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softbiker · 4 years

Text

Steve Rogers One Shot

Warnings: language, no editing

Word count: 5.1k (I have no excuses for this, I don’t know what happened)

Summary: Things get a little warm on a mission downtown.

A/N: Another piece in the Agent 14 series! If you’re not familiar, I suggest checking out the masterlist first so you’ve got a background on my girl’s prior association to a particular star-spangled man ;) As always, let me know what you think!

There are certain hours of the morning that Bucky would happily never see.

4:30 a.m. he could absolutely do without.

Bleary-eyed, stiff, tasting his own stale breath, he rubs at his prickled cheeks as he yawns. Why the hell did he agree to do this? He should be back in bed - he’d give his bottom dollar to be in his cozy little blanket nest right about now…he’d had to leave 28’s apartment so damn early to get back to the tower in time to grab his running clothes. To his own nose, he still smelled of sex and her bedsheets; but with a change of clothes and his hair tucked under his vintage Dodgers cap, he hoped no one would notice. Just to be safe he had splashed a few drops of cologne on his shirt and his pulse - he knew Steve’s nose was sensitive enough to pick up on the scent. Too much of a risk.

The elevator chimes brightly and opens to reveal the man of the hour - the man of this hour, who loves that pre-dawn dewy sweetness that even city air can have, before the whole machine of it hums to life. Even Steve seems a little sleepy, ruddy flush in his pale cheeks, his normally neat beard looking unkempt. The length of his hair is swept beneath his own hat, a red one bearing the NASA logo, and he’s managed to fit all of his muscled mass into the straining seams of a Nike running shirt. Jesus but he looked like some kind of ad for protein powders, one that would have gym rats scrambling - or better yet, a poster to get elementary school kids to drink their milk.

“Mornin’ Buck,” Steve smiles, rolling his shoulders and stretching a little. “You ready?”

Bucky merely grunts in assent and shuffles into the elevator, little box stuffed to capacity with the width of their shoulders.

“Down a floor, please, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Steve requests. He is unfailingly courteous to the AI, even when Tony’s not around. Bucky can relate. Their old-fashioned manners are hard to shake, even with both feet firm in the 21st century. “We’re picking up Sam, too.”

“Ugh,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I thought we were going for a run this morning; bring Sam and we might as well just power-walk around the mall like old people.”

“Buck, we are old people.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky yawns again, his breath leaving a puff of fog on his metal hand as he half-heartedly covers his mouth. “Took a quiz on WebMD - my biological age is only 28.”

Steve doesn’t respond - he refuses to dignify Bucky’s weird internet expeditions. Too curious for his own good, he often falls down these virtual rabbit holes, only resurfacing hours later, red-eyed and chap-lipped, uncharacteristically babbling in a twitchy-fingered frenzy about moon-landing conspiracies or the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. It always takes him a little while, a few good-natured jabs from the team, before he comes back to his normal self. The only person who’s ever been really interested in his crackpot ravings is the Parker kid - but Peter doesn’t come around too often, prioritizing his schoolwork, and even then, Steve is almost certain he’s enabling Bucky’s bad habits more than anything.

Like Bucky, Sam is waiting in front of the elevator, dressed in his running shorts and favorite purple t-shirt. He squints, puffy-eyed and pouting, at the offensively harsh light coming from the open elevator doors, hitting him full in the face.

“You old farts really like to get up early, huh?” he grumbles, shuffling between them in the already cramped elevator. “Some of us still need our beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, it looks like you haven’t been getting any,” Bucky says drily, leaning one hip against the wall.

“Mm, cause I’m too busy gettin’ some-”

“Sam,” Steve interrupts, sounding every inch the exasperated father. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Sam raises his hands in defense. “All I’m saying is, Tin Man can talk about his beauty rest while he goes to bed alone - that’s fine with me. Only way he’s getting dates is under threat of force.”

It’s fleeting, almost shy, that quirk in the corner of Bucky’s lips; he tucks it away just as quickly, turning his face towards the floor and tugging his cap down a little further. The shadow of the bill covers his eyes from Steve’s gaze, but he still aims a frown at Sam over Bucky’s head.

“Can you two at least try to get along?” he sighs, fighting to keep his own face neutral, stern, in spite of the hours of entertainment he gets watching his friends pretend they wouldn’t take a bullet for each other.

