A/N: This was requested by two of my favorites, Marvel_Fanatic_ and BuckysGirl42! You two are absolute DOLLS and I love you so much!
Everyone has been so stinkin' nice and leaving the best comments and voting like crazy on this book and I'm so, so grateful for everything you guys do! It honestly makes me so happy to see how much you all love the book and it inspires me to set time aside every day to write more. I'm a relatively busy gal with working at a bakery and going to pastry school full time, but I'm trying to make time to write so that you all have something new to read as often as possible! You guys are really a dream come true :)
Endless hugs from me to you!
Winnie
Words: 2.7K
Pebbles of sand billow through the air like snow during wintertime. The sun is hotter than the deepest depths of hell—the pyramids in the distance doing nothing to shelter your sweltering skin from the godforsaken star. Blood patterns on the sand mark your path where fallen bodies slowly roast in the dry heat. There's the distinct smell of carnage and sweat. There's no doubt that the scent comes from you. You're wearing freeing shorts and a tight tank top—hair hastily tied up in a small knot atop your head. Most of the blood that soaks into the soles of your shoes doesn't belong to you. It came pouring out of the bodies of the masked men you took down as they chased after Steve and Bucky—you following to knock out the targets from behind. The alien artifact located in the Egyptian tomb has been secured, as far as you've heard through your earpiece, and all that leaves now is escape.
There's not a lot of hope that it's going to be a clean exit when you realize you're surrounded. A mile away from the mountainous pyramids and another three from your team you find yourself squared on all sides by the opposing team. Your hands clench into fists as your body automatically makes to move into a defensive stance.
One of the men says something. You don't speak the language here, but you know enough about human nature that he has no friendly plans for what he wants to do with you. You did, in his defense, just kill five of his friends with your bare hands. They don't call you Hellhound for nothing. In your defense, though, they were planning to use that alien artifact to mutate innocent, kidnapped women from all across the impoverish towns surrounding beautiful Cairo.
Out of the corner of your eye you spot a familiar metal bird-shaped robot.
Red Wing.
Hey—at least your team hasn't completely deserted you yet. You had little doubts that they would: ever since that day in Rome you've known that Steve and the others would always have your back.
One of the men seems to realize that you're unarmed. Of course you are—you lost your gun about ten minutes back. Besides, you prefer your killings a bit more personal for the especially rotten Joes.
The gunman raises his weapon and you hear a resounding blast.
You stifle a sigh of relief. You flinched at the sound, but the only one to fall to the ground was the gunman himself. He's sporting a brand new bullet hole in his head. Thankfully, Red Wing shot your opponent before he could shoot you.
At the shock of one of their teammates falling dead the men around you all look up. The few who stay focused on you are forced to do so as you turn to kick, punch, and jab their bodies out of your path. Bullets paddle the ground near your quick-moving body. Sand splatters around and bullets become cemented into the corn-yellow soil.
You've just flipped one heavy brute over your shoulder—hearing his body crack against the ground—when you see that Steve's appeared out of nowhere to fight beside you. He must've turned and come back.
"What the hell are you doing here?" you huff between strikes. You manage to unarm one man, turning his gun on himself—and shoot him in between the legs. He falls to the ground with a scream and you're gifted with a weapon once again.
"Came back for you," Steve answers curtly.
"The tech?" you ask. Last you knew, Steve had the alien tech in his possession. It seems stupid to think he came back this way for you—bringing the object closer to the people who want it most.
"With Buck," Steve replies. He grunts as two men are knocked down and seemingly unconscious by a blow from his shield. At that, there's only one man left standing: and he's making to square off with you. Stupidly, Steve thinks to himself with a small smirk. But the hooded, masked foe has made the choice to straddle up to your side of the sandy death-trap as opposed to the Captain's: unknowingly picking the more dangerous, lethal of the two.
Steve doesn't even make a move to step in as you easily snap both of the man's arms behind his back and fling him a yard away into the sand where he disappears into a cloud of dust and ash.
"Nice," Steve compliments. He looks around at the bodies. Most of them aren't dead, but the ones that are alive certainly look worse for wear than their peacefully lying counterparts. Steve fights a bundle of pity in his chest.
You step up to Steve's side. Hand on his shoulder, you remind him, "They were going to torture dozens of innocent women and children, Cap. They deserve a whole hell of a lot worse."
Steve blinks unsurely in your direction. How is it, he thinks with wonder, that you often seem able to read his mind? It hasn't been long that he's known you, yet you're one of the few people he's ever known that's truly been able to decipher his thoughts.
