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Catherine's asleep in his bed by the time Steve gets home, her body clock still keeping Mediterranean time. Her bag's tipped over on its side in one corner of the bedroom, and she's sprawled on top of the covers with an abandon that suggests she hadn't been able to stand another minute of being awake. She looks vulnerable sleeping – no hint of the arms training she's undertaken, excelled at; no suggestion of the hand-to-hand skills that means she can take Steve down in a fight – and Steve realizes he's staring, rubbing the heel of his hand across the middle of his chest. He toes off his boots, sets down his gun, crawls up onto the bed beside her.
"Mmmph," she murmurs, frowning, and she opens one eye, stares at him for a second before she rolls onto her side. "Asshole," she mumbles, burrowing her face into a pillow. "Lemme sleep."
"Nice," he says, laughing softly at the welcome, and he tucks his knees behind hers, slides a hand across her hip and under her shirt.
She grumbles weakly. "Later," she sighs.
"Yeah," he agrees readily, nosing her hair, and he means to just soak up the comfort of her company, the scent of her skin and the tempo of her breath, but he's fooling himself – he's tired too – and he can't regret the drowsiness that steals up on him, the realization that okay, all right, he could probably nap.
He doesn't expect to be woken by unfamiliar noises, to find Catherine standing at the door, gun in hand, expertly checking the landing. She shakes her head at him, flashes a series of hand-gestures – back of the house; three, maybe four; I'm going in – and wakefulness kicks in; he's right behind her, gun in hand, eyes wide in the darkness as they ease down the stairs. The keypad for the house alarm glows softly, steadily – nothing tripped, which means these are pros, they're good – and Steve swings toward the kitchen just as Catherine says, "Turn around, slowly," and things get wild.
There's no thought involved, just instinct and training and the welcome awareness that Cath's got his back. His gun's gone in a second, but at this range his hands are better weapons, and he hits, blocks, shifts, and throws; hears a crash from the office that says Cath's doing the same. They're fighting air, tackling shadows; Steve swings a chair, makes contact with flesh, sweeps his attackers feet from under him, doesn't spare a wince when his head hits the floor. Cath grunts, and someone groans a sudden loss of breath; when Steve rounds the corner there's a taser at his feet, and Cath's kneeing some guy right in the balls, bringing her elbow down on his neck when he falls to his knees. "Bastard," she says, as he slumps beside a prone, masked friend, and she's stretching out her fingers, head cocked, listening for trouble, but no other trouble comes.
Steve's gun's sitting awkwardly by his father's toolbox – he picks it up and checks the clip. "Outside?" he asks as Catherine bends and plucks her own gun from beneath the table.
"Outside," she agrees, and her smile is dangerous, the kind of smile Steve can't help but kiss. "Ready?" she asks, and he grins delightedly.
"Ready," he says, and heads to the lanai.