Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steve Rogers was living with a ghost.  

It was the reason he couldn’t set foot in the garden on the outskirts of the compound; the one down by the lake with the sea of pink hydrangeas and the rickety old bench with the sun stains on the spine. He used to spend his sunsets on that bench overlooking the water – hours settled amongst the flowers and the breeze. He used to sit on the stubborn old wood with a book in his hand, pretending the read while he listened to the soft, steady hums of the woman sitting beside him. 

Used to. 

Steve couldn’t go to the garden anymore because he’d find your memory there waiting for him; cross-legged on that damn bench, eager smile beaming up at him with a bowl of popcorn sitting in the grass. It was supposed to be his sanctuary; the one place where the burden of Captain America could not reach his tired shoulders. It was where he went after long missions, where he spent his Sunday afternoons, where he escaped when the moon hung over the trees and panic raced under his skin.  

He’d find peace again with blades of grass under his bare feet, with the cherry blossom branches coating above his head in a protective shield, with the soft chirp of crickets down by the lake and the delicacy of petals against his fingertips. The terror would release its violent grip upon him, unsheathe the talons burrowed into his spine, and he’d breathe again. 

It wasn’t until you were gone that he realized it was never the garden that offered him those moments of quiet relief, but you.  

You were the one that took him by the hand in the late hours of the night and led him to the garden when he was shaking so badly he could hardly stand. You who sat on that old bench with him until the sun came up, reading from a book he could hardly remember if only to hear the steady tambour of your voice.  

It was your face he looked for amongst the flowers as he stepped into the garden, relief spilling through him each time he caught sight of you with your nose burrowed deep in a book and broken flower stems tucked behind your ear. It was the muffled gasps of surprise you tried to stifle as you eagerly turned another page and your burning anticipation to tell him how badly he needed to read the novel in your hands next, though he had a stack from you piling on his night stand.  

Few others suspected the unspeakable things you’d endured at the hands of General Dreykov. Few knew that you’d survived the Red Room though it sought to destroy you, though it nearly ripped the sunshine straight from your bones and tore the levity from your soul. For too many it was easy to look past the darkness in your past in favor of the gentle light you carried, how easily you smiled, how infectious your laughs were.  

But for Steve, it plagued him.  

No one else knew of the ache that throbbed in your left knee before it rained – a gift from an old Widow handler after you’d failed to assassinate the child of a US senator when you were barely out of your teen years. They’d broken it twice after it healed to prove a point. You limped for days after a storm, rubbing tenderly at the muscle and blaming it on a kickball injury from Stark’s annual retreats. The newer agents would laugh as the lie easily breezed over your tongue but Steve could hear the slight tremor in your voice as you spoke. You’d catch his eye from across the room, a heaviness nestled between the lines a forced smile. Steve would never dare to contradict the story you’d chosen to give, knowing it was a kinder one than the truth. So, he kept secret the history you once shared with him under the cherry tree in the garden by the lake; like so much of the darkness in your past, cast to the shadows and locked behind closed doors.  

He did not tell a soul that the fiercely joyful woman who escaped the Red Room with her soul intact spent nights curled up against the bedroom wall, shivering in your restless attempts to sleep, hand tracing against the plaster to calm your mind. He never spoke of the moments he cursed the serum that enhanced his senses and allowed him to hear your muffled whimpers through the shared bedroom wall; but he often kept his hand on the wall until your breathing evened again, hoping you might be able to feel the extension of him through the barrier. 

You covered your trauma with bright smiles and laughter; masked the guilt, the shame, the red in your ledger. It was how you coped. You let yourself be the light Steve walked to at the end of the tunnel, even on days the shadows threatened to draw you in.  

You survived, you’d told him once. You would not allow the Red Room to keep you captive years after you’d escaped.  

Your resiliency was unlike anything else he’d seen. He admired it; ached for a glimpse of it for himself. It only took a few months of knowing you before he started feeling like he was crawling out of his own darkness, like you’d granted him some of that light you carried after all. He found peace again in the garden with you by his side humming just slightly out of tune, pages flipping rapidly in your lap. He learned how to be Steve Rogers again when Captain America was all anyone wanted to see.  

You brought him back to life years after he woke from the ice.  

Steve hadn’t known a moment of rest since the day you disappeared.  

“You’re staring pensively into the abyss again, Rogers,” Natasha murmured though she barely looked up from the steam of her coffee. Arms crossed over her chest and leaning onto the edge of the kitchen table, Natasha slowly drew her gaze up to meet Steve’s scowl.  

“I’m not staring into the abyss,” he grumbled.  

“At the garden, then,” she corrected as though the subtle observation didn’t fracture something in Steve’s chest. His hand gripped the edge of the counter a little tighter, a small crack splintering into the marble under his palm and traveling up the gold lines on the surface. Tony would almost certainly dock his next paycheck for that mistake.  

Natasha’s features softened as her gaze traveled to his iron clad grip on the counter; knuckles white, splintered marble inching out from behind his palm. Steve shook out his hand, wincing at the noticeable crack on the counter. He turned his back to Natasha, unable to stand the intensity behind her eyes, how easily she was able to read him. He hadn’t felt that exposed in a long time. Not since— 

“I miss her, too, you know,” Natasha’s tired voice carried gently through the empty kitchen.  

Steve clenched his jaw. The muscle was increasingly sore as of late. 

There was a reason Steve kept himself from the garden by the lake, a reason why he returned every book stacked on his night stand. There was a reason why he blasted music in his ears until he could barely hear himself think each time he crossed the threshold into the gym.  

He couldn’t stand the reminders of you. The garden. The books. The silence left behind in the gym when he’d grown used to the steady rhythm of your gloves against the punching bag.  

He did everything he could to pretend like you hadn’t burrowed a hole in his chest the day you disappeared.  

It would have been easier if there was a body. It was what he told himself when he lay awake into the early hours of the morning, thinking about the last time he saw you. Sun illuminating behind you, rays of amber light touching sweetly over your shoulders, glowing through your hair. Beautiful amongst a sea of carnage.  

You’d agreed to let him take you to the pizza joint in Brooklyn he used to visit as a kid as soon as the fight was over. Steve had worked himself up for weeks trying to find a time to ask, to get an excuse to spend more time alone with you outside the borders of the compound and the safety of the garden. He practiced in the damn mirror for Christ’s sake. The speech fell to shit when he blurted it out on the edge of the quinjet, just before the two of you touched down in the middle of a warzone.  

