Warning: short bit of smut in the middle somewhere

Words: 4.8K

"I just want a nice, easy life. What's wrong with that?" you groan into the muggy air as another Hydra body drops before your feet.

"Join the club, sweetheart," you hear Steve chuckle behind you. He's got your six with his shield lifted to stop the gunfire that comes from the snipers across the Egyptian marketplace street. Luckily all of the locals scattered when they heard the first round of bullets so there's no worries about civilian casualties.

Stepping over the fresh corpses at your feet you reload your gun. "Speaking of our lives," you go on in a breathless tone—tired already from this surprise attack. "You wanna see a movie this weekend?" You wipe some dust from your forehead and go on. "That new Tom Hanks film is out. I know you really like him. Thought we could see an early show and maybe grab something to eat, too."

Steve clears his throat stiffly. Someone, probably Bucky, shoots down the enemy sniper and the raining of bullets stops. Steve gets the chance to drop his shield and look back at you. "Uh, sorry Y/N. I've got another... thing... going on this weekend."

You let out an exasperated breath. "Sounds fake but okay."

Steve opens his mouth but your lifted arm, gun aimed at his head, has his eyes wide. He ducks out of your way while you shoot down an enemy agent that was sneaking up through the shadows behind him.

Moving on as if nothing happened, you flip your hair and sashay away. Steve hurries to catch up to you in long strides. "Are you ever going to take me out? Or am I going to have to make an appointment to be fitted into the Captain's schedule?"

Steve swallows heavily at the annoyed tone of your voice. The two of you have had a casual "flirtationship" as Sam Wilson puts it, for the last few months. Steve's been hesitant to push it anything past frivolous and into the more serious territory. You, on the other hand, are completely oblivious to his concerns and ask him out once every few weeks now: being turned down every damn time.

"I'm just really busy right now," Steve argues lightly. He doesn't want to upset you or offend you in any way. He really likes you—he does, honestly. It's just... well, it's hard to admit that the truth of the matter is that he's terrified that after a few dates he'll realize he more than just 'like-likes' you. He knows it wouldn't take long out of the workplace for you to completely capture his heart. You're strong-willed, stubborn, and smart. Everything about you is enamoring. The quick wit was the first thing to drag him and then the deal was sealed when you first kicked his ass in an intro training session after you were brought onto the team from your high ranking position at SHIELD. Then there's the unmistakable fact that you're the prettiest dame he's ever damn seen. You're gorgeous in your sweaty combat clothes, so he knows you'd be completely irresistible in an evening dress.

"Like I said," you say, "Sounds fake." You step around another body and assess the street for any lingering foes.

Steve stutters beside you. "It's—it's not."

"Sure, Stevie." You flash him a quick smile to mask the fact that this constant disappointment is slowly killing you inside. You spot movement as you glance to your right and automatically reach out to pull Steve out of the way. A parade of bullets spirals through the air where he was just standing. While you're busy saving his ass he smoothly grabs the extra gun you keep on your waist—shooting down the newest target with a hit to the foe's shoulder. He hates making kill shots. He avoids them at all costs.

When the Hydra agent falls you shoot him in the head.

You carry on with the conversation. "If you don't wanna go out with me Stevie just say so. I don't wanna keep making a fool out of myself by asking." You let go of his arm that you used to yank him to your side and start walking off again to the meeting point. "It really shouldn't be that hard either way," you keep talking. "All you gotta do is say, Y/N; I don't want to go out with you."

"Y/N," Steve's voice sounds to your side. "I... I don't want to go out with you."

You stop immediately in your tracks. Steve's ocean blue eyes lock onto your face. The color of them suffocates you until you feel like you'll drown and die. You didn't think he'd actually take your advice. He never listens to you! Now's the time he actually does?!

"Oh." You clear your throat and move your gaze somewhere besides his rotten, handsome face. "Well, thanks for letting me know, I guess."

Steve lets out a long sigh after you've shoved past him—not missing how you purposely step on his booted foot on your way past. He saw the hurt in your eyes. He regrets what he's said immediately. His fight or flight instincts kicked in. And with as much fighting as the Captain does, he found himself seeking out that flight reaction. He's scared. And now he realizes that this fear has driven him into making a mistake.

"Y/N wait," Steve's been standing frozen under the hot Egyptian sun but snaps out of his trance as you grow farther away. He's too far away to help as a Hydra agent rushes you from somewhere unknown. Steve's shout of your name is startling.

Your eyes widen upon seeing the Hydra attacker with a raised arm. The knife glints in the sunlight as he makes to stab down at you.

