PLEASE READ: There are mentions of a panic attack/PTSD in the first few pages of this fic so please beware. I wanted to explore the consequences of the blip because I felt it was very much swept under the rug by the MCU. Also, I don't have a clue about US geography so please don't come for me. There's also a splashy splash of smut in there so beware! Anyways, happy reading and constructive criticism is always welcome!
She makes it to the avenger's office with two seconds to spare.
The muffled thump of the door meeting the casing is like a gunshot, echoing in the quiet room. She stumbles past the table and over to the couch, trying to get out of the direct line of sight. The leather creaks under her weight as she collapses onto the cushion. That constant undercurrent of dread builds into a wave, washing over her. Her hands start to shake and soon, the rest of her body follows suit. The faux-wood grain of the coffee table before her is the only thing in focus; the rest of the world is warped as if she's viewing it through binoculars. Her heart feels as if someone has a fist around it and is trying to pull it free through her throat.
"Stop... fucking... crying," she hisses, wiping furiously at her cheeks. But her lacrimal glands pay no mind to her threats, nor does the rest of her when she begs it to stop panicking.
All this, she bemoans, over dust – one moment she's going about her day and the next she was back in that dark room, shrouded by the thick curtains draped over the walls, sealed in and suffocated by the people around her, turning to dust before her own eyes, waiting and waiting and waiting to die and turning to dust herself.
She doesn't remember what terrible excuse she made to her co-worker, nor does she remember the trip from the upper floor to here, several floors down. None of her friends must have seen her, because none of them have followed her in here, at the ready with their hugs and assurances, suffocating in their own loving way.
"You're the worst... person on earth," she whispers, clenching her jaw in an effort to stave off another round of tears.
"Y/N?"
She glances up to see Steve stepping into the room, his mouth crumpled into that familiar frown of worry – the one he's worn ever since the blip. He says her name like it's a question, as if she has the option to shake her head no and become someone else. It's a tempting idea. Her reply is at the ready, as natural as breathing now. Not that she's doing a very good job of doing the latter.
"I'm fine."
"I see that." Though the words should be harsh, his tone is anything but – weighed down by all the concern in the world, it seems. His gaze roves over her, observing and diagnosing her like the specimen she is, walking through the tower's halls once more. "You're having a panic attack," he says, more to himself than to her.
"Correction: my second. First was in the supply closet. Decided I wanted a change of scenery."
Although it's a struggle to get the words out, her audience doesn't seem to appreciate the joke.
"Do you want me to sit with you?" he asks.
"Please." The plea is whispered into her clasped hands. She tightens her grip, trying in vain to stop the tremors working through her.
Steve crosses the room and takes a seat next to her, giving her the illusion of space by twisting at the waist to look at her. In blocking her view of the hallway, he also blocks them from seeing her. His hand comes to rest on the space between them, a show of support that doesn't make her feel crowded or trapped. She could kiss him right now, if it weren't for the whole world-feeling-like-it's-falling-out-from-underneath-her sensation. Her lungs ache with each choppy, shallow breath she drags in.
"I'm here. You're safe with me."
Untangling her laced hands, she reaches down and rests her hand atop his. With a gentle motion, his fingers shift to nestle alongside hers, grounding her with the pleasant warmth of his touch. With her eyes closed, she focuses on the smooth breaths he takes, mimicking them as best she can. Seconds turn to minutes, marked only by his murmured phrases of assurance and his pulse, sure and steady under her palm. Gradually, her breath begins to ebb and flow, rolling in and out of her lungs in languid sweeps.
She opens her eyes. The office fades into focus. The track lighting is still too bright, so she turns to Steve. The sympathy welling in his eyes almost makes her want to shut hers again. His gaze tracks over her in a fitful dance; he's mapping out each tear that stains her cheeks and neck.
"I'm okay," she tries this time.
His eyebrows scrunch down as he studies her.
"No, you're not."
