Word Count: 3K

Warnings: language

"Rise and shine, motherfuckers."

There's a series of unanimous groans from the team who sleeps around the crowded hotel room. Steve Rogers, AKA the righteous Captain America with the miraculously perfect bed-head hair, grunts displeasingly at my loud call.

"Why do you insist on being the loudest, brashest person I've ever known?" He stuffs his head back into the pillows. Unlucky for him, he's using the pillow that Bucky's had his bare feet on all night since they slept head-to-toe. Lucky fuckers—Nat and I had to take the floor.

"Because I know it pisses you off, Captain Crunch. Now get your fat ass out of bed before I come over there and make you."

Sam Wilson pops up from his spot on the couch. "Is there complimentary breakfast?"

I gape at him. "Complimentary... for fuck sake, Sam. This isn't a vacation."

Steve's grunt causes my attention to turn back to him as he's rising out of bed in a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. "That's for damn sure." Good god, he's deliciously toned.

"Stop whining, you senior citizen aged baby. You're just lucky I woke you up before Fury called and started screaming at us like he did last time."

Bucky paws at his eyes sleepily. "Last time you dragged us all out for a night of excessive drinking and vodka shots. We all had hangovers, thanks to you."

"Minor detail." I swish my hand in his direction.

"Will you all stop blabbering? It's only five A.M. and you've already given me a headache," Nat gripes.

"That's Y/N's fault." Steve points at me on his journey to the bathroom. "She never shuts up."

I roll my eyes, but somehow my gaze manages to stay cemented on his perky ass when he passes. "Fuck you, Rogers."

While I know he'd never say it back word for word, his response is the routine: "Right back at you."

There are two missions to be accomplished today. One: stop an illegal arms deal that the FBI intercepted but didn't have the resources to squash. And two: annoy the absolute shit out of Steven Grant Rogers.

Honestly, it's what I live for.

Gone are the days of absolute boredom and routine at the SHIELD academy where I excelled over every single one of my peers and intimidated them all to death. When I'd never had friends or foes to keep me occupied through the strenuous days and lonesome nights. Now, I can have both through my induction into the Avengers team. It's been five months since Stark brought me on, and I love every minute of it. Nat's keeping me on my toes with our training sessions, Sam's given me someone to watch shitty comedies with, and Steve's the source of all of my fun (whether he likes it or not). And believe me you, he really fucking hates it.

"What the hell is wrong with you!? Can you not just follow orders like everyone else on this team?"

Ah, there he is—God's righteous man, screaming at me from the back cab of the quinjet.

"I have no problem following orders as long as they're good ones." I twirl a toothpick between my teeth while casually inspecting the knife cut I've gained across my upper thigh. It ripped through the dark grey material of my spandex pants to reveal a nasty flesh wound underneath. It's all red and grisly and smells of fresh meat.

Steve stomps closer on heavy booted feet. The rest of the team is forced to stick around us, because the plane is only so big, but they all pretend not to be listening in while I get reprimanded... again.

"You're in no position to be making decisions on whether orders are right or wrong. You should be taking them without question."

"As long as they're from you, right Captain America? Because you're the top of the food chain here and everyone else falls below." I speak slow and lethargically in attempt to piss him off even more. He's made me mad by embarrassing me in front of the entire team, not to mention the fact that I singlehandedly saved the mission after Sam's gadget failed and the package had to be brought in manually.

Steve's hands turn into fists. His face has taken on a similar shade of red to the ring of his shield that he's now got strung up against his strong back.

"That's it," Steve growls. The lack of control in his voice actually startles me. I've never heard him so livid. And I know exactly why when he says, "You're off of this team."

Everyone's heads snap up, while my heart snaps straight in half.

"Wh-what?"

"You heard me, Agent. You're done."

I fly up from my seat with anger and panic coursing through my veins. "The fucking hell I am! You don't have the right—"

"And you don't have the right to question authority and jeopardize the safety of this team!"

"I got the fucking package!" I scream in my own defense.

"You brought down a building!" Steve shouts in response.

I turn my face to the ground, feeling shame crawling up my spine. "Minor detail," I say the phrase softly—with hardly any backbone now.

Steve stalks away while my head is dropped. He stomps back to the exposed cockpit before flopping into pilot's seat. "When we get back to the compound, you're to go straight to your dorm and pack your things. Barton or I will fly you out at sunrise."

I risk looking up at him—how his hands are clenched tightly onto the stick of the bird and his back erect with stress and big-headed dignity. I can make out a vague reflection of his face in the glass. His hard jaw and tight-wound eyes are set dead ahead. Maybe he sees my reflection, too, but he makes no show of it.

