Words: 2.5K

Warnings: nudity duh

Your aching body propels you into the compound and pushes you past all of your strangely quiet friends. None of them say a word as you hurriedly go on your way; desperate to get away from the smell of blood and leather. Your heart hammers loudly like it did just a few hours ago back on that battlefield. What had started as another normal mission ended with a dead child cradled in your arms that you'd pulled from the wreckage of a flipped car. You'd tried to save them—you tried to pull the blue minivan out of the way with your powers, but it'd been too late. It'd been crushed beneath the cement awning of a building before you could stop it.

The team knows what's given you that hollow look in the eyes. Clint was the first to find you knelt on the asphalt after the battle was done. Steve, on the other hand, was the only one who was able to pull you up from the carnage. He'd hooked those big warm arms around you to pull you to your feet—the sound of siren's and a devastated mother's screams being all you could hear in your blood-clogged ears.

As fast as you can you run away to your room on the seventh floor. Wanda's already outside of her apartment—the one across from yours—when you fumble to open the lock. She's got a look on her face that tells you she's feeling something deep and dark inside of you and it's worrying her.

"Y/N..."

"Not now, Wand." You don't bother saying anything more before closing her out into the hall. You slam the door and then march straight for your bathroom; you nearly feel dead yourself when you manage to lock the washroom door and lean against the wall. That's when the tears willingly start to fall after being held hostage for so very long. You didn't want anyone on the team to see you cry. They already see you as the baby; they don't need any more reason to coddle you.

Your fingertips burn like fire while you strip yourself of the blood-drenched uniform. The soggy black spandex puddles on the floor near your feet while you sniffle and shiver. At the back of your mind all you can think about is the dead weight of that small little boy that nestled into your lap... his eyes blown wide and skull cracked open down the middle. There'd been no saving him or his big sister in the backseat.

The water from the shower comes out freezing cold. The painful shivers that wreck your body help to numb the internal pain. You quickly cover yourself with thin dew before slumping down onto the floor of the stall where you can draw your knees to your chest in a huddle. The water lightly splashes you from down here; caked blood rushes off of your legs and feet from where you've been hit by debris.

You're in there for an hour before something rattles the door. It sounds like a knock, but you're not entirely sure. There's a muffled voice on the other side.

You sigh. "FRIDAY, who's that?"

The computer responds with, "Captain Rogers, Agent Y/N."

You run your hands down your cold, numb face. The water is still frigid as ice. "What does he want?"

"He's showing concern for your wellbeing, Miss. He appears to be upset."

You close your eyes to the persistent noise of Steve Rogers knocking on the locked bathroom door. You can just barely make out the sound of his gentle voice on the other side... "Y/N? Are you okay?"

"Should I send him away, Miss?" Friday obediently asks.

You shake your head—bits of water splashing around. "No, it's alright." You pause before saying, "Let him in."

The loud click of the door's lock coming open startles both you and Steve. He stands back staring at the thing before ultimately turning the knob. He lingers in the doorway, swallowing stiffly before gently stepping in. "Y/N?"

"What is it, Steve?" you grunt rather impatiently.

Steve lets himself into the bathroom—relieved to see that your shower does in fact have a thick blue curtain that he can't see through. Part of him is a bit disappointed, but he shoves that train of thought away and remembers why he's here in the first place.

"You've been in here a really long time. I wanted to make sure you were okay." His voice is familiar and melodic as an orchestra violist—the notes in his tone long and beautiful.

"I'm not okay," you come to admit quietly. You can vaguely make out the shape of him through the shower curtain as he takes a seat on your closed toilet lid. "I don't know how I'm supposed to be okay after all of this."

"This is part of the job, Y/N," Steve sighs. He sounds so regretful, you wonder for a moment why he's even chose this life for himself. Then you remember: he really didn't.

Again your hands come to rub tiredly across your face and eyes. You push on your temple in hopes the throbbing will subside. "I know. I just need a minute."

