~*~some infinities are bigger than other infinities~*~
"Oh, hell no." Before Sam could slam the door in her face, Sharon's hand shot out and stopped him.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't really need you." She ground out. "I wouldn't jeopardize your standing with S.H.I.E.L.D. just for the hell of it."
Sam's sharp, in-humanly so, dark eyes studied the caramel-haired woman in front of him. There were bags – heavy – under her eyes, her golden-flecked amber eyes were dull and listless, she was thinner than normal, her University of Cambridge sweater practically drowning her upper body, her hair was haphazardly pulled into a ponytail – strands falling out – and sweat pants were stuffed into scuffed brown Uggs.
She looked like hell.
Staring at his oldest friend, he sighed heavily, feeling his resolve cracking under her big eyes that now looked so unfamiliar to him.
"You lose 'em?" His voice was flat.
"Seriously?" For just a brief moment, the usual spark in her eyes was back. "I lost the newbies their first day on the job. Fury hasn't put anyone new on my ass, because his only options would be you, Barton, Romanoff, Hill, Sitwell or..." She shook her head, the five letters on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them down. "No one knows I'm here. Pinky swear."
Seeing her smallest finger held out in front of his face, made Sam curse angrily, "You play dirty, Carter. You play so fucking dirty. Pinky swear? You know that ain't fair!"
"It's not playing dirty if it gets me into your damn apartment."
"If Fury calls me into his office..."
"The only thing he'll be calling you in for, is a mission. So stop getting your panties in a bunch, and let me in."
"Damn," He whistled. "Being benched has made you grumpier than when Romanoff loses contact with Barton on a mission."
"But not Barnes?"
"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
"Ha-ha."
It – she refuses, even in her head to say pregnancy test – feels like it's burning through the pocket of her sweat pants to sear her skin. Like, if she were to pull down her pants, on the side of her hip there would be a brand of a plus sign.
Collapsing onto Sam's couch, the worn cushions familiar, she puts her head in her hands and can