blinks his eyes open, eyebrows furrowing as he meets her gaze. “We’ll have time,” she repeats, and she knows he understands what she’s saying. She can see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way they sparkle, almost in mischief.

Then he grips her hips, thrusting in faster, harder, deeper, and she lets out a keening moan as she grips onto his hair. His beard feels soft and scratchy at the same time as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses over the column of her neck, nipping at her skin. She lets her head fall back to hit the wall, feels her blood thrumming, the warmth in her stomach coiling tighter and tighter. He’s all but slamming her into the wall with every thrust of his hips, his fingers digging so hard into her skin that she knows she’ll bruise, but she doesn’t care, not even a little.

He closes his lips around one of her nipples and sucks down, groaning against her skin as her walls flutter around him in response.

She cries out his name, scratches at his scalp. She’s close, so close.

And he can tell.

He hitches her leg up a little higher, angles his hips and brushes against a sweet spot that makes her vision blur. Her eyelashes flutter closed as he rolls his hips, brushing that spot again and again, making her gasp.

“Look at me when you come.” His voice is low and firm and commanding, and he snaps his hips, reaches between them and finds her little bundle of nerves. His thumb glides through her slickness, circling and circling. “Nat, look at me.”

Her eyelids are heavy as she blinks them open, vision blurring at the edges. But his eyes are blue and bright burning, and her lips part, her breaths coming out shallow and uneven. He quirks his lips at her, giving her a boyish, dimpled smile, and she’s so focused on him that her orgasm takes her by surprise. It bursts over her, white-hot and dizzying, and she swears the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment is Steve’s eyes, and that stupid, beautiful smile on his face.

He keeps thrusting through her orgasm, dragging it out, making her whimper and claw at his shoulders, and he falls apart on the heels of her high. She feels a little bit like she can’t breathe, a little bit like she’s about to combust, but god, it feel so amazing.

Her body is still trembling, soft shudders rolling down her spine as he leans more of his weight against her, the both of them coming down from their highs. He’s pressed his face into her cheek, his breaths hot against her flushed skin.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, and she thinks (knows) he’s saying something else. Something far more important. Her heart flutters.

She tucks her hands under the hem of his shirt, slides her fingers up his chest. “You can make my Monday better and fuck me.”

He chuckles softly and the sound of it makes her skin tingle, eases the dull ache in her muscles. She tips her head up and covers his mouth with hers in a kiss, slow and deep, tongue sliding out to lick at the seam of his lips. He makes this noise from the back of his throat; not one of surprise, but almost one of relief.

The thought of that – of him sitting in his apartment, wanting her home just as much as she wanted, craving her just as much as she had during her whole damn mission in Rio – almost makes her shiver. Her heart is thrumming in her chest, her pulse racing, her entire body practically vibrating in anticipation and impatience. He must feel her touches growing more desperate, her kiss growing more uninhibited, because he murmurs her name and grasps her hip with one hand, giving it a squeeze, either in reassurance or in restraint. She’s not quite sure. His other hand slides down her side, slips around her front and down the flat of her stomach, cupping her through her yoga pants, and she gasps.

Fuck, she’s already wet. And judging by the way his entire body tenses, Steve can tell.

“Nat, you–” He cuts himself off with a hard swallow, pulling back to hold her gaze. She tries to see hesitance in his gaze, any little sign that means he’s uncomfortable with this, with her, and the fact that she’s missed his touch so much that she’s already melting in the palm of his hand. But there isn’t any at all. No flicker of uncertainty or reluctance. Nothing.

Just the same intensity she knows he must be able to see in her eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” She licks her lips. “I’ve been imagining this for days.”

He lets out a, “fuck,” under his breath and spins them around, hooks an arm around her and hoists her onto the counter, perching her on the edge. His eyes are dark and stormy, swirling with hunger, and maybe even something far more intense. “Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was you,” he tells her, his hands grasping the waistband of her yoga pants, and she lifts her hips up to help him slide them down her legs, along with her panties. She half-expects him to drop to his knees like he’s done every other time he’s lifted her onto this very spot on the counter, but he doesn’t. He skims his fingertips slowly up her thighs as his other hand slides up her back and presses her close, their chests flushed together. She grasps his face, tries to kiss him, but he leans away.

“Steve.” She almost, almost huffs.

“I knew the nature of your mission, and I hated thinking that someone else might be touching you.” His breath is warm against the shell of her ear as he whispers this to her, and her lips part, her breath hitching. He chuckles and dips his head lower, kisses the underside of her jaw. “You’ve done stuff like that hundreds of times. It’s your job, and it’s not my place to be jealous. But I couldn’t help myself.” He nips at her skin, pulling a mewl from the back of her throat as his fingers finally, finally, reach where she wants him most. He strokes her lightly, with two fingers and a barely-there pressure that makes her hand shoot down to curl over the edge of the counter, gripping tightly. “Does that make you uncomfortable? Knowing I was jealous?”

