Work Text:
You can't make out what they're saying.
The crowd, the absolute mob packed outside your recording studio. There's more of them than you can count, certainly more of them than you.
They're lined up against a barricade, temporary metal posts creating a pathway from the building to the car. It's twenty steps, door to door.
Every single square inch of it is filled.
"Nat?" You call out behind you, "do you have a pen or something I can use to sign stuff when we get out there?"'
You can hear the click of her heels behind you, rapid fire on the tile as she rushes to catch up.
"Here." She passes you a black sharpie, then without asking tucks a second one into the back pocket of your pants. "Just to be safe."
You give her a grateful smile. "What would I do without you."
A throat clears behind you, like a grey storm cloud descending.
Ugh. You almost forgot he was there.
"You understand that these people could be dangerous? They are complete strangers who had nothing better to do but wait outside all day to see you."
Steve's voice is a never ending monologue, constantly droning on about all the things you do that are 'dangerous.'
"You understand ninety percent of them are teenage girls?" You mean it in a kind way, as if to catch him in an aha! moment. You love your fans. You love their spirit, their passion. If you had to choose a demographic to go to war with it would be teenage girls.
"There's almost two-hundred people out there." Steve's voice is beyond serious, his body positioned between you and the door. "Even if ninety percent of them are harmless, that's still twenty people who aren't."
You turn your head away from him, glancing toward Natasha for help.
Help she does not give, offering you a sympathetic smile and shrug instead.
She never picks a side between you and Steve. You should know better.
Besides she was the one who actually found Steve in the first place.
"Former Secret Service." She'd told you, reading off his resume with nothing short of awe. "Plus he's a vet, special forces. His track record is impeccable."
That had been enough for you at the time. After all he was just a bodyguard, just another layer in your ever growing ecosystem. It's not like you would be interacting a lot, not like your life would change. You just needed a little more protection, just for a bit.
In hindsight you should have asked for questions.
Questions like: "If you don't understand the relationship between artists and fans, why the fuck did you take this job?"
Or maybe: "How many cameras do you plan on installing in my house? And if I say no to getting more- will you just install them anyway?"
Perhaps: "If this is just 'you doing your job,' why do I think you get a little hard every time you tell me I can't go somewhere?"
Most important: "How did you get that stick so far up your ass? Did you need lube?"
You'd also like to know what he benches but that's neither here nor there.
Unfortunately though, you asked none of these questions. So instead of a bodyguard, you gained a six foot tall baby sitter.
It hasn't brought out the best side in you quite honestly.
"Well then." You do you best to give Steve a look that screams nonchalant, putting on your sunglasses and uncapping the sharpie from Nat. "Guess you better do your job."
The crowds eats up every moment you give them, being sure to take your time going to each individual person. One at a time you signed CD's, vinyls, pictures and even someone's forehead.
It's your favorite part. This whole stupid, messy, sometimes put-a-bomb-in-your-dressing-room-scary job is worth it when you make just one person happy.
There's no better feeling.
It's almost a full half hour later when you get in the car, black door sliding shut behind you and sealing your fate. Just you and Steve in the backseat, the rest of your team following in a second car.
He's pissed, you can practically feel it vibrating off of him as he speaks.
"I can't protect you like this."
You pull your sunglasses off, tucking them into your purse as you answer. "I'm sorry?"
Steve huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. "I can't protect you when you are constantly putting yourself in harms way."
"Oh my god!" You roll your eyes, voice incredulous. "I would hardly call signing a couple of autographs harms way."
Okay maybe it was more than a couple. Maybe you purposely stopped by every single fan you could reach. Leaned over the barricade more than you should and smiled for every selfie.
"Someone wants you dead." He flat lines, mouth set in a grimace. "Or did you forget that?"
Bile threatens your throat at the mention, the memory flooding back to you.
Smoke filling the hallway of the venue you were playing, backstage an absolute mess. The heat of fire and the boom of an explosion.
The source? A gift basket in your dressing room. Buried under Champagne and complimentary snacks was a bomb just big enough to kill you.
If you'd been in the room.
Thankfully you hadn't. You'd been twenty feet away on the other side of the wall.
The smoke inhalation had you on bed rest for a week, your team in utter chaos as they tried to track down the source. Then the first note came.
If I can't have you no one can.
Written in messy scrawl on top of your latest magazine cover. The one where you talked about your dating life, the one were you fed the interviewer some half-baked lie about a make-believe boyfriend.
It was supposed to get the tabloids off your back, not attract a crazed stalker.
Then came the break-in. Sometime after one A.M. he managed to get inside your house. It was sheer luck you weren't home. Even more so that your daughter, Sarah was at your mother's.
He left rose petals on every inch of your bedroom, the broken thorny stems scattered over the duvet. A heart drawn in fake blood staining the carpet.
Steve was hired three days later.
Another letter came, this time with a picture of you out on a run. 'Can't run from me' etched across it in red marker.
Steve moved into the pool house, just to be safe.
"I didn't forget." You voice is smaller than you meant for it to be, more sheepish.
Steve softens, his posture loosening as he continues. "All I'm trying to do is keep you safe, but I need you to listen to me."
You nod, his voice has gone soothing, the same tone you'd use on a child. It makes you blood boil and tears prick your vision. It's not that he's being unreasonable, you know that. It just hits you differently, being treated like you can't manage your own life, no matter how big it's gotten.
"It's not forever," he promises. "Once we find this person you'll be back to business as usual. But until we do, you need to be careful, pick and choose your exposures."
"Like New York?" You ask.
New York is a pop-up show, an intimate venue with cheap tickets. You've been looking forward to it for months and Steve has been trying to talk you out of it.
He nods, "like New York."
You sigh, pulling your shoulders in as if it might help your shrink.
"You still don't think it's a good idea."
"I know it's not a good idea."
Your brain ticks, too stubborn to give it up.
"What do I need to do to convince you it's safe?" You know, in your gut that it will be fine. It will just be you and the fans and they would never hurt you.
"Your team is only big enough to properly handle one event at a time." He explains, "with the awards so close to the concert, we'd need a few people to stay here and handle preparations for that."
The decision is easy, honestly he should have lead with that.
"Wait, so if I skip the Grammy's they can come to New York with us?"
Steve nods, expression grim as if he expects you to fight him on it.
"So I won't go."
His eyebrows shoot up, shock evident. "Really?"
You nod, the weight on your chest easing. "Yeah, I mean I'm only presenting this year. I'd rather have the chance to perform and connect with my fans."
Steve nods, surprise still etched in the furrow of his brow.
"Okay. I'll let them team know."
For the first time since he started, the tension between you eases. The constant burn of frustration dampening to a low simmer.
"Does this mean I can go out to dinner later?"
Steve answers immediately. "Absolutely not."
Despite his answer you feel yourself smile, maybe, just maybe you can make this work.
Radio crackles have become an all too familiar sound.
Over the past month they've basically become white noise.
The popping of static in the background of every room, courtesy of Steve's insistence that your entire security team use walkie-talkies.
When you leave a room, when you enter a room, when you go to the kitchen and make a sandwich. There it is, that coiling speaker-
"Robin has entered the media room, secure southern window."
There's always at least one in the house with you, usually two. Always reporting back to the rest about your whereabouts. Meanwhile the rest of the team secures the outside,
Robin. That's you. A bird with fragile little legs and hollow bones.
Really makes a girl feel special.
"Blue is entering the front gate in car four. Be ready to meet her at the main garage."
Blue. Sarah. Her name makes even less sense.
Surely Steve picked them.
He'd pressed one into your palm on his first day, told you to keep it close at all times.
It's been sitting on your dresser ever since.
You took the batteries out in the first night, defiant and probably just a little immature.
"Channel one is the entire team's main line. Channel two is anyone currently assigned to Sarah. Channel six is my private frequency, completely secure, only yours to use." He'd explained it all like it was rocket science, taking careful time to show you how each button worked and assuring you that he would always answer.
It's late, later than you'd like to still be awake. Books aren't cutting it, your eyes just skimming over the page without grabbing any of the words. There's nothing to find on TV, reruns of sitcoms and The Hangover. Even your phone offers no good, your social media accounts locked by your team because of the threats, precautions taken to make sure your mind is as protected as the rest of you.
Except now you're bored.
The batteries snap back into place with a beep, the walkie coming to life in your hands.
It crackles for a moment, your confidence faltering as it finds the signal. Static passes through the speaker, uneven and spastic until finally it goes quiet in your hands. The little screen blinks up at you, pixel display glowing that weird yellow green all old tech has.
Your fingers find the dial, navigating between frequencies until you finally find the right one.
The speaker clicks under your thumb. "Rogers?"
It's barely half a second, maybe two, before it crackles to life in your hand. "Everything okay?" Steve's voice is garbled on the other end, blended with static and probably exhaustion.