“Hey, he started it,” Sam protests on his way out of the elevator, skipping his feet to stay ahead of Bucky’s last ditch attempt to trip him.

Oy vey, Steve thinks, but he just rolls his eyes and follows them, a half-beat behind and listening to their muttered jabs traded back and forth as they make their way down the front steps and out of the building into the crisp New York morning.

A blanket of humidity holds the air close, promising a beautiful morning and a sweltering afternoon. In the pre-dawn hush, they stretch and warm up their muscles, Sam a little more intensely than the other two, as the only one in any real danger of hurting himself. He props one hand against a bench and swings one leg a few times, then the other, loosening his hamstrings. They’re a little quieter now, the close, quiet dark dampening their voices, though New York would protest their reverence for its show of sleep - even now, the headlights streak past them along the streets, buildings twinkling high into the skyline, crowding out the stars. Some jumping jacks, high knees - Sam is more careful of his tight hip these days - and then they’re off.

Despite some historical evidence to the contrary, most of which Bucky holds hostage, Steve Rogers isn’t a complete asshole. Which is why he always lets Sam set the pace when they run together - otherwise they wouldn’t be running together. Bucky complains, but Steve knows it’s just for show; Buck doesn’t really care about running (“Why do I need to run when no one’s shooting at me, Steve?”), so he’s not too pressed about going slow.

Falling into step, filling the width of the sidewalk, they make their way up to Central Park. If asked, Steve would say that he hates living in Manhattan - that his suite at the tower was opulent to the point of being oppressive, that he’d take his old one-room place in the Heights with Bucky over this near-embarrassing level of excess. But there is something to it, the glitter and chrome, the thrumming pulse of the city right at his fingertips, right there in the middle of it all, that he could never quite give up.

They take their time, keeping pace with Sam, on their first lap around the park; there are a few other runners out in the park at this hour, taking advantage of the lack of traffic and milling tourists to get in a few good miles. Some nod or lift their fingers as they pass, certainly recognizing their local celebrities, but no one stops, no one stares. Avengers are a common enough sight in this part of town; Steve can only speak for himself, but he certainly doesn’t mind the lack of attention.

On their second lap, the first hint of a glowing gradient lighting up the sky, Steve glances over at Bucky; neither of them are sweating - not even breathing hard. Sam on the other hand, while still managing a conversation, has beads of sweat forming on his forehead, a dark stain forming on the front of his shirt. Both Steve and Bucky can hear the extra beats of his heart, pounding a more fragile rhythm than their own steady beat; his lungs strain a little harder. Looking at Steve, Bucky cocks a silent eyebrow, darts his eyes to Sam and back again. Steve shrugs back, willing to let him make the call.

Suddenly, with practiced precision, they dart around Sam on either side and pull ahead, gaining ground and speed with every stride. With a final cry of “Assholes!” fading behind them, they leave Sam in the dust, stretching out their enhanced legs - wild horses set loose, they gallop in a blinding and furious pace, the bill of Steve’s cap flying up and nearly leaving his head before he grips it and tugs it down tighter against his skull. The trees streak past, glimpses of city lights blurred between, as they top out their speed, dodging bewildered joggers and dog walkers perilously found in their path.

It takes a moment for Steve to recognize the sound, to realize that Bucky is laughing; another moment later, he’s joining in - hardly knowing why and refusing to ask. With a pang, he remembers how often that laugh filled his life, echoed in his home, followed his shuffling footsteps on the sidewalk. It comes with the same underwhelming force as the sunrise, quiet and brilliant and inevitable, streaking joy across the horizon - they are here, they are alive, they found their way home. Steve remembers being 17 and 90 pounds and choking on his first drop of whiskey but still winding up drunk on his own youth, knees knocking Bucky’s where they dangled from the fire escape, feeling as though he could eat the world raw. He could take a bite from it this morning - him and Buck, they could devour it.

It’s useless to try to count the miles when they move this fast; no running app has yet managed to track them accurately, and besides, they could both easily run a marathon with no training. Their runs are mostly for fun - well, Steve finds it fun, the way he finds jumping out of airplanes fun, or leaping over moving cars, or throwing objects he didn’t know he could lift. There’s something about his recklessness being rewarded, through the sheer steel strength of his enhanced body, matched only by the pure-bred stubbornness of his character, that bubbles endorphins in his brain like nothing else.

Almost nothing else.

