#poor steve

only you walk out of his house with a pretty purple bikini hidden under a knitted white throwover and your hair is tied back and youre smiling at steve and holding towels for the kids and suddenly he can see an entire future with you walking towards him just like this, just this angelic and lovely, over and over again.

"i take it youre surprised," you laugh, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek in greeting. "congrats, by the way. im so proud of you, honey."

honey honey honey honey.

he understands now why you associate the golden substance with love and comfort and tenderness.

"i-" the embarrassing squeak of steves voice makes him want to die. "i-uh. im really surprised."

"good!" you set the towels down and steve can now see every inch of your skin and his face burns like hell. he doesnt know where to look. "i promised the kids we'd have a pool party here when it got warmer, and i figured you wouldnt want to celebrate graduation, so here we are: celebrating graduation with a pool party."

"i-" he cant speak. its fucking humiliating.

"mike found the water guns," nancy suddenly appears, blowing hair out of her face. "we have about five minutes before this party becomes d-day."

she notices steve and smiles at him. "congratulations, by the way."

"mhm," hes resorted to humming.

nancy frowns. "everything alright?"

he nods, jerky, he must look like an idiot, and in the movement his eyes inadvertently fall towards your very exposed, very lovely body, and nancys quick eyes catch it.

"oh, i see." she bites her lip, noticing your confusion. she doesnt know how you cant see the effect you have on the poor boy. "y/n, why dont we go grab steve some water so that he can cool off."

his eyes widen in alarm. "nancy!"

"so he speaks," she giggles, grabbing your hand to pull you away. "c'mon, lets give him a moment."

"i dont understand," he hears you say as you leave. "did something happen?"

nancy laughs, shaking her head. "you look good in purple."

"what-"

the backdoor closes and steves heart feels like its about the give out.

"i thought youd react a little more," jonathans teasing smile steps in front of him. hes just as perceptive as his girlfriend and steve really wants to drown.

"i think i just had a stroke."

jonathan snorts. "alright, buddy. lets get you some water."

“COME HOME” BLURB MASTERLIST

He repeated this torturous cycle. He kept stopping. You didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want him to hold back or try and be gentle. You wanted the palpable, primal passion you unleashed within each other in his office earlier in the week. You wanted to be on each other, hot and desperate and sloppy. “We gotta take it slow,” he’d husk in your ear as he kissed your neck. “I don’t wanna hurt you.” If you didn’t know better, you’d say he liked to hear you beg. Your pleas prompted him to begin thrusting at a steady pace, increasing the speed as he added his fingers to your clit and railed you against the wall.

When heat rushed through you, climax scrambling your cognition, you registered his groaning in your ear. It wasn’t until he rushed off and made his apologies, coupled with the distinctive sound of running water coming from the bathroom, that you registered what had happened. He’d pulled out of you and finished himself off in his hand.

He swaggered back towards you confidently, telling you it was forty minutes until the alarm. You didn’t get the chance to ask him about his little issue as he scooped you up and sat you on the kitchen countertop to eat you out, one hand on your lower back and one gripping your inner thigh until his god damn alarm buzzed. After making sure you were okay and asking for reassurance he stayed within the boundaries of your stamina, he asked you to stay and watch a movie with him. You curled up on the sofa together, tortilla chips in a bowl on his lap, a scratchy green military blanket over both of you that looked like it had been through a war. Maybe it had. He needed to get some fleecy blankets. You would bring one, next time. At his insistence you stayed the night and slept soundly next to him. He didn’t wake until 9am.

The second time with Steve was like revisiting a diner for the burger that blew your mind. You had built it up, rationalising it wouldn’t be as good as you remembered when in reality it was every bit as delicious. Perhaps even more so.

The second time was also a taste of what was to come, visiting one another’s homes and settling into mind-blowing passionate sex the moment the initial nerves subsided. It’s possible you would have continued this pattern of ‘dating’ a little longer. But when you rocked up at his front door on April 29th with a cake and promises of celebratory fellatio, you won a little piece of his heart.

“How old are you, then? I mean, physically? Because you don’t look a day over 42.”

He scoffed. “Well I see it like this. I was born in 1914. 106 years ago. But I went into the ice when I was 27. I was still 27 when I came out. And that was nine years ago.”