You smile, delighted he answered. "Yeah I'm fine, sorry." You assure him, "just realized I never actually tried this thing. Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."
Steve is quiet on the other end for a moment, probably catching his breath after a near heart-attack. You almost feel bad for a moment, the panic in his voice still in your ears. Almost.
"What are you still doing up?" He asks.
You move over to bed, laying flat on your back in the center of it with the walkie on your chest.
"Can't sleep."
Steve doesn't answer, letting yours linger between you instead.
It's been awkward, ever since you left the studio the other day. Like you're each waiting for the other to burst. A constant blanket of tension between you. Both too stubborn to pull at it.
"What are you still doing up?"
The antenna twists in your hands, nervous fidgeting as you wait for a response.
"Watching a movie." Steve answers, "I don't think I've ever seen a TV with this many channels."
That surprises a laugh out of you, the image of him sitting on the couch by himself clicking through every station.
"Are you saying I have better cable than the White House?" You ask.
"Yes." Steve answers immediately, only this time you can hear an edge in his voice. Almost like a smile. "You have more channels than the President. I mean seriously when are you even home to watch this much TV."
"Says the man who literally has me on house arrest."
The joke falls flat, at least you're pretty sure it does. Steve sounds completely unamused when his voice crackles through again.
"If there's nothing you need-"
"No Steve wait! I'm sorry okay, bad joke." You interrupt, frequency riding over his. You sigh, deep and heavy as you try to find the words.
Steve lets the line be quiet, waiting for you to pick it back up. Offering no lifeline in terms of conversation pivots.
"I wanted to thank you." You finally relent, feeling your throat seize as the words leave you. "For what you did with Sarah today."
Sarah, your sweet, stubborn, incredibly spoiled girl. She threw a tantrum the size of Texas when you told her that you couldn't go for ice cream.
It had become a tradition, whenever you were lucky enough to be in the same place for more than a night you'd get ice cream. Which means when you're home for extended periods, well- you eat a lot of ice cream.
Something Sarah has apparently become accustomed too.
"Sweetheart." You breathed, desperately trying to calm her. "We have ice cream in the freezer, the rainbow kind you like, doesn't that sound good?"
Her following wail was a resounding no.
You'd already followed her outside, standing in the backyard while the sun and its judgment beams down on you.
"Not the same!" She whined, stomping her foot between each word. "Always get ice cream."
Her reasoning was solid, unfortunately it was no fault of her own that this single tradition was being ripped from her. And much too big a problem for you to ever want to try and explain to her. Besides, you can't really reason with a three year old, no matter how hard you try.
She screamed, hot tears pouring down her face. "No ice cream means you leave!"
You wondered if everyone else could hear your heart splintering, the same way they surely heard her words.
Shame boiled in your gut, guilt right next to it. A crackle of a radio behind a bush doesn't go unnoticed either, irritation creating room for itself as well.
"Look can we just have like five min-"
The rustling reveals itself, a suit clad Steve holding an all too familiar brown bag in his hand.
"Is there anyone over here who likes ice cream?" He asked, pulling his sunglasses off and holding them by the arm in this freehand.
Sarah quieted, her head turning toward him with the saddest sniffle.
She clocked the bag in his hand immediately, her lip puckering out, cheeks still wet with tears. Suddenly shy, she buried her head into your shoulder.
Your heart couldn't help but melt, any frustration disappearing as she clutched onto you.
"It's okay." You whispered into her hair. Looking up at Steve with a grateful smile. You cleared your throat, cupping Sarah's face in your hands and wiping her tears as you spoke. "Y'know Sarah here loves ice cream." You answer him, nodding at her as you speak.
Steve crouched down beside you, putting himself at her eye level as he opens the bag.
"Really?" He said, pulling out a cup of ice cream and a spoon. "I was getting lunch and they accidentally gave me ice cream. I was hoping I could find someone who would eat it."
Sarah sniffled again, looking at the container conspiratorially. "What flavor?" She muttered, still refusing to meet Steve's gaze.
You had to suppress your giggle, still in fear of setting her off again.
"Chocolate." Steve answered, heaving a sigh as he played the part for her. "With rainbow sprinkles."
Her eyebrows shot up, head snapping toward you with excitement.
"Think you could help me?" Steve held the cup and spoon out to her.
Sarah waited until you gave her a reassuring nod before taking it from his hands. "Thank you." She beamed, smiling so bright no one would never think she was the same child who was screeching like a banshee just minuted before.
The memory does something weird to your heart, squeezing around it like a hand.
"It was nothing." Steve answers over the line, voice sounding tight.
"No," you argue, ignoring his dismissal. "You stopped a category three tantrum, thank you."
You can almost hear his sigh from here, the resigned way huff he gives whenever you manage to catch him. "Anytime."
"It's hard you know?" You can't seem to stop the words from tumbling out. "I'm trying so hard with her, to give her some kind of normal childhood."
"Why?"
It's not the answer you expected.
"I'm sorry?"
"No I mean, why are you worried about her having a normal childhood? Look at your life, at your sheer number of TV channels, her childhood will never be normal." The words sink in your gut like a stone, painfully true. "That doesn't make it bad."
It hits you differently, no one has ever put it like that. You're used to questions, rude jabs about prioritizing your career over her. Expectations that you should give it all up to be home. Borderline horror when you reveal her father has no part in her life.
"Thanks." You whisper, the word feeling entirely too small for the feeling in your chest. "No one else really thinks of it like that."
"Well," Steve starts, and you can hear him move as he speaks, the rustling of the couch as he shifts. "I know I've only been around a few weeks, but all I see is a little girl with a Mom who would do anything for her. That's all any of us can ask for."
There's a weight to his voice, like he knows more about the subject that he's saying. More than you have any right to ask about. So you find a different question instead.
"Why'd you take this job Steve?"
There's no accusation behind it, just genuine curiosity.
"Would you believe me if I said it's because I like your music?"
That elicits a big laugh from you, a chuckle from your toes.
"No." You manage to say between breaths, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Steve chuckles on the other end too, the sound sending a tingle up the arm holding the walkie.
"Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment."
You let silence fill the radio once again. your eyelids getting heavier as you listen to the sound of Steve's breathing on the other end.
"You should go to sleep." Steve crackles after a few minutes.
A yawn comes and you don't have the energy to fight it, nodding even though he can't see you.
"Probably." You agree, even though part of you wishes you wouldn't, holding the radio just a little tighter as you whisper, "Good night Steve."
"Good night Robin."
For the first time you don't bristle at the nickname.
The rest of your routine happens slowly, movements lingering with exhaustion. The walkie gets placed back on your dresser, makeup scrubbed from your lashes and lights dimmed. Just as you're ready to get back into bed something catches your eye from the window.
Lights are still shining through the windows of pool house, made brighter by the darkness in your room.
You can see Steve's silhouette, his outline sitting on the couch cast in the glow of the TV.
You're already thinking about grabbing the walkie again, trying to think up a smart ass comment about practicing what you preach when you notice what he's watching.
It's your face on the screen, a close up of your lashes and cheeks as the camera slowly pans down your face and over your collarbones, just low enough that it's obvious you're not wearing anything.
You know that video. Filmed three years ago for a single you did on a movie soundtrack. One of those sexy dramas with the conflict and miscommunication and a kiss in the rain. Naturally your video had to match that vibe.
The angle shifts, showing you lying on your stomach with your back exposed. A blanket thrown over your bottom half, made to look like it's freshly mussed. In reality the prop designer had spent five minutes arranging it, pins to keeping it in place for that perfect 'post-sex' look as she called it.
Your gaze flickers back to Steve, his hunched position coming clear. Elbows on his knees as he leans forward toward the TV.
You have a dozen questions, and a dozen follow-up questions for them. He looks so intense, not like he's watching the video, but like he's studying you.
The moment freezes, your feet stuck to the floor as you stare. The video plays in it's entirety, vignettes of your singing intercut with scenes of pillow talk and legs tangled together beneath sheets.
It ends without ceremony, Steve's position unchanged.
He's holding the remote, you wait for him to shut the TV off but it never comes.
Instead you watch the screen bounce, before another video begins to play. This one older, from your debut album. A little dress and the picture of innocence, back when your team was trying to pitch you as America's next sweetheart.
Steve stays enraptured, eyes fixed on the screen.
Somehow you pull yourself away, tucking yourself under the covers with more questions about your body guard than ever before.
Even more wide awake than when you started.
New York comes fast.
A blur of days, a short flight and your mic is being pressed into your hand backstage.
"Try and stay back from the edge." Steve mutters, arms crossed and eyes narrowing like the disapproving father he seems to think he has any right to act like. "No contact, there's no barrier between you and the fans so you need to be careful."
You scoff, heels clicking as you walk ahead of him toward the stage.