"Okay, fine, I'm not." She leans forward and rubs at her cheeks. If she puts her hair down, she could maybe make it to the bathroom and wash away the evidence before a staff member notices. "Have you thought any more about the Avenger's future?"
No, I can't say that I have." Shaking his head, he pinches at the bridge of his nose and sighs. "God, Y/N, I don't want to talk about the team. I don't give a damn about it right now. I only care about you."
The cushion creaks as she shifts, uncertain how to drive the conversation away from her. She goes with the best tactic: avoidance.
"Well, thanks, then. But I should go. I've wasted enough time as it is. I've got to pick up some reports and check up on the new stats and see what Fury wanted from–"
Steve puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, once, then again.
"Stop. Stop worrying about everybody else for a second."
She snorts out a humourless laugh at that. "I'm serious," he continues, pressing on her shoulder and urging her to look at him. "I know that you practically begged Fury to let you come back to work, even after I told you no, but I think you need to give yourself more time. I think you pushed yourself too hard."
"I was stuck in limbo for twenty minutes, and then stuck at home for twenty days. I'm done waiting around. I can only take so much "medical" leave. And I can't just... sit at home cowering in fear."
"So you thought doing it at work would be better?" he asks candidly.
"Fuck you."
She jumps to her feet and rounds the table, leaving him to throw his pity party for her all by himself – then freezes. Outside the glass walls, the hallway is teeming with people. Agents and orderlies mill about, pushing boxes of files and walking to and fro, from their desks. Several agents spot her and then, like marionettes on shared strings, turn towards each other at once, their chins tipped low as they converse. She feels like a zoo animal, on display for the hospital to ogle at.
"Go home, Y/N," comes Steve's voice from behind her. His footsteps drag across the rug as he approaches. "For another day or two, at least. Please."
She turns from the hallway and brings her arms around her chest to hug herself tight.
"I... it's no walk in the park there, either. Being there alone is frightening enough, but when everybody's home, they walk on eggshells around me. It's... I hate being home. It's like my family is too afraid to say something that might – I don't know, offend me? – so they don't say anything at all. It's like living with a ghost, except I'm Bruce Willis in this scenario." She stops short, figuring she'll have to explain that one, but he holds up his palm to keep the synopsis at bay.
"I understand your reference. You know, I have seen a film or two."
"Could've fooled me."
She tries for the usual smile that wants to form when making fun of his limited pop culture knowledge. Her bravado falls away, though, as he comes to stand close to her. His arms cross over his chest, as if attempting to keep his hands to himself in front of their audience. "You know what it was like for me," she continues, "being in that room, doing nothing–"
He cuts her off, his blue eyes suddenly ablaze, "You and the rest of humnaity".
The passion and heat in his voice, sends a tingle up the length of her spine. "I watched you struggle recognise where you were. I watched you have all your faculties ripped away. Which is why I'm so worried that you're pushing yourself too hard."
"Steve–" she starts, but he barrels right over the deflection attempt.
"If you had an agent who was experiencing the same symptoms at work, would you tell them to get over it? Would you tell them to push past their fears and their anxieties, in order to stay on the clock?"
Her lips purse at his point, knowing that he's right. But she doesn't want to let him win this one.
"Officers do a lot of things they tell their agents not to. We're the biggest hypocrites of them all."
"No, I think that honour falls on politicians," he quips.
The little laugh feels foreign in her mouth. She can't help but notice the way his eyes light up in response to the noise.
"I have an idea." She raises a brow in interest, spurring him on. "Let me take you somewhere. Anywhere you'd like. We can leave today, spend a long weekend away. We'll swing by your place, pack you a bag, and go."
"And you think we can just... leave? Slack off on our duties like that?"
The corner of his mouth hitches up in a smirk.
"You're talking to the person who does the scheduling. And I happen to know your boss wouldn't mind.
Taking a deep breath, she considers the offer as he watches her, not an ounce of hesitation on his face. That tingling sensation returns, banking higher and higher within her.
