Chapter Text
The first place you see it is on the news, on the gigantic TV in Tony’s living room. You’re two seconds away from turning it off, hating the scrolling red banners and screaming text (which does not help your anxiety over Steve and Natasha being away for vague reasons that Fury is not willing to disclose), when it catches your eye and you freeze.
It’s a clip. A short one, blurry and out of focus, but it sends your heart into your throat.
Steve, grappling with a man whose longish brown hair is hanging into his face, a black mask covering his mouth and nose. In the few pixels comprising the pale smudge of Steve’s face, you can see him grimacing. Gritting his teeth, muscles straining, as he’s forced backwards-
Your mouth goes dry.
No one, unless they have a suit (Tony) or are a literal god (Thor), has ever been able to beat Steve hand-to-hand.
You read the frantic news bulletin underneath the clip. You can’t help it.
Captain America- Met His Match? A frantic chase ensued through the streets of-
Click.
You glare at Clint as he sets the remote down on the table. “I was watching that”-
“Y’know this ain’t good for you while he’s away,” he replies flatly, crossing the room to refill his coffee for the millionth time.
“Like you’re one to talk, I know you have a burner to contact Nat”-
“You worry too much.”
You sigh, crossing your arms in front of your neglected yogurt bowl and feeling familiar tears prick at your eyelids. “I know, I just”-
His face twists slightly, a rare display of emotion. “I know. Just gotta wait it out, yeah?”
You nod. Pick at the seam of your scrubs. “Should probably head down to medbay now. More records to migrate.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
The elevator hums on the way down. You feel it in your chest, down to your bones. Lean against the wall, take a deep breath, bundle your hair back into a more serviceable bun.
Abruptly your phone buzzes with a text and you dig it out of your too-deep pocket, wondering if it’s Steve heading home.
It is Steve.
But not, in any sense of the word, what you want to hear.
You read the message. It’s short, barely two lines. You don’t let your face change, don’t let yourself show any emotion. Casually you flick your thumb over the brightness bar, turning it all the way down as you yawn and stick it, seemingly absentmindedly, back into your pocket.
Slowly your heart rate begins to pick up again, in a way that it hasn’t since that last awful mission that had left you with your ribs cracked and groaning in grief. The little tingle at the back of your neck that says here we go, time to start, hold on tight.
Bucky’s before you again, that crooked smile and open face, beckoning you back out into the fog.
You turn. Trip. Seem to stumble, hands going forward to catch yourself, brake your fall-
Entirely by accident, your tiny Webley slips from your grasp and out of your sock, and entirely by coincidence, your finger squeezes the trigger.
There’s a smash. A pop, a silvery tinkle of broken glass.
The security camera in the corner of the elevator lolls to one side, wires fraying and dangling uselessly out of the shattered lens.
You move fast, hands blurring as your mind works with calculated precision.
Jacket on, hood up, tuck your hair underneath it and stoop a little more.
Emergency stop button. Phone down the shaft, send the elevator after it so it’ll be well and crushed before anyone happens to find it.
Fire stairway. Locked, of course. No cameras. Because who wants to use stairs anymore?
The lock does not last long.
A minute and a half later, you’re sprinting down the street towards the hospital, towards the coordinates Steve had given you.
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“Is he stable?” Your hands are a blur over Fury’s motionless frame, tapping his wrist, the corners of his eyes. “Steve, he’s not breathing- what happened”-
Steve runs his hand over his face, looking like he’s aged ten years. “Shot. Think he’s gone or nearly there- same mystery person who nearly beat me into”-
Your eyes sweep the corners of the room, one hand raising as if to scratch your nose but quietly, quickly gesturing stop-
Nothing.
Steve nods at you. “Checked already.”
“The fuck?”
You sink down into the chair in the corner of the room. You stare at Steve, who’s covered in dirt, blood, and grime and whose broad shoulders carry a distinct flavor of hopeless. “What’s even going on?”
“We’re compromised. S.H.I.E.L.D isn’t safe anymore- he said we didn’t know whom to trust.” The words are clipped and short and soft as he leans to your shoulder. “I called you here because we have no way of knowing who’s listening. And because I don’t want you here for this.”
You stare at him.
“What?”
“There’s a safehouse on the edge of the city. A whole apartment that Fury rents out to make sure no one’s suspicious. I want you to stay there until this blows over.”
“You can’t just ship me off to some random”-
“Someone’s coming to collect you in ten. Head back to the tower, get what you need. Then you gotta leave.” He’s not looking at you. He’s biting his lip, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, profile sharp in the horrible hospital light.
