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DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 6.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: Oh boy. Sorry about the long wait! Writing smut really stumps me, so I hope this isn't so bad. The smut is marked by red dividers - MDNI. (warnings: SMUT!!! (full on p in v, slight edging, fingering), mentions of human experimentation, brainwashing, blood, WWII) (5,351 words)

6: ENTHALPY

Rogers tenses as your lips touches his. For a moment you think he’s gonna push you away and start lecturing you.

Then, his hand is at the back of your neck, keeping you in place as his tongue brushes yours and deepening the kiss that you started.

Your heart hammers inside your chest, torn between nerves and exhilaration. He tastes like you imagined he would. Fresh, minty, with something sweet that lingers just like in the way he smells. You don’t allow your mind to register that you had been wondering about it and that you were right, swatting the thought away like a fly.

What you do like thinking about is that Steve seems just as frustrated as you, with his urgent hands, not allowing either of you to breathe.

He doesn’t stop to say anything. You don’t, either. It’s an ungraceful dance you’re doing, fighting with each other’s lips until your back hits a wall and you’re hoisted up, putting your legs around his waist to keep from falling.

You doubt he’d let you though, from the grip he has on your ass cheeks.

But it’s the look in his eyes that has your breath stuttering. You nearly metaphorically hit the mat three times and say fold, from the way he’s looking down at your barely covered body. Like you’re a prey he’s been dying to catch.

And you walked right into it.

Started it, even.

The rhythm changes when he leans in, slowly capturing your lips with his. Steve sighs when your nails scrape the hairs at the back of his neck, then groans when you roll your hips into his. He’s hard. You smirk against his mouth.

You’re having it your way, no matter if he thinks he’s setting the pace.

With shaky but eager fingers, you start to pull his T-shirt up his torso. He has to let go of you to shrug if off, but you stay put, glued to the wall.

Your robe is next to drop to the floor, the loose knot now completely undone by Steve. He uses the opportunity to trace a path from your belly button all the way down to your core, so painfully slow you have to hold back to knocking your head back onto concrete. His fingers are hooked on the sides of your underwear when he pauses, looking into your eyes. “You sure?”

You let out an exasperated breath, grasping his wrist and moving it to the spot you actually need his hand to be. Such a time to be a goody-two-shoes. Both of you make a satisfied noise when his fingers enter your heat.“Don’t forget I started this, Rogers.”

“Drop the attitude or I won’t let you finish.”

There’s a part of you that wants to snap back at him with double the strength. I’ll give you attitude, you extremely hot-sweaty-infuriating-super-soldier. But there’s a bigger part of you with more urgent wants, needs, so you snap your mouth shut instead. Well, until he rubs circles on your clitoris and you let out a loud moan.

He chuckles, and you’re pressed so close to each other that you feel the rumble of it in his chest. Your eyebrows pinch together at how cocky he is, and not at how your stomach flutters at the feeling.

It has to be the way he works you up, circling your nipple with his thumb. He does it like he’s done it a million times. And maybe he has.

But he does it like it has been you, in all of them.

Your mouth feels dry, so you brings his lips to yours again.

You don’t know how this man can know exactly the spots that get your toes curling.

Maybe he’s a mind reader. “You’re dripping.”

Maybe it just has been a while for you. That’s definitely it.

You throw your head back when your cunt flutters, pleasure coiling at your lower stomach. “Oh, god,”

You’re not religious. All you can see when you look up in search of deliverance is Steve Rogers and his halo made of fluorescent light.

The smile that he gives at your noises is an even brighter flash of luminance, and you start wondering if this might be too far to come back from.

It’s no use thinking about it now.

You bite your lip when he pulls his cock out of his pants, not even whining too much when he pulls his fingers out of you. You’re too distracted.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You huff. “Want me to insult you or something?” There’s a pause while he shakes his head, lifting your leg and pressing against you. You balk when you realize it. “You like when I do it!”

“Think you got me all figured out, huh?” He teases your entrance with his tip, making the rest of your bragging die out on your throat. “I just like getting you to shut up.”