The look of surprise on your face only lasted seconds before you had to bite on the bottom of your lip to keep yourself from smiling too wide. It was uncontainable. Infectious. Machete in your right hand, you swatted him on the shoulder with your left, asking what had taken him so long to ask. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled until his cheeks hurt.  

He hadn’t since.  

You looked up the menu on your phone as the two of you crouched behind a series of crates within earshot of the fight. Lip tugged between your teeth in concentration, you scrolled through the webpage, though it hardly looked to have been updated in thirty years since it was first posted. There were only two kinds of pizza at the shop – pepperoni and not. It was a simple joint, hadn’t changed a bit since Steve was a kid. It was why he liked it so much. 

Steve couldn’t remember what he’d said next, but it made you laugh. Enough that it gave away your position and forced the two of you into the fight though you didn’t seem to mind one bit. He’d kill to remember what it was that had made you smile like that, what had made you laugh hard enough to wipe the tears from the corner of your eyes with the sleeve of your tac-suit.  

Steve could hear it when he closed his eyes most nights – the soft echo of your laugh.  

Yes, it would have been easier if there was a body.  

But instead, you had simply disappeared. Never returned to the check point. No word from you on coms. No claims of ransom. Steve had interrogated every last mercenary on the other side of the line himself and no one would admit to a plan to take you captive.  

No leads. No trace of where you’d gone. Nothing.  

And now, all Steve did was wonder what happened to you. And why you hadn’t come home. It was what the younger agents whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear them – that perhaps you’d grown tired of playing with the good guys and willingly returned to the Red Room. If anyone had the skillset to disappear without a trace, it would be a Widow.  

He sent four rookies to the med wing with minor injuries for those remarks. Only within the quiet of his room, when shame crept along his skin, did Steve allow himself to wonder whether they were right.  

“You think she’s dead, don’t you?” Steve asked quietly, his voice barely audible. 

Natasha closed her eyes; her hands tightening around the mug as her fingers overlapped. Steam pillowed up from the surface, her palms turning red against the ceramic. Slowly, she nodded.  

“I don’t care what rumor the rookies are spreading. She didn’t up and leave us.” There was a bitter edge to her tone, one that cut through the sorrow burning into her eyes. “She wouldn’t have, Steve. I know her. She wouldn’t have left her life here. She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t have left you.” 

Steve furrowed his brow and when Natasha’s didn’t give an inch, a heat of pink rose against Steve’s neck. He shook it off, pacing a few steps into the kitchen.  

“Me?” Steve scoffed, shaking hands fisting at his side. “We—We weren’t— There was nothing— It’s not like we were—” 

“Steve.” 

He froze, his chest rising rapidly with each shallow breath.  

“Don’t discredit what you did for her all these years,” Natasha said, setting an open hand against the countertop, palm facing the ceiling. She twitched at her fingers until Steve sank his shoulders, dragging his feet across the tile, and placed his hand in hers. She squeezed at his fingers. “She would have followed you anywhere. She adored you, Steve. Don’t take that from her.” 

Steve shut his eyes, nodding before tears could find their way to the surface. He felt Natasha’s grip on his hand tighten, his own breathing falling irregular. He clung onto the steadiness of her hand, fragile under his strength and still, sturdy under the pressure, solid, stable. She did not speak of the tears as they slid down his cheeks, or the quite shaking in his spine. Natasha Romanoff was known for many things, her secret keeping among them. She never spoke a word of the morning Captain America reduced himself to sobs over the kitchen counter for the lost Widow who’d managed to both repair and shatter his heart. 

This was why Steve couldn’t go to the garden.  

*** 

“Look alive, Rogers,” Natasha’s voice came through the coms. “T minus four minutes ‘till drop off.” 

Steve tugged down the brim of his baseball cap, shielding his eyes as he took a short glance down the busy street. Venders crowded the cobblestones tucked between pastel-painted buildings, bartering loudly with local customers and blatantly ignoring the tourists desperately waving their hands for attention. Voices raised over the soft crash of waves against the dock, the chirping of seagulls above.  

He took in a deep breath, salt settling in his lungs. If he wasn’t careful, he might have lost himself to the gentle chaos of the market. It was easy to let his mind wander amongst the sea of people and the push and pull of the waves at their feet. It kept his mind quiet, gave him something to focus on beside the sort of thoughts that kept him up well into the morning hours, thoughts he hadn’t been able to cast from his mind for nearly six months now.  

Six whole months and he still couldn’t rid himself of your ghost.  

But here – here, he could escape. You couldn’t follow him to Lisbon, couldn’t hold him captive while he was an ocean away from the shared wall between your bedrooms, hundreds of miles of distance between him and that goddamn garden. With salt in every breath, Steve could finally fill his lungs to capacity. Here, he could dedicate himself to the mission, empty his mind of all else. Only the mission. No ghosts.  

“Remind me how we’re supposed to apprehend a suspect with no descriptive markers,” Sam grumbled from his perch on the roof overlooking the market. 

Fury had picked up talk of a mercenary causing trouble throughout Europe. Responsible for nearly seven assassinations of former high level SHIELD operatives in the last four months, the director wanted it dealt with quickly and under the radar of the local governments. Not exactly above board, but Steve was used to working in the shadows these days. This was personal, Fury had told him. These hits were against their own.  

Natasha had managed to discern a pattern to the mercenary’s movements. It was what led the team to Lisbon. Based on a long series of seemingly meaningless behaviors that no one but a Widow would be able to identify, Nat believed this was where the target would return to regroup before the next hit was ordered. She’d made a call to an old contact in the city – a low level gun smuggler from her days as a Widow who still held a torch for her after all these years. He’d agreed to reveal the time and location of his next drop, but that was the end of his offer.  

“I’m not stupid enough to give you a name, darling,” the smuggler had chuckled, gaze trailing down the length of Natasha’s legs though she remained stoic under his stare. The scowl on her features was enough to make him rethink his position, a tight grimace to his face. “But if you happen to see something and choose to act on it, that can’t be helped, yes?” 

It wasn’t a fool-proof plan, but it would work. 

The smuggler – who’d only agreed to be referred to as Cruise in tribute to his favorite American action movie star – passed by Steve with a package held under his right arm. His kept his head down, eyes quickly scanning the market as he pushed his way through the crowd. He was not a particularly subtle criminal, but no one seemed to pay much attention. 

“Got him,” Steve said into the coms, pushing off from his stance at the edge of the dock to follow Cruise through the market. He kept himself a few paces behind, stopping at a stray vender here and there to avert suspicion.  

“He’s turning left into the alley ahead of you, Cap,” Sam advised, watching the target from above.  