“Is this boy maths or something.”

Another scoff. “Somethin’ like that. I guess I’ve had nine years of life since being found on the ice, so… I make that 36.”

“Then Happy 36th birthday, Steve.”

He felt a warmth in his chest as you kissed him. It reminded him of sinking into a hot bath. He wasn’t sure how else to understand the sensation. The only thing he knew is it happened the moment he realised you wanted to know his age so you could wish him happy birthday properly.

Conversely, the US declared a national holiday in 2014 to mark his ‘100th birthday,’ extending Fourth of July celebrations in his honour. Even if he wasn’t busy trying to take down SHIELD and stop those damn Insight Helicarriers from murdering millions and save his best friend in the process, he still wouldn’t have attended that farce. He hadn’t lived a hundred years. He didn’t feel or look like a centenarian. He would have settled for a 30th bash, which nobody threw him. Natasha had asked. That was about it.

Nobody cared about his perspective on his own age, something so deeply personal. But you did.

“Do I really look over 40?”

“Why, want me to blow you again? It’ll take years off you.”

You cared, you were funny and you wanted to blow him. Where had you been all his life?

You quickly settled into a routine, seeing one another at weekends and teasing the fuck out of him at work by wearing the tightest skirt you could find on the days you had meetings together. He would check over his shoulder as he walked behind you. Finding the coast clear his hand would rest on your lower back before snaking down to your cheeks and squeezing lightly. “You’re really gonna get me hard before I sit in this meeting for an hour, huh?” On that particular day, he had stood up when the meeting wrapped, a strategically placed iPad in front of his hips, and requested you see him in his office. He had stood while everyone else remained seated and walked out without another word. It wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. You didn’t exactly have the world’s best poker face at the best of times, never mind when all eyes turned to you in the wake of his obvious proposition. You’d riled him up so much, given him an hour to sit and fantasise about you, that the only suitable location for a tryst was an office with Stark-level soundproofing technology. You moaned loudly as you rode him, pencil skirt hitched up to your waist as he sat in his corporate chair, hands on your hips, wandering now and then to rest over the mound of your arse, squeezing lightly.

“I pulled a few strings,” he told you the following day. “All the Stark Tech’s copied over to your office. Including the most important setting.” You hoped ‘pulling strings’ didn’t involve softly fingering that sweet young thing in Tech Support, Ally with the pastel purple hair. It didn’t. He had simply smiled, leaning over her cubicle and requested all his permissions were duplicated and accessible on your office panel. He had strategically shrugged off his brown leather jacket before approaching Ally, banging out 100 wall push-ups to pump up his arms before he charmed her. Even in a simple grey t-shirt and blue jeans, he was sex on legs. “We’re working together on the documentary logistics,” he smiled, pushing one hand into his hip, flexing his shoulder in the process. “It’s helpful to access my own office settings while I’m there.” The Naughty Time setting was buried several levels deep. Ally questioned it. Steve shrugged and scratched the back of his head, his bicep bulging. “Honestly, I don’t know what that is. Just copy it all over. Make it nice and easy.”

If a career in Ops didn’t work out, acting unfortunately wasn’t for him. Ally narrowed her eyes as she completed the task, Steve’s hands rammed into his pockets despite his Hollywood smile. She could see he was gorgeous. She also wasn’t stupid.

As the months ticked on, you discovered Steve had told the truth on your first night. He wasn’t into anything weird. He had a penchant for sex in your respective offices but this was more a matter of circumstance than a sexual fetish. You were both horny. You were both at work. Therefore, office sex. It didn’t seem like he wanted to get caught. He made every effort to conceal your liaison, walking through your door with a folder containing a pointless printout. “I’m old fashioned,” he would say as he leaned against your doorframe with a smirk. “I prefer discussing emails in person.” He would close the door and toss the folder on top of your filing cabinet before activating Stark’s lewd settings to soundproof your office and asking what you were in the mood for today. Often, your choice was cunnilingus on your office floor.

Your love affair was the worst-kept secret on campus. Everyone knew. Apart from Steve. He made every effort to hide it and acted like it was hush-hush. Maybe he really believed it was.