“No. This is fucking ridiculous.” You’re on your feet, warm tears tickling the corners of your mouth. “You can’t get rid of me like this. You can’t just shove me in some new place to hide while you”-
“It’s to keep you safe,” he snaps for the first time, running his fingers through his hair. “I- I can’t risk something happening to you, not when you’re the only”-
“And maybe I don’t want to lose you”-
He’s not making eye contact. You’ve known ever since he was ten years old that Steve Rogers only does that when he feels guilty about something, and right now he’s staring very hard at the dirty floor tiles.
“Please,” you beg. “I can’t just have you leave, not again- the last that happened I lost”-
The silence stretches between you, sodden with grief.
Steve rests his hands on your shoulders and looks at you with pained blue eyes. “I know, okay? But I can’t have you staying there, not anymore- what happened today was just”-
“He nearly beat you, didn’t he?”
He winces, and flexes his arm, and you notice the pattern of bruises peeking out from under the sleeve of his uniform.
Oh.
Suddenly Steve isn’t invincible anymore. Suddenly you can see that scared, skinny little kid again, too-loose clothes flapping around him and gasping for breath, trying so valiantly to defend you from bullies twice both of your size.
“Okay.”
The word is quiet.
You stand on tiptoes and wrap your arms around Steve, ignoring the dirt that comes off his torn uniform. He picks you nearly off your feet as he buries his face in your hair.
“Be safe."
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Ding.
A pause. You lift your head with irritation- no one ever gets on at this floor, and for a second you’re tempted to slam your thumb down on the Close button. You do not need the interruption right now, not when you’re balancing a backpack, a heavy suitcase, and a shoulder bag between your hands without tipping over.
Someone steps in with an oily smile, reeking of cologne and hair gel.
Fuck’s sake.
For a moment, you thank the heavens that even though you really dislike being shipped off to a safe house like some parcel, at least you know you’re safe from Alexander Pierce.
You’re not sure what it is. He reminds you vaguely of a lizard, all mottled skin and slow smile and lazy eyes that are nonetheless watching your every move with a hypervigilance that has always put you slightly on edge.
The fact that his eyes always seem to be drawn to your neckline or your legs is also not one that you appreciate. Or why he’s in the fucking tower at all- isn’t headquarters north of here?
“Afternoon,” he drawls, gaze sweeping over the V of your scrub top with a leering swipe that makes you squirm.
You nod. Smile stiffly, and cross your arms in front of your chest, backing up against the elevator handle till it digs into the back of your thighs.
The elevator continues its slow, maddening descent, and you curse the day Tony decided to pump in literal elevator music, tinny and echoing and scraping against your eardrums.
“Going on vacation?”
Great. Just great.
You turn your head and smile politely, mentally calculating how many floors you have left to go. If the universal constant for gravity has stayed put for however many thousands of years, how much faster would it be for me to break the window and jump-
“Visiting a friend across town.” The lie is easy, effortless. “Kinda need a change of scenery, you know?”
“Of course, of course.” He shifts to his other foot.
Silence stretches out again and you bite your lip, praying for the fucking elevator to move faster-
“Heard anything about Fury?”
You school your face again. Neutral. Expressionless. For a moment you’re back in that awful cell with Thomason screaming at you through the bars, but this time you know for damn sure that no one’s going to be coming to save you. “No. Heard on the news he was injured. Pretty terrible, huh?”
His gaze is burning your skin, you could swear. “Very tragic.” He clears his throat. “He’s my best friend, you know. We go back a long time.”
You listen with half an ear. 17, 16, 15- why does this fucking building have to have so many floors? “Is he?”
“Yes.” He pauses, opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it again. “Thought since you, uh, are a nurse and all that, wondered if you had any idea how he’s doing?”
Yeah. No.
“Sorry, I don’t,” you reply, putting on your best apologetic smile.
Pierce steps closer to you. Angles himself so he’s between you and the door, and quite abruptly your neck is tingling again and your palms are starting to sweat as the little alarm goes off in your head.
“Sweetheart, I wasn’t asking.”
Something dark in his hand. Something small and nasty and heavy with menace-
Your hand comes up. Smacks his arm at the elbow, knocking the gun sideways just as his finger settles onto the trigger. Fumbling for your Webley, your heart in your mouth as he reels back-
He grabs your arm just as you flip the gun, bring it up, pistol-whipping him across the face and leaving viciously red weals. He screams, recoils, clawing at his skin-
The elevator doors open and you fucking sprint out, abandoning the suitcase, to the black car that’s idling at the curb.