Steve waited another six seconds, pretending to look over a piece of fruit for bruises before he thanked the vender and set it back in the crate. He twisted his way through the crowd, weaving in and out of people squeezed tight within narrow streets.  

“He’s got company,” Sam warned. 

Steve nodded, rolling out his shoulders as he crept toward the alley. From the main street, he could vaguely make out two figures standing under a coat of shadows. Cruise – with his round shape and boxed package stuffed under his arm – and the mercenary with their back facing the marketplace. He couldn’t discern many features from this distance, not amongst the darkness in the alley, but there was one thing he picked up on well enough.  

“Target’s a woman,” Steve observed, inching closer. A couple exited the alley beside him with misshapen hair and lipstick smudged on the man’s cheek. He stepped hastily out of their way.  

“Well, if you manage to lose her in the crowd, at least we’ve narrowed the pool to half of Lisbon’s population,” Sam chirped, chuckling to himself as he often did.  

But Steve didn’t crack a smile. Something felt off – wrong – about the way the woman was standing. She shifted the distribution of her weight from one foot to the other as Cruise spoke, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Always lingering on her right leg longer than the left. Above, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds – rain threatening overhead. 

“I’m approaching the target,” Steve said to the coms.  

The further he traveled through the alley, the quieter the market behind him became. He kept the walls as much as he could, lingering under the same shadows that hid the features of the target. That was, until he was close enough to break cover.  

He took a deep breath and raised a hand in the air, waving blindly at the target.  

“Hey! So sorry to be a bother, but I think I got turned around.” Steve forced an awkward laugh, allowing a heat to touch his cheeks. Cruise stared at him with wide, stunned eyes, while the target didn’t so much as move a muscle. Her features were obstructed by the dark cap tugged low over her eyes and the angle of her stance. She didn’t so much as acknowledge his presence in the alley.  

Steve scratched at the back of his head, pretending as though the adrenaline in his veins were simply nerves. “I’m looking for the waterfront. Supposed to meet the wife there and she’s gonna be awfully upset with me if I’m late. Can you point me in the right direction?” 

He exaggerated his Brooklyn accent, playing up the part of a lost tourist to get the target to drop her guard. He’d once apprehended a suspect who had stopped to help him pick up a bag of apples he’d purposefully dropped on a busy street in London. It had only mean to be a distraction. Some bad guys were multifaceted.  

“You’re not gonna find her here buddy, so scram,” Cruise snapped, gritting his teeth. Natasha had conveniently failed to mention to Cruise the team’s intent to bring in his favorite buyer.  

Steve held up his hands. “I’m not looking for trouble, honest. Could you help me, miss?” 

The target turned her head only slightly, just enough for Steve to catch a glimpse of her jawline over her shoulder, but it was enough. He’d been made.  

She punched the package out from Cruise’s arm in one fluid motion, sending it barreling to the ground. She’d already dove for it, barrel rolling against the cobblestones and back to her feet with the package in hand before Cruise could shout his stream of curses.  

Steve yanked the handgun from the back of his jeans and sprinted after her, leaving Cruise behind in the empty alley.  

“Target’s on the move! Heading South!” 

“I’ve got eyes on her,” Sam confirmed. Redwing zipped down from the top of the building, following the target a few paces in front of Steve. Sam kept his position on the roof, unable to use the wings that would have allowed him to tail her from the skies. This was a mission meant to be carried out under the radar and it wasn’t not so easily done when a man was flying through the marketplace with metal wings. 

“I’m on my way to you,” Natasha’s welcomed voice said calmly in his ear. No trace of a labored breath, no heavy footsteps as she ran. A well-seasoned spy. 

Steve could out run the target if he wanted, could have tackled her to the ground on the open streets among the tourist and locals if he thought that would be the best way to apprehend a dangerous killer, but he knew how dangerous it could be to corner a mercenary in a busy market. He’d learned his lesson from Rumlow in Lagos.  

So, this time, he’d do it right. She thought she was out-pacing him, leading him through the winds and turns of the city, but it had been set against her from the start. The left she took down the one-way street was orchestrated ahead of time, blocking the opposing road with construction workers who had no business pounding against that particular stretch of pavement. The quick turn to the busy intersection was only made as a last resort when she found police cars blocking the empty alley she’d hoped to disappear down.  

Adrenaline surged in Steve’s veins, pulsing into his chest. These were the moments he felt alive again; miles away from the husk he’d become in the confines of the compound. He could breathe out here. He followed the target into the dead-end alley where she’d soon realize her options had expired.  

“You’ve got nowhere to go!” Steve shouted; handgun pressed firmly between his palms. He had no intention of shooting the target, but the presence of the weapon usually encouraged suspects to their knees quicker than a fist. 

The target rushed to the end of the alley anyway, gaze snapping up to the tall pastel buildings likely searching for a drain pipe to climb or a series of windowsills to propel off of. There was nothing. Natasha assured of it. She was trapped and she knew it.  

“Hands in the air, now,” Steve ordered, inching closer. The target kept her back to him, chest evenly rising with each breath evident in the slight lift in her shoulders. She shifted onto her right leg and a look shot up at the cloud covered skies. A droplet of rain tapped against Steve’s cheek.  

The target slowly lowered the package to the ground, rising with her hands in the air. She began to the turn to face her captor and Steve tightened his grip on the handle of his gun. The safety was still latched, but he was a man of war. He’d take the shot if he had to. This woman had killed enough former SHIELD agents to earn the bullet in his gun.  

The target kept her gaze on the cobblestones, the brim of her cap shielding her face. Slowly, she lifted her head, taking in every inch of Captain America from the sneakers he’d been given in a sponsorship deal, to the exclusive Stark tech on his wrist, and the vintage jacket he’d demanded be returned to him by the Smithsonian after he found it on display in a World War II exhibit.  

She took her time, studying him. But when the cap lifted just enough, when her gaze met his, Steve recoiled. The gun in his hands flinched under the shock of it, his balance faltering as he stumbled back a single pace. Whatever adrenaline that had remained in his bloodstream had deserted him in favor of an ice-cold numbness coursing under his skin.  

His voice was ruined as the name drew from his lips. “Y/n?” 

Your gaze narrowed, though it did not penetrate the steel upon your features. Cold, beyond anything he’d ever seen strung together upon your face. Lips pinched into a frown; your eyes burning into him as if you could demand his heart cease beating under your sheer determination. There was no trace of relief, no glimpse of the woman he’d last seen laughing over Brooklyn based pizza as she ran into battle.  