"Okay," she agrees, hating how her heart beats a little faster at the brilliant smile on his face. "I like the way you think. Let's go."
——
Within two hours, they load up Steve's car and make their way out of Brooklyn. The city center gives way to the urban sprawl. That soon becomes overtaken by suburbia and its penchant for shopping outlets and tract housing. Y/N can't help the sigh of relief that comes when the city skyline drops away in the rearview. They leave the lowlands behind, heading north along the interstate. Though she packed a bag with what little information he gave her, she's curious still when they stop at a food truck for lunch.
"You realize you could hit the navigation screen on the GPS, right?" Steve points out. "It'll tell you exactly where we're going."
"That's cheating. I thought you taught me to be a better agent than that."
"No, I taught you how to be a smarter agent. Besides, you're the one knowledgeable about technology." When she doesn't immediately outright ask, he settles back in his chair. "All right, then. Deduce it."
Y/N's fork pauses on its way to her mouth. She shoots him an incredulous look, but when he simply cocks an eyebrow, she takes the bait. "We're not going to the airport, because you didn't tell me to bring my passport – which I do have, by the way, though I've only gotten to use it a couple of times outside SHEILD work."
"I know," he tells her. "There's several photos of your semester abroad on your Instagram page."
"I can't believe Tony convinced you to get an account, she smiles at the bittersweet memory of the man. "Besides, those photos are from my senior year of undergrad. That means you scrolled for quite a while, Rogers." It's impossible to miss the blush burning along his cheeks and up his ears. Y/N tips her head to the side, eyes wide, her words teasing: "Were you that interested in Stockholm?"
"It's a lovely city."
That thick, bottom lip of his ticks up in a grin. The little cafe suddenly feels too warm for her, but she resists the urge to tug at her sweater. Twirling her straw wrapper around her finger, she looks him over for another minute before giving up with a shrug. "Nope, I've got nothin'."
"Some dedicated agent you are." His grin widens as the balled-up wrapper hits his chest.
——
They leave the interstate behind. Instead, the state highway takes them through the proper countryside. When the satellite radio fails to connect, Y/N steals the aux cord and plugs in her phone. Steve's protests quiet down soon enough when, instead of the pop drivel he expects, Nat King Cole croons out of the speakers.
The mountains roll along beside them, as if shielding them from the outside world; Y/N appreciates the gesture.Towns seem to sneak up on them as the road curves. Tiny stores and tiny gas stations and tiny churches, Johnson's Hardware and Morgan's Jewelry and Lee's Drugstore line up along the roadside. Hanging signs advertise berry farms and local maple syrup, their arrows pointing up into the hills. Then the highway curves again, and the towns disappear from the rearview.
Y/N watches it all from her reclined position against the centre console, her hand in Steve's as he drives. Though they swore off it back in Brooklyn, they talk about work, which leads them to politics and the incompetency of the international bureaucracy. Serenading about her need for a Sunday kind of love, Etta James joins them as they cross into New York.
It doesn't take too long before the feminine voice of the GPS announces that they've arrived. They pass by the shops and bars and restaurants that line the main street, all the brick facades and rugged decor blocking the view. Locals and fellow tourists clog the sidewalks, meandering in and out of the storefronts as they enjoy the afternoon sunshine. Eventually, the buildings fall away, and the world is filled with nothing but a cloudless sky and clear water that stretches wide beyond the guardrail. Just over a stretch of land, a lake burns a deep blue in the sunlight.
Y/N keeps her eyes on the sights but shifts her attention back to the man in the driver's seat. Turning off the main drag, Steve takes them down a one-lane road that winds back into the wilderness. After passing the town lodge, the occasional driveway and accompanying mailbox are the only signs of human life among the towering pines.
The house is tucked back off the road, a pretty little cottage painted robin's egg blue. Two rocking chairs frame either side of the front door. Steve hauls in their bags with Y/N following behind. The rustic decor leans too far towards kitschy for both of them, but she finds the log bed frame and large, dramatic painting of a howling wolf charming. The real draw, though, is the wide back deck, where the sea of trees parts to offer a stunning view of the lake.