"You realize the whole point of playing smaller venues is to getting close to the fans right?" You counter. You press your headset into your ear, shaking it back and forth a few times to make sure it's secure.
"Really?" Steve deadpans, "I thought it was to make my job harder."
Your laugh is genuine, delight at the genuine hint of misery in his voice. "That's just a fun bonus."
You're feet away from the lights, the crowd only getting louder as your band starts to enter ahead of you.
A hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you from stepping out.
Your head snaps back toward Steve, armed with a glare and a curse already half off your tongue.
"I'm serious." He insists. "You're completely unprotected up there. I need you to be careful."
You rip your wrist out of his grip, making a show of rubbing where he'd grabbed you. "These are my fans." You remind him. "If I'm not safe with them than what's the point."
You step out of the curtain before he can say anything else.
The crowd erupts, their screams almost deafening. The lights are hot on your skin, like sunlight on a July afternoon. The bass thumbs beneath your feet, grounding you to the stage. Nearly a hundred fans are packed along the edge of the stage, their smiles so bright they nearly outdo the lights.
They're all reaching out, arms stretched up in your direction as your name rolls off their tongues.
It all disappears.
The echo of Steve's voice vanishes by the time you lift the mic to your lips.
The fatigue of the plan ride is a memory by the third song.
The threats are long forgotten after the fifth.
So is Steve's warning.
You drift toward the edge, running your hand along the crowd and smiling at each fan you pass. Their joy is contagious, excitement bubbling into your own veins like an IV drip.
Your band takes over for the bridge, a long instrumental. Usually you take it for a water break, a change to rest your throat, fix your hair, on really rough nights it's your only chance to pee.
Your ego would never let it be that simple though. Not after the way he talked to you. The way he looked at you. Like a child, like a brat. No. It burns in your throat, resentment rising like bile.
You're fine, you're safe as safe can be.
You pass your mic to your bassist, not bothering to answer her questioning look. Instead you take one last look at the adoring crowd, and jump.
Dozens of hands catch you, supporting your weight in an instant. Not an ounce of hesitation amongst them, all of you caught in a mutual high of the music. Your music.
They start to pass you around, a slow travel across the floor as you laugh above them. It's incredible, like absolutely no other feeling in the world. Nothing you can even try to compare it too. No amount of drinking, or drugs or even sex can capture it. It's pure unfiltered adoration.
Bang!
The moment turns sour faster than you can process it.
A gunshot echoes loud above the music and cheers, bouncing off the venue walls.
In an instant you're on the ground, screams surrounding you like a hellish cacophony. There's movement on every side of you, people trying to scatter and getting nowhere with how tightly they're packed in. The confusion, the fear. It all soaks into your skin like moisturizer, guilt the most potent of all.
You try and stand and fail, no where to put your hands to stand up, nothing to grab for purchase. You're distantly aware of an ache in your back, what will surely be a bruise from how you landed.
Panic starts to climb up your throat, white hot and unmistakable. No one even seems to notice you, too consumed to remember you're still down there.
Your vision starts to go blurry, dark spots dancing at the edges as your breathing picks up.
Then it's all gone.
The floor disappears below you, the crowd parts on either side.
There's arms around you, lifting you with one below your knees and the other behind your back. One swift move and suddenly your cradled against a familiar chest.
Steve.
Your relief overwhelms you.
It's clarity, crystal clear and healing. Like when you're driving in the pouring rain and then go under an overpass, everything stops.
"I got you." Murmured into your ear, voice rumbling against your shoulder as he speaks.
Then the crowd roars back in, screaming and running in panic.
You can't help but shrink, curling your head into Steve's chest and wrapping your arms tight around him. Your eyes squeeze shut, panicked tears stuck to your lash line. Your hands form claws in his jacket, tucked in his collar and tangled in his lapel.
There's nothing over the blood rushing in your ears. You can feel yourself being jostled, Steve's steady grip unfaltering.
Then there's a dip, the slam of a door until finally quiet.
The smell of leather finds you first, then the cool breeze of air conditioning.
"It's okay." Steve murmurs above you, his hand running in a soothing line down your back. "We're in the car. You're safe."
It takes your body a minute to process his words, every muscle taut. Slowly your head lifts, eyes blinking open to confirm his words.
Sure enough, you're in the back of the van, half on the familiar seats and half in Steve's lap. The driver's partition in pulled up, but you can feel the engine beneath you, already moving.
You're still not sure how to breathe, lungs only taking shallow pulls as you de-tangle yourself, shifting into your own seat before finally letting go. It feels like glass in your throat, muscles raw from screams you didn't even feel yourself let out.
There's pain in your ankle, you must have twisted it when you fell. It's only when you reach down to undo the strap of your heel that you realize your hands are shaking.
"Let me." Steve says, voice softer than you thought he knew how to be. He takes your foot in his hand, carefully freeing you from the shoe before repeating the same thing with the other one.
It's quiet between you for a minute, only the hum of the engine and muffled traffic around you.
When you speak it hurts, voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "What happened?"
Steve freezes, hand hovering over your ankle. He pulls back slowly, letting you shift your feet back to the floor. He pulls the wire from his ear, letting it hang limp over his collar.
"I don't know." He says, not meeting your eyes. "They must have camped out or hidden the it inside the venue-" he cuts himself off with a sigh, heavy and tortured as he drags a hand over his face.
"Was anyone hurt?" You follow up.
Steve shakes his head, "no." He says. "At least not that we know of, I asked the rest of the team to stay back and help with crowd control. they'll make sure everyone's okay. I think it was just an attempt to cause panic, get you vulnerable."
The tears finally spill, eyes burning as they rolls down your cheeks. "Shit." You whisper, not bothering to wipe them away. It's a fucking nightmare, one you never thought would come for you.
Steve leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his hair.
"I'm sorry." He murmurs, voice nothing short of defeated. "I should have been thorough, I don't know how I missed this."
You shake your head, swallowing around the knot in your throat. "No, Steve this isn't your fault." You try your best to sound firm, but your voice shakes anyway.
He finally looks at you, blue eyes glassy and full of anger.
"My job is to protect you." His voice is deadly serious as he says it, like a man who swore an oath. "I didn't do that tonight."
You want to argue, insist he couldn't have been more thorough, that they'd have to invent a new word for it if he wads. His look leaves you no room for it though, expression turning to stone. You wonder if he ever cracks under his own pressure.
You want to apologize and take back every bitter word you said before the show, but the words turn to dust on your tongue.
"How far are we from the airport?" Ends up being what comes out.
Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, pulling at the knot of his tie until it loosens.
"We're not going back to the airport."
"I'm sorry?"
Steve clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. "I cancelled the flight. I think it's better if we lay low for a few days."
"And I can't do that in L.A.?" You ask, but despite the question it lacks all your usual bite.
"Not safely." Steve answers. He's lacking bite too, no self-righteous or condescending undertone. "I have a cabin, its remote, private. Would give you a few days to recoup while we figure out how this happened."
"Private except for the six security guards right?" You don't mean to be petulant, but right now all you want is your house, with your bed and your daughter- "What about Sarah?"
"I already had word sent for her and your mom, they're on their way to a private rental outside the city."
"She's not coming?" Your voice breaks on the last word, realization hitting you like a gut punch.
"No. She's safer there, the rest of the team is going to be with them."
"She's safer away from me is what you mean." The tears start again, wet and hot as you sink as far into the leather as you can.
"It's just for a few days." Steve promises, "until they find who did this."
You nod even though you hate it. Even though it feels like your entire chest is going to cave in. Even though every cell in your body screams that it's wrong, you know he's right.
"Who's coming with us?"
Steve runs his palms over his thighs, as if wiping them off. You watch him glance at you, a quiet buzz of nerves under his skin as he answers.
"No one."
Your shock must be obvious.
"I thought you might want a few days away from the circus." He pulls his radio out of his pocket as he says it, flicking it off as he continues. "It's completely off the grid, no one will know where we are."
It sends a shiver up your spine, alone. You haven't been alone in God knows how long.
Then another thought creeps in, just as you cast a sideways glance to the man beside you.
You've never been alone with Steve.
"You still trust me right?" He asks, despite the smile he forces you know he's only have joking.
"Of course." You promise. Despite whatever fault he thinks he bears, that was never in doubt.
"Then relax." He nods. "We have a few hours before we get there, why don't you try and close your eyes."
You hum in agreement, and even with all the adrenaline, you feel your eyelids getting heavy.
Steve mutters something else, a few short words just barely audible. "I got you."
"This place is like one of those cheesy TV movies." You muse, taking in the wood paneling and cracked leather booths. All of it's probably older than you are, but every inch reeks with love.
Steve laughs, good humored and surprisingly deep. "Yeah it kinda is." He agrees, waving to the waitress behind the bar as he follows you to a booth. "Everyone knows everyone."