She shakes her head immediately, a little taken aback by how true that is. She has never once belonged to anyone but her employer, and when men would become possessive, it was irritating, but something she barely batted an eye at.

It’s different with Steve, though.

(She’s quickly realizing that almost everything is different with Steve.)

She shakes her head, tries to roll her hips, urge him for more, for faster, for something. “Tell me,” she breathes out. “Tell me what you were thinking.”

He licks the mark of his teeth on her neck, catches her lips with his and muffles the sound she makes when he sinks his fingers into her. She’s already so wet that he slides three fingers in easily, curling, making her gasp and let her head fall back, hitting into one of the cupboards, but she hardly feels it. Every one of her senses is distracted by the press of his fingertips inside her, teasing, pulling her apart little by little.

“I was remembering.” He pulls his lips from hers, grazing her cheek with a kiss so tender and gentle that it’s a little disorienting. “Remembering being inside of you.” He curls his fingers, angles his wrist and sinks in deeper, somehow. She moans. “Remembering how it feels when you fall apart around me.” He kisses her other cheek. “Does it feel as perfect for you as it does for me?”

She jerks her head in a nod, back arching, and then her body tenses when he grips her shoulder, squeezing the bruise that’s still tender from the beginning of her mission. He pauses, but that’s worse, and she whimpers and grasps his wrist, breathing out, “I’m fine, I’m fine, just keep going.”

“Nat–”

“Keep going now. Please don’t stop.”

Fuck, she’s never, ever begged for anyone before, but it spills from her lips before she can quite catch it, and she realizes that she doesn’t want to take it back. She needs him to make her feel good, and it needs to be him.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her once, twice, three times. “Okay, okay.”

And then he’s curling his fingers again, his strokes harder, deeper, the heel of his hand grazing her clit and making her shake.

She wonders, somewhere in the back of her mind, beyond the white-hot haze of pleasure, why it feels so much more intense than she remembers.

“I’ve got you.” He kisses her, soft and sweet, and she lets out a cry, her muscles coiling, tightening, as he drives her right toward that edge. “Just let go, Nat. Let go. Let me take care of you.” He kisses the middle of her forehead, and it’s ridiculous that it’s this simple gesture that tips her over the edge. “Let go, Nat.”

She thinks she says his name as she comes, thinks she must say it over and over again, in time with the rapid beating of her heart, but she can’t really make sense of anything. Her orgasm bursts over her, making her skin tingle, making her body hum, and it feels like every ache in her muscles is swept away in the pleasure that washes over her.

Her body is still trembling when Steve pulls his fingers out, wipes them over his jeans before hooking her legs around his waist and lifting her up. She blinks her eyes open to meet his, and he gives her that dimpled, boyish smile of his as he walks her over to the couch and sets her down. He tries to pull back, but she cups the back of his neck with both of her hands, dragging his lips to hers in a kiss.

“Time for dinner,” he says against her lips, reaching down to pat her hip.

She unhooks her legs but doesn’t let go of him, looking down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. He chuckles and shakes his head, gently prying her hands off of his neck so that he can stand up properly.

“Later,” he promises, eyes twinkling as he reaches for the folded over the back of the couch and drapes it over her. “I need to get some food in you first.”

“Steve.” She doesn’t really mean to laugh, but she can’t help it. Eating is not exactly a priority of hers right now.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks almost in a challenge, one eyebrow raised as he makes his way back to the kitchen. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer. She thinks it was this morning waiting for her flight, but she actually isn’t sure. That’s probably his point. He grins at her from the kitchen. “So, is it a one or two garlic bread kind of night?”

Her stomach growls. “Two,” she calls out, reaching for the remote on the coffee table to switch on the TV. Netflix is already queued up to the next episode of Game of Thrones, and, she realizes with a smile, he’s left it exactly the same. Three days without her, and he’d taken to something else (sketching, most likely, since his sketchbook is sitting on the end table) rather than finishing any of the shows she knows he’s been itching to watch. It’s stupid that she finds it so touching, and even more stupid that she knows she would’ve done the same for him.

He comes back holding two plates of spaghetti with meatballs, each with two slices of garlic bread and almost more shredded mozzarella than marinara sauce, just the way she likes it. He hands her a plate and settles next to her on the couch, kicks his feet up on the coffee table. She’s completely naked under this blanket, and they’re sitting on the couch and eating dinner, and honestly? It wouldn’t be the first time this happened.

(She wonders, not for the first time, how she used to spend her time before Steve came into her life.)