It's the perfect place, she decides later while sipping from her second glass of scotch, to watch the sunset. From his position, Steve seems to agree. His arms are wrapped around her waist as they spread out across the porch swing. Bundled up in scarves and blankets to ward off the evening chill, they watch the sky turn from blue to orange to black. The stars, when they fade into view, are thrown into sharp relief against the night. It's almost dizzying to be able to see so many.
She stretches out against Steve. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his lips against her temple.
She shifts in his arms to rest her cheek against his shoulder.
"This reminds me of where I grew up, in this one-horse town." It's a detour of the conversation he wants to have, but she can't help but avoid talking about That for just a little while longer. "I mean, really, a real hole-in-the-wall kind of place. My grandparents lived there for sixty years, though, so that was home. When I was nine, my mom dropped me and my brother off at their house and never came back. So, it became our home, too. They took us in and let us have the run of the land. I was happy there – happier than I'd been with my mom. But I spent a lot of time daydreaming about living in the big city, going to all the college parties that I saw on television, and travelling the world."
His grip tightens around her. "And then you did," he murmurs.
"Yes, I did," is all she says. "Though I blame that more on becoming infatuated with this Avenger who wore this ridiculously patriotic costume and waved a metal shield around, and who inspired me to apply to SHIELD and one day become one of the country's greatest heroes."
"What do you mean?" At her hum of confusion, he clarifies. "You already are, Y/N."
Tears spring to her eyes at his declaration, but she hides them by burrowing closer into his warmth.
"But yeah, despite growing up in the middle of nowhere, it's nice to be there again. I mean, you can't get views like this back in Brooklyn." She waves a hand towards the thick spread of stars above them.
"Your file didn't list your grandparents as contacts."
The invitation to talk about her past lies in the proverbial space between them; she takes it.
"They passed within a few months of each other when I was seventeen. They left what little they had to me and my brother, and I used that to get to college."
She tells him about the farmhouse and how it would become so big and lonely; and the vintage, rose-patterned sofas that would collect dust; and the little kitchen at the back that would never smell of fresh coffee and banana bread again. She doesn't tell him about how it felt like being abandoned all over again. Time has healed the wound's edges, but it flares to life on occasion. Over the years, she's learned to sit with the grief, to take long moments to study it and inspect it and move through it. It's how she knows, despite the horrific tragedy, that she'll be okay. Maybe not right now, or next week, or next month, but someday.
From inside, muffled through the French doors, comes Gladys Knight singing about life's ups and downs. Y/N closes her eyes, focusing on the song and on the steady brush of Steve's thumb as he strokes her arm. Across the dark expanse of the woods, a whippoorwill calls out, its warble echoing off the water.
At some point, she stirs to the sensation of movement, of warm lines of pressure along her back and behind her knees. The blanket of sleep wraps around her once more.
——
After a lengthy argument on staying in bed versus exploring the town, Steve takes the loss with a surprising amount of grace. Oh, he grumbles a bit as he tugs on his sweater and makes several comments on how proper vacation etiquette does not include rising before nine a.m. But once she gets him downtown to the farmer's market and gives him the task of finding the ugliest souvenir for her to give to her roommates, he perks right up.
Under a stretch of white tents, card tables are laden with wares and plants and produce. Buckets of brightly-coloured croton and chrysanthemums flare against the white tablecloths. Necklaces, fishing lures, and welded sculptures glint, swing, and jingle, catching the attention of passers-by. Wines and cheeses and honey are bottled and wrapped and canned, their labels touting how local, how fresh, how organic they are. From somewhere along the thoroughfare comes the smell of hot apple cider as it drifts between the stalls.
Y/N is marvelling at a collection of wind chimes that she has no use for whatsoever when she feels a hand settle on her lower back.
"I found it." There's a strange sense of pride in his voice as he lifts a nondescript, brown paper bag up for emphasis.