Turns out when Steve said private, he meant it. Tucked in the corner of upstate New York is a little town on a little lake with one little bar.
Steve was actually the one who suggested you go out.
"They're all good people, discreet." He promises, nodding around the room to where no one had taken note of your presence. "No one will say anything or take photos. I promise."
You look around for yourself, the friends packed into one too small booth. The couple at the bar eating off one plate. The handful of guys around the pool table in the far corner. Not one spares you a glance.
"Thanks." You tell him, truly meaning it. "How'd you find this place anyway?"
Steve hums, waving to one of the servers for menus. "My parents brought me up here a lot as a kid." He shrugs, "We couldn't afford much but we'd sneak away at least once a summer for a few days. I got hurt on the job a few years ago and needed to take some time off. So I came here and bought the place we used to rent. Fixed it up instead of going to physical therapy."
A young man walks over with two menus, smile a little too sunny even for what might as well be the set of Cheers.
"How are you folks doing tonight?" He asks, "can I get you started with something to drink?"
"I'll have whatever is on draft and a water." Steve says, looking up from his menu to give the kid a half-smile.
"Same." You say, opening the menu to flip through it. It's your normal fare, greasy bar food and thick burgers. Your stomach growls just reading the names, you can't remember the last time you actually sat down and ate at a place like this.
The kid smiles, then disappears back behind the bar.
You feel Steve's eyes on you, and when you look up sure enough there he is, not even bothering to hide it.
"What?" You laugh, almost startled by the in his gaze.
Steve just shakes his head, "Didn't peg you for a beer drinker."
You shrug, "I contain multitudes."
Steve hums, turning his attention to the menu.
"I didn't know you owned something other than suits." You tease back.
"I contain multitudes." He parrots, a grin breaking on his lips. "Besides, I'm not your bodyguard right now."
You smile and try to hide it behind the menu. Even though you know it's not true, there's still a thrill that runs through you. You can't help but sink into the fantasy of a pretend world where your name isn't in the jukebox, and Steve's not being paid to sit across the table from you. An alternate universe where you're just a woman and a man together in a shitty dive bar.
"Ah yes, you're-" you make a show of dragging your eyes over his flannel, "-a lumberjack?"
Your drinks arrive, placed on the table without ceremony. You both order.
Steve smiles, a real one. He doesn't fight it the way he normally does, cheeks dusting themselves pink under your gaze. As he takes a sip realization hits you right between the ribs.
He's relaxed.
For the first time since you've met him, his shoulders aren't up to his ears. There's no underlying tension, no quick scans of the room. If it weren't for the fact that he's sitting facing the door, you'd think he'd forgotten his training all together.
There's something about him like this. It turns over in your stomach, builds a warmth in the base of your gut.
You like it.
The easy demeanor, the way his lips curl around a smile. The section of chest hair peeking out above between the undone buttons at the top of his shirt. It's intimate, domestic, and soft. Three things you didn't think Steve Rogers even knew of, let alone knew how to be.
How rare must it be to see this side of him? How few people probably have.
The knowledge that you're one of them makes the green eyed monster in your chest purr with delight. Possessive of his loose-limbed movements and relaxed posture.
"The flannel look suits you too." Steve nods at your shirt, well his shirt. With nothing packed you've spent the last two days borrowing things from Steve's closet. Rewashing a random pair of pants you'd been lucky enough to have in your bag at the concert.
It swims on you, the shoulders drooping down your arms and the cuffs rolled nearly three times to free your hands.
"I have a confession." You whisper, "I had no idea they were this comfortable."
Steve grins, giving you one more appreciative look.
You falter under his gaze, it's usual intensity paired with something else that makes you squirm. Makes you nervous enough to keep trying to fill the silence.
"Don't get me started on the pockets, I mean seriously I might start performing in these."
"Would have to change your stage name to Lumber Jane."
You fake a shudder, "maybe not."
You take a sip, letting the taste sit on your tongue as you wait for him to speak.
"How are you holding up?" Steve asks, voice dropping.
You take your time answering, swallowing a deep breath. "I'm okay." You tell him, "I think I am at least."
Steve nods, "Another few days and we should be able to head home, the house has been quiet and no new letters."
Your heart stutters at the mention of the letters they way they didn't use to. Since the show your fear has multiplied, stacked on top of itself and laid underneath your stream of consciousness. A constant knot in your stomach.
"Think I can call Sarah tonight?" You ask.
Phone calls have been off limits, every precaution taken. Besides, she's three and absolutely in love with her grandmother, you might as well not even exist when they're together.
"Yeah of course." Steve says without thinking.
Any further conversation stopped by the appearance of a couple at the end of your booth. The same one you'd seen at the bar, both easily twenty-years your senior.
"Stevie!" The woman squeals, squeezing her husbands arm with her excitement. "Oh Sweetheart it is so good to see you!"
Steve flushes, bright red painting his cheeks as he watches the nickname hit you.
Stevie? You mouth at him, delight tangible.
"Been too long kid." The man says, his voice as gruff as his beard and calloused hands would suggest.
"I know." Steve surrenders, "How have you guys been?"
The woman shakes her head, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand. "Oh who cares about us? Who is this lovely lady?" She gestures to you, her face beaming with joy.
You panic, mind going utterly blank, but it's okay. She immediately jumps into introducing herself instead, "I'm Dottie and this is my husband James, we're Stevie's neighbors."
Your heart jumps at the nickname again, curling around it with possession and a plan to certainly use it against him.
"So nice to meet you." You smile, voice dripping with a genuine fondness.
"We're just in town for a few days." Steve explains.
The woman coos, clapping her hands in delight, "A romantic getaway huh?"
Steve balks again.
"Oh leave the poor kid alone Dot." Her husband reels her in, flashing you both an apologetic grin. "It good to see ya Steve."
Your poor, poor bodyguard just nods.
Dottie's not done though, "You better call next time, I want to have you both over for dinner!" She turns to you with a wink. "Stevie's never brought a girl here before, oh my heart is so happy!"
You watch Steve somehow turn even redder across the table, the mountain of a man reduced to a small hill of embarrassment.
The radio catches you attention, a slow song beginning to hum through the speakers. "I'm so sorry Dottie," You start,already scooting out of the booth, "But I have to steal Stevie, this is my favorite song and he promised me a dance."
Understanding crosses over her face, as if the situation has much more gravity than it actuality. "Oh of course, don't let us keep you!" She all but shoos Steve out of his seat.
Steve shoots you a look something between grateful and mortified, but goes along with it, walking you over to a small clearing by the pool table.
His arms come around you like it's the most natural thing in the world. They feel just as safe as they did in New York, wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest.
"Thank you." He mutters.
You hum, lifting your arms up over his shoulders and knotting your hands behind his neck. "Nice to be the one saving you for a change," you joke, "Stevie."
Steve groans into your hairline, his chest vibrating against yours. "You're never gonna let me live that one down are you?"
"Nope." You whisper, popping the 'p'.
The rhythm comes easier than it has any right too, your bodies swaying in time with music. Steve's warm against you, his broad shoulders firm and unmoving under your touch.
It feels natural, instinctual. Like touching him is something your body already knows.
Steve's eye lock with yours and the room shrinks.
You should move, back away, create some distance and yet you can't.
And neither does he.
You're caught in each other's orbit, close without any excuse. No shots fired, no ice cream peace offering. Just a man and a woman in a shitty dive bar.
You're not sure which of you leans in first, your weight pushes up onto your toes and Steve's neck dips. Just an inch away, you can feel him exhale over your lips.
"Uh excuse ma'am- sir." You're interrupted by some familiar bumbling. "I just wanted to let you know your food is here." Your waiter says, completely oblivious to what he was interrupting.
What was he interrupting?
Steve clears his throat, detaching himself from you with an awkward step back.
"Thanks." He says, looking back to you with a stilted smile. It's almost visible the way his guard retracts, mask pulling back over his expression. "Let's eat."
The sound of glass shattering is what wakes you.
Loud enough to have you sitting upright in your bed, heart already racing as if your body knew to panic before your mind.
The clock on the end table blinks some absurd time, nearly four A.M.
And apparently you have a visitor.
You should stay put, you know that. It's what Steve would say, he actually had said it when you first pulled into the driveway.
"If anything happens. Do not leave your room."
Your hands grip your sheets, fear spreading through to your very last nerve.
Everything is downstairs, your phone, your pepper spray, your pager for Steve.
Steve.
He has to be awake, right? That man could be dead asleep and he'd feel a feather land on the roof. No way he missed that.
Yet you don't hear anything, no sound from the walkway outside. No footsteps, no radio crackle as he calls for backup. No way to know where he is, whether or not he's even okay.
A bone chilling thought rocks through you.