I open my mouth to argue. I want to scream. I want to punch someone.

But I'm too tired for any of that.

Instead, my shoulders droop and my voice becomes a meek little whisper. "Yes, Captain."

The last thing I see before turning is Steve's momentary shift in expression in the glass windowpane. He looks confused, probably having expected more of a fight, but I've just surrendered.

I turn on my heel and walk away—going to hide out in the back bunker until we touchdown at my home for the very last time.

No one even attempts to talk to me after the confrontation with Steve. Maybe it's their way of silently taking sides. If that's the case, I feel really fucking betrayed. We've had so many good times together... these past five months have been the best of my life. I've made friends with practically everyone—even the cleaning ladies who come every few days to scrub my bathroom floor. I even thought that Steve liked me just a little: beneath all of our bickering and teasing I always held a bit of hope that he was harboring the same little-more-than-friends feeling that I was.

All those hopes have been crumpled. Eradicated, really, because he's the one who's forcing me off of the team and crushing my dreams.

I sit on my little twin bed facing the window. A knot is tied up in my throat that I can't seem to untangle. As plain as it is, I'm really going to miss this room. Stark said it was the newbie room and that I'd earn a bigger one at the six month mark. One month to go—I was really looking forward to it.

Not anymore.

My bags, only two of them, are sitting on the floor beside me. Nausea sweeps over me when I look down at the luggage and realize that when I leave here, the contents of these torn-up bags will be the only things in my life with any value. I won't even have any friends.

Someone softly knocks at my door. I ignore them. If it's a goodbye, I'd be shocked. No one's spoken to me in the past two hours we've been here. Everyone's given me the silent treatment. And if it's someone to take me away, I don't want to let them in.

The door creaks open without my permission. I see his shadow fall across the wall in front of me. I want to groan. It's Steve; fucking figures. I should've known.

"Are you, uh, almost ready?"

He sounds unsure of himself, but he stands tall like a man who has a plan.

"No." I keep staring ahead and out the window. "I'm watching the sunrise." I turn my chin towards him now, watching as his pupils dilate when they stick onto my face. "Can't you at least let me have that?"

He hesitates, but finally nods. Then he comes ambling into the room, closing the door softly after him. He's changed out of his uniform and now wears one of those tight shirts that dad's sometimes wear to baseball games—the ones with the blue capped sleeves and the white cotton torso. He's got a stupid cap on his head that's all scuffed up and his shoes are tied too loose.

"I didn't say I needed company," I snap. I scoot closer to one side of the bed away from him when it looks like he's going to help himself and take a seat. "I want to be alone."

Steve doesn't say anything for a minute. He's taken a seat. He looks at the same slow sunrise that I do, then he finally manages, "We both know that that's not true."

My nostrils flare as I let out a long huff of air. "Well, maybe it's not." I cross my arms over the soft material of my sweatshirt that Bucky let me take as a hand-me-down. It smells a bit like metal still. "But I certainly don't want your company."

Steve's blue eyes momentarily flutter shut, almost as if it's painful to keep them open. "Y/N, I'm sorry..."

"No you're not, or you wouldn't be here to take me away." I glare at him fully now; no longer caring about the beautiful sunset. The colors red and orange warm his flawless complexion and make his hair seem gold and not blonde. "That's what you're doing here, isn't it?"

Steve refuses to answer me directly. "You have to understand where I'm coming from, Y/N."

"I don't understand. I don't understand, I never will, and I really fucking don't even care enough to try to." I finish hurriedly so that my voice won't break. It sort of starts to crackle near the end but I'm hoping he doesn't notice.

"This lifestyle," Steve begins in that voice that makes my heart thunder and skin shiver. I grit my teeth and force myself to stare at the clouds dotting the sky and not the few freckles dotting his cheekbones. "It isn't for everyone. And maybe it's for you, but I just don't think you're ready for it yet."

"I don't care to hear your preaching, Cap. And I don't need you to tell me what I'm ready for or not; because I know fully fucking well what I'm ready for." I silence and stare ahead at the sun. It's growing brighter by the second. I wonder how much longer I have. Steve doesn't say anything. He's watching the sunrise, too.

"I thought we were friends," I whisper into the silent void.

Steve's head turns towards me—his blue gaze breaking away from the scenery and cementing onto my face instead.

"We are."

I grit my teeth. I feel sick to my stomach. "No, we're not."

Steve looks to his lap. His hands are knotted there.