Perhaps Steve’s most surprising sexual preference was something you dubbed his ‘Kissing Kink’ which he reserved for time-rich weekends. He would kiss you for hours if you let him. On the sofa watching a movie. On top of you, his forearms resting on the bed and pinning you in place, claiming ownership. Or laying on his side, one hand gently stroking your face, your arm, your tummy as he softly leaned over and smooched you. When Steve was in one of his kissing moods, it never led to anything more. It wasn’t foreplay. It was pure enjoyment for him. The main event. You wondered if it was a 1940s thing.

“I just love kissing you,” he would inevitably say at some point during each session.

“Yeah no shit,” you quipped on one occasion. His fingers spread wide over your stomach as he threw his head back and laughed. Steve seemed to laugh a lot more when he was with you.

“What you don’t like kissing me? I can stop,” he threatened with a pout.

He didn’t stop. He continued slowly exploring your lips, his eyes closed, lost in you, gentle, tender, his sensuality equal parts a surprise and a delight. Every now and then he would let out a little hum, a small groan of contentment, much like the first lick of vanilla ice cream on a hot day. His sounds would elicit encouragement from you in the form of a hand on the back of his head, massaging his neck and the base of his scalp with firm pressure through the pads of your fingertips until he moaned a little more. Sometimes your hand would rest there, other times your fingers wound their way into his hair. You liked it long, you told him. You tugged it a little. He moaned a little more.

One Sunday afternoon in June, bird song drifting through the open window, you watched him sleep. He lay on the sofa, one arm bent above his head, the other resting on his stomach. You curled up on the other end next to his feet, reading a YA novel about a teenager who woke up in the future after being cryogenically frozen.

You smiled when Steve opened his eyes, your lips curling in a manner that could only mean one thing. A quip was brewing.

“Go on,” he husked. “Out with it.”

“Oh, I was just thinking of a new name for you.”

He groaned, failing to stop his lips curving into a smile. “You gonna tell me or what.”

“I think,” you gestured excitedly and pointed to him. “You should be called Nap-tain America.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest as laughter lines creased his eyes. “You know that was a line in that damn song they used to make me sing.”

“Oh I know.”

“Please don’t sing it,” he whined. “I’m begging you.”

You crossed your arms. “Doesn’t look like begging to me.”

“Come ‘ere.”

He didn’t have to ask you twice. You curled into the space next to him, laying your head on his chest. He stroked your hair.

“You want me to beg, baby? You want me on my knees?”

Jesus.

You pressed into his chest and looked up at him. “I mean, is that… do you… is that even an option?”

He shrugged. “I think I could be convinced. You are pretty bossy.”

“Pfft.” You lay back down. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is leadership qualities.”

You lay in warm silence, letting time pass, listening to the birds and the low rumble of a tractor off in the distance in the fields of unremarkable upstate New York. Your thoughts drifted. You voiced some of them.

“Steve.”

“Baby.”

“Do you miss home?”

“Hmm?”

“The forties.”

He cleared his throat. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

“And, erm… do you mind me asking what it was like? Waking up after all that time. I know you’ve answered it in interviews a thousand times, but… be honest.”

“I’m always honest.” He stroked your back. “Baby where’s all this comin’ from?”

“I guess I want to know a little bit more about the man I’m sleeping with.” You looked up at him, unfairly cute. Hopeful. As though there was a future in any of this. It made his heart ache. “I know you’re honest. I just don’t want a PR answer. Tell me something nobody knows.”

“Okay.” His fingers found a home in your hair as he stared at the ceiling. “It was difficult. Disorientating. A little… overwhelming. It felt like waking up in a different world. So I, err… I did what I knew how to do. I gathered intel. Caught up on things I’d missed. Movies. Music. There were all these films about time travel. That was before Tony…” he trailed off. “Anyway, that’s how I came to think of it. I time travelled. Woke up in the future. But then I found this family. They didn’t much care who I was. Who I’d been. They ribbed me,” he laughed sadly. “It was like being back in the army. Made me miss Buck a little less. And sometimes, I still miss the old days. When it gets bad, I put on a little music. Old music. But I… I use headphones. So nobody can hear it.”

He stopped talking when he heard you sniff. “Hey, hey, baby… aww. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You looked up at him, tears falling down your cheeks in a way that made you heartbreakingly beautiful. “It’s just so sad, Steve.”