Steve didn’t realize how far he’d lowered the gun, his defenses weakening at the sight of you, until your hand quickly reached for the inside of your jacket. You would have gotten the shot off in time if it hadn’t been for Natasha. 

Propelling from the rooftop, Natasha fisted a nasty blow to the side of your head as she landed on solid ground. You collapsed to the cobblestone, gun slipping from your grasp. Nat quickly bent down, retrieving the gun as she stepped in line with Steve.  

The two of them remained silent, staring at your unconscious body. Steve could feel Natasha’s gaze slowly turn to him, heat burning on his skin as he desperately willed his hands to stop shaking.  

It couldn’t be possible. You were supposed to be dead. He’d mourned you. Grieved you. Spent his nights haunted by your ghost. You couldn’t be the target they’d been chasing. There had to be some kind of mistake, some kind of glitch in his brain. You couldn’t be laid unconscious at his feet because it would mean— 

It would mean you’d been alive all these months. Taking jobs as a mercenary. Contracting hits on former SHIELD agents.  

It would mean the rookies were right. You’d left him behind.  

*** 

No one had said a word as Steve carefully lifted your unconscious frame from the stone, pulled you tight to his chest, and carried you to the shady studio apartment they’d been using to stakeout Cruise’s drop. Natasha had the sense to force a bright smile and tell the tourists you’d had too much to drink when curious glances shot in your direction, but Steve couldn’t manage anything less than solid steel on his features.  

He could feel you pressed against him, could smell the familiar scent of the bar soap you always insisted on using despite the expensive line of products Tony had purchased for you. He could hear the even draw of each of your breaths and the steady beating of your heart. 

Tangible. Real. Alive.  

And still – he wasn’t sure if he believed it.  

He hadn’t been able to say a word since your name left his lips. Natasha was the one to put you in cuffs around the weight baring banister in the right corner of the room, far away from the windows. She’d had to coax Steve into releasing you, into stepping back enough paces and letting you lay on the dusty floor on your own. He felt like his limbs were made of stone.  

“Someone want to explain what the hell is going on?” Sam snapped into an unbearably silent room. He’d only taken one look at you as he crossed into the threshold of the apartment, stunned eyes landing on Steve and Nat – neither of whom had been able to say a word to the other since they discovered the identity of their target. 

The silence was the only thing keeping Steve afloat. In the silence, he could pretend it was still a dream, that he hadn’t just confirmed the very rumors he’d sent rookies to the med wing for merely suggesting. He couldn’t breathe.  

“Something’s wrong,” Natasha said, arms folding over her chest as she began to pace the outskirts of the room.  

Sam scoffed as he glanced back at you where you remained unconscious on the floor. “I’ll say. Not every day you learn your dead friend started working for the bad guys again.” 

“No, I mean—” Natasha stilled, eyes flickering back and forth as if following lines of red string upon a board. Her spine straightened. “I need to make a call.” 

She left without another word. Steve’s grip on the windowsill didn’t ease. He could feel the fragile wood splintering under his palms, slivers piercing his skin. He hadn’t dared allow himself to look in your direction from the moment he’d released you from his arms. But the damn serum made sure he could still hear the careful intake of your breaths, the steady thumping of your heart. He cursed his own veins.  

“Very helpful, Nat,” Sam grumbled as he crossed the room to Steve. He leaned against the wall, elbowing Steve in the side until he finally broke his staring contest with the wood floor panels. Despite the lingering teasing under Sam’s tone, a steadiness eased into his features, a sincerity. “You okay, buddy?” 

It took nearly all his strength, but Steve nodded.  

“I shouldn’t have said that about Y/n… the stuff about her working for the bad buys again,” Sam admitted with a tense sigh. An apology hung heavy on his tone and it ached to realize Sam felt he owed that to Steve. “We don’t know what happened yet. I shouldn’t have assumed—” 

“No, you were right,” Steve said flatly. There was a bitterness lingering under the anger; a deep, unsettling burn of betrayal and he couldn’t catch his breath under the weight of it. “What else is there? What other proof do we need? She’s been alive this whole time. Hasn’t contacted us once. And—And apparently, she’s been off taking out former SHIELD agents throughout Europe for kicks. It’s… It’s a reasonable conclusion. Logical.” 

Sam was quiet for a moment, heavy eyes looking toward you. “I don’t know, man. It just doesn’t sound like her. You knew her better than anyone.” 

Steve gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to cave to his better instincts. Brick lined the outer wall of his chest; stone and cement and blood. It was safer there, to hold such a fortress around his heart. Safer to believe the worst of you than to consider the alternative – that you’d been taken against your will and he’d done nothing to save you.  

“Maybe we didn’t know her as well as we thought.” Even as Steve spoke, he could taste the dissonance on his tongue. The words felt like a betrayal within themselves.  

Movement stirred at the edge of the room and Steve swallowed back the bile had had begun to creep up his throat. Your face twisted, a light groan slipping past that reminded Steve of the evenings you used to fall asleep on his shoulder in the garden, your neck sore from the angle as you woke. Tried eyes and long, stretching limbs. A laugh always followed as you attempted to brush away the hem lines of his sweatshirt from your cheek. It was his favorite sound.  

But you were silent as you woke; defensive even as your eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking to adjust to your surroundings. It took only a moment before you felt the resistance at your wrists, the foundation beam between your arms locking you in place. Whatever semblance of pain remained on your features was wiped in favor of cold determination as you began viciously tugging on the cuffs.  

“Y/n,” Sam eased, taking a cautious step forward. Your head whipped in his direction, a near snarl on your teeth. Sam raised his hands despite the fact you remained bound. “We’re not here to hurt you. We just have questions.” 

You stared at him, your chest rising rapidly with every breath. At your wrists, the skin was already rubbed raw; dark red patches and blood trickling from cuts where the edges of metal had cut too deep. Steve’s stomach twisted at the sight.  

Still, you did not say a word.  

“You’re not going to get anything out of her,” Natasha said as she stepped back into the room. She slid her phone back into the pocket of her suit. There was something deeply unsettling about the way she looked at you, a terrible wash of guilt and remorse Steve hadn’t been able to prepare himself. She’s always felt responsible for you, even after she helped you escape the Red Room all those years ago.  

“Nat?” Steve asked, his voice tentative. “What is it?” 

She stilled, a deep breath settling into her chest as though to prepare herself to answer. Hands curled to fists at her side, rage boiling under the surface of a calm, stoic expression.  

“Dreykov,” she said, the name like venom on her lips. “He did this to her.” 