It doesn't take much effort on your part to roll out of the way. "I'm really not in the mood for this," you gripe. Then, while he makes to get you again, you kick him in the gut. He staggers back once before managing to swipe the blade along your arm. You hiss and grow mad enough to just pull out your gun again and shoot him in the center of the chest. The blood splatters on your clothes as the agent slumps to his knees: dead.

Steve's suddenly at your side. His fingertips latch themselves on your arm where he tries to inspect your wound. "Oh god, Y/N..."

"What?" you snap and whip your arm out of his grasp. "This is nothing. I've been hurt a lot worse." The accusing tone to your voice isn't accidental. You really shouldn't be so upset. You were the one who pressured Steve into admitting the truth. If only you weren't so damn persistent...

"Let me look at it, at least." Steve swallows thickly. "I can help..."

You interrupt him impatiently. "This isn't a damn movie, Rogers. Stop being so dramatic."

Steve's sad blue eyes stay locked on you as you march down the street. You've picked up your radio to page the others.

"On my way back," you say.

"You're alone? Where's Steve?" Nat's voice sounds from the other side.

You roll your eyes. You glance over your shoulder where Steve slowly follows a few paces behind. "No, the idiot's here with me."

"Okay. Stark got the subject. We'll lift off in fifteen. Hurry up." Nat's line goes static.

The jet has its cloaking device enabled when you near the landing sight. The only way you can tell that it's is the indents in the sand that the wheels are leaving. The engine revs in the air and your hair flutters back. With that the cloak is lifted and the jet crackles into plain sight. Nat's in the pilot's pit with Clint as the back entrance lowers open with a noisy groan.

The stomping of your boots is echoed by Steve's feet behind you. "Can we talk at least?"

"I'm not in the mood." You flick some of the blood off of your soggy arm onto the ground—splattering it—as if for effect.

Bucky Barnes is leaning up against one of the inner jet walls. He talks to Sam but silences as you march past. It's noticeable that you walk ahead of Steve instead of beside him, and how your teeth greet behind your rosy cheeks.

"Oh you got a little somethin' on your arm there, Agent." Sam chuckles to himself stupidly while pointing out your painfully obvious wound.

You manage to roll your eyes while walking past. "Got a little pubic hair on your chin, Wilson," you retort dryly.

Sam's smile falls as he self-consciously grapples at his scraggly facial hair.

Bucky makes eye contact with Steve as you walk up the stairs to the overhanging second level. Bucky raises a brow, as if asking, "What the hell did you do?" but he already knows the answer. Steve only sighs and shakes his head.

Steve's still making to follow you up the stairs. Bucky stops him, though, grabbing his friend's bicep with his metal hand. "Leave her alone. You're not gonna win yourself any favors by following her around and annoying the hell outta her."

"But," Steve pauses and glances up the way you left. You seem to have disappeared into the cabins while the jet readies to lift off. "I don't know what I was thinking, Buck."

Sam, who has sensed the juicy secrecy of the interaction, comes closer to hear. "What happened?"

"She... she asked me to go to a movie," Steve replies. "I told her I was busy."

"Again?" Bucky quirks a brow. "You've blown her off every weekend, Steve."

"That's not the worst part." Steve rubs the back of his neck.

Meanwhile, you're upstairs in one of the little bed lofts. There's a lush living area on this expensive SHIELD jet and boarded up bedrooms to help agents sleep before missions. It's sort of hard to sleep though knowing that the prisoners are kept in the quadrant just below. This time Stark's got a deranged Hydra sympathizer trained in nuclear bombs. Nothing's going to be done about the guy though until you land at HQ. Tony's not very good at interrogations. Neither are you, for that matter. You always end up playing "bad cop" to the extreme—chucking things at the wall and throwing death threats around like candy at a parade.

Seated on the corner of the stiff bed you've set up the first aid kit. You've ripped off your shirt, only in a tank top, as you clean your wound. The angle of the gash is hard to properly see but you attempt it with a propped up makeup mirror. Cleaning and sanitizing will be the easy part. Stitching, as you see that you will certainly need to put in a few, will be harder.

As many times as you've done this, giving yourself stitches never gets easier. It takes a lot of willpower to willingly prick yourself with a needle and thread bloody flesh closed. Now, your foul mood combines with the complications of a gash you can't properly reach, and the whole process is a disaster. You grit your teeth as the needle misses the mark and causes more blood to trickle down your arm—staining the white bedsheets.

Someone knocks on the door.

"I'm busy," you reply. Whoever is on the other side hears the crackle of defeat in your voice and decides to come in and check on you. Steve appears. You scoff. "What're you doing here?"