A Jeep comes spiraling down the sand dunes in their direction. At the wheel is Natasha Romanoff. Seated beside her is Bucky Barnes. And hanging halfway off of the roof, remote control in his hand, is Sam Wilson in his Falcon gear.
"Get in, bitches!" Sam shouts at you two who stand in the blood-freckled patch of sand. Sweat pours out of your pores and leaves wet stains on his slate blue uniform and your bare legs. The Jeep slams to a sudden stop just beside you—making for an easier entrance but a billow of sand smacking your bodies.
You climb in first and stretch out an arm for Steve to hold onto for easier following. He slams down into the far back seat beside you just as the vehicle takes off again. Sam's swung back inside the Jeep with a wicked grin on his face.
"I saved your ass back there, Y/N," Sam cockily reminds you. It's not often that Hellhound needs a helping hand.
"Yeah—thanks for that," you breathlessly counter. You try to find a clean swatch of fabric to wipe your sweaty, bloody, sandy face. Unable to find anything clean on your skimpy outfit of choice you resort to using your calloused, blistering palms.
Steve draws your attention to him by tapping your knee gently. He then proceeds to slip off one of his fingerless gloves, revealing a mostly-clean hand beneath, and questioningly reaches for your face. You turn your neck in his direction. You don't think twice in letting him swipe your cheeks clean—thumbs lingering on the soft skin beneath your eyes.
"Oh my god..." you hear Sam muttering dramatically. He's trying not to be caught watching you two in the very back seat. At his muttering Steve and you both glare. "Oh come on! You guys need to get together already. I'm getting tired of waiting."
You don't blush because you never do, but Steve does—hands quickly finding their way back to his side of the shared seat.
"Shut up, Wilson." You roll your eyes.
Little does he know, there's nothing left to wait for. And no—you don't mean that in the way you don't imagine anything is going to ever happen between you and Steve.
It means that something already has.
In fact, it happens almost every night like clockwork for nearly two months now. He comes to your room, you sneak into his... hours and hours spent talking, kissing, and fondling in ways that neither of you would've ever thought you'd do again: especially with each other.
Steve's told no one; not a single person on the team, not even Bucky. If the team suspects something they say nothing about it. It's probable that most people have their theories: especially when Steve often slips up—like just now with the face holding and two days back when he nearly called you babe over the radio. If anyone knows, they pretend not to. The only one who seems completely oblivious is Sam, and he's so caught up in "shipping" an imaginary relationship to realize what's going on right under his nose. He's never been a very observant fellow. Who can really blame him, though? It's hard to imagine that Steve Rogers, the righteous Captain America, would end up with one of the deadliest assassins ever known to modern man: the bloody-tongued Hellhound who finds sick pride in punishing people who deserve it.
Later, at the motel where the team will spend one last night in anti-paradise, you wait for Steve to come up to your room. You sit on the edge of your bed in your bath towel. It'd taken nearly an hour and twelve bottles of complimentary shampoo to get most of the grime out of your hair. You're still stuck with a bit of sand, though. You figure it'll fall out completely in the next couple days. Most of it probably came from when you rolled out of the back of that truck and hit the dunes...
When Steve finally does arrive it's nearly midnight. Four subtle knocks prove his identity. You open the door, allowing him to quickly slither in through the soft moonlight of the outside hall.
"You okay?" he asks sincerely. His fingers move to grace your face gently as soon as the door has been locked behind him.
"I am," you reply surely. "Why?"
"Just checking in on you," Steve tells you with a small smile. Before you can do the same gracious favor to him, he's leaning down to softly kiss your lips. He cradles your head with his warm hand and you reach up to touch his bicep—holding it possessively. He smiles against your lips as if he knows exactly what you're doing and why. Pulling away, he speaks. "I've wanted to do that since this morning."
"Then why didn't you?" you find yourself questioning the secrecy.
Steve blinks. He looks down at your face that he still holds in his hand. "What do you mean?" There's a gentle gnarl in his brow but a knowing glow to his blue-hued eyes.
"You know what I mean," you say. "Why are we keeping this a secret?" You take a deep breath through your nostrils as the thing that's been brewing on your mind for weeks now finally appears out loud. "Are you embarrassed to be with me?"
"No," Steve replies steadily and in one firm breath. "That's not it at all."
"Then what is it, Steve? Because it's been two months now and I can't help but feel like every day that passes is another day wasted. What's the point in doing this if we can only do it behind closed doors?"
Steve's hands drop to his sides. He walks to your bed, taking a seat as if readying himself for the long conversation to come. You follow him—not happily—and take the place to his right hand side.
"You know my track record, Y/N. You know that things never end well for me." Steve shakes his head solemnly. "I guess keeping this a secret is my way of trying to keep it safe."