What if they got to him first?
The floor boards creak outside your door, an uneven distribution of weight. It's paired with heavy footsteps careless stomps.
Definitely not Steve.
Your vision spins, fear capturing every one of your nerves.
You press yourself against the door, desperately listening for any sign of your protector.
None come.
The footsteps continue, twice past your door. They know you're here.
Your heart is in your throat, your door is locked but wouldn't that just tell them it's where you are? The house is old, the door frame surely would crumble with enough force. Then what can you do?
You need a distraction. You need to get out.
Stalling your nerves, you make a plan.
In the corner furthest from the door sits a desk, littered with papers and dust covered books.
There's a closet on the far side across from it, just a few feet from the door. It's easy practically empty, just enough space for you to slide into its shadow.
Grabbing the heaviest boom you can find, you make tracks. Unlocking the door you count your breath and snap into action.
The book slams into the floor with a loud thump, covering your footsteps as you run to the closet.
The foot steps stop in the hallway stop, stalling for a moment before they come right where you want them.
Your hand closes around the closet door knob, holding it shut against you as you watch out the slats.
Whoever it is, is big.
A hulking figure dressed in all black, just as tall and broad as Steve. A ski mask obscures their face, nothing to give a hint as to who it is. They stand in the door way for a moment, illuminated by only the moonlight coming through the windows.
There's still no sign of Steve, no noise or second shadow appearing in the hall.
You can't over power him, one look at him and that much is clear. he could crush your window pipe between two fingers.
You could however, outrun him.
You wait until he walks further into the room, slow steps toward the fallen book. It looks half-hazard, like it fell off the bed and open on the floor. Just conspicuous enough to draw him in closer.
He bends over, leaning to pick it up and that's when you make your move.
Quiet as you can, you slide out of the closet and tip-toe the few steps into the hall.
Then you bolt.
As fast as your legs will carry you, you run down the stairs toward the front door. Your heart is hammering in your ears, blooding rushing as your adrenaline fuels you.
You're so close, only a few feet away.
They're right on top of you though, heavy boots hitting the floor so hard it nearly rattles.
You're so close, hand wrapping around the handle when- it's locked.
Panic creeps back up, hands fumbling with the door knob as you desperately try to get it open before-
A hand grabs you. Covered in a leather glove it spins you around with one harsh tug, throwing your back into the door.
"Ah!" You cry out from the force, body screaming in protest from the movement.
They crowd you in, hand wrapping around your throat and pressing on your windpipe.
Their face is covered, the only thing visible through a ski mask is their eyes. You lock on them, desperately trying to plead for mercy. Your legs thrash, kicking at their stomach as they lift you up higher on the door, until your toes can't touch the ground.
Grabbing at his forearms you dig your nails into his skin, fighting desperately for any purchase as the grip on your throat tightens. You can hear yourself trying to talk, pleas gasped from your lips.
Your vision starts to dot, black dancing around it and pulling at the edges. It draws heavy on your eyelids, turning the rest of your body to lead.
Then it's gone, the weight, the pressure, the hand.
You hit the floor and crumble, legs giving out as you gasp for air.
Your vision is still blurry, the entire scene out of focus. All you can see is shadows, the outlines of two figures fighting. The sound of punches flying, flesh smacking flesh. Dull thumps that echo through your brain as you try to process what's happening.
Only one coherent thought wins, Steve.
Words don't come either, try as you might nothing comes out. Just garbled gasps as your throat tries to recover.
One loud thump ends the noise, powerful and reverberating. One of the figures falls to the ground, collapsing under their own weight.
You blink, once, twice, desperate to know which one it is.
The winner climbs over top, straddling the fallen ones chest and continuing his assault. Hit after hit even as they lay their unconscious.
That's when lights appear, red and blue shining through the window and illuminating the pair.
Steve on top, your assailant bloody beneath him.
"Steve." You gasp, it's airy, hardly audible, but dripping in relief.
His eyes snap to yours, pupils blown and wild. There's almost no blue left, just a thick sheen of anger.
He's at your side in second, face softening back in your Steve. He scoops you up, the same way he did in New York and this time he holds you even tighter. You wonder if this how Lois Lane feels when Superman shows up.
He carries you outside without sparing the man on the floor another glance, eyes staring straight ahead as he carries you toward the paramedics.
"He's inside." He grunts, adjusting his hold on you.
The cops say something in response but you don't catch it, the entire world still hazy around you.
Steve refuses to leave your side, unmoving even after he sets you down on the edge of the ambulance and the paramedics begin to exam you. He stands there like a gargoyle, face set in stone with a gaze just an intense.
You try your best to ignore him, answer the everyone else's questions as they fire them off. But every time you can, your gaze shifts back to him, on edge when you spend too long outside of it.
His blue eyes drape over you like a blanket, a soothing layer of protection. Without thinking your hand reaches out, stretching off your lap and toward him.
Steve steps forward without hesitation, taking it in his own and giving you it a firm squeeze.
He nods, as if affirming the one thing you've been afraid to think for fear of jinxing it.
It's over.
You spend the rest of the night like that, your hand locked with Steve as you give multiple statements, even as the sun begins to rise and even after your stalker has long been hauled away in the back of a cab.
"We really would like to take you to the hospital." One of the medics repeats, "get a proper workup done."
You shake your head for the umpteenth time, giving them the best smile you can muster.
"I really just want to go to sleep, I'll be okay."
Steve nods, helping you stand up from the foot of the rig. "I promise I'll keep an eye on her."
The medic nods, giving you both a thin smile, "I have no doubt."
Then they pack up and disappear down the road too, you and Steve standing outside and watching them drive away until they're no bigger than a quarter.
When you turn to look at Steve he's already staring at you, an expression you've never seen before in his gaze. Something like fear, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he looks away.
There's something else though, something more unhinged, what ever it was that kept him hovering at your side, ready to jump like a guard dog.
He nods back toward the house, "C'mon," his warm hand still around yours. "Let's try and get some sleep."
You follow him inside, past the entryway and scene of the massacre. Back up the stairs and beyond the door of your guest room.
"You can sleep in my room." Steve says, guiding you toward the door at the end of the hallway. "I'll take the floor."
You're thankful for his offer, for the way he already knows you won't be able to sleep alone after that. You have no idea if you ever will, you'll probably be climbing into Sarah's bed for the rest of your life.
Sarah. Relief cascades over you, washing you like a tsunami. You don't know what you would have done if she was here, you don't know how to thank Steve for making sure she wasn't. You can't even begin to imagine what that man would have done if she was.
That's when the tears finally come, just as you step over the threshold into Steve's bedroom.
White hot, they leave scalping lines down your cheeks. A broken sob leaves your lips and Steve whips around to face you.
"Hey," he whispers, bringing his hands up to cup your face, "hey, hey, hey." Your hands shoot up to hold his wrists, keeping him in place as you nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. "You're okay."
You sob again, struggling around everything you want to say.
"I'm sorry." You gasp, "I'm so so sorry,"
Your entire body is shaking it with, the weight of the entire night landing all at once. The adrenaline rush finally quits, leaving nothing behind but an utterly destroyed host.
"Oh Sweetheart." Steve breathes, pressing his forehead into yours. His voice is wet, you wonder if you opened your eyes would you see him holding back tears. "This is not your fault."
You shake your head, a gurgle passing your lips as you try to catch your breath and speak at the same time. "It is!" You cry, "I should never have left my room and now you-" Your hand comes up to his face thumb swiping over where a bruise is already blossoming on his cheekbone. "I should have just listened."
"Stop it." Steve's voice is firm, his hands holding you steady until you meet his eyes. "You did good, okay? You hear me?"
You nod, even if you only half believe him.
Steve must sense it, because he continues anyway. "You were trapped, he was going to get in that room one way or another. You needed to get out and that was what you did, and you did it beautifully. I am so proud of you." His nose nudges against yours, his eyes shutting as he speaks. "If any one should be sorry it's me."
Your eyes snap open, appalled that the though even crossed his mind.
"What? No Steve, how can you think that?" You try to convince him, yours squeezing his wrists with emphasis.
Steve shakes his head, forehead still pressed to yours. "It's my fault he ever got that close to you." He laments. "He should never have been able to-" he chokes on the word, spitting it out like the memory alone offends him, "-to touch you."
That look in his eyes flashes through your memories again, the one he wore while punches flew.
"Steve." You speak, voice slow and careful. Your hands move from his wrists to his face, matching his own hold on you. "You saved my life."
His eyelashes flutter open slowly, revealing every emotion he hide inside him.
He's so beautiful.
The thought hits you the way a lot of things have the past few days, completely out of left field. Yet you can't help but agree with it.
After all this is Steve, protective, overzealous, extremely qualified, devoted, Steve. Somehow when you looks at him a different title claims it's place.