"What is it?"
"As per your request, the most hideous object known to mankind."
"I don't think I was that–"
"Fine," he concedes, "known to this region – or state, at the very least."
Out from the crumpled pages comes a tankard of a coffee mug with "Don't confuse your GOOGLE search with my College Degree!", printed along the side. Then, stamped underneath as if an afterthought: Adirondack Mountains, NY. Y/N stares at it with a sort of horrified amazement. "It's..." she trails off, unable to form words.
"I know," Steve agrees, turning the mug around to read over it again. Looped around his wrist is another smaller bag.
"What else did you get?"
"That one's a surprise."
Jostling the tote bag on her shoulder, she gestures to the cork sticking out. "I bought us some wine to go with dinner. C'mon, show me what you bought." It may sound like she's whining, but she's not.
"Are you unaware of how surprises work?" he questions, raising a brow at her insistence.
"Okay, fine." She lets the topic slide, grinning and rolling her eyes at his desire for secrecy.
Reaching towards him, he answers in kind by sliding his arm through hers. They spend the rest of the morning strolling through the stalls together. He buys a nice bottle of bourbon for Fury; she buys a little box of self-care items for herself. When Y/N comments to the shop owner on the pretty photo printed around the candle, he mentions that it's his own photograph of a nearby trail.
"It's a short hike, no more than three miles roundtrip," the man tells them as he wraps up her gift. "You pass the lodge and keep going about four, four 'n a half miles, and the trail is at the end of the road. You can't miss it."
——
The man was right.
It's impossible to miss the trail, given that four-hundred feet past their cottage, the road dead ends in a gravel semi-circle. Two boulders and a single post mark the trailhead. After dropping off their purchases and changing into more terrain-friendly shoes, they set off on foot from the cottage.
Despite autumn's grip on the foliage above, the last vestiges of late summer remain on the forest floor. Thick, leafy undergrowth makes the trees appear as if swimming in a downy sea of green. The hike's elevation gain is slow and steady, which Y/N is grateful for, considering that eighty percent of her exercise comes in the form of running up and down SHIELD hallways.
She's more than enjoying the view now, what with Steve in front of her. There is something to be said about wearing the proper apparel for such an activity, she's finding.
"Y/N?"
Her gaze shoots up just as Steve twists to look over his shoulder. "Were you listening?"
"No, sorry, I was–" she fumbles for something to say. The altitude must be getting to her, she reasons, because the next words out of her mouth were about to be 'staring at your ass.' "–um, I thought I saw a... snake."
"They're usually more afraid of you than you are of them."
"You've never experienced me with a snake before."
"I'll make sure to warn them of your presence if I see one, then."
"All snakes in the surrounding area just gave a collective sigh of relief."
Her poor attempt at humour earns her an exasperated sigh, though she does catch the chuckle that follows. Steve keeps talking, but she doesn't really hear him. Her attention is caught by a small, branching path through the trees. It's been a long time since she spent a weekend away from the city. When her friends spent fall break camping or borrowing a friend of a friend's uncle's boat to cruise around on the lake, she stayed holed up at her desk, studying.
After she left for college, the closest she came to the wilderness were the views on her Instagram feed, or the nature documentaries she likes to watch. Here, as Y/N pushes past bristly limbs, the scenery stretches out before her, live and in full-colour. Drenched in sunlight, the valley stretches wide to whatever direction she's facing. A trio of birds swoop down from above her, heading towards the staggering shelves of trees that line the distant hills. At the furthest edge, the blue shadows of the mountains melt into a spatter of grey clouds. It's all very picturesque, so much so that when she hears a noise on the path behind her, she expects to turn and see a frolicking deer.
"Did you not hear me calling your name? What are you doing?" Steve demands, his jaw firmly set as he looks her over. Y/N hops down from the outcropping she climbed for a better view.
"Sorry, I was–"
"You shouldn't go off on your own like that." The heat of frustration burns along his reprimand, surprising her with its intensity for such a small offense. "This isn't a walk around the block back home. I was– you can't disappear on me like that."