"I came to check on you." His blue eyes, way up there atop his muscular, fit body, traipse around your face and arm.

"Well, as long as you're here you may as well help me out." You pause in your self-care and hold the hand with the needle in it out towards him. Sensing his hesitation, you add, "Please," in a much softer tone.

Steve, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth to keep quiet, nods. He comes to join you on the corner of the bed after having taken the needle from your cold fingers. His hands are much, much warmer.

It takes you by surprise when Steve grabs your other hand. Your tummy flutters with excitement before all the bugs fall dead with the realization that he's just moving your arm to inspect the wound. You let out a sigh, unknowingly aloud, and look to the ceiling. You feel him start in on the task. You catch a glimpse of his reflection on the surface of the makeup mirror. His eyebrows, gentle and blond, are nuzzled together at the middle of his forehead. His eyelashes are long and dark as his eyes are aimed down at the job he takes so seriously. You've always loved his lips. They're much too pretty for a man, you think to yourself, and it's just not fair that he won't share them with you.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks quietly.

"It doesn't hurt that bad," you reply.

Steve waits a breath. "You know that's not what I mean."

You glance to the floor. His feet are behind yours—bare toes digging into the carpet. You've never seen his toes before. They're heartbreakingly cute. How is it possible that everything about this man calls out for you to adore him?

"No," you admit finally. "I feel... I feel like an idiot."

Steve shakes his head. You see it in the mirror. His eyes dart away from your wound to the back of your head for a moment. "You're not an idiot, Y/N."

"I am. I've been making an ass out of myself for weeks because I thought you were playing some sort of game, but if it's a game you were playing you really made me out to be record-breaking loser."

"It wasn't a game." Steve's voice is quiet and meek. He slowly finishes wiping off the fresh stitches with a sanitizing napkin.

Feeling that he's finished, you turn around. Facing Steve now you narrow your eyes questioningly. "Then what was it?"

"I—I..." Steve's eyes look anywhere but your face. Finally he lets out a sigh. "I don't know." He looks down at his hands in his lap.

You bite down on your tongue. Your heart is racing. Feelings you really aren't used to experiencing, like embarrassment and longing, pulse through your veins. The fantasy you've built in your head of running off into the sunset with Steve has been shattered today. But if there's one thing you want to do, it's kiss him. All you want is a kiss: partly because an immature fraction of yourself believes that if you kiss him now it'll make him realize what a stupid mistake he's making in turning you down. The other part of you, the more sinister and self-destructive part, wants you to realize just how disastrously you've lost and taunt you with the possibility of what could've been.

Without any sort of warning, your lips crash onto his. It's harsh and desperate: pressuring him into giving you a response. Your hands latch out and curl into his soft, blond hair. You want to feel this—you want to experience this, if only once. Your friendship with Steve is already ruined, so what's the harm in going for it? It's like kicking a dead body at this point. If he doesn't like you, that's that. At least you can say you've kissed him once.

To your surprise, though, Steve doesn't push you away. He doesn't pull back either. He does quite the opposite, actually.

Steve kisses you harder.

His tongue slides into your mouth almost instinctively. His teeth graze your bottom lip and keep you close—the flavor of his mouth much sweeter than you imagined.

Steve's palms dig into your hips. He pulls you onto his awaiting lap while the kiss becomes hotter. Your arms wrap all the way around his broad shoulders while your legs snake his hips closer. Your heartbeat has skyrocketed into an insane rhythm at this point.

Your breathless pants combine with his midair. Then, having taken the lead, you part your lips just long enough so that you can pull his tight shirt up and over his head. Not a word is said now, but nothing needs to be. You see it in his eyes: he doesn't want you to stop. You have no problems with that idea, either, so you'll keep going until he tells you not to.

Cool fingertips run down his hard abs. You blindly trace the muscles while the kissing resumes—each of you seemingly hungrier for the other.

His calloused hand grapples at your hair. He pulls you closer, a bit of dominance shining through, and uses his other hand to push onto the small of your back. The pressure building up between your body and his is nearly unbearable. You can feel him through his jeans—he's so turned on: turned on for you. You? The one he doesn't want anything to do with? It's confusing, but it's elating. You decide not to question it in fear that the moment will end. You never want this to end. This is your sunset that you wanted to ride off into with Steve. He may be the one you're riding, too.

Engrossed in your thoughts, you're almost unaware when Steve's fingers hook into the bottom of your tank top. He tears it over your head, messing up your already messy hair, and then begins to nibble down your neck. Your head falls back while your fingernails dig into his biceps. Steve finds your soft spot: eliciting a sort of whimper out of your usually steadfast mouth. He smirks against your warm skin before sucking harder—showing no mercy as he reduces you to a horny, sweaty mess on his lap.