Up ahead, he notices the back of Sam’s shirt; they’ve lapped the park again, coming up on him from behind. Next to him, Steve watches the swing of a familiar ponytail, half-mesmerized by the way it sways in the sun. Then she’s turning halfway to laugh at something Sam has said, and it’s-

He stumbles over his own toes but recovers before actually falling, Bucky throwing out a hand to steady him at the elbow, and they slow their pace, settling into a jog as they catch up to Sam and his companion.

“You alright, pal?” Bucky asks, chewing his lip as he considers Steve.

“Yeah, fine,” Steve shrugs him off. They’re right behind them now, steps alerting the other two of their presence; she turns, Sam too, to see who’s coming.

Along her forehead, the sweet little baby hairs cling to her skin, wetted down with sweat. Sunlight gleams on her cheekbones, and he wonders if that’s sweat, too. She settles her hands on her hips as she turns towards him, the corner of her mouth lifted in a breathless smile.

“Morning, Cap,” she says, flicking a loose strand of hair back from her face. The weather is beautiful, sun bright and strong, and she’s wearing a red crop top and running shorts, wireless headphones tucked in her ears. Music must be paused though, because he can’t hear anything coming through them.

“Morning,” he smiles back, lifting his cap to sweep a hand through his sweaty hair before settling it back on his head. A faint, self-conscious note sounds in his brain, and he tries to remember if he brushed his teeth this morning before leaving his room.

At his shoulder, Bucky clears his throat conspicuously.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.” Bucky sticks out his hand, armed with a boyishly charming smile. “I’m Bucky.”

She shakes his hand, smiling back and offering a name, pretending not to notice Steve’s blink of surprise. Was that - surely she wouldn’t offer her real name? He didn’t even know so much as her favorite color. He zones out of the small talk bouncing between the other three, Sam sharing how they’d joined up on their respective runs, lamenting the way his so-called friends left him behind. All Steve has is a number, that and-

“Would anyone be up for some coffee?” he asks when there’s a break in the conversation.

She lifts one brow, her eyes following his as he looks to his friends.

“Oh, you know I was just thinking the same thing,” Sam nods, rubbing his hands together. “Great minds, Steve.” He taps his temple, the same way Peter does sometimes when the kid is feeling sarcastic. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Can’t believe you two are what qualifies as great minds these days,” he grumbles, combing an errant hair behind his ear. Sam takes a swing at his shoulder but misses, and they fall in together, walking towards the coffee shop, hardly noticing if the other two are following.

With a little skip, she smiles at Steve and starts after them, his strides a little shorter to match hers. Birds chirp overhead, fading in and out of the hum of the now-busy streets and park lanes. Steve steals furtive glances, trying to decide whether or not she has freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“So.” He starts, then stops himself.

“So?”

He tilts his chin up, repeating the name she’d given to Sam and Bucky.

“Yes?” 14 smirks, tugging up the waistband of her shorts.

“I mean, that isn’t…” he flounders. “It’s not…you, is it? Your real name?”

“Hmm,” she purses her lips, squinting at the men ahead of them. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

**********

He’s in his office, draining the dregs of his americano - blonde shots, a sprinkle of cinnamon - when F.R.I.D.A.Y. pages him.

“Captain Rogers, you’re needed in the briefing room - there’s a situation,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says over the intercom, soft Irish brogue managing to sound coolly concerned. Steve stands from his desk, coffee left behind.

“On my way.”

Another day, another bomb - Avenging is never dull, and why should it be? Sometimes Steve wonders if a strange law of attraction is at work in their violently non-traditional career; if it’s the insanity of every crisis they’re called to answer that has made them what they are - or, as he often suspects, is it actually the reverse?

Tony is at the head of the conference table, flicking through projected images with quick fingers, the rest of the team already seated. No one looks up when he slips into the room.

“If these preliminary scans are accurate, it looks like we’ve got explosives - sophisticated ones, I might add; really, even I’m a little impressed, which as we all know, is a pretty-”

“Tony,” Steve says, taking his own seat at the front of the table. Righteous brow lowering. “Focus.”

Tony makes a face, but impressively withholds whatever comment rises to the tip of his tongue; blowing a harsh sigh past his lips, he goes on with the briefing.

“Right, as I was saying,” he says. “We’ve got some idea of the type of devices we’re dealing with-”

“Devices? Plural?” Nat clarifies. Her pen taps a quick beat against her notepad.