Steve had heard that name few times in his life. Natasha didn’t speak of him often, but when she did, it offered a rare glimpse into the cracks beyond the Black Widow’s surface; a vulnerability she kept hidden behind steel walls and barbed wire. He’d broken something in her once, something she desperately worked to restore, to atone. 

But Natasha wasn’t the only one who had been shattered by the man who owned the Red Room.  

It was a name Steve often heard whispered between the shared wall of your bedrooms when the demons came for you in your sleep. Fear laced into your cries, pleading with the name on an endless loop. Steve shuddered to imagine the horrors replaying in your mind. He knew better than to ask about it and you never spoke of it aloud. You’d gone through enough in your life, he didn’t want to add to it by asking you relive the worst parts of what you’d endured.  

But Steve knew enough to understand that Dreykov was a cruel, sadistic man. That he’d tortured young girls with little remorse to suit his own gains. He was the reason for the demons plaguing your dreams. Steve had once sworn a silent vow to bring Dreykov’s weakened body to you and Natasha for the final blow if he ever encountered the monster. The PR team at SHIELD wouldn’t be pleased with the blood on Captain America’s hands, but he didn’t much care. Not along as it allowed you to feel safe again.  

“Dreykov?” Sam furrowed his brow. “You think the Red Room brainwashed her again?” 

Natasha did not take her eyes away from you, though you paid her little attention, continuing to dig against the cuffs, drawing blood down your wrists. “It’s not like how it was when we were girls. The… conditioning… it’s different now. More advanced. It’s chemical. Yelena once told me it felt like someone else was at the wheel. She was there, in her mind – thinking and feeling and understanding – but it was like something had unraveled her. Like she’d been ripped from herself and caged within her own mind. Dreykov’s orders were her only thought. It consumed her and allowed for nothing else.” 

Sam blew out a tense breath, sinking against the windowpane.  

Steve swallowed, afraid to allow himself even an ounce of hope. “You believe this is what happened to Y/n? That she’s under the power of this… chemical?” 

Natasha softened as she met Steve’s gaze. A sadness hung in the way she looked at him; sadness for the fact he even had to ask. “Look at her, Steve.” 

He couldn’t. Not after all these months of wallowing in his own self-pity. Months you were ripped from your own mind and unmade by the very man Steve had sworn to protect you from. How many times had he promised you were safe? How many times had he held your weeping frame in his arms under the pale glow of moonlight and promised you would never be under that man’s control again?  

He couldn’t look at you. Not after he so easily disregarding years of your kindness, of your affection and warmth. Not after he’d so quickly believed you could betray them, that you’d turn your back on the people you’d called your family.  

“Steve,” Natasha soothed, her voice quieter this time. “Look at her.” 

Steve’s palms burned where his nails had dug into his palm. He felt the warm compress of Natasha’s hand on his shoulder – steady, grounding – and he turned his attention to you.  

He found no trace of the woman he cared for in your eyes. Recognition flickered for the shield and stars remained, but not for the man underneath; not for the nights spent late in the garden, or the mess of pancake batter in the kitchen, or the promise of a slice of pizza in an old family-run joint in Brooklyn.  

He’d never once seen your features twist to such cold, unbridled rage before. It was unnatural – the darkness in your eyes and the frown tugging down at your lips. You yanked on the cuffs again, unflinching at they tore into your skin. Something in his chest cracked.  

 “They made her into a weapon,” Natasha said quietly. “She’s not our Y/n. Not right now. But we’ll get her back.” 

“How?” Steve choked out, biting on his cheek to keep the tears at bay. He couldn’t allow you to see him weak, not while you were like this. “How do we get her back?” 

Natasha slipped her hand into Steve’s, squeezing it until his hand was numb. “Yelena.” 

*** 

Tony did what he could to keep your transfer to the lower level of the compound under wraps. He shut down all surveillance cameras within range of the landing bay on the roof, the stairwell in quadrant C, and the containment area below ground. All SHIELD agents were banned from the area due to what they were told was an unexpected gas leak from one of Tony’s new inventions. Tony was less than pleased with how easily the lie was believed.  

Three days had passed since you were placed in the holding cell reserved for the same criminals you dedicated your life to apprehending. You’d put countless men within those walls as they awaited transfer to secure prison cells beyond the walls of the compound. Now, you were among them. 

Steve would not allow the picture of lines by your eyes or the brightness in your features within your smile to cross his memory. He could not think of the evenings curled on the garden bench with a book falling from the tips of your fingers as you snored lightly against his shoulder. Nothing good could come from such images – not within these halls. Not after you’d bloodied the last three guards who attempted to bring your meals though you remained bound by chains and cuffs.  

It wasn’t you – not entirely. Steve knew that now. Still, the knowledge did not sway his heart from its own aching.  

“You don’t need to keep watch, you know.” 

Natasha appeared on Steve’s right, her shoulder leaning into the wall outside your cell. She watched him with the careful precision that made him wonder whether she could read his thoughts as if they were written in marker over his skin.  

“She’s safe,” Nat continued, her voice somber. “Dreykov can’t reach her here.” 

“But he has her mind,” Steve pressed, the words on his tongue tasting of bile. “She’s not safe until whatever chemical he implanted in her brain is gone. He’s in her head – controlling her, using her like a goddamn puppet. She—” Steve hung his head, his fingers digging firm into his waist. “She won’t ever feel safe again, Nat. You know what this will do to her.” 

Natasha swallowed, her gaze dropping to the floor. She knew as well as Steve did that this might be the final straw that suffocated the light you so desperately clung to. Bright smiles and easy laughter in the face of such crippling darkness. Only Natasha and Steve had seen the splinters and cracks on the mask, seen the shadows slipping through like smoked serpents though you worked tirelessly to contain them.  

To have your mind taken from you – to be unmade into the very thing you dedicated your life to stop – it was unthinkable.  

Bucky would understand, Steve thought. His friend might find some solace in helping ease you through this nightmare, should the antidote relieve you from the Red Room’s control. It would fracture some part of Steve’s chest to stand back and allow his best friend guide you through this darkness, but Steve would not be selfish with your soul. He’d lay himself over hot coals and allow you to walk over his back if it might ease your torment.  

“Yelena will be here soon with the antidote,” Natasha promised. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. It had become a meaningless prayer over the last few days; losing its meaning each time the words were uttered aloud. Steve only offered a short nod in response. It was all he had left.  

But then – an alarm pierced through the quiet hallway, red streaming against white walls. Steve tensed his body, his spine straightening as he looked up at the flashing lights; the sharp vibration of the alarm rattling deep into his chest.  