Your Steve.
Your heart hammers at the closeness, pounding so loud in your ears you wonder if he can hear it.
After a night like this, when you've already been stripped bare, what else can you do but give in?
The kiss is unlike any other you've had in your life time.
It's hesitant at first, shy like all new lovers are. Your lips brush his and Steve freezes. His entire body goes rigid where it's pressed against your, and you're pretty sure he stops breathing completely.
You just rest against them for a moment, letting him feel the pressure of your mouth before you pull back.
Then there's quiet, something small blossoming in the space between you. Steve stares at you, long and hard. It's like a million emotions pass through his eyes, each one more intense than the last.
He closes the distance then. His hands stay on your face and use the leverage the kiss you with so much intensity it threatens to buckle your knees.
His body gives off so much heat, you can feel it radiating in waves as your hands roam over his shoulders, clutching his arms and his shirt and anything you can take hold of.
Anything that can ground you.
It doesn't work, every greedy grab just sends you higher into the clouds. Steve crowds you, neck craning down as he caves in around your body. His grip leaves you no place to turn, nothing you can be but pliant in his arms.
You can move your lips though, molding them to his and matching his hunger with every breath. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, your tongue following behind to soothe it.
Steve groans against your mouth, the sound pulled from the depth of his chest, uttered as if he's unconscious it even escaped.
He doesn't give an inch, doesn't even think about air until you pull on his roots, eliciting a delicious gasp.
"Steve?" You whisper.
"Yeah?" He mutters, just barely making eye contact through his blown pupils and hooded gaze.
"I want you." You promise, pushing your nose against his. "Please."
Steve's arms finally leave your face, reaching down to the back of your thighs. Without warning he grabs them in his hands and lifts.
"I'm yours." He promises, pressing another long kiss to your lips. "All yours."
Your back finds his bed, the soft mattress dipping below you as Steve lays you out. He kisses you for a while like that, with just the weight of him over you. He opens your lips with skilled precision, licking into your mouth like he's trying to consume you.
When he pulls back, he looks half-way to wrecked. Blonde hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen and kiss bitten. His cheeks are dusted pink, rosy and perfect.
Your shirt disappears, pulled over your head and exposing every inch of bare skin underneath. A tortured sound escapes from Steve's throat, something between a groan and a gasp. Your pants follow, tossed onto the floor until all that's left is the thin cotton over where you want him most.
Greedily, you pull away his layers too. Marveling at his sculpture, the way his body is carved from strength and how it reacts to your touch. The twitch of his abdomen when you splay your hand over it, fingers dancing just under the waistband of his sweatpants.
You try to slide further, hand just breaking past the elastic when Steve stops it.
He laces his fingers through yours, placing it next to your head and pulling it into the mattress. A silent instruction. Stay.
"I don't want you to perform, okay?" Steve murmurs, his lips ghosting over your neck as he speaks. "Don't think. Don't act. Just feel. I'll worry about everything else." The words are said between kisses, each one place lower than the last. Collarbone, sternum, between your breasts, just above your belly button.
"You always worry about everything else." You whisper, a half-hearted protest as you watch his descent.
Steve hums, pressing one last kiss to the waist band of your panties before hooking his fingers into the elastic. "Then you know I'm very good at it."
"You ever gonna let me worry about you?" You hum, lifting your hips for him to pull the cotton down. Your implication is obvious, a groan stirring in Steve's throat.
"Trust me." He mutters into your thigh, nosing at the juncture where it meets your cunt. "This does more for me than you even know."
Tilting your head up you can see that he isn't exaggerating. Fighting the material of his sweats sits a heavy bulge, the material doing nothing to hide what you've done to him. A thick outline, big enough to cast a shadow.
His hips roll against the mattress, hypnotizing you with the movement. It's his tongue that breaks the spell.
A hand on either thigh Steve pushes them apart, lifting one onto his shoulder and holding it there while the other is pushed up towards your hip. It leaves you completely exposed, vulnerable to his mouth.
He noses at your heat, pressing over the hood of your clit and listening for your response. Pleased with your whine, he goes further. Laving his tongue through your folds, spreading them until he can taste you from the source.
He rests it there, laid flat over your quivering entrance. He gives you no friction, no poking or exploration. He just waits, letting your flavor drip onto his tongue. He holds until your whines grow, restless and pathetic. Your heel digs in between his shoulder blades, hips canting against his mouth as you try desperately to encourage him to move.
The movement pushes his nose against your clit, bumping the underside of your nerves without any purpose. It's enough for your to chase. Another roll of you hips against his face, your hands knotting in the sheets beside your head as you try to heed his earlier instructions.
"Please-" You beg, voice wretched and airy. "Please Steve!"
He hums in approval against you, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine. His hand comes down off your thigh on his shoulder, snaking underneath to where his mouth had sat.
"All you had to do was ask." He mumbles, and you can hear that stupid, smug, sexy smirk in his voice.
His opens you up with one finger first, testing just how much you can take. You're wetter than ever, body crying out for him to do something, anything.
His middle finger joins, sliding in along side his index and it's just enough of a stretch to make your body sing.
Steve has no intention of leaving his mouth unoccupied, placing one chaste kiss at the told of your folds before closing his lips over clit.
White explodes behind your vision, the contact hot and sinful. It sends you to the moon, curving your spine with pleasure.
You babble nonsense, voice breaking around his name and interrupting every lick of praise with a moan
Steve touches you proper, like a woman. Other men, boys you've been with have always treated you like something to have, theirs to use. Like a doll meant for posing and humping, your pleasure simply a secondary matter.
Steve touches like it's his purpose. He reacts to your movements instead of pushing you into what he wants. As if he's just the artist bowing down the to the muse.
His fingers curl inside you, exploratory and confident. His tongue works over your clit in tandem with every movement. His lips move around it, his chest rumbling with happy little hums as he makes out with your cunt. His fingers graze a spot inside you, one you weren't even sure existed.
Fireworks explode on every single one of your nerves, sending you ablaze and rocketing toward the sky. Your orgasm is violent, an expression of not just pleasure but every pent up emotion you've been choking on since this whole mess started.
Steve brings you down slow, removing each sensation one by one until you finally stop shaking. Your thigh falls off of his shoulder, muscles relegated to jello. Just like his descent, Steve kisses his way back to your.
You don't hesitate to meet his lips with your own, too gone to care about the tang of your own taste or the way it smears off his chin and onto yours.
Your hands coming up to cup his face, eyes watching him with nothing short of reverence. Steve speaks before you get the chance, cutting off the compliments you'd been trying to organize.
"You're amazing." He whispers, "incredible."
You shake your head, wanting to direct it back to him. There's still an ache in your chest, the desire to thank him.
"Wanna take care of you." You slur, hand trying once more to touch him. You manage to find his bulge, somehow even more intimidating to touch than it had been to look at. "Wanna thank you."
Drool pools in your mouth as you trace him through the cotton, finding the ridge of his cock head and running your finger along the underside of it. Steve's hips buck against you, doing nothing to hide his own desire.
Nevertheless, he shakes his head. "Not tonight." He whispers. "I won't last a minute in that pretty mouth."
You frown, not caring for his reasoning.
"Need to be inside you. Feel you." He begs, hips still rolling into your palm. "Please."
You could roll your eyes, as if he even needs to ask.
Your hands pivot, moving to push down his sweats instead, hooking into the waist band of his briefs and bringing those down too.
"I'm yours." You whisper, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his lips, entirely too tender for how greedily your hands expose him. "I'm yours." For the first time you say it and you mean it. It's not for a song, or a performance, it's just for him. Your Steve.
The moment quiets as he slides inside, bare with your assurances of birth control. The little frown on your lips and plea to 'feel him' also having a lot to do with the matter. He pushes in slow, letting you adjust to his sheer size, his overwhelming thickness. He's heavy inside you, body adjusting to the weight of his cock and the stretch it forces from you.
Steve's head drops into the crook of your neck, his entire body taut as he lets you adjust. You can feel the restraint radiating off of him, from his shoulders to where he twitches inside you.
It's all too much, you need him to move.
You wiggle your hips, desperately urging him on. "Please." You whine, you don't think you've ever said those six letters so much.
He builds a pace slowly, drawing almost completely out of you before sinking back in.
"I've been thinking about this since we met." He grunts, forehead pressed tight to yours as his hips roll, driving himself further inside you. "Tried so hard not to but I can't."
You gasp, locking your ankles behind his back and using. them to pull him closer.
"Wonderin' what it would take to get you to fall apart." His lips close over your bottom one, tugging on it until you whimper. "What kind of sounds you make for me."
"Steve…" You whisper, hands searching for purchase across the expanse of his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. Any other coherent thoughts are lost, twisted into a moan on your tongue as Steve finds that spot inside you, the one he found before that makes you writhe.