In the heat of the moment you find that none of your thoughts are registering straight. All you can think is, Steve, Steve, Steve. The name runs through your head—through your bloodstream. His kiss is searing, burning your flesh, but you're an addict for the burn.

Clumsily, as if drunk, your fingers stumble to unbutton his jeans. His hips lift to help you slide them down his bent legs before they're left hanging below his knees. The two of you stumble over one another gracelessly while you attempt to undress without you ever having to leave his eager lap. One of his hands stays clamped on your hip to keep you in place: like he's just found your body a new home that he doesn't want to see you leaving. Finally, though, you're both down to wearing only a thin sheen of sweat and sand from the Egyptian world outside. With all obstructions gone Steve's holding your face with both hands and claiming your lips with his own. If you didn't know any better, you'd call him a liar just by this kiss. There's no way that a man with no feelings could ever kiss like this: with passion and obscure insecurity.

His hands trail down your naked body towards your hips. Yours are in his hair, tugging lightly, while your eyes flutter open between kisses. His cock is there, standing up against his hard abdomen, and your stomach clenches with lust. Hands still in his hair, you roll your hips forward until the space between your thighs is being met with the member that resides between his. You wind the soft tufts of his hair around your fingers and hear Steve let out a throaty growl. Your lips peel back into a smile at the sound.

You've never seen Steve drunk, but you imagine he'd look a lot like this: cherub-cheeked, breathless, pupils blown wide, and sense thrown straight out the window. His abs clench as he holds himself erect on the bed with his head tilted back. It's your turn to find his soft spot now, and you do so with much dedication. Your teeth graze his throat until reaching the crux of his windpipe. Steve moans lowly, a sound you're sure you've never heard him make before, and you suck a bruise onto the sacred skin.

"Y/N..." he says your name for the first time in a long time. It's a beckoning. He has something that he wants, or needs, to say.

You pull back, breathing hard, and look into his eyes. "Yeah?"

Steve's lips open to speak. And when they do, you hear, "Y/N report to the pilot's pit. Y/N to the pit."

That was certainly not Steve's voice. It was Clint's—on the loud speaker.

"Fuck." You close your eyes—not wanting to pull away from Steve or this moment. You were so close, so close to riding off into that sunset.

Steve clears his throat awkwardly, "You should probably, uh..."

"Right. I should... I should go." You slide off of his lap, noticing he's still got a rock hard erection, and avert your eyes from his nakedness. Suddenly awkward you stumble to get your clothes back on. It's even more awkward when Steve hands you your tank top and bra. "Uh, thanks." You slide both over your head in a rushed way while also walking towards the cabin door. You try to tie your messy hair up in a bun on the way.

"Y/N, before you go..."

"Let's not talk about this again, okay? Let's just—let's just leave it at that." You don't want to deal with the talking through problems thing that always seems to follow Steve around. He has to talk everything to death, and you're not about to do that with the hugely awkward make-out you just had with a guy who supposedly has no real feelings for you. You don't want to hear him say that he doesn't want to take you out, only wants to fuck you for fun, and mess around with your feelings. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing the Steve Rogers you know would do... but honestly? You're so confused right now that anything seems possible.

So you leave the cabin and close the door—not wanting any prying eyes to see Steve sitting there looking messy and confused on your muffled bed.

You stalk down towards the pit on bare feet. You check your arm wound, seeing that it's still clean, and grouch to yourself about the whole scene that occurred after the stitches were done.

What the hell were you thinking?

"There you are. Thought I was gonna have to page for you again," Clint says as you walk into the pilot's cabin.

"You guys need something?"

Nat hardly glances back at you over her shoulder while she flies. Clint's her copilot but doesn't seem to be doing much more than eating pretzels. "Your shirt is on backwards."

"Shit." You look down at it and sure enough, there's the tag. "I was in a bit of a rush, I guess."

"Didn't think you'd be so eager to leave Steve laying alone on your bed," Nat replies coolly.

Clint snorts. "I think this is my cue to leave," he chuckles. On his way out he pats you on the back. "Take my seat, kid, you'll probably be here for a while."

After Clint's gone you do as he suggests: getting comfortable in the copilot's chair. It's a damn good thing Nat doesn't need you to help her fly because you have no idea how to run this big wall of buttons and knobs.

"I'm not gonna ask how you know," you speak aloud.