Natasha rushed to the monitor at the wall to your cell and began typing in the series of coded numbers to unlocked the video footage. Her fingers were steady, her breath even despite the slight tug of her lip between her teeth.  

Steve hadn’t realized he’d moved to the door of your cell until he felt the brush of cold metal under his palm. His fingertips traced the hinges, the knob, and he found himself reaching for the control pad before he noticed Natasha still from the corner of his eye.  

Her jaw was wired shut as she watched the footage. Eyes widened. Her chest rose in a sharp intake.  

“What is it?” Steve asked, his own breathing frantic. 

The composure she usually held was slipping; her lips parting several times before she was able to speak. “She’s… I don’t know, Steve… It looks like she’s having a seizure.” 

Steve’s mouth was suddenly dry. “A seizure?” 

He would not allow himself to look at the footage – not directly – but he could see the blur of movement from where he stood, how you convulsed on the screen, body twitching violently.  

Natasha took a step back, as if to separate herself from what she was watching. “Has she ever had one before?”  

“I don’t– I don’t know,” he admitted. You’d never told him if you had. But Steve couldn’t help but wonder whether the Red Room would have discarded of you the moment they learned of a supposed defect in their weapon. A seizure disorder would put their missions in jeopardy. It was an awful thought – one that made his stomach twist in on itself – but the Red Room was not known for its compassion or its kindness.  

But something was causing the alarms to go off and it was either your vitals crumbling or the room’s defenses. He wasn’t going to leave the answer to chance.  

Steve’s gaze shifted to the door. 

“Steve, no,” Natasha warned, stepping away from the monitor to block his path to your cell. Her small frame did little to cover the door, but she held her ground as strong as if she were made of the steel behind her. “You can’t go in there. She could be faking it, Luring you in to drop your guard before she makes a break for it. It’s what I would do. She’s a Widow, Steve. You can’t trust her while she’s like this.” 

Steve knew that. Of course, he knew that. But reason and logic mattered little to him when your life was on the line.  

“And if you’re wrong? Then what, Natasha?” he snapped, harsher than he meant to. Guilt coiled in his stomach as she softened, her eyes betraying the steadiness of her features. Steve swallowed against sandpaper. “I’m not going to just stand by and watch. Step aside, Nat. Please.” 

Natasha held his gaze for an agonizing moment longer before she slowly stepped out of his path. Resistance seemed to cling to ever muscle in her body, even as she raised the walkie from her hip to her lips and called for both medical and tactical support to the containment floor.  

Steve gave her a short nod, one of appreciation, and he tapped the long sequence of numbers into the padlock until the door unlatched. The lock echoed through the hall, louder than the alarm, and Steve pushed his way inside the cell. 

It was colder than he remembered. Darker, too. There was little kindness amongst these walls – empty, numbing. There were scratches along the tile and the inside of the door as if the last prisoner had attempted to claw their way out the room. Steve’s stomach twisted in on itself at the knowledge that he’d played a part in locking you away in this cell.  

You were laid on your side – limbs spasming. Your back was to him, hair thrown over your face, chains rattling with every twitch of your body. It crippled something in him to see you so helpless.  

Steve rushed toward you, skidding on his knees until his hands rested gingerly over your hip. He’d never witnesses a seizure before, but he knew enough to know there was little he could do beside help you ride it out, hold you on your side to prevent you from hurting yourself and keep your airway clear. His hands were trembling as he reached for you, as he attempted to touch you for the first time in months – since the last time he held you the night before that godawful mission that took you away from him.  

But the moment his hand graced your shoulder, you turned on him.  

Your thumbs were broken from where you’d slipped the cuffs from your wrists, blood caking around the raw and tender flesh, and still – you swung a heavy fist at the right edge of his jawline and it was enough to push him off balance. From the shock of it, Steve fell against the concrete, rubbing his hand against the throbbing ache as you rushed to your feet. 

Determination unlike anything he’d ever seen burrowed into your cold eyes as you sprinted to the door. But the path was no longer clear – Nathasha Romanoff stood at the threshold, hands curled into fists.  

“Stop this, Y/n,” she warned, voice low. “Don’t let him win.” 

If you’d been in your right mind, you would have flinched at the very reference of Dreykov. Steve had never seen you utter his name while you were conscious but he’d heard the terrible tremor in your voice as you cried through your sleep. He saw each moment your gaze flickered to the floor when Natasha spoke his name aloud, how easily you clamped up and shriveled into a shell of the woman he knew you to be.  

You hadn’t so much as blinked at his name. But you’d heard the sliver of hesitation in Natasha’s voice – a weakness the Black Widow was never meant to hold for a sister who shared no blood – and under this conditioning, you’d exploit it until your last breath.  

You lunged at her. Natasha managed to duck your first throw, but caught a kick to her ribs hard enough to break bone. You stalked after her as she stumbled back, not relenting for even a moment as you barreled kick after kick, fist after fist. Unstoppable, unbothered by the potential damage to your own body if it would serve the mission.  

But even as blood dripped from Natasha’s mouth, she was holding her punches.  

Steve dragged himself from the ground just as you delivered a blow to the right side of Natasha’s head. He watched helplessly as Nat crumbled to the ground, her body no more than a ragdoll as she laid over the concrete. There was no remorse on your features and you knelt beside Natasha’s unconscious frame and pried something from the clasp of her belt. When you stood, the silver reflection of a blade was clenched in your grip. 

Steve raised his hands as you turned to him.  

“Y/n, look at me.” He willed his voice as strong as he could manage. “You know me.” 

Malice burned deep into your narrowed gaze. Your jaw flickered with tension as you readjusted your grip on the knife. With each step forward, Steve found himself taking one back. He was in the same corner Natasha had been in – unable to fight the woman he loved, unable to cause you even a moment of pain.  

“Please,” he began to beg. He wouldn’t fight you – not like this, not knowing you’d wake up when this was over and he’d have to live with the nightmares you carried of his own face. He wouldn’t hurt you. He would not add his name to that godawful list.  

But he couldn’t let you go either. 

Steve planted himself like a wall between you and the open door. He watched as your eyes flickered to the hallway – so subtle, so quickly he might not have noticed if he hadn’t learned to memorize the intricacies in your gaze. He centered on the comforting hue he’d grown to picture in the nights when his own demons kept him awake, focused on the old scars on your skin he could draw by hand, and the laugh lines by your eyes though you carried no light upon your face.  

He focused on the memory of you. 