"What you need is to talk to someone," Steve adamantly says.

You let a sigh flitter from your lips. You would give anything to see his face right now—the soft slope of his jaw, the defined muscles of his cheeks. Those pretty blue eyes that for so many weeks now have been the only thing to bring you peace. His lips—god damn, those lips will be the death of you if this job isn't. Steve first kissed you two weeks ago. Well, it was technically you that made the first move. He's a bit bashful when it comes to these things. You've shared a handful of intimate moments here and there now; nothing's ever going past his hands under your shirt or your lips on his chest. You've both enjoyed taking it slow, but secretly wish it was something more. Like now, for instance, when all you want is to be in his arms and to hear him say that he loves you—the words whispered right into your ear.

"I'm not very good at talking," you finally admit. You see Steve's head tilt to the side slightly—the outline of his body shifting just a bit to the right. He must be frowning, because that's what he does when he tilts his head like that.

"I know. But it'll make you feel better."

Again you sigh. You've never been very skilled at verbalizing your emotions. Steve knows this because even before the romance started he'd been your friend: egging you to be your best and to open yourself up to him when you hardly trusted anyone else.

"Y/N?" Steve says your name after a moment of silence gone on for too long.

You decide it's time to speak. You may as well get it over with. "It's my fault, Steve."

You hear him let out a huff of breath. "Y/N..."

"No, please just let me finish." You wait to see if he will or if his stubbornness will kick in and force him to interrupt you. But he stays silent. All you can hear is the downpour of the freezing shower water and the creaking joints of your body. "We both know I could've done a lot more today: I could've saved so many more lives. But I got overwhelmed and lost my focus. Because of that, there are a dozen more people that are dead. A mom is going to have to bury her babies because I couldn't get my shit together out there today."

"Y/N, I know it feels like it's your fault. Believe me; we've all had those moments." You see Steve rise up from his spot on the toilet and lean against the counter. He's tall and thick and masculine as his outline starts to pace the bathroom floor. "And it's awful—it's really awful, but sometimes things go wrong out there. We can't save everyone."

Your eyes close so tight. A tear stumbles down your cheek. "It's just so hard."

Steve's voice is tender—sweet like saltwater taffy. "I know."

There's a long period of silence. Steve must be thinking, but all you can focus on is his presence and how deep your longing is for him to be closer. Then there's his voice breaking through that sends a chill down your spine.

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. I just know that sometimes these things are harder to deal with when you're alone, and I don't want you to ever feel like you're alone." He pauses, seeming to breathe deeply before going on. "Because you're never alone, Y/N. I'll always be here for you."

Despite all your pains, a smile manages to pull at your lips. "That's funny that you say that, because I was just thinking about how nice it was that you're here." Your voice is relatively meek, which is surprisingly uncharacteristic of you. Steve's always known you to be loud and proud. But now? Well, you're nearly ready to beg on your knees for his affections.

"Really?" Now Steve's the one who sounds meek.

"Yeah." You pause—staring up at the ceiling. The water that falls down is white and sharp like bullets of ice. You're struck with a thought—a desire, really—and in your weakest moment you can't seem to stop yourself from verbalizing it. "Hey Steve?"

"Yeah, Y/N?" Steve's taken a position near your bathroom window. The outline of his body gives the appearance that he's looking out at the view.

You swallow stiffly. "I really need you right now."

At your words, his body turns. "Huh?" He sounds clueless and dumb; nothing like Captain America.

You nearly giggle, but your heavy heart won't allow it. "Can you join me, Steve?"

The tips of your fingers are numb in anxious wait. You're dying to have him near—to smell his scent and be in the warmth of his embrace. But you know how old fashioned he is. Besides; you may be nothing more than a good make-out partner in his mind.

This is the moment of truth, really.

Steve takes a slow, steady step closer to the shower curtain. "Y/N, are you sure?"