His chest ached for you. For the emotions he’d roused in you. For the emotions he had lost the ability to express. His nose burned. Still no tears came. He looked into your eyes. His voice took on a different tone. One you only heard at work. “We’ve all been through struggles. Life isn’t easy. For any of us. All we can do it take those small baby steps. Day by day. It’s all any of us can do.”

You frowned. “While that’s very sage advice…. I don’t want Captain America right now. I want Steve.”

His nose burned again. His throat closed up.

His eyes remained dry.

“But…” you pushed yourself off him and straddled your legs over him. “If you’re bringing your public persona to our lovely Sunday afternoon then this calls for one thing.”

His lips curled up at the corners again. What’s she planning now….

You reached over the coffee table for your phone, laying inactive next to Steve’s, rose gold and shiny next to sensible matte black. You tapped on your mobile and stood up with a wild grin after switching on the tiny wireless portable speaker you had bought for him. “I’ve been meaning to tell you my favourite 1940s song. I’ve been learning the words and everything. You can find anything on the internet these days.”

“Oh God…”

“And I know you begged me not to sing it, and if you really don’t want me to I won’t, but…”

“Go on…” His cheeks dimpled under the force of a reluctant grin, head shaking and eyes rolling as though in response to bad joke that’s funnier than you’d like it to be.

“Ready?” The trumpets and drumroll began as the song played through the speakers on your phone. You turned up the volume and began to sing. “Who’s strong and brave here to save the American waaaaaaay?” You pointed to him. “Your turn Steve!” He sat up with a sigh and spoke monotone.

“Not all of us can storm a beach.” He rolled his eyes. “But there’s still a way all of us can fight.” He sighed with a grin, rubbing his temples. “You happy?” A delighted squeal was your reply.

“Ooh hang on I missed my part!” You continued singing the song with enthusiasm, breaking into the can-can at one point as Steve clapped along like an appreciative audience member. After the finale of your rendition you plopped down on the sofa, out of breath, a little bounce as you landed making him laugh. “I’m knackered!”

“Really? I thought I’d increased your stamina.” He leaned over and devoured you in a kiss.

You pushed him away with a finger to his chest. “Oh I have a question. But you don’t have to answer – ”

“Let me guess. If I don’t answer, I’m kind of answering.” You were so much like Natasha, especially when you teased him.

“How many of those chorus girls did you sleep with? I’m only asking because if it was me, I’d have banged all of them.”

“If you really wanna know.” He tilted his head with comedic timing, opening his mouth and pausing before the number slipped out. “…zero.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true, baby. America’s best kept secret.”

“What, that you didn’t get sucked off by the singers?”

He flushed. “No. That I wasn’t… I wasn’t exactly experienced at that point.”

Your gasp wasn’t for theatrics. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“You really are the male Britney Spears aren’t you? OH! She’s – ”

“I know. I’m all caught up.”

“Well… if you weren’t experienced back then, you’re certainly more experienced now. If only people knew. Captain America’s shit hot in bed.”

“Not many women are in on that knowledge.”

“How many?”

He held up one hand.

“Five?”

He shook his head. “Less. But I can count them on one hand.”

“Aww…. Stevie…”

He silenced you with a kiss, prompting you to straddle his thighs and rest a palm flat on his chest. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of it. And honestly…” another kiss. “I preferred it when you were ribbin’ me about the song. Reminded me of Bucky.”

You reached towards the coffee table and the fruit bowl you’d bought him, books stacked next to it. A grocery store receipt poked out of the middle of Michelle Obama’s Becoming. You grabbed an orange and started peeling. “Where is he, anyway? Bucky, I mean.”

“Wakanda.” He took the small fruit from you and started peeling it, detaching the pith and placing it on top of the discarded rind, hand-feeding you a segment at a time. “He’s got a couple things to work out. He’s landing in a couple weeks. You should meet him.” He corrected himself when your face lit up with excitement. “I mean, for the documentary. It’d be useful to know him.”

“Steve, I’d love to meet your friend.”

“He’s erm… he’s movin’ in. And Loki’s gonna be here soon. So the Avengers wing won’t just be for us anymore.” Concerned blue eyes sat beneath a creased brow as he popped another piece of orange in your mouth. “We gotta be more careful.”