His hand comes to rest on the side of your neck, squeezing so lightly you almost don’t feel it. It’s like when he tells you to focus during missions. It works.

You both make unholy noises when Steve enters you. The fill is exquisite, easily the biggest you’ve ever had, and it has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head.

The pace he sets is unforgiving, nearly knocking the wind out of you. You’re almost glad he’s been beating you into shape the past few months.

He’s got his head tucked at the crook of your neck, giving you the perfect opening to make some damage of your own. His movements stutter when you latch your lips to his neck, alternating between kissing and biting the salted, sweat-slicked flesh.

It’s a filthy act.

It makes you giddy with delight, how low you’ve gotten him to stoop. Steve Rogers, the picture of decency. You’ve either corrupted him enough or peeled enough of his layers to reveal that as a side of him. You’re not sure what you like more.

Your other leg is hoisted up, making him go even deeper inside of you. “You look so pretty like this,” He pants. You now have to hold on for dear life as he pumps his cock into you, crossing your ankles at his lower back. You’re looking up at him, eyes glazed and mouth parted in a silent moan. “You were so much trouble, and all I had to do— was fuck you into submission.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, in a desperate attempt for leverage and for fighting back. To show him you’re not submitting in the slightest.

“I hate you.”

“I know, darlin’.”

The feel of him dragging up and down against the walls of your cunt has your brain going foggy. If it was important, you wouldn’t be able to tell where you are. Right now, you don’t even know your name.

“M’gonna cum.” You breathe, hiding on his collarbone. A chill runs down your spine as the words leave you and you realize what you’ve just done. And Steve slows down.

He thrusts so slow you almost tear up.

A cruel move from someone always so benevolent.

“Shhh. ” Steve coos, his warm breath tickling the hairs behind your ear. “You’ll get everything you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Each promise is marked by his cock reaching that sweet spot, and you have ire and bliss swimming inside you, both ready to burst.

You cry out when he removes himself completely, still holding on to you. It’s torture. The overstimulation from your inner conflict and pleasure has you trembling.

He walks over to the elevated fighting rink, lowering you onto the steps and filling you up again. You gasp, your hands finding his shoulders again.

“See?” He says, starting to move faster. “Just keep being a good girl, yeah?”

He kisses your neck when you nod. Maybe only a little submitting, temporarily.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You manage in between breaths. “I’m not gonna start…taking orders…after this.”

“Would never expect that,” Steve chuckles. Another deep thrust. “Shit, I’m close too.”

You let your head fall back now that reprieve is near, your nails raking against his scalp as he takes one of your breasts into his mouth. His movements are erratic now, and neither of you have it in you to talk. Heavy breathing and the contact of skin echoes around the large, subterranean gym.

You’re nearly chanting his name when you come, and nothing but cries of pleasure leave your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, just like the last time, but so, so much better. It tips him over the edge too, and he buries himself in with a grunt. His thoughts must be as fuzzy as yours, with not one question as to where his cum belonged.

Perhaps it’s to prove how much he owns you, in this moment.

He gathers himself quicker than you do. “I— I didn’t think… Are you—?” The red on his cheeks makes you giggle. It’s a sound as foreign to you than it probably is to him.

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t… you know.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I can, either.”

You tilt your head, suddenly curious to know what he means by that. But he’s already tying his pants back on, handing you your robe.

Time to get back into the real world.

“You need to know that I don’t do… casual.”

You turn back to him, now as covered as you can be. One eyebrow raised. “You fall in love after one fuck?”

He winces. Probably at the crude choice of word, but you feel like you need it to be this way right now. “I mean that we won’t be doing this again.”

Ah.

Of course. “No worries here, Cap. First and last time.”

He nods.

So that is that. You both need a shower and personally, you want a good amount of distance. You feel like you’ve left something on this gym, like a weight that was keeping you from moving on. Perhaps it’s just your dignity.

Either way, you’ve probably gotten your fill of Steve Rogers for this and the next decade, and you’re ready to not think about him ever again.

You don’t get it.

You just don’t understand why, in this highly technological building, all of the glasses and cups are stored so high up. Surely Stark could have invented moving cabinets by now. It’s not like you’re the shortest of them, but you’re definitely not tall enough to reach the glass you want. The rest is in the dishwasher and F.R.I.D.A.Y. has warned you twice not to open it.