Y/N tries to let his tone roll off, but she also isn't going to roll over for him. She sucks in a breath and mentally counts to five.
"Wow, okay. You've never fought me before about something so absurd. What's this really about?"
In an instant, the fire is gone from his eyes. Steve wipes a hand across his face and over his jaw; he gives his head a little shake, as if rousing himself from the spell of anger.
"I'm sorry," he says, the blue of his eyes burning cool now. "I hoped that if we got away from the headquarters that..." his words trail away under the birdsongs echoing around them.
Y/N motions for Steve to keep moving up the trail. She gives him an encouraging look when he glances over, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. The gentle slope becomes steep stone steps that they trudge up, climbing higher and higher, wary of the loose ones that wiggle under their feet.
"I thought that I would get better at this," he finally says.
"This?" she prods.
"At coming to terms with what happened. And not just with you, although that's a large part of it, obviously. When you..." he swallows and shakes his head again. At his sides, his hands clench into fists. "I was terrified, and I think some parts of me still are. But when I was in Wakanda with Travis, and I saw him turning to dust, I felt vindicated in some horrible way. I was happy that he was in pain, for what he did to you."
"Steve–"
They reach the top and step out onto the cliff.
Over the edge, purple-tipped shrubs choke the rock shelves that stagger down the cliff until they reach the forest floor below. The valley dips low before them, cradled by a long line of mountains in the distance. They roll along in a lazy sort of wave, deepening to a hazy blue the farther they stretch. The water is calm and still, reflecting the foliage's vibrant array of colours, fuchsias and reds and oranges peppering the mountains that flank the lake. Pale crags of rock decorate some of their peaks, so bleached from the sun that they almost look like snow.
"Unfortunately, you suffer from something incurable." At his answering noise of interest, she wraps an arm around his waist and hugs him close. "You're human."
His hand sweeps across her back, holding her tight.
"I'm sorry."
She shoves down her need to use humour as an emotional crutch by mentioning this must be a record number of apologies for him. Instead, she lets her head rest on his shoulder.
"What for?"
"For burdening you with my problems, which pale in comparison to what you went through. It's not fair to–"
"Hey," she cuts him off, hugging him tighter for a beat. "You can't work through the trauma if you discount it like that."
"You sound just like Bruce."
"Smart minds think alike."
Her heart squeezes at his familiar, half-formed huff of laughter. They spend a good length of time at the top, enjoying the peaceful view and watching clouds roll in from the west. Eventually, her stomach growls and he teases her about doing strenuous activity on an empty stomach. The two boulders and trailhead sign come into sight just as the rain arrives.
Fat raindrops plod the canopy above, drumming through the leaves and onto them. Steve lets out an undignified yelp when cold rain lands on him, prompting a full-throated laugh from Y/N. They race down the path, sprinting between the boulders and down the road.
They reach the cottage when Steve rushes inside for towels. He makes it to the hall closet before realizing that Y/N isn't following. Retracing his steps, he returns to the little porch and finds her standing out on the front path. Her arms are stretched out beside her as the rain soaks her clothes and hair. He sets the towels down on the rocking chair and approaches her, raising his voice to be heard above the downpour.
"What are you doing?"
"It's silly," she answers with a shrug. Contentment and grief coat the words; it's an effort to push them free of her throat. This close, he can see the rivulets of water running along her trembling lips. "But I was waiting for this. It's been sunny every day since... and all I wanted was for it to rain."
"It's not silly." Reaching for her, he takes her hand and guides her under the porch and out of the storm. "Silly would be how I worry about you constantly now – that if I leave you alone, or you go off somewhere without me knowing, that it could happen again. I'm terrified, Y/N, of losing you again. Every room you step into could lead to another disaster, and it might be another one that I can't fix."