You sigh. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it—it's probably going to have a bad ending." Steve looks over to you with pitifully sad eyes. "But you're a coward if you're letting the fear of the end keep you from doing anything."
Steve nods gently. He looks you over, eyes taking in the sight of your still-damp body that smells like cheap shampoo, and a small smile tilts his face. "You really mean a lot to me."
"I sure hope so," you reply with a laugh. "Because otherwise these past two months would've been a waste of my time," you joke dryly. "Can you believe we didn't like each other for as long as we've been together now? Two months."
"I didn't have a problem with you," Steve says, "You didn't like me."
You roll your eyes. "That's not true and you know it. I have a problem with authority, not you."
"You still have problems with me, occasionally." Steve smiles coyly.
"Only when you try telling me what to do, Cap." You lean over to rub your nose against his playfully—nothing like the woman he remembers meeting long ago with blood in her teeth and bitterness in every word.
"I wouldn't dare try telling you what to do, babe," Steve says with a smile. Your wink punctuates his point. Bright eyed and filled with fierceness like he's never known Steve can't help but admire you silently. He remembers the first time you shared a hotel room: back in Rome the night before he'd watched as you'd selflessly thrown yourself in front of the van to save that little girl's life. That was when he realized that you weren't the scary monster-woman everyone preached you to be. It was also the day he caught feelings for you: feelings he hasn't been able to shake since.
"Good. Besides, even if you tried, you should know by now that I'll never listen."
Chuckling, Steve pulls you up into his lap. He kisses your cheek before trailing his lips to your forehead. "Good god I love you," he says—words coming out with ease and without any thought to them at all. It's not until you stiffen in his arms does he realize what it is that he's just said.
It's something neither of you has said before: never to the other, probably not even at all.
Your hands, stained red beneath the surface with sins ignored by the man who stares adoringly at you now, reach out for either side of Steve's face. "I love you too." You smile to see the grin that suddenly lights up his entire face.
"You do?"
"I do." You gently scratch your fingernails along his cheeks through the rough hairs of his growing beard. He leans into your touch with a gentle sigh. "I really, really do."
Steve spends the night in your room—forgoing his own because he's much happier sleeping with you in his arms. The next morning everyone meets in the parking lot by the inconspicuous rental car that's going to take everyone to the airport and onto the private Stark jet. Soon you'll all be home, but for now the group votes to carry the alien tech in Bucky's cheap backpack and pray that no survivors from yesterday come back for more.
Sam's tossing the last of the luggage into the trunk, you leaning against the side of the car in sunglasses and a toothpick between your lips, and rambles on about something he saw on TV last night while you pretend to be invested in what he's saying. You look around the lot, surveying everything carefully, and catch the familiar scent of Cap nearing through the smoldering Egyptian heat. Your head turns in his direction slightly and you wonder if he can make out the wink you shot him through the darkness of your sunglass lenses.
"You ready, babe?"
Sam drops a suitcase onto the pavement in complete surprise.
Steve's looking right at you—raising an eyebrow as he repeats the question as if it would be possible not to hear with your enhanced hearing. "You ready, babe?" You wonder if he's simply repeating it for the shock-value that can be seen radiating across poor, oblivious Sam's face.
"Yeah," you reply coolly. You stay leaning against the side of the car as Steve comes over. He knows you have the keys.
"You wanna drive or me?"
"I'll be co-pilot," you say decisively.
Steve nods. "Sounds good." He holds out his hand and you toss him the keys—ignoring Sam who stares at you two with saucer-wide eyes. Bucky, who is already in the back seat of the car with his legs sticking out into the air, scoffs as Steve brazenly smirks at you.
Feeling devilish—because, let's face it, you're quite a devil—you stop Steve before he can properly pass. You hook a finger in his belt loop, dragging him to your will, and pressing a lazy kiss to his plump lips. He smiles against your mouth before you pull away. You shove him in the way he was set to go before, telling him, "Behave yourself, Soldier Boy."
"You know I will," Steve replies jokingly before disappearing to his side of the car.
Sam, who still has a suitcase toppled onto the top of his feet, gapes at you.
"Speechless, Wilson?" Bucky muses.
Suddenly, Sam grins gleefully. You roll your eyes—trying to hide your own smile as you load up into the passenger seat. You close the door and reach for the buckle as Bucky and Nat slide into their spots behind. Sam rolls into the very, very back and can be heard muttering to himself as the car drives away. You don't bother using your enhanced hearing until Steve reaches over to your lap to quickly, lovingly squeeze your knee for everyone to see. That's when Sam gasps ever-so-quietly, "Oh my god... My OTP!"