"That's it baby." He groans. "My songbird. My Robin."
You're making noises you didn't even know were possible, like he's turned you inside out and rights side out all in the same breath.
Your hands capture his face, pressing against his cheeks as you force him to meet your eyes. "My bodyguard." You whisper, "My Steve."
He groans, kissing you so hard your teeth click together. It's messy, almost painful and it's utterly perfect. Even in the heat of it he's careful of you, avoiding rough touches or any places you'd been manhandled in the attack.
It feels like another life time ago already, like your life has been split into two chapters. One before this moment and one after it.
"I know you're close." You whisper, pulling on his roots and feeling his cock jump inside you. "Give it to me, just give in."
Steve shakes his head, ever the fighter. "No," He grunts. "You almost died." He murmurs, "I almost lost you."
His voice is heavy, thick with emotion. You can see his eyes turn glossy, as if broken at the most base part of his soul.
"Need this to last." He begs.
You want to give him that, want to let him take as long as he needs, but your own orgasm is creeping over the edges of your pleasure. Slowly building until it starts to crest. An avoidable, unstoppable end.
You clench around him, pull on his hair one more time and force him to match you on the precipice.
"We have all the time in the world." You promise him. "I need you to cum in me now."
Still a soldier, Steve succumbs to your orders.
He launches you into your own orgasm, careening you both over the edge in a free fall. You grasp onto each other the whole time, desperately clinging to the other's anchor.
Steve loses himself in you, whispering praises, curses, and your name all in the same breath. You come down like a feather floating on a breeze, drifting slowly back into your body.
He collapses on top of you, rolling to the side so his weight lands on the mattress. Just his protective arm around your waist as he slides out of your cunt.
The sound of tandem breathing fills the room, leaving you both glowing in the aftermath. Tangled in mussed sheets and your mixed sweat.
Steve's breathing evens out first, his entire body melting into yours with complete abandon. You try to stay awake, to listen to him sleep and bask in the presence he's wrapped around you.
You only last a few minutes. With eyelids too heavy to ignore you fall asleep, utterly sated, overwhelmed with relief, and feeling not just protected, but something deeper.
Loved.
Morning comes with a vengeance.
Light filters through curtains so bright it nearly blinds you when your eyes finally peel open.
It takes a moment for it all to come back to you, the cabin, the break-in, the fight, then finally-
Steve's bed is the most picturesque version of a morning after.
Fluffy sheets pulled up over your chest even though you're sure you fell asleep on top of them. A glass of water with two painkillers next to it, prepared to soothe aches you are sure exist but aren't even aware of yet. Your skin feels clean, like you'd been wiped down with a washcloth in your sleep. It makes you smile, a school girl giggle escaping at the notion.
You have an entire team of people that work for you and yet this is the first time in years you feel actually cared for.
At the foot of the bed is another flannel, unbuttoned and waiting for you to slide it on.
You follow Steve's carefully laid steps. Swallow the pills. Put on the flannel. Pit stop to pee in the bathroom. Down the stairs where you can hear the rumble of his voice on the phone.
You don't have to look far, finding him in the kitchen with the phone pressed to his ear. His voice is it's usual serious. The same tone you once found so frustrating suddenly endeared. A wrong step has the floor boards creaking beneath you, enough for Steve's head to snap up and see you.
"I'll call you later." He's hanging up in the next breath, setting his phone face down.
You walk over, standing behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his back.
"Morning." You hum, still glowing.
Steve is quiet, hands braced on the counter top in front of him.
You wait for his response, for him to spin around and kiss your forehead. A glimpse of the man from last night.
Except it never comes.
Steve's hands rest over yours, and gently pull them away, side stepping out of your grasp.
"Steve?" You question, half-concern and half-amusement. "What's going on?"
Steve is quiet, a dark storm raging on his face as he takes another step away from you.
"It wasn't him."
"What?" Any post-sex euphoria is abruptly halted, coming to a stop with screeching breaks like a freight train.
"The man from last night." Steve sighs, refusing to meet your eyes. "He was a hired gun, the police found messages with an anonymous buyer on his computer. They're going to interrogate him as soon as possible, but they don't have much hope for leads."
"How much?" You whisper. "How much to kill me?"
"Don't go there." Steve encourages you, dodging the question completely. "That isn't important. We need to focus on the fact that the person trying to do this is still out there."
Your stomach drops, dread and every other emotion swirling like a hurricane inside you. A lump builds in your throat, the fear you finally thought was over coming back tenfold.
"It's okay." You whisper, swallowing around it all. You reach your hand out to Steve, desperate for his grounding touch. "Because I have you."
You hardly brush his fingers when he snatches it away.
"I can't protect you like this." He whispers.
The sentence stirs panic inside you, disappointment and rage welling hand in hand.
"What?"
"I can't protect you like-" Steve finally looks up at you, face reading something tortured. "Like this." He gestures to the space between you.
"I heard you the first time." You say, struggling to keep your voice calm, to keep everything in check. "What are you trying to say Steve?"
"I've worked for presidents, politicians and diplomats. Millionaires, billionaires, any one with enough money to be scared." Steve explains, something heavy in his voice. "None of them have ever scared me the way you do."
You feel bile turn over your stomach, that sick, childish, insecure part of you rising to the surface. The girl who can't stand the sound of her own voice, who doesn't know how to trust.
Who can't believe someone might love her.
She's been proved right again.
"None of them ever made me so jumpy, so afraid of failing." Steve continues, each word like another stab. "It's like I can't think straight, every minute of everyday I'm wondering if you're safe. I can't breathe unless you're in my eye sight."
You think back to last night, the intense look in his eyes as he stared at you in the ambulance. Your mind flutters just as easy to the moments between the sheets, when tears threatened his lash line.
"So you can't be with me, because you care too much?" You clarify, unable to hide the stone in your voice. Even as you stand in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, still fucking dripping with him. "I don't understand what that has to do with being able to keep me safe?"
"It's unhealthy." He counters. "I can't work because I can't see the whole picture." He shakes his head, running a hand over his face. "I can't see anything but you."
Your anger bubbles over. "So I'll get another fucking bodyguard!" You insist. You're not sure when the tears started to fall, rolling hot down your cheeks. "Jesus Christ. Steve I care about you too!"
"We both know you won't find someone as good." He promises.
Your heart shatters, you actually feel it break apart inside your chest. The pain even more potent than last night's panic.
"So that's it?" You ask, wiping your cheeks with harsh drags of your hands. "You've decided for both of us?"
You hope he feels your anger in the words, feels your teeth in their bite.
If he does, he doesn't make it known.
"It's for the best." He says, completely calm. The picture of collected. The perfect soldier, the unmoved man. Made of marble so he doesn't have to feel. "We're flying back to LA tonight, the team is reinforcing your security system now. Everything will go back to normal."
Normal.
The word rings sour in your ears. Last night, in his arms, in his bed- was the most normal you'd felt in years.
To think that it wasn't as natural to him. It feels like a rejection of the most acute part of you. All his talk about being yourself replaced with insecurity that it must be what's driving him away.
"Fine." You agree, pulling his shirt tighter over your chest, feeling oh so exposed.
Steve hangs his head, if you didn't know better you'd think it was shame. "Thank you." He mutters.
"What time will we get in? I want to make sure my publicist has enough time to get everything ready."
His gaze snaps back up, confusion knitting itself between his brows. "What for?"
You shrug, already making your way back toward the stairs. "I have to let the Academy know I'll be there to present."
Disbelief flashes across Steve's face. "You can't be serious? I thought we agreed you weren't going?"
You nod, gathering all the strength in your body and channeling it into your voice. "We did, but since we're both making big decisions this morning. I've decided I'm going."
Steve's rage catches fire, the flames licking at you from across the room.
"You're being a child." He bites through gritted teeth. "It's not safe."
You can't help but scoff, if he wants childish you can show him childish.
"You said I was safe here and then I almost died." You remind him. "I think I'm done taking your advice."
With that you leave him downstairs, locking yourself into the guest room once more. You just barely manage pull the door shut before the tears start to fall.
Downstairs Steve is equally as stubborn, folding over the counter and burying his face in his hands. Two fools on opposite sides, no bridge in sight.
The dress is… itchy.
You didn't have many options, with the last minute-ness of your attendance your stylist nearly had a heart attack.
'I stayed up until four a.m. making phone calls, so you're gonna wear this and you're gonna look happy about it.'
Pulled from the archives of some designer, the dress is admittedly beautiful. With just some pins and a little shape wear it fits you like a glove. No one would know it had never been the plan to begin with.
Steve has been hovering all night, tuxedo-clad and perfectly pressed. Even with the formal attire he sticks out like a sore thumb, his most noticeable accessory being the glare etched on his stupid, handsome face.