You just want some coke to go with your popcorn.

The smell of it still fills the kitchen, rich buttery goodness waiting for you along with your paused movie. It’s another slow day today, where most of your housemates are out and about, with granted exit and a very detailed brief of where they’d be (you’re sure Natasha faked hers). You’re not allowed that privilege yet, at least not unchaperoned. And you’re positive Rogers would be the one chosen for the task, so you don’t bother. If you were to just leave, the security system would alert everyone who can stop you right away. And to the Raft you’d go. At least on that, you and the others are on the same boat. As far as you know, only Stark and Rhodes can come and go as they want. Regardless, today the Compound was left empty for you to enjoy and watch whatever you want.

You grunt, reaching as high as you can. You’re at risk of pulling a muscle like this, but it’s less absurd than the fact that this kitchen doesn’t have a single step stool.

You almost scream when a metal hand joins yours inside the cabinet, grabbing the glass you want with ease. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Hey, Sparky. You wanted this?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You take the glass from Bucky, holding it against your chest. Don’t even register the nickname as you watch him grab a mug for himself, then pour coffee in it.

“Sure.”

“You move really silently, you know? If I was cardiac I’d be dead.” He chuckles, so quietly you barely hear it. It only has a little humor in it.

“Learned that at the same place you did.” He’s right, you realize.

You stomp around a lot, but when you’re not thinking about it your steps make so little noise you managed to startle a couple people. It’s useful. “Right…”

“I never thanked you for the record player, by the way.”

You turn to him in the middle of pouring your coke, eyebrows scrunched up in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky tuts. “Come on, Sam spilled the beans as I was opening the box. I know you made him go get another one. So thank you.”

Goddammit, Samuel. “Yeah, it just seemed like something you’d miss. Old people and their vynils.” You sigh, and shrug. “That was not me being nice, so no thanks necessary. I felt bad.”

You scowl at him when he rolls his eyes. “Does that work on everyone else?”

“What?”

“The façade.”

You blink. “I— What. Are you doing?”

“Learned that one in therapy.”

It’s all so surreal, you have to shake your head. This has to be longest - and the weirdest - conversation you’ve had with Bucky Barnes in probably ever. “You’re going to therapy?”

He nods. “It’s mandatory. Part of the pardon.”

You blink again. It’s not part of your pardon, that’s for sure. At least for now. You’re not sure why yours and Bucky’s pardons are different, but it seems that way.

“My condolences, then.”

“I know, right?” He snickers, leaning against the counter. “But I’ll take it. I just wanna leave all that shit behind, and get everyone to leave me alone. ”

“Can relate to that.”

You’re considering leaving the kitchen and not asking the question that’s at the tip of your tongue. “Do you ever…think you can’t outrun The Soldat?”

His eyebrows meet at the center of his face. The little lightness he had on his features are gone, and you wish you hadn’t said anything. “Keep goin’.”

You continue despite the sentence being more warning than encouragement. “I mean, you’re doing your deprogramming and everything. But what if people still think you’re—”

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” He says, stiffly, and your fingers tighten around the glass. “It matters that they don’t have a chokehold on me anymore. It matters that I’m not killing anyone else. And I can start over. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Bucky. At least you know who you were…before. You have a headstart on starting over. Me, I’ve always been this. Sometimes I’m not sure I can be anything beyond that.” You suck in a breath, like you’ve run out of air mid-sentence. “The façade? It might be my actual face.”

His eyes soften a little, looking at you with something between pity and warmth, and then he chuckles. “Shit, you two are exactly the same.”

“Huh?”

Bucky doesn’t offer you an explanation besides sipping on his coffee, too casually for your liking. “Nothin’.”

You frown. All of that, and he’s got nothing to say? “Okay, then.”

“Yep.”

There’s a weird, charged silence after that. It’s the kind you can suffocate in, so you decide that going back to your movie and shelving this conversation as a fever dream is your only option, so you do just that.

Blade Runner is nearly halfway through when Bucky joins you.