“Yes,” Bruce speaks up, standing a few feet away from Tony, cracking the knuckles of his left hand. “Based on the energy signatures coming from the building, we have three distinct focal points of radiation - so I’d put my money on three devices.”

A beat of silence in the room; gravity pulling harder at their legs and stomachs, the weight of this job, this calling, sits heavy like lead. Clint stretches his arm across the back of 41’s chair. Sam leans forward, elbows on the table, meeting Steve’s eyes for a moment. They carry that weight differently, each one. It takes a moment, a thought, as each of them readjusts it, gets used to it, rolls their shoulders to feel it settle.

And then, they get up.

“Alright - all hands on deck for this one,” Steve nods, eyes circling the table. “We’ll divide into assault, evacuation, and extraction teams. Wheels up in 15.” He looks at Tony once more, now rolling up the sleeves of his well-cut silk shirt.

“Let’s suit up.”

**********

He’s first to the jet, his apartment being closest to the hangar, and he sits in the cockpit going over blueprints for the high-rise business complex they were about to save. A tech conglomerate operates in the upper half of the building, taking nearly half the available square footage; the lower floors are occupied by a couple of smaller companies, start-ups enjoying their first windfall of success. Absentmindedly rubbing his beard, Steve wonders why here, why this target. A personal score to settle, underhanded business deals padding the margins of their accounts? Nothing rings true; even F.R.I.D.A.Y.’S analysis suggested this building was a random target.

Whatever the case, his team is going in there, and he’s not letting them walk in unprepared. So he reads the schematics, twice, three times. Scans Banner’s notes on the radiation readings, what type of bombs they would be dealing with. Mentally, he begins sorting his team into smaller units; he knows 28 has some experience with bombs, Nat, too. They’d pair well for an extraction team, with instructions from Stark and Banner on the jet. Sam and 41 could handle evac, if emergency services hadn’t already emptied the building - probably he’d take Bucky and Wanda in for a strike team; the three of them could handle any lingering thugs who were stupid enough to stick around after planting heavy explosives.

His fingers tap quickly, unconsciously, against his thigh as he hears the team piling into the jet, jostling each other and trading playful insults; pre-mission nerves manifesting in their tight smiles and compulsive weapons-checking - tightening and re-tightening holsters, checking harness straps, dropping to their seats still poised and upright, muscles unwilling to relax. Stalking up the center aisle, Tony joins him in the cockpit. He claps Steve on the shoulder with a (thankfully, unsuited) hand.

“Ready to roll, Cap?” he says, rolling a piece of peppermint from one side of his mouth to the other.

Steve nods, stoic jaw set firm. He watches the control panel of the jet light up under Tony’s hands.

“Born ready.”

“Oh - we got an extra pair of hands, by the way,” Tony comments, nonchalant. He gestures over his shoulder with his chin. “She’s back there - I’m starting to think Fury only recruits beautiful women; wonder what his secret is.”

The comment makes him stop, makes him hope, and then hope not- Steve swivels in his seat and rises, taking a step to look back towards the body of the jet.

She’s smiling at something Clint just said, buckling into her seat on his other side, one down from Agent 41. Once again wearing her white catsuit, hair held back in a sleek braid, 14 pulls down a little on the harness of her seat, making sure it’s well-secured. There’s a beat before she notices, realizes that he’s noticed; she lifts her hand in a little wave when she sees him standing there.

“Hi, Cap,” she says. Her head tilts to one side, braid falling down over one shoulder. “Long time no see.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes, making a little noise as he looks between the two of them.

“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “Wait. Hold up -” He repeats the name she gave them this morning, eyebrows knotting close together. “Am I missing something? Y’all know each other?”

Steve props an arm against the frame of the jet arcing above his head, feeling his cheeks heat under the new scrutiny the team directs his way. His shoulders curl in a little, his other hand reaching for his beard. In the moment, he’s not sure what to say - what to call her, what they are (friends, colleagues, certainly not partners) - and he chews his lip for a long and uncomfortable moment while the others examine his increasingly embarrassed face.

It’s Agent 41 who finally takes pity on him, huffing a sigh around the sour gummy worm hanging from the corner of her mouth.