The moments passed like a week off with no plans as you observed Steve’s solemn features, searching for a break in his expression, a smirk and a laugh that would never come. “Y-you’re…. serious.”

“Well, yeah. Baby, we gotta keep it private.” Picking the white bits off the orange became his sole focus, working on the small fruit with the determination of solving a rubix cube. You placed your hand over his wrist and began to chuckle.

“Steve. Everyone knows.”

Betrayal bled into the lines of his forehead, voice hitching up as mild panic seeped through his nervous system, the fruit rolling onto the coffee table as he discarded it. “Baby, I… I asked you not to tell anyone.”

“Hey hey, relax, I didn’t.” Strong shoulders tensed under your grip as you stroked his upper arms, hoping it soothed him.

With an innocence you never thought possible from a man who was technically a hundred years old, he looked at you, genuinely clueless. “Then how do people know?”

“Steve, you sweet thing.” Soft lips pressed against his forehead. “Because…. it’s obvious.”

He looked off to the side, recalling his words, his actions, the subtle glances he thought were private, the cover of daily hour-long visits one another’s office under the guise of planning the documentary. He reflected on what he thought was his professionalism and carefully crafted wording. He looked back to you, still frowning. “Is it obvious?”

“Well… you’re known for your honesty and you’re also not a very good liar, and I have no poker face, so…” You shrugged and chewed your lip, glancing off at the side and back to him with big, wide eyes.

“Huh. Well…” His hands produced the smallest amount of pressure, grinding you down onto his lap and onto the hardening swell in his jeans. “You do have a pretty strong effect on me. I guess it makes sense that everyone can see it.”

You squealed as he lay you down on the sofa and railed you softly and slowly for the rest of the afternoon.

A protective hand rested on your shoulder as wind swirled your hair around your face, the jet whipping up a frenzy of air as its wheels touched down on freshly laid grass. An audience watched from the three floors of the corporate wing, floor-to-ceiling windows offering viewing points to rival a major airport. Wasn’t exactly stealth. The July sun beat down on recently-laid grass as the jet’s doors opened up, a man with short dark hair and blue eyes smiling at Steve, a brown leather case slung over his shoulder.

“Good to see you Buck.” The two men embraced like family.

“And this is the girl.” He flashed a flirtatious smile. You stepped forward to shake his hand. He lightly grasped your fingers and placed a kiss on your knuckles, smiling. “I’m Bucky, by the way. Steve’s told me all about you.”

“Well not everything, I hope.” You glanced at your man. His expression remained firm, his grip on your shoulder tightening.

“He’s told me enough,” Bucky winked. “Left out the odd detail, but I get the gist of what’s been goin’ on. I knew something was up anyway. He was more chipper than normal.” He glanced at his friend, noting how his arm had moved to grip your waist and hold you to his side under Bucky’s light flirtation. “Joking aside, it’s nice to meet your girl.” He paused for drama. “Wait… she’s not your girl though.” He faked confusion and looked at you conspiratorially. “That’s right, isn’t it?” He pointed between you. “It’s just casual?”

You smirked. The conversation had happened between you and your lover numerous times. Steve wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. Neither were you. He maintained your liaison was still ‘casual and no strings.’ He treated you with respect and consideration. He was gentle. He was hot. The sex was great. There was an ease between you, whether you were in deep conversation or laying in warm silence post-coital or on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You were happy. You both were. You didn’t care for labels, anyway.

Despite this, Bucky calling his friend out on his commitment phobia gave you untold mirth.

“Yeah,” you responded, looking to Steve. “That’s right Bucky. It’s just casual.”

“Ohhh. Okay.” Bucky acted as though he was trying to understand. “Okay, I think I got it.”

Steve stood with his hands on his hips, sighing, face to the sky. “We need to head inside.”

The blonde walked ahead of you, arms swinging as long legs made authoritative strides towards the doors.

Bucky elbowed you and whispered, “Follow my lead, okay?” He spoke louder now. “So, err…. I’ll be movin’ in here. I’m wondering if you can give me a tour.” He winked, glancing at you. “And maybe, err… show me if there’s a good bar around here. Gotta warn ya though. I get pretty rowdy after a few – ”

Steve’s large form whipped around to face you both, a look of ferocity etched into strong features. “That’s enough, Buck.”