He keeps busy while he talks, picking up a towel and wrapping it around her shoulders. With another he dries her hair; his fingers clench and release the wavy strands like he saw her do a lifetime ago in their shared hotel room.
"It's why I've been keeping tabs on you this week," he says with no small amount of embarrassment. "Why I've been following you around. It's how I knew to go to the office yesterday. And I know that's awful and overbearing of me, and I understand on every sensible level that you're safe. But there's that one percent of something that keeps me at it.
Y/N reaches up for the towel in his hands and tugs it away, letting it drop to the ground. He cups the back of her head and settles her against his chest, right against his heart where she belongs.
"I've spent enough years being a cynic and a pessimist, always waiting for the other shoe to drop." Steve clears his throat, swallows, and steadies on. "But when I held your hand after those five years, I didn't think about what the next hour would bring, because I wasn't sure if that next hour would include you. And to have to stand there and watch you – you, who's always brave in the face of death and danger – confused and dazed in those hours, that scared me more than anything."
When he speaks, the passion and heartache in his tone unfurls something in her chest. "I don't want to waste what time we have left. I'm tired of playing pretend. I'm tired of holding myself back. I don't know what to do, other than tell you that I care about you, and that I want to be with you. And I know it'll be messy, and I don't have all the answers for how we go about it, but I know that I want you so goddamn much, Y/N, that I don't care anymore."
Gripping his wet shirt, she pulls him down for a kiss. He answers in kind, his lips dragging against hers; his hands come up to frame her face, to keep her close as he drops another kiss, then two, then three against the corner of her mouth. The roar of the rain turns to a muffled drum as they fumble their way through the door and down the hall.
The bedroom is lit only by the tall windows, reflecting what weak sunlight manages through the cloudy sky. A wall of fog floats between the trees, blocking out the rest of the world. Y/N leans down to the nightstand and flicks on the lamp. Honeyed shafts of light fill the space, warming the room with their glow.
Steve peels their wet clothes away, stripping the both of them bare. His lips cruise every inch of her damp skin; she shivers at the cool, stagnant air of the bedroom, then again at the heat of his mouth as he kisses her shoulder, her breast, her belly. He guides her to the bed and she sinks onto the soft mattress, the sheets smelling of them: his soap and her shampoo, his aftershave and her lotion. It's a scent she wants to wake up to every morning.
"I never got to take my time with you," he laments as he lays her down. Goosebumps follow in his wake as he runs the backs of his knuckles down her throat. He cups one breast and then the other, brushing the pad of his thumb over. Mesmerizing, he thinks, of the sweet noises she makes and the way her hips shift in time to his touch.
"We've got time," she assures him, her fingers trailing up and down his ribs. She's unable to hide her grin when he squirms, obviously ticklish around his sixth and seventh rib. Lifting up onto his knees just enough to capture her hands, he presses her to the bed and takes a long moment to admire.
Frizzled from the rain, her strands spread across the pillow and dampen it – no doubt the one that he'll end up being forced to sleep on. The light dusting of freckles across her nose and shoulders are more pronounced in the yellow light. There's the scar along her inner thigh, a burn mark on her inner arm. He kisses the cut of her cheekbone and the rolls of her stomach, revelling in every facet of her. He takes a deep breath, and then another; they feel like his first real ones.
Her hands, along with the rest of her, squirm underneath his hold.
"Steve."
He doesn't ask what she's demanding; he takes one of his hands back and urges her thighs apart, pressing the heel of his palm against her and circling her. Her response is almost as erotic as the act itself; her knees jerk up, her muscles stuttering as her body rolls into his touch. Her freed hand snakes down her body to circle his wrist, her nail digging into his pulse point as she directs him how she likes. He's too enthralled by her; his grip loosens on her other hand. In a flurry of movement, she's got an arm around his neck and hauls him down to her for a messy kiss. He retaliates by changing gears; delighted at the strangled moan that escapes her.
"Is it good?" he asks, unable to stop the smarmy grin on his face.