He just sits there on the left armchair, not saying anything. It makes you squirm from your spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” You know you shouldn’t ask that, because he also lives here and has the right to sit on any armchair he wants.

“Waitin’ for Steve.”

You groan discreetly. That means he’ll also be here soon, disturbing your peace.

The effort you have to make to focus back on the movie is tremendous. Bucky’s presence is unnerving, and not because he used to be The Soldat. It’s the way he carries himself, the swagger of someone who sees right through people.

You’re lucky Blade Runner is so compelling, even after 30 something years.

The credits are starting to roll when Bucky speaks again. You wonder if he’s going to mention the tear that ran down your cheek during the rain scene.

“What’d you think?”

“About what?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on his knees. “Deckard. Do you think he was a human or a replicant?”

You purse your lips, not quite understanding. “Does it matter?”

“It’s just a question. So?”

Replicants are like any other machine, they’re either a benefit or a hazard.

You think about it for a minute, staring at the names rolling up the screen.

Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

“Are humans and replicants all that different though? Besides all the extra crap the makers put in them?”

“I guess not. Not really,” Bucky flexes his metal fingers.

“So it doesn’t matter. It just matters what they do with it.”

“See? I told you,” Bucky says to someone behind your back.

When you turn to look, Steve Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He then raises his palms defensively, with a small smile on his lips. “Already convinced.”

You must look like a fish out of water, a betrayed one, because Bucky gives you an apologetic look as he stands. Steve glances at you briefly, like your presence there is an afterthought. You don’t spent too long with your back bent, either, going back to staring at your popcorn.

“Gotta go. Good talk, Sparky.” You can hear Bucky’s soft What? as they both leave, and you almost smile as you imagine the confusion on Roger’s face.

You suppose that, if you were to insert yourself into Blade Runner, you could consider yourself a replicant. Made. Shaped into being, fabricated memories and everything. The movie starts with two options for those: benefit or hazard. It ends with the proof of their complexity.

You’ll have to catch Bucky later and continue that strange conversation. It sparks something in you, that you don’t dare call hope yet; but maybe there’s a chance your own options aren’t that limited, after all. He’s not letting his be.

“Tell me again why this is a good idea?”

“Because you said it uncaps your powers and I need to know how your electrical impulses behaves when that happens.” Bruce Banner is looking down at you, standing on a platform separated by only a wall of thick blindex.

“But. We’re inside.”

“This glass,” He starts, knocking on it. “can keep The Hulk in check, so it should be fine.”

You’re wearing a weird hybrid of a helmet and MRI scanner, looking like a high-tech jellyfish if you counted all the wiring. You shift on your feet, thinking that he puts way too much faith in you. Always has. At the moment you don’t share the sentiment, since no one who didn’t deserve it has faced the full force of your abilities before. You’re not even sure you have.

How far can you go? What happens when you get there?

You’re jittery from the anxiety, wanting to back out, and then you remember that you might have a little ticking clock inside you.

And you need to figure this shit out before the countdown reaches zero.

There’s one way to get rid of the lingering fear; you can almost see Bucky Barnes and his disapproving face, arms crossed. One human and one metal. You tell yourself and Imaginary Bucky it’s necessary. That it’s different circumstances. You have to face the beast in order to defeat it, and it’s how Banner’s test starts.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

Vernetzt.

Your heart is racing.

Vernetzt.

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

Your eyes open again. The anxiety is gone. Everything else is too. You want to chuckle at Bruce’s crooked glasses as he raises his head and gives you a thumbs up, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Ready?”

Bereit?

You nod.

Bright blue crackles at your fingertips, quickly rising over your palms and swallowing your arms, coating everything in pure, unbridled electricity. It’s probably the most impressive display of power you’ve had in a long while, you could get addicted to the feeling.

The energy oscillates once, and the generator you’re feeding off of dies down. It’s small, to be fair, and not enough if you want to keep going. You focus on the fluorescent lamps above you, watching as they go out one by one and your powers pulse stronger.

Banner is watching the monitors intently, taking notes of whatever he’s seeing up there.

You have to push further.