Every minute passes like an hour, seconds dragging longer than possible as the clock ticks closer to your cue.
You do everything to pass the time, painfully ignoring the weight of blue eyes watching your every move. You laugh when the joke calls for it, smile for the camera when it pans to your reaction, clap even when the speeches go on too long.
Then it's time to move, a stage hand collecting you from you seat and guiding you backstage.
It always amazes you how much chaos there is behind the scenes. P.A.'s running around like headless chickens, envelopes being passed back and forth, just to be double then triple checked. The rows of golden statues waiting for triumphant hands to claim them.
You're going out alone. your own perfectly pressed envelope already in hand as you wait in the wings.
Long abandoned by your stage hand, there's nothing left for you to do but walk.
"Don't go out there."
Of course you're not completely alone.
Steve had followed you the whole way, glowering at anyone who looked suspicious. Going as far as to inspect any item that was handed to you before you even dared to touch it.
Even going as far as to try and break the seal on the envelope in your hand, only being stopped by a particularly threatening glare on your end.
Now though, the facade is gone, his voice something akin to desperate, terrified.
You turn around to face him, for the first time since the kitchen you even look into his eyes.
"Enough." You mutter, attention turning back to the stage where the lights are beginning to rise. Only a few seconds now. "I'm tired of being afraid just because you say so."
Steve's expression is grave, jaw clenched so tight you think he could break a tooth.
"I can't protect you up there." He insists, hand wrapping around your wrist. His grip is tight enough to sting, panic evident. "Please."
Your heart aches, chest pulling tight as you look at him. You could fool yourself if you tried, convince yourself that he cares.
You don't.
Instead, you pull yourself out of his grip, hard enough to make Steve stumble. Your voice is wet as you repeat yourself. "Enough."
The lights are hot, coating you in that oppressive, damn-near blinding heat. You can't hear anything over the audience, chest swelling with pride as the applause only grow in volume.
Your heels carry you forward, dress dragging behind you as you walk towards the microphone where it's waiting for you center stage.
The teleprompter waits until they die down, letting you settle into your mark on the stage before it begins to scroll.
"Alright, we've finally made it to the award everyone's been pretending they haven't been thinking about all night." A low chuckle reverberates through the crowd.
"Winning this award last year was one of the most surreal moments of my life... and now it's someone else's turn to have that moment. Here are your nominees for Album of the Year."
The lights dim, the screens behind you lighting up as a pre-recorded voice takes over, listing the artists and their work as clips play. You cast a look toward the side stage, where Steve still stands. His eyes are everywhere, scanning the entire room while his shoulders sit high on his posture.
It's the worst you've ever seen him, completely and utterly wrecked, like there's something he knows and you don't.
For a moment your heart stutters, try as you might to wear a brave face, the tension is still contagious, the memory of a hand around your throat still fresh. No matter how much concealer your makeup team applies, the bruises still mar your skin.
You shake it off, you have too. The moments almost over, too late to back out of your tantrum now.
The lights lift, attention back on you.
"And the winner is…"
The envelope sticks for just a moment, the seal tearing as your nails lift it open.
You hardly spare it a glance, giving the audience an excited smile as you open it to read. Unfolding the thick card stock in your hand and-
Familiar chicken scratch, the handwriting that's been haunting you for the better part of four months.
If I can't have you. No one can. Not even pretty boy.
Your blood runs cold. They're here.
The letter starts to shake in your hands.
They're here. They're here. They're here.
You turn to Steve, panic welling into something uncontrollable.
He's already rushing toward you, but his gaze is somewhere else.
You follow it, all the way to the back of the mezzanine.
The scope of a rifle winks at you, a red laser traveling across the theatre and dotting your chest.
They're here.
Everything unravels, the quiet dignity of the audience flailing into panic as they all rush to duck under their tables. Steve's panicked voice yelling the location of the sniper into his head set, shouting for anyone to secure them.
The ringing of the shot.
They're here.
You brace for the impact, for the pain. Closing your eyes you picture Sarah, you pray that she never sees this.
Then you're on the floor, skidding across and looking up just in time to see Steve take the blow.
It punches into him from behind, knocking him onto his knees.
A screams tears from your throat, something guttural and terrified.
You're not sure when you move, but when Steve falls you're there, pulling him back into chest as you try to push pressure on the wound.
They're a crackle through the headset in his ear, just loud enough for you to hear.
Target secured, weapon is disarmed.
You can't even feel the relief, even as a soft smile breaks onto Steve's face.
There's so much blood.
It floods past your fingers, soaking into your dress and already beginning to pool on the floor. It hit him in the shoulder, right where it meets his chest.
He's lax in your arms, looking up at you like he can't feel the pain at all.
"Steve?" You cup his face with bloody hand, smearing it on his cheek. "Steve can you hear me?"
He covers your hand with own, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. His voice comes out rough, garbled and dream-like. "You're okay." He says it like it's the only thing that matters, like he's not bleeding out in your arms. "You're okay."
A sob breaks from your throat. "You're not!" You yell back, panic taking over as you look around, only to find an empty stage around you.
"Someone help!" You scream, "Please he needs help!"
Steve shushes you, the sound getting trapped in a cough. Even with your pressure on the wound the puddle around you grows, turning it all into a macabre nightmare.
"Please!" You're still shouting, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. "Please he's my bodyguard!" Your voice cracks on the last word, knowing it's not enough to capture what he actually is.
Steve's hand reaches up to your cheek, pulling your attention back to him.
"My Robin." He whispers, eyes gone glossy and unfocused. "I love you."
The words tear you open, pulling another sob from your lips. "You idiot." You curse. "I love you too."
What fools you both have been.
You press a harsh kiss to his lips, trying to say everything in it. Begging him to hold on. Steve returns it with softness, like he has all the time in the world.
Help finally comes, footsteps surrounding you.
Steve smiles, the same unprotected one you saw at the cabin, his guard finally down. He watches you until you're pulled away, taking two guards to get you off as medics take your place.
The threat it gone, this time, it's finally over.
Now all you can do it wait, and hope that Steve is stubborn enough to pull through.
"Mommy!" Sarah's voice echoes through the plane, yelling despite the small space. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
She comes barreling down the aisle, bouncing with excitement as she as she rushes to stand in front of you.
Her face is painted with a smile ten miles wide as she holds out the source of her enthusiasm for you to see.
"A new coloring book?" You ask her, amping up your own mock-excitement.
"Ice cream!" She squeals, opening the pages for you to see.
"Wow!" You whisper, pretending to lean in for a better look. "Where did you get this?"
She points toward the back of the plane. "Stevie!"
Sure enough, Steve comes walking down the aisle just as she says it, giving you a smile and a small shrug as he takes the seat across from you.
He's been discharged for almost two weeks now, still a little peaked around the edges for your liking, but he's okay. Your heart still seizes a little every time you look at him, the sling on his arm a reminder of just how close you came to losing him.
After nearly a month in the hospital, Steve as eager to get out of L.A. as you.
"Thought she'd need something to do at the cabin." He explains, "I have six more in my bag."
The decision to go back to New York was easy, the peace and seclusion of the cabin all too appealing after the press-frenzy following the Grammy's. Eventually you'll have to fly back for the trial, but for now you'll get as far as you can.
Steve's already offered to convert the attic to a recording studio, you half-think he'd keep you there forever if he'd let you.
You might.
"Six?" You repeat, laughing in disbelief. The mental image of him picking them out for her filling your stomach with warmth. "You're gonna spoil her."
He fixes you with a look, "I think that ship is long sailed."
Sarah clambers into his lap, leaning her back against his chest as he settles. His arm wraps loose around her waist, acting as a seatbelt.
"Besides, I like taking care of my girls."
Pride beams in his words, a protectiveness in his voice that wraps around you like a warm blanket.
"That includes the new guy?" You nod your head to the side, toward where your new bodyguard sits in the back of the plane.
Sam is nice enough, not nearly as uptight as Steve which is a very, very nice change of pace.
He was picked by Steve himself, an old friend from his days in the service.
Steve nods, giving you a light hearted chuckle.
"Well I can't protect you like this." He lifts his sling, except there's a joke in his voice that wasn't there before. "Besides," he bounces his knee, making Sarah giggle in his lap. "Got my hands full with this one."
"Your girls huh?" You relax back into your seat, unable to take your eyes off the scene in front of you. "I think I like that."
The pilots comes over the loudspeaker, letting announcing that you'll be taking off in just a few minutes.
Steve hums, "Me too."
"How long?" Sarah perks up, turning her head to ask Steve the question. She's already well adapted to owning his heart, the transition of his role from bodyguard to something more hardly an adjustment.
"Five hours." He tells her, pressing a kiss to her four head. "Five hours until home."
"Five hours until home." You repeat.
Your entire world in one place, only yours to have. There's no better feeling.