"Yes," Y/N breathes out. She rolls her hips down when he curls his fingers and strokes her with all the precision in the world. "Yes, it's good, it's–" the words are lost to the crest of another wave as it pounds through her. She squeezes his wrist in a vice-like grip, keeping him where she needs him, and croaks out his name.
"Please," she begs, "please, Steve, I need–"
In a flash, he slides down her body, scoops up her hips, and drags the flat of his tongue across her. Y/N cries out, arching up into the wet heat of his mouth. His knees ache as he kneels before her and worships, coaxing hymns from her lips until she's dragged under once more. Steve eases her down from her high, running his fingers up and over her hip as her equilibrium returns. He rouses from his own arousal-induced haze at the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair.
"Come here."
He goes, without question, into the circle of her awaiting arms. She meets him with a messy kiss, her tongue tracing the corner of his mouth. His blood pulses hot underneath his skin, knowing she's tasting herself on his lips.
"I want to make you feel good, too," she murmurs, stroking him with a quick, little twist. He barely holds it together, clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting into her hand like some horny teenager. "I... ever since..., you're all I think about."
"It's the same for me," he admits, too many emotions bubbling to the surface that he isn't comfortable with declaring right now. Pressed against the long line of her body, he feels the vibration of her laughter when it comes, ringing through the room.
"Well, yeah, that too. I was mostly talking about when I masturbate, though."
"Oh." The word tumbles out before his brain has a chance to catch up and say something suave. It gets another giggle out of her, though – and he finds that the taste of her laughter is even better than the sound of it. "Christ, Y/N," he groans when he breaks their kiss, "tell me what you need."
"You," she says in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were stupid for expecting another answer.
Steve slides an arm across her back, cradling her close, needing to feel her against every inch of him. He pushes into her, his breath escaping him in a moan when she digs her nails into his shoulders. Giving her a moment to adjust to the stretch, he nips at the soft skin of her breasts. One of her hands drifts down to his ass and squeezes.
"Move," she begs.
Words fall free from his lips, nothing more than murmurs of praise. She writhes and keens underneath him; he has enough wherewithal to slide a hand down between them, knowing exactly what she needs. The rhythm sends him overboard with her, the both of them are dragged under the warm sea of pleasure. He pulls out and collapses next to her, nestling close when she slings an arm across him. The room spins around them as they wait for their breathing to turn to normal.
As his heart rate slows, he finally hears it: the rain, beating steadily against the tin roof, a cocoon of white noise that shelters them from the outside. Before he can speak, he hears another familiar sound. Y/N rubs her nose against his shoulder and chuckles.
"What was it that you said about strenuous activity on an empty stomach?"
His laughter echoes through the room. After some poking and prodding, he manages to convince her to get out of bed and meet him in the kitchen. She wanders in, dressed only in his button-down and a pair of wool socks. He manages to not whack his head against the upper cabinets, but only just barely.
"Hey, you never showed me what you bought."
He follows her finger to the little brown bag, still sitting on the bar where he dropped it off earlier.
"Curiosity killed the cat," he says.
"And satisfaction brought it back," she replies in a sing-songy tone.
"Go ahead. Open it."
He watches her sift through the tissue paper and lift the object out. The snow globe catches in the kitchen's recessed lights. Inside the glass is an overly-contrasted photo of the lake, looking out towards the mountains. "I figured you could add this to your collection."
Y/N looks up in confusion. "My collection?"
"When I visited your apartment, I noticed the one you had from Stockholm on your shelf. Now, the next time you travel, you'll know what tacky souvenir to buy yourself."
"Why would I do that, when I have you to do it for me?" she teases.
Setting the snow globe down on the table, she crosses the kitchen and slides her arms around his waist. The kiss she gives him is gentle and sweet, her lips curled into a smile as they press against his; he wishes for a thousand more. "But that's a good idea. Too bad I didn't get one in Wakanda".
He switches on the gas stove, glancing back at her with an impish grin.
"We could always go back."
"You know," she hums, "I like the way you think."
——