When the lights go completely out, you consider stopping. But the monitors are still lit up and you can hear the MRI machine on your head whirring, making you doubt if Bruce has even noticed the screens and you are the only light sources in the room.

You try to keep yourself just at the lighting even if you’re not exactly sure how the electrical systems of the building work.

Energy coats your entire body now, and you wonder if you can use it to get the lights back on. With a raised hand you aim, but the blast makes one of the lamps explode. You resort to attacking the concrete instead, a much more sturdy opponent - you manage to make the flow continuous and strong, eyes widening when the concrete cracks a little. The tiniest crack.

You push further.

You don’t see how this time, the screens go out too, all the machines around you also dead.

You only notice you’re bleeding when you taste it.

When you finally stop, the crack is larger. Bruce is yelling at you to stop, banging on the glass.

Hail HYDRA. Noether-Theorem. Change of momentum with change of time. Vernetzt. Vernetzt.

Bruce is running down the stairs as you rapidly mutter the last words.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

The pain on the side of your head makes your knees buckle, and you’re gasping for air as Bruce reaches you, removing the wires and machines that are still attached to you.

“Jesus, kid. That was terrifying. Impressive, but terrifying.” He turns you on your side, which is smart because you feel like throwing up.

And you would, if this had happened after lunch like it was supposed to.

Is it always going to be like this? Failsafe or not, being defeated by your own power? You’ve always wondered where it came from. If it was born with you or something that was put inside you after. If you’ll learn to wield it or if it’s going to swallow you hole.

“Did—y’ get— anything—”

“Yeah. Think so, a few promising things. Don’t worry, we won’t be repeating this.”

It’s even more comforting that the steady hand he has on your shoulder. You think you could repeat it if necessary. As many times necessary.

Even if right now, you feel like you can’t even lift up your head.

Bruce gets up, saying that he’ll get you some adrenaline and then take you to the medbay.

That’s the last place you want to go to. You’d rather he dump you on the grass outside, under the sun.

It’s strange that the doors are all open like this. Must be the emergency protocol, which must mean you caused a blackout on the entire compound.

Which in turn means the security systems are down.

The idea alone is enough to inject you with adrenaline. You have to muster the last strength you have to get up, then summon some more from god knows where to run. But it’s your lucky day, because you don’t have to stumble far to get to the garage. You don’t think Nat would be too mad if you used her car for a little escapade.

There’s no time to lose. You speed through the open gates, driving like a drunkard until you reach the nearest train station. You’ve seen it on your way to Dr. Steiner’s temporary prison.

You could drive the rest of the way, but you’re feeling responsible.

Just not enough to stop you from taking a train to New York City.

You’re not entirely sure what brought you to this place. You’d been roaming around the city when you stumbled into it, too distracted by the lights, the cars and the people bustling around to keep track of where you were going. A coffee cup on your hands, the authentic one from the street carts. And you thought, why not? And went in. Bought a ticket. That was an hour ago.

Now you’re staring up at a compilation of Word War II films, inside the Brooklyn Museum. At the people that are long gone, made eternal inside the moving pictures. You were raised under the ruins of the losing side of this war, the wrong side, and you didn’t know it most of your life.

Two years ago Bucky Barnes’ name would be on the Missing In Action Memorial. Now his name is erased and there’s an addendum talking about his capture by HYDRA. His years as The Winter Soldier. His rocky journey back to the right side. You wonder how he’d feel about it.

You allow yourself one full minute to look at a photograph of Steve Rogers, the soldier, one of the only ones you’ve seen of him in the actual military garb and not the Captain suit. History seems to prefer the red, white and blue over the tan one.

There’s a crowd in front of the uniforms so you skip that entirely, walking quickly to the exit. You know Captain America’s is a replica, because Rogers currently has the original inside his closet.

One of the last sections inside the exhibition is a small one right after V-day. Of the parties and the reunions. You linger on that one, listening to Orson Welles’ voice on a radio broadcast.

…The men who tilted guns of battleships and stoked them in epic battle will ride the level ferries of bay and river and tank men will drive a powered lawnmower while their fathers watch. The pilot with many missions will do errands for some civilian company.