“What, I was just asking the lady out, I thought you guys were casual. What’s the problem.”

Stern arms crossed over a large chest, forearms flexing at the motion. One arm lifted up and gestured between you and the winter solider. “You wanna go out on a date with him?”

You chewed on your lip and looked apologetically at Bucky, despite the consensual charade. “I don’t. I’m sorry.” You whispered the last part. He shrugged in understanding. “Steve, do you want me to go on a date with him?”

He sighed again. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Why’s that, Steve?” He raised his eyebrows in challenge and looked at you in mock attraction, as though he would pounce the very second Steve turned his back. The blond stepped forward.

“Because you’re mine.”

Satisfied, Bucky walked past you. His work was done.

“You’re. Mine.” He pressed his chest to yours and seized your face with both hands, kissing you possessively. You pushed him away and gestured to the glass windows lined with silhouettes of more people than you could count.

“Steve, God, everyone’s gonna see us.”

“Good.” He kissed you again. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Baby, do you want me to stop?”

“No… no…”

“You’re mine,” he repeated, resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes. He interlaced his fingers with yours. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “You’re mine.”

Up ahead by the doors, Bucky smiled. At a second floor window, Calamari Bro stood frozen in suspended animation, mouth gaping open, a lentil chip hovering an inch below his mouth. You looked up, shaking your head. Steve followed your gaze and grinned. A strong hand on your lower back guided you in. He looked up again, the figures by the window scattering under the Captain’s attention.

Everyone knows.

Good.

Black leather creaked under your weight as you sat on the sofa, thankful for your vantage point. Steve and Bucky stood facing each other, side-on, giving you the perfect view of his arse in black jeans. Why were his jeans so tight? Why were his shirt sleeves rolled up yet again? He really was such a whore sometimes.

“You sure about this?” Bucky’s hands rested on the zip of the circular leather case as he glanced towards you.

“You can keep a secret right?” Steve’s lips quirked as he turned his head towards you.

You gestured towards the round leather casing. “I mean, it’s obviously a shield.”

“It’s not a shield,” Buck quipped. “It’s the shield.”

You frowned. “Sam has the shield. It’s in Washington. It was all over the news yesterday. He was letting kids hold it, posing with them….” You tilted your head as the realisation dawned on you. The Washington shield was a replica. “You’re a trio of liars, the lot of you.”

“We’re trained killers, what you expect us to have integrity?” The black-haired man grinned. “Anyway, the official word is I’m bringing back a gift from the Wakandans.” He fished out two black hand-held shields. He handed them to you and you turned them over in your hands carefully. Buck gestured in the air as though reading a headline. “Used in The Battle of Wakanda by the great Steve Rogers.” He shrugged. “We’ll put ‘em in a glass case somewhere.”

You looked around the deserted Avengers common area. The artefacts would be donated to the corporate wing, sitting proudly in the large lobby area on the ground floor, flanked by a silver plaque and promoted with a gratuitous press event. Steve sighed at the thought of having his photo taken and shaking hands with a nameless smarm ball, the glass cabinet gleaming behind them. When you looked up, Steve was slipping his arm into the interior leather buckles of his shield. He examined it over his arm, looking at the cracks in the vibranium repaired with Wakandan gold.

“How does it feel?”

“I dunno, Buck. It sorta… brings it all back.”

Gold bled through the red, white and blue of his iconic weapon like lightning. He held it. Proud. Solemn. Sad. You didn’t know why his shield needed to be repaired. Not really. Nobody did. Hearing the mad titan shattered Cap’s indestructible shield didn’t fill the public with confidence ‘during these trying times.’ Civilians didn’t need to feel that level of fear. That was for him to shoulder. All of them. The secret would live and die with the Avengers, Guardians and Wakandans on the battlefield that day. The ground that lay barren like a violent wasteland just several miles down the road. The horrors Steve had faced bubbled up and boiled over in your imagination, no way of knowing the reality was even worse than you pictured.

Lifting the heavy tension he sensed in the room, Steve turned to you, lifting the shield up. “What do ya think?”

“It suits you.”

What else could you say?

I’m sorry for what you went through.