“Y/n,” he tried again, knowing it would do little good. “I’ll free you of this. I swear I will. Let me help you.” 

You stepped closer to him, your eyes searching his. For one brief, comforting moment, Steve wondered if he’d gotten through to you, if he’d managed to break a sliver of doubt into your conditioning the way he had with Bucky that day on the bridge.  

He felt the heat of the blade before he felt it pierce his stomach. Your fingers dug into the shoulder of his suit, holding him steady as you withdrew the blade in a slow, agonizing stroke. There was no level of recognition in your eyes, no trace of the woman he knew. There was no time to prepare himself before the knife embedded into his stomach again.  

Your name rested on his lips, though he could not find the energy to voice it aloud. Blood trailed from the corners of his mouth, dripping in heavy drops onto the floor. It soaked through his fingers where he held onto the open wounded on his stomach, thick and oozing.  

The knife wound back a third time, ready to strike, and Steve closed his eyes, willing forth the memory of kinder eyes if it were to be his last, when suddenly – a cloud of crimson misted into the air.  

Yelena stood at Steve’s side with an empty dispenser in her hand, her body perched in defense, chest panting.  Steve clutched to the stab wounds on his stomach, trying to keep himself steady and on his feet as your body molded to stone against him, your hand still digging into the straps on his shoulder, the sharpest edge of the knife still inches from his stomach.  

You squeezed your eyes shut; wincing at the penetration of the mist as it entered your lungs.  The deadly, cold composure you’d held began to crack as your breaking drew out in long, hollowed, breaths, your balance unsteady. Steve watched with his heart halfway in his shredded gut as you slowly blinked open your eyes, looking around the room as if you were seeing it for the first time.  

Then, your attention fell solely on him.  

“Steve…?” 

His knees nearly buckled at the sound of your voice; breaking on the single syllable. Hope, for only the briefest moment. Relief.  

But then your gaze slowly lowered to the knife in your hand and the coat of blood over Steve’s stomach and he’d sworn he’d hadn’t known a second of pain in his life until he heard the agonizing scream that cracked through your body.  

“Oh God—” you gasped as the knife slipped from your weakened grasp. It clattered against the floor in echos that could drown out the alarm blaring overhead. You recoiled your hand from his shoulder, flinching as if you’d find burns under your palm, or perhaps the fire itself.  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t– I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry—” you sobbed, murmuring apologies on an endless loop as you pushed your shaking hands out in front of you. “I’m sorry. Oh God—Steve—I'm—I’m sorry—I didn’t know—I didn’t—” 

You scrambled back several paces, putting distance between you and the pool of blood dripping from Steve’s abdomen, and dropped harshly to your knees. Steve winced at the sound. You lowered yourself to the ground, hands scratching on the concrete like you were trying to separate yourself from the limbs that had betrayed you. 

“Let me,” Yelena said calmly, pulling a pair of cuffs from her belt. Steve’s heart dropped as he realized what you were waiting for – for someone to restrain you, to bind you. 

Your thumbs were still broken, your wrists still raw and bloodied, and still, a breath of relief eased your sobs as Yelena secured you to the floor of the cell. That was, until Natasha elicited a short groan as she came to again, her face badly beaten. 

Your gaze shot over to the woman you’d credited with your life, who had saved you from the Red Room before they corrupted the last ounce of light within you. Horror flashed your features – the long, reflective marks of tears on your cheeks growing wider.  

“Did I—?” you gasped, turning to Steve for confirmation. He found suddenly he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and it was all the condemnation you required. You sank your forehead to the ground, your entire body trembling as you gasped for air between sobs.  

An awful pain burrowed into Steve’s stomach and he did not care whether it had anything to do with the two stab wounds he held in his hands. It was this. It was you. He wouldn’t survive standing witness; of that he was certain. He moved to take a step close to you; to do what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know whether you’d accept his comfort, whether you’d even want it.  

But he ached to give it to you.  

Your name on his tongue, Steve extended a hand towards you, but you only crawled further out of his reach. Scrambling over the cold, unforgiving concrete like a frightened animal. It wasn’t for fear of him, Steve realized with an agonizing lurch in his stomach, but for fear of yourself.   

“You look like shit, Steve Rogers,” Yelena said, flippantly pointing to the blood seeping between his fingers as he shot a glare at her over his shoulder. She spoke of his stab wounds as if they were little more than a stain on his shirt.  

“She’s right,” Natasha agreed, though her voice was groggy. Yelena rushed to her sister and quickly helped her to her feet, offering her balance as she stood. “You should get to medical. Now.” 

Steve shook his head, his gaze focused on the trembling in your shoulder blades though you refused to look at him. “I’m not leaving her.” 

“Don’t be a hero,” Yelena scoffed, the dark curl of a Russian accent thick on her tongue. “You’ve been stabbed. Twice. I don’t care how much superman potion you have in your blood, a Widow knows where to stab you to cut you down. You’ll bleed out in this room. I don’t think you want her to have that on her conscious. Not with everything else.” 

Steve swallowed. It tasted bitter down his throat.  

“We’ll stay with her, Steve,” Natasha urged. “Go.” 

It took nearly all of his willpower to turn his back to that cell. His hand was already coated red in his own blood and he would have waited until it spilled down his thighs and left a thick layer in the cracks of the concrete with no complaint if it meant ensuring you were safe. He’d let you out of his sight once and it cost him everything. He’d lost you because of it.  

But you had Natasha. And Yelena. They would not let any harm come to you in his absence. He had to believe it. It was the only thing that allowed his legs to carry him, step after step, down the long, empty hallway, listening to the muffled echo of your sobs.  

*** 

Dr. Cho kept Steve in the med bay for nearly three days. It would have been longer if not for the serum rushing through his veins and his insistent stubbornness. The wounds were barely held together by a thin layer of tissue and bandages when he finally convinced Cho to let him go. They both knew damn well he could have broken protocol and left at any time, but not even Steve Rogers would dare go against the order of the best doctor on their medical team.  

His heart was lodged in his throat as he hurried through the halls in search of you. He winced with each step, pressing his hand to the freshly healing wounds under his rib cage, and forced himself to slow down. Natasha had messaged him brief updates, promising you were still in the compound, that you had agreed to sit down with psych and undergo eval, that no trace of the chemical that had corrupted your will remained in your system.  

You were quiet, Natasha told him. Reserved. Timid. A ghost of who you were before you vanished. But you were still here. Still breathing. Still whole.  

It was enough.  