"It's because I'm damn good at what I do, Y/N." Nat glances away from the cloud dotted sky to where you lounge. "And you have three hickeys and sex-eyes."

"I don't have..." Your voice fades as you see that she's right. Steve's left you little purple gifts on your neck and collarbone. "Asshole," you gripe about the man.

"Listen," Nat starts, "I know I'm not the best one to be taking romantic advice from, but you guys are doing this thing all wrong." She switches a dial and a light flashes before she jabs her thumb against a button on the dash.

"We're not doing anything at all, that's the problem."

"You're not an idiot, Y/N. You can't be so stupid that you don't see that something's going on with the two of you."

"We almost just had sex so yes, I'm not blind. I know that it happened." You cross your arms defensively against your friend.

Nat rolls her eyes. "No, I mean beyond that." She looks at you sternly. "He really does care about you, Y/N."

"He doesn't care to take me out though," you retort.

"I think you need to talk to him," Nat says. "Sit down and have a real conversation." She senses your annoyance and adds, "I know you don't like that sort of thing, but it needs to be done." She eyes you for a moment. "That is, if you still want to end up with him at the end of the day."

You take in a slow breath. "More than anything," you admit quietly, almost as if on accident.

"Then you need to talk to him."

After your "pep talk" romantic intervention with Nat you find yourself heading back to your room. You have every intention to talk to Steve when you get there, but find that he's gone by the time you arrive. You really shouldn't be too surprised. It's been half an hour and he has no reason to stick around.

You sigh, shaking your head. Then you leave your room and head someplace with less Steve-smell lingering in the air.

At one of the couches, stapled down for rough turbulence, you plop down with a short glass of whiskey. You simply stare at the golden liquid for a few moments before taking it all down in one gulp.

"Rough day?"

Your eyes dart up to the figure who has walked to your side. Steve stands a few feet to your right with his hands in his pockets and a half-smirk on his face.

"You could say that," you reply dryly—drier than the drink that has just slipped down your throat and left a burnt trail of flesh in its path. "I'd offer you some, but what's the point?" It's not so much as a question but a hint for him to leave you alone.

If he gets the hint, he doesn't want to follow it. He sits down on the couch beside you with a half of foot of space between your thigh and his. For a brief second you remember back to less than an hour ago when you'd been sitting on that perfect lap of his—ready to slide his cock deep inside of you with your hands in his hair...

"I think we should talk." You're surprised when you speak. Your voice has gone all crackly, too.

Steve nods. "I think it'd be best to." His blue eyes look over at you as if waiting for you to start. When he realizes that you won't, he decides to dive right in. "This isn't a game to me, I want you to know that."

You disagree. "It feels juvenile enough to be." You stare down at your empty glass and wish it were full of the stuff that now sits in your belly because now you don't feel so good.

Steve lets out a sigh. "I know, and that's my fault." He looks down at his hands that are bunched up together in his lap. "Listen, I just... I'm having a hard time admitting this, but..." he scratches the back of his neck—unaware that you're hanging onto his every last word. "But I'm a liar."

"A liar?" You raise an eyebrow.

Steve, looking embarrassed to say the very least, nods. "Yeah, I... I'm a liar because I've been lying to get out of taking you out on a date for weeks now. And I'm a liar because I've been lying to myself as to why I've been avoiding making things serious with you. But mostly I'm a liar because I really, really like you... and I gave you the impression that I didn't."

You've been staring down at the carpet beneath your feet. Your eyes only fly upwards as Steve's words sink into your thick skull. You gape at him for a moment, speechless, before drawing in a breath.

"Wow." You smile crookedly. "Steve Rogers really is a big fat liar, after all."

Steve's lips curl up just slightly. He looks down at his hands bashfully. "I really am sorry, Y/N. I don't expect you to forgive me, but on the off chance that you do..." he catches your attention with his sweet words, "I wanna take you out on a date."

"A real date?" you scold yourself for sounding so naïve, but Steve seems to think it's cute. He smiles fully.

"A real date," he mimics. "That is, if you still want to."

"Are you joking? I've been asking for months and we almost just got it on in my room: yes, I still want to go out with you."

Poor Steve looks mortified to be reminded. "Yeah, uh... about that... I had a little lapse of judgement there..."

"Hey—I wasn't complaining," you rush in with a smirk. Steve blinks up at you curiously before chuckling. "But yes. I'd love to go out with you."

Steve smiles. "So... Dinner and a movie?"

You nod. "As long as you promise not to give me any more goddamn hickeys."

Steve flushes beet red, yet he still manages to sound so suave as he coolly replies, "I don't wanna make a bigger liar of myself and agree to that one, darlin'."