I’m sorry you’re traumatised as fuck and you’ve lost everyone you love and you’ve done it so everyone else got back the people they love. I’m sorry that our gain is your loss.

I’m sorry you’ve given your all, risked your life and sacrificed everything over and over again and you’ve been left with nothing.

I’m sorry at how unfair all of this is.

I’m sorry I can’t take it all away.

Bucky also tried to lighten the mood. “Well, congratulations English, you’re fucking Captain America.”

A raucous laugh spread through you all like wildfire. When you calmed, you stood, walking to Steve and hooking your fingers into his belt loops, asking him to lean down. You could never reach his lips; he was so damn tall. You kissed him. “You look very sexy, baby.”

He wrapped his arms around you, his empty right arm first, overlapped by the shield-laden left arm, until the metal covered all of you from the waist up. Bucky couldn’t see you at all. Just a huge shield and your tiny little legs poking out the bottom. Steve whispered, “Thank you baby. For everything.”

He didn’t know how else to say it.

Thank you for putting up with me.

I’m sorry I haven’t talked about it.

I’m sorry I’m so closed off sometimes.

I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this.

I’m sorry I come with so much baggage.

I’m sorry I can’t give you what you deserve.

“I think you and Buck need to catch up,” you whispered back, leaning against his chest, embracing his warmth, feeling safe and protected. “Oh, and… we’re keeping that shield.” You winked as you walked towards the mini-fridge beside the sofas, oblivious to the tidal wave of emotions rising in the soldier.

“He’s got a hammer, too!” Buck called out.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Thor’s, Buck. It’s not mine.”

“It’s gonna be in Loki’s room apparently…” James leaned into the sofa as he sat, Steve following suit and sitting on the corner sofa at a right angle to his friend.

“Loki can’t lift it,” your man quipped. It was the closest he’d ever been to sounding genuinely cocky.

Bucky grinned. “Spoiler, Steve can lift Thor’s hammer.”

“You fucking what?”

“But hey, if you’ve got a thing for muscly blondes with big hammers, why not date Thor. He’ll live forever, you know.”

You handed Bucky a beer over the back of the sofa. “I’m not gonna date Thor.”

“God, Steve,” Bucky muttered to himself as he sipped on the cold liquid, marvelling at a woman who freely gave him alcohol without even asking. “If you don’t marry her, I will.”

You didn’t hear his appreciative utterances as you strutted over to Steve and handed him a cold brown bottle. “I’ll have you know I’m very happy with this muscly blonde.” He looked up at you from the sofa, seeing your face towering above him like a radiant goddess. “Thanks, honey.”

“You guys have a good time catching up. See you later.” You swaggered out of the room to get back to work. Bucky called out after you in a singsong tone.

“Goodbye, woman that Steve’s definitely not in love with!”

The blond soldier shook his head.

“She’s great Steve. She’s like a cross between Peggy and Nat.” He swigged his beer and paused as the realisation dawned on him. “So that’s why you’re freaking out.”

“Yeah, well. About that.”

“Steeeeeve,” he cautioned, drawling out his name. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“If you break up with her, you and I are gonna have a big fuckin’ problem pal.”

“It can’t last forever, Buck.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he sighed, placing the beer bottle down on the glass end table with a clink. “Because I can’t keep her safe.”

With a heavy sigh and a fist pressing into leather, Bucky stood. He sat down next to his friend, so close their legs were almost touching. Way too close for Steve’s comfort. But maybe stretching his comfort zone was exactly what he needed. “I’m not gonna move until you tell me what’s going on.”

The blonde exhaled. “Both my ex-girlfriends are dead, Buck. That’s not a coincidence.”

He left space to pause, giving his friend time to share more if he wanted to, vowing to answer only when the silence became painful. “Peggy lived a long life and she died of old age. And Natasha – she died saving the universe. That’s not your fault, Steve.”

“Then why does she tell me I should’ve done more to protect her?”

“W-who… who tells you that?” He kept his voice soft, not wishing to scare his friend back into his emotional hidey hole, like a timid cat poking his head out from under the bed.

