An introverted waitress stumbles into Captain America during Loki's attack on New York. After taking a bullet for him, he lets her go, wondering. She's on the run, but he can't know that. When she meets the Avengers again, escape is all but impossib...
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STEVE'S POV
"Steve?" A familiar voice asks, knocking gently on the door. Natasha poked her head in, a waterfall of red hair framing the concerned expression on her face. "Hey. Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Come on in." She takes the seat across from me. Her eyes fall on America, who hasn't woken up. I glance at the bouquet on the table. Eleven roses, some decaying, some fresh. I haven't removed a single one. Eleven days without hearing her voice. America told me once that I'm a hopeless romantic. Maybe I am, but I don't think that's a bad thing. When you love someone so much that it practically burns to see them suffer, you grow desperate. And I don't know what I'm going to do if she doesn't wake up. That's desperation.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner. You know how the press is. How is she?" Nat asks. She takes Mer's other hand and looks at me expectantly.
"I honestly don't know. She's healing," I answer, sighing a bit. Most of her face has returned to normal, but the doctors say there was some internal bleeding in addition to the multiple wounds she also received. I've never really understood medical terms, but I know enough to know how rough recovery can be, even for a super-soldier. "Thanks for handling the press, by the way. I'm sure that wasn't easy."
"Yeah, they can be a real pain," she replies, rolling her eyes. "Talking in circles with no real point. But it doesn't seem like any of us are getting thrown in the big house any time soon."
"Good."
Nat thinks of something else. "Some of the team called," she mentions. I haven't seen any of them since we left New York. Months ago, really. "They're all really worried. I know Bruce and Tony wanted to stop by sometime soon, if that's okay."
I nod. "Good. That's good."
"Can I ask how you are?"
"Everything healed up just fine. I'm good as new."
"I wasn't talking about your injuries, Steve," she says pointedly.
"I'm fine." I avoid her calculating gaze before my face betrays me. I'm not a great liar at all, mostly because I never wanted to be one. Honesty and integrity were two values I was raised upon.
"Steve, look at me. Come on," she commands. Reluctantly, I meet her eyes. "You look really bad. I mean it. How long has it been since you've gotten an actual night's sleep?"
I shrug, which is probably the wrong thing to do. "I do sleep. Just not that much. I don't like to leave her alone, but Sam stops by sometimes."
"You need to take care of yourself. This doesn't do her any good," she says with a scolding tone in her voice. "Go home for a few hours, please. Sleep for a while. Get cleaned up. I'll stay here at least until Sam shows up."
"Natasha-"
"Go home, Steve. It's okay. She'll be fine, and we'll update you if anything happens."
"Are you sure?" I hate the idea of leaving, but I am tired to the bone.
"Yes," she replies, nodding. I wouldn't leave America with just anyone, but after the events of the last few weeks, I trust Natasha Romanoff not only with my life, but also with hers.
"All right. I'll see you later." She gives me a small smile as I leave.
Walking home down the streets of Washington DC, I shove my hands in my pockets and sigh. It's a perfect evening, the kind America loved to wander around on. I let my thoughts swirl between her and Bucky. I don't know what happened to him after our fight. They could still have him. I know how bad the conditions are from when we rescued America. But he recognized me. I know that. I saw it in his eyes, in his expression. It'll just be a matter of figuring out where to go from here.
I'm surprised I left. I have, of course, before. It's not like I lived at the hospital for the last week and a half, but I have spent most of my time there. My dad used to say that love makes people do crazy things. And maybe that's why, sleep deprived, grief-filled and lovesick, I walk into a small store and spend an hour wandering around there before making a purchase. I tuck the tiny box into my pocket and continue on.
When I twist the key in my apartment door's lock, it's almost like stepping back in time. It hasn't even been that long, but everything is still a mess from Fury's 'death.' Chairs strewn, dried blood on the floor, bullet holes in the wall, and a broken window. Without a second thought, I head over to America's apartment, where it won't look like a crime scene.
As I walk to the bathroom, I pass the little gilded mirror she took from her apartment in New York and stop. I really do look awful. Dark circles under my eyes, messy hair, and a general expression of pure exhaustion. No wonder Nat sent me home. I have slept, but it's mostly been from dozing off, not from an actual night's sleep.
After a quick shower, I sit down on the couch and pick up a framed picture. She must have taken this when no one was looking. Karaoke night at Stark Tower, Tony versus Natasha. Both a little more than tipsy. I can practically hear that picture. I smile for what must be the first time in days and carefully place it back before I pass out from total exhaustion.