You can’t help but think of the two veterans back home. How they never actually got that moment. No V-day. No reunion.

You wonder if someone gave Steve Rogers the news that the war has ended.

That the fight is over. That he can go drive a lawnmower and Bucky can do errands for some company. You wonder if they’d go back in time just to experience those moments. Their hard-earned reunions.

Suddenly the air is too thick inside.

You’re startled by the chilly evening air when you step out of the museum. You hadn’t realized it was so late, meaning you should take the train back to Compound if you don’t want a search-and-rescue team at your heel. You might have to walk back, if Natasha has found her car already. Best case scenario.

You decide to extend your freedom a little longer and sit down on the steps, watching the cars go by. Your chest feels heavy and your eyes are misty. You tell yourself it’s because of the cold air and how little prepared you are for it. Should’ve probably stayed in Times Square, with all the pretty lights and creepy guys in costumes. Although you don’t get time to wallow in your self-pity, because the noise of a motorcycle has you looking up.

Steve Rogers drives a very obnoxious Harley-Davidson. Black and chrome and noisy. He never bothers with a helmet, which you think is stupid of him, but today he has one slung over one of the handles.

You know he’s spotted you, because he’s staring right at you; but he just leans on the bike and waits.

Sighing in resignation, you push yourself up the steps and make your way to him. He’s wearing civilian clothes and a leather jacket, and people are beggining to stare anyway.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He nods at the coffee cart down the street. “You used your credit card over there. And then bought a museum ticket.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance. Not even 6 months of not being on the run and you’ve already lost your way with it. Steve gives you a foreign, sympathetic smile.

“That’s why I always use cash.”

“So it’s not because you don’t trust credit cards?”

He purses his lips, eyebrows pinched. “Definitely not because of that.” It’s not convincing.

It makes you laugh at little, and he looks away. “We should get back. Put the helmet on,” He says, stiffening his shoulders. It’s an order.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t have left the Compound. You’re lucky you’re not in too much trouble.”

You flick your eyes up at him briefly.“Yes, Captain.”

His gaze hardens under the thick eyelashes. “Being irresponsible right now can cost you your privileges. And your pardon.”

You shrug, staring at the Harley’s chrome exhaust pipe. “I just wanted to see the city. At least once.”

I panicked. I had a bad day. I’m scared that it’s just a matter of time until I get locked up for good and then all I see is four blank walls forever.

As if he could read your mind, he reaches down and takes the helmet, placing it on your head. It makes you look up.

Steve Rogers. Made of marble and gold. The golden light of the old photograph cast a halo around his frame, like a warrior angel, an Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The one in front of you is all stone, under the yellow street lights.

Even more weight above him than ever.

“I suppose it’s on me for not keeping an eye on you like I should.”

You frown, fumbling with the straps under your chin. “And coming to get me was your punishment?”

“I was in town.”

“Ah.”

You had wondered, still inside the Museum, what it would be like to know him back then. Back when he was all hope and not all duty. His eyes were gentle, and you could swear you saw a sparkle of that in this Captain that came to drag you back to the Compound.

It’s gone now. Besides, you don’t want to keep looking.

“I’m ready. We can go.” You say, tugging at the secured helmet straps.

Steve removes his jacket, fully revealing his white t-shirt, and you freeze. He puts it around your shoulders and you stop breathing. “S’ getting cold.”

It takes you a little to answer. The jacket is still hung awkwardly around your shoulders, and he’s looking at you as if he expects you to put your arms in it properly.

“I’m fine.” You say. He’s already sat on the motorcycle, and you’re just standing there. You don’t know if you should focus on his bare arms or how the jacket smells more like him than he does. Both options seem pretty terrible. “I’m not cold.”

“You will be on the ride back.” He urges you to move with his chin, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Sparky. Don’t make this harder than it should be.”

You roll your eyes, trying to tell yourself you’re only not putting on a bigger fight because the World War II exhibition messed with your head, and not because his jacket feels warm and nice against your skin.

“That’s what she said, Rogers.” You mutter to his broad back.

Under the loud rumble of the Harley’s engine, you can swear he laughs.

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