"This was all I had," I say. I look around the room slowly—at the nick in the wall where I accidently shot one of Barton's arrows, the crooked and empty picture frame where I had the shot from the concert Wanda took me to, and the place on the windowsill where I kept the little alien gadget Tony let me keep from one of his hauls. "For the first time in my life, I felt like I had something—like I belonged somewhere." I give my head a soft shake and can feel my loose hair bushing against my shoulders. "But apparently I'm 'not ready' for that." I stand from the bed; tired now of the stupid sunrise and the smell of Steve's cologne. "Because you've decided to take it all away from me."

I grab one bag by the handle and swing the other over my shoulder. Steve still hasn't responded to what I've said. He looks shocked, if I'm being honest—maybe even a little regretful. But I don't have enough energy in me to care.

I start heading towards the door. I assume he'll follow.

"Wait, Y/N."

"I don't wanna hear it, Steve." I tug my things behind me and finally reach the closed door. But as soon as my hand is on the knob and a sliver of light from the hall is falling onto my boot, a hand is pressing against the wood and slamming it back into place. I startle slightly while cranking my neck back to gawk at Steve in wonder.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He's not even out of breath from his miraculously fast run from the bed. Steve, who smells like sunshine and looks like a Greek god from this close up, blinks quickly as he stares down at me. His head shakes left and right ever so slightly.

"I can't let you leave."

I roll my eyes. "Please, Cap. This isn't the time for another inspirational speech. I don't wanna hear any more of your bullshit."

"No," Steve argues firmly but quiet. "I made a mistake." My ears pick up on the sudden desperation in his voice and I'm immediately intrigued. "I made a huge, rash mistake and I can't let you leave."

I set my bags down at my feet. Crossing my arms, that's as much distance as our bodies have between each other. He's practically pressed against me with one hand still suctioned to the door to keep it firmly closed.

"Explain." I raise an eyebrow.

Steve takes a deep breath. With the outtake of air, he reveals, "You piss me off, Y/N. Singlehandedly you make me madder than anyone has in my entire life. I don't understand you ninety nine percent of the time, and I sure as hell don't usually appreciate your attitude."

"Wow, thanks."

"Let me finish." Steve blinks and waits until I've silently nodded approval for him to go on. "You drive me absolutely crazy, Y/N, but you're a damn good agent. You question me on every single thing I do, and today it'd been the last straw. But you know what? Maybe I need that. Maybe I need someone who will cut the bullshit and tells me when I'm right and when I'm wrong. And you certainly don't have any problems with telling me when I'm wrong." At this I crack the tiniest of grins to mimic the one he wears.

"That's quite the realization to come to in half of a minute of walking towards the door," I mutter half-jokingly.

Steve shakes his head. "I feel like I've known that all along," he tells me seriously. His blue eyes shimmer just slightly before he goes on. "What I really just realized though was that if you walked out of that door hating me, I'd spend the rest of my life hating myself ten times as much."

I can't help it—my eyes drop to his pink little lips. "Well, I don't super hate you."

Steve smirks. My attention is still at his mouth, and he knows it. "Do you hate me enough to push me away if I tried to kiss you right now?"

My eyes dart wide back to his. He's staring down at me, looking very serious and nothing like a joking man.

"No."

He blinks confusedly. "No you'd let me or no I shouldn't...?"

I interrupt his stupid blabbering by latching both my hands to the sides of his neck and drawing his face towards mine for that long sought-after kiss. His lips are slack yet firm beneath my own and in an instant he's moving and molding against me like he's been dreaming about this for as long as I have. His hand on the door beside my head stays there while the other reaches up to cup my jaw—his thumb rough but soft as it roams up my cheek and then his fingers knot into my hair. He tastes a bit like coffee but mainly like a flavor I can't name: something warm and familiar. I feel his body pressing around me from all sides and it takes everything in me not to whimper or moan.

Steve pulls away, a bit of my lipstick smudged on his chin and his eyes hooded. His forehead presses to mine and he whispers, "Please stay. I'm so sorry."

I close my eyes and relish the feeling of his nose brushing against mine. "Oh hell yeah I'm staying. But get this through your tiny little brain, asshole, it's not because of you." I'm slightly breathless and already hungering for another kiss, but I still have plenty of spitfire left for him. "So don't be getting too cocky on me now, Captain."

Steve chuckles. I can feel his chest rumbling against mine. "Yes ma'am." He leans down to kiss the corner of my mouth—leaving me panting for more when he nibbles on my lower lip and his hand squeezes my waist.

"You're a—a real jerk, you know that Rogers?" I stutter.

Steve smirks. "But you like me," he teases with a hum and a long, lusty kiss to my throat. I rear my head back against the door before attaching our mouths once again in a searing kiss.

I smile into his kiss—my hands already tugging at the end of his shirt. "Minor detail."