"I want to be with you. I don't need anything else. I just want you close to me. So yes; I'm very sure."

Your honesty takes Steve for surprise. He blinks at the navy blue curtain, imagining you standing on the other side with those sad little tears in your eyes, and suddenly can't stop himself from unbuckling his trousers.

"Alright. If that's what you want," is Steve's reply.

You wait a moment: listening to the rustling of his tight clothes and his loud breaths. The water still pours cold, and your body aches all over. The only thing distracting you from all the pain now is the prospect of soon seeing your life-long crush Captain America stark naked.

The curtain slowly peels open. Your chin lifts. You're met with the sight of a tall, delicious man with messy blonde hair and wide sapphire eyes. Oh lord; he's a vision like no one's ever seen. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of all those toned muscles that lead down to his thick, limp manhood that hangs low on his thigh.

Steve's eyes drink you in just as eagerly. But he forces himself to stop when he notices that you're still partially covered in blood.

"The water's too cold, Y/N. You're going to make yourself sick," Steve scolds you. You nearly roll your eyes. Leave it to Steve Rogers to lecture you in your most intimate moment. But you don't argue with him; only watch as his toned arm reaches for the handle of the shower. He brings the temperature up to a warmness that your body's been lacking for a while now. Steam billows out and you nearly curl away at the sudden shift.

Steve settles down on the floor of the shower across from you. While you sit with your legs to your naked chest, he does the same. Your faces are parallel but he's a taller, so you have to look up a little.

"Is this okay?" he mumbles.

You nod, smile soft and weak. Then you see him coming closer and your heart picks up speed. You close your eyes just as you feel his lips pressing to yours. It's gentle, tender kiss that envelopes your heart in some sort of heavenly embrace. You want to drown in the taste of his peppermint lips, but soon he's pulling away.

"You're still covered in blood," Steve notes with a gnarl between his brows. His eyes dance over your face and matted hair down to your shoulders where the soupy carnage has dribbled.

"I couldn't bring myself to wash it," you admit quite ashamedly.

But Steve doesn't judge you. He understands. Instead, he rises to his feet and then reaches out a hand—gesturing for you to do the same. You let him pull you up into the real warmth of the shower; you hiss a bit as the heat touches your icy skin.

"Can I...?"

You nod, feeling his hands already playing with the ends of your hair. Then Steve's turning you around and reaching for the closest bottle of shampoo—it's your lavender one that he made a comment on the last time you were together, telling you that he thought you smelled absolutely wonderful.

Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers comb through your locks. Expertly, as if he's done this all his life, Steve's hands knead into your hair to massage your head and pull out all the blood. You press back slightly into him with each passing moment—your wet, soapy bodies molding into one.

"You're amazing, do you know that?" Steve whispers in your ear. "You're brave and bold; strong and resilient. And on top of all of that," he pauses to gently kiss your jaw from behind, "You're absolutely beautiful."

You hum your appreciation—unable to do much more than that.

After Steve's washed and rinsed your hair, he moves to hold you against him under the stream. There you just rest in his embrace, nestled in his arms like a Russian nesting doll, and listen to the sound of his heart from where your head is pressed to his breast.

"Steve?" you mutter against him.

You feel his fingers carding lazily through your wet hair. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Your heart throbs at the new nickname. You've never been called anything like that by him before. "Does it get easier?"

Steve sighs. You feel his breath atop your head. "Not alone. But it helps when you have someone."

Your head turns up. Chin resting on his collarbone, your eyes peer up to his pretty face against the light. "And how long will I have you?"

Steve blinks. Fingertips smoothly trace the muscles of your damp back as his pretty lips form the words, "You'll always have me, Y/N. You'll never have to do this alone. I'm here for you; now and always."

You smile. Head nestled back against his chest; you wrap your arms tighter around his waist. And with Steve's tightening hold on you, you feel as though maybe—just maybe—you're going to be alright.