“You know the dreams? Well…. Natasha’s in them. And she’s blaming me for… for her death. The worst thing is, she’s right. I never should have paired two unenhanced Avengers on the space component of the mission. It was stupid, Buck. Reckless. And… she’s in them, now. My girl. It,” he sighed. “It happened last night. It’s usually Natasha but when I got closer and she turned around, it was my girl. She was covered in blood and – she’s gonna get hurt, Buck. Because of me.”

In a gesture of wordless warmth, James rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve looked down at his hands, picking at the label of the beer bottle. “I shouldda gone back to get Nat when I had the stones.”

“I thought you couldn’t reverse the soul stone.”

“It was Schmidt that was guarding it. I couldda distracted him and let Clint take the hit. Brought Nat back with me.”

“And leave Clint’s family without a father?”

He scoffed and swigged his beer bitterly. “I didn’t seem to have an issue leaving Pepper and Morgan without one.”

“Again, man, that’s not your fault.”

“I begged him to do it, Buck.” Steve began punctuating his words with his palm, the way he always did when driving home a point he was sure he was correct about. “I drove to his house in the country, where he was safe with his wife and daughter, and I talked him round to risking his life. He died. And he died because of me.”

Bucky sniffed and wiped the tears from his face with his fingers. “You’ve been through a lot, Steve. And if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you pal. I know it’s tough for you to open up, I get it. I’m glad you shared with me, I am. The offer’s always open to give you my doc’s details. She’s really helpin’ me.”

“Thanks, Buck. I just… I don’t wanna relive it. It was hard enough the first time around.”

“I get that pal, I do. But you’re living with it every day.”

“I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Alright,” he patted his friends back and stood. “I’ll be here, no matter what.” He walked over to the mini fridge. “Hey have we got any of that Asgardian liquor? Gives me a buzz if I down it fast enough.”

Steve smirked. “Liquor cabinet. Top shelf.”

After downing three shots of Asgardian absynthe, the men loosened up a little. Bucky asked a bold question.

“So how’s the, err…?” He made a wanking gesture with his hand, opening up his fingers to mimic liquid squirting out.

“We’re really goin’ there huh.” A hot blush spread across his cheekbones. “Well… I haven’t.”

“Has she called you out on it?”

“Yeah. But she’s been pretty understanding. She hasn’t held my feet to the fire or forced me to talk about it.”

“Steve I’ve come in a lot of women and none of them are dead. You should get yourself checked. Physically, I mean. To prove you’re okay. Put your mind at rest. And what about the err…?” He trailed a fingertip from the bottom of his eye to his jaw.

“She doesn’t know I can’t cry. But she’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“How’s the sleep these days?”

He breathed out heavily. “When I’m next to her, I sleep like a dream. And when I’m not… the nightmares are even worse than before.”

“So you’re damned if you do, and you’re damned if you don’t.”

A couple more shots of Asgardian liquor and a beer chaser had Steve chewing on his lip on the brink of oversharing.

“You know what I think.” Bucky knocked back another shot. “I think you’re scared. Avoidant attachment style, my therapist calls it. You’re scared of gettin’ too close.”

“I’m not avoidant, Buck. I’m just… cautious.”

“Well what if you don’t have to be. What if it’s your time to finally be happy. Ever thought about that, huh?”

No.

No he hadn’t.

He had to see you. He had to hold you in his arms and kiss you until you told him to stop. And he had to do it right now. Perhaps it was the intergalactic alcohol, giving him a pleasant buzz and shrugging off every last shred of caution from his broad shoulders. Perhaps that’s why he took the fastest possible route to the corporate wing, asking a passer-by if there was a shortcut, repeating their directions under his breath as he broke into a light jog down the unfamiliar route.

He bounded up the metal staircase and through a fire door which swung open into a wide white-walled hallway.

That’s when he froze.

Six framed photographs lined the hall. Gratuitously large. Life-size.

Slowly, he walked forwards, reading the plaques underneath each image.

Thor Odinson

Bruce Banner

Clint Barton

Steve Rogers

Natasha Romanoff 1984-2019

Tony Stark 1970-2019

A roll of nausea swept up into his throat from his stomach. He pressed his hand to his mouth and rushed forwards, rounding the corner and bumping into a wide-eyed young woman.

Emily.

“W-where are the, where are the – ”

She pointed in the direction of the washrooms and he ran, bursting through the door and dropping to his knees in time to empty the contents of his stomach into the ceramic.