Steve went to your room first, hoping he might find the low strums of acoustic guitar playing through the speakers in your bedroom as he approached. There were certain artists, certain playlists, you turned to when the demons showed their face and they gave you permission to feel that aching void, to allow your body to react to unspeakable things in a safe environment, to provide comfort and warmth. They eased the burden from your shoulders. But the room was silent. And empty.  

He tried the gym next. You’d broken the skin on your knuckles more times than he could count against the punching bag hanging by the window. Glistening sunlight streaming in, the beautiful view of endless trees and water in the distance, and you’d bloody your hands until you could hardly feel it anymore. Numb replacing numb. But when Steve pushed open the double doors into the gym, he was only met with the curious stares of a dozen rookie agents gathered around the training ring.  

Steve pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to center himself. He took in a slow, steady breath and then, it dawned on him.  

The one place in the entire compound you felt safest, the same place you often guided him hand-in-hand through the night covered sky when his memories plagued his dreams. The grass under your bare feet and the gentle breeze by the water. Cherry blossoms over your head and a rickety bench holding you steady.  

The garden.  

*** 

You were sitting where Steve imagined you to be – curled up on that old bench, a sweatshirt two sizes too big draped around your fame, the ends of your hair gingerly flowing with the breeze. You didn’t turn to face him as his footsteps got intentionally louder, his arms swinging by his sides and catching on the fabric to prepare you for his approach. You were painfully still – staring out to the equally still water on the lake.  

Slowly, Steve stepped into your peripheral. He knew you were aware of his presence by the way your hands curled into the waistline of your sweatshirt, your knuckles still discolored and scabbed. You kept your focus on the water, as if to hope it might give you some of its calm.  

Without a word, Steve stepped out in front of you, crossing the plane of the garden. He could feel your eyes shift to follow him, though you turned sharply back to the water just as quick. A ghost of a smile touched his cheeks as he touched his fingertips to the fragile petals of a flower hanging over the fence. He looked to the empty half of the bench.  

“Can I sit with you?” he asked gently, a hopefulness in his voice he couldn’t hold back. You didn’t say anything, but you gave him a short nod. It was enough to loosen some of the knots in his chest and he took a seat beside you, careful to put a few inches of space between you.  

He sat with you for what felt like hours in the warm comfort of shared silence. He’d held silence on his own in the months you were gone, but it hadn’t felt like this. It was agonizing, debilitating. It ruined him. Mocked him. It allowed the demons to crumble what was left of his resolve and shatter any sense of the man you’d known him to be.  

But this? There was kindness within this silence. Trust. A peace he’d been yearning for since the day you disappeared. He could have sat willingly within that silence for the rest of his life and been content. 

So when you cleared your throat, a broken raspy sound cracking through the low hum of the breeze and the birds chirping overhead, a nervousness shifted in Steve’s stomach.  

“Fury said the Council is going to pardon me.” 

Steve swallowed. “That’s… That’s good news.” 

It didn’t sound like good news the way you said it. You could have said they were condemning you to life at the Raft and your tone wouldn’t have changed. You spoke as if it was a disappointment. 

You sniffled, tears slipping past your cheeks, though you kept your gaze to the water. “I killed people, Steve. Good people. Our people.” 

 “It wasn’t your fault,” he stressed, a crippling sense of déjà vu hitting him square in the chest. “Your mind wasn’t your own.” 

“I still did it.” Your hands balled tighter into fists. The effort cracked the healing cuts on your knuckles. “How can you even look at me after what I did to those agents? To Natasha? To—to you?” 

Your eyes almost flickered to his ribs – almost.  

Steve turned on the bench, facing you as much as he could in the small space. His right shin lined along your thigh, his left leg hanging off the side of the bench. There was no room for eggshells, not if you were going to sit in this pain on your own.  

“You never blamed Bucky for what Hydra did to him, for what they forced him to do,” Steve reminded you, his voice stern. “You didn’t have control. It isn’t your fault. None of it is.” 

Steve knew better than to gingerly brush the wetness from your cheeks, to gently stroke your jawline with his thumb, to coax you to look at him. He knew better, but he did it anyway. You did not flinch as he touched you, but a breath caught in your lungs. A sharp intake of breath, and then, relief. You sank into his touch, melting against him.  

“Don’t ask me to blame you,” Steve whispered. “I won’t do it.” 

You didn’t say anything, but you let him draw you into his arms, holding you on the same bench you’d spent hours on together – reading, sleeping, evading nightmares together. He held you until your body stopped shaking, until there were little tears left to cry, and even longer after that.  

“I grieved you,” Steve said suddenly, surprising himself. You lifted your head just slightly, only enough to catch the sincerity in his eyes, the shimmer of a glossy reflection coating over the pale blue. Steve pressed out a sad smile. “You just… disappeared. For months. You were gone; presumed dead or— a traitor.” 

You winced at the word, but eased as Steve slid his hand in soothing circles along your spine.  

“Bucky needed time to forgive himself, to truly believe that what he was made to do was not a reflection of some greater darkness in him, but in those who forced his hand. It took him years, but he did it.” Steve took in a steady breath, gently drawing the hair away from your eyes. You looked at him then, wide eyed and teary – beautiful. He smiled. “You can take all the time you need, okay? I’ll forgive you in the meantime. I’ll remind you that you are still good until you believe it again. I’ll carry that for you, okay?” 

Hope clouded through the startling disbelief in your eyes. Your lips parted a few times, trying to find the words to respond, but none came. Instead, you sank deeper into his arms, face pressed tight to the crook of his neck, and you held him.  

Only after the sun had begun to set and the sky was coated in shades of orange and red, did you finally speak again.  

“Steve?” 

His eyes were closed, a content smile on his lips as you clung to him. “Hmm?” 

“Do you think… maybe… you’d still want to go to that pizza place in Brooklyn?” 

Steve sat up, eyes opening to find you watching him with a nervous expression nearing on embarrassment. You brushed at your eyes and the lines on your cheeks from his sweatshirt, trying to hide the flush in your skin.  

“I know things are different and I’m… not how I was… but…” you stumbled over your words, looking anywhere but his calming gaze. If you had, you might have seen the sincerity laced into the blue of his eyes, the warmth and patience waiting for you. You sighed. “Maybe when I’m… better… you know? If you… if you still want to…” 

“Of course, I do,” Steve exhaled, a smile inching high into his cheeks. “You just tell me when, okay? Any time you want. You and me.” 

It was the first time he saw you smile since he lost you in the chaos of that final mission. It was more beautiful than he remembered. It left his heart aching. And he planned to protect it with his life.