“There’s a lot of secret agents you haven’t met yet, Sam,” she says. The limp, sugar-coated worm inches its way into her mouth as she works her lips, tucking it into her cheek. “Cause, you know, we’re secret.”

“Boom, roasted.” Clint makes a little mic drop motion with one hand, his other one working its way into the crinkling bag of gummies on 41’s lap.

Sam, attention diverted, scowls at the two of them. Now forgotten, Steve watches as Clint throws tiny pieces of sour worms at Sam’s head, never missing despite his attempts at dodging them. With a soft smile, 14 throws a wink in Steve’s direction.

Shaking his head, he turns back to the cockpit and reaches for his notes, ready to break down the plan.

**********

“Rogers, get the others out of the building.” It’s Nat’s voice, tight and panicked over the com lines.

“Romanoff?” He’s jogging up the stairwell, finger pressed to the device in his ear.

“Now, Steve.” Her characteristic sarcasm, dry and vivid in her husky voice, is gone. This is Nat, and he knows she wouldn’t sound the alarm for no reason.

“Understood.” They’re two floors above him, and he pushes his legs harder, faster. “Sam, Wanda, Tony - get the team out. The rest of the building is empty.” One more flight. “Romanoff, 28, I’m on my way up to you.”

Voices crackle over the line, confirming his orders, the team falling out one by one. Confirmation when they rendezvous on the jet, hovering a safe distance above the the skyline. Steve kicks through the bolted stairwell door and takes two left turns down glass-walled hallways, the map in his head guiding him through the frustrating maze of identical conference rooms and offices, dodging and leaping the sparse and sleek modern furniture crowding an abandoned reception room.

He finds them hunched over the harmless-looking black box, left in an unused cleaning closet - but it’s Agent 14, not 28, with her hands fluttering over an exposed circuit board while Nat looks on, curled white knuckles pressed against her mouth.

“Where’s Agent 28?”

“With the second device, lower half of the building,” 14 mutters, not looking up.

“Status?”

Natasha scowls, but she doesn’t look at him either.

“Not good.”

“The devices are all linked,” 14 says. She licks her lips, using a pair of tweezers to carefully reverse the position of a set of wires connected directly to the battery terminals. “Every time we disarm one, it receives a signal from one of the others that re-arms it.”

Steve watches her concentrate on the circuit board, a few frazzled hairs escaping her braid.

“How much time do we have?” he asks, feeling the muscles in the back of his neck tighten. Natasha finally turns, the grave line of her mouth answering him before she even speaks.

“Minutes - maybe less.” She shakes her head. “Is everyone out?”

“Building’s empty,” Steve confirms, fingers going to the comm device in his ear. “Stark - what’s our blast radius look like? This building’s gonna blow.”

Tony’s voice appears in his ear, only a second later.

“Of course it is,” he says, voice bright and resigned. “How did I not see that one coming?” Over the line, Steve hears a harsh sigh, and then Tony’s voice reappears. “We’re looking at the whole block, Steve, maybe more - emergency services already evacuated the surrounding buildings and they’ve created a perimeter, but we can’t be certain of the damage till they, you know, explode.”

“Any ideas on containment?”

“Gimme a minute,” Tony huffs. “In the meantime, you guys better start hauling ass.”

Steve turns to Nat and 14; they both already have their eyes on him. He nods, quick and commanding, authority drawing up his posture.

“You heard him,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Nat and 14 are already on their feet, and he brings up the rear as they dart out of the room and back the way they came, weaving around towards the stairs and tearing down the staircase at a breakneck pace.

They’re 2 flights from the ground floor when 14 stops, wild-eyed and panting, braid half-loose, and seizes Steve’s arm.

“28,” she says, fingernails digging into the thick fabric of his uniform. “28 never confirmed, is she -?”

Steve tugs her along after Nat, still sprinting down the stairs, and taps his comm device.

“28? Status, 28 - are you out of the building?”

The line stays quiet, heartbeats and harsh breaths in their ears.

“28? Come in, 28.”

Radio silence.

14 stops short, whirling around and away from Steve and back towards the door to the second level - 28’s last known location. Clenching his jaw, he shouts down the stairs to a waiting Natasha, who stands a flight below, tensed to spring back up the stairs after them.

“Natasha - you go, meet the others at the jet and help coordinate evac,” he says, feet already following 14. “We’ll get 28 and rendezvous with the team.”

“But-”

“Go, Nat!”

It takes him 3 seconds to catch up to her, pushing through the door and taking one look at the open floor-plan office before turning right and hustling through the neatly arranged desks towards the utility closet at the other end of the suite.

“She was here the last time she checked in,” 14 breathes, wiping her brow. Two steps ahead of her, Steve wrenches the door open.

The device lays dismantled in the center of the room, mechanical guts exposed to the drafty air - but the closet is otherwise empty, with exception of a few cleaning supplies shoved into a corner. An overturned yellow mop bucket, spray bottles with faded labels, a pair of rubber gloves.

He can hear 14’s heart rate escalate, tapping furiously at her own comm device.

“28 where are you? Come in, 28?” Her voice is thin, breath harsh from their sprint. She licks her lips as she waits for a response. Each second that passes, her eyes flit around the room again, glassy and unfocused, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

A voice that neither of them expects appears in their ears.

“28’s fine,” Bucky says, voice rough but clear. “Signal from the bomb made her line cut out. We’re outside the building, en route to the rendezvous point.”

Their eyes meet and the shared relief washes over them, soothing for the space of a heartbeat - before the device, innocuous and waiting, begins beeping with a menacing frenzy.

Without a word, Steve grips 14’s wrist and makes a mad dash for the other end of the floor. They pass the stairwell door, still swinging open, and head straight for the floor-to-ceiling windows exposing the bright afternoon sunlight outside.

Between 1943 and 1945, the number of burning buildings Steve jumped out of could be conservatively estimated at around a dozen. Bucky would argue for more, but considering the lack of other eyewitnesses, it was really anyone’s guess at this point. Regardless, it’s not the first time he’s found himself trying to outrun the laws of physics, hell quite literally at his heels - his fingers close tighter around 14’s and he glances at her face as he tucks her under one arm.

“Ready?” he breathes. Her eyes are on the window. She licks her lips, opens them to respond.

Then the building blows up.

**********

When he saw the flames blow out the windows, glass tinkling downward in a delicate deadly rain, Tony’s heart remembered the feeling of shrapnel.

“Shit.” He enhances the camera view on the explosion, scanning the surrounding street. “Steve? Come in, Rogers.” Smoke billows up, reaching ever higher towards the skyline. “Rogers? Steve?”

On the ground, Sam turns towards the police perimeter, pushing his way through the rubberneckers and uniforms. Already people are gawking at the scene, cell phones poised to record the disaster, worth at least a few likes and retweets. His feet pick up into a jog and he ducks between the roadblocks, no one even attempting to stop him.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters. The smoke starts to sting his eyes and he lowers his goggles, coughing a little. Even from this distance, still a couple hundred feet, he can feel the greedy heat of the flames, already licking their way up more than half of the enormous high rise. He keeps going until the heat is just too oppressive, the force of it too harsh and blistering; but he stands his ground, squinting through the smoke and ash, one arm pressed to his mouth and nose.

The glint of red is the first thing he sees.

“I’ve got ‘em!” he yells over the line, followed by a harsh coughing fit. “I’ve got eyes on ‘em!”

Shield first, streaked with ash but bright as a beacon, they stagger out of the smoke. Both their faces are covered in soot, 14’s uniform scorched in places, Steve’s blond head turned an ashy gray; her arm is slung around Steve’s shoulder and she leans into him as they limp towards their teammate, their friend. 14 coughs as a harsh wind, stirred by the flames, whips fresh smoke into her face. Steve’s grip around her waist tightens by a fraction, even as Sam approaches, grips his shoulder and hauls him into a rough embrace.

“You’re insane, you know that?” Sam points a finger in his face when he pulls back a moment later. “You’re a goddamn lunatic. Jesus, man.” He babbles in his relief, and they let him, following quietly towards the waiting paramedics, the line of spectators already cheering at the sight of the familiar patriotic uniform. Police and citizens alike crowd against the barricades, hoping for a glimpse of their national hero. Steve lifts the shield in a tired salute, rousing another chorus of excited whoops and cheers.

He feels different eyes on him, and he looks down to find 14, face upturned and sooty, her eyes red from the smoke. Her own fingers slip between his where his hand still rests at her waist, and she squeezes his hand twice. Like a heartbeat. Then her head drops to his shoulder.

Nearing the edge of the perimeter, Steve hears the roar of applause above the ringing in his ears, and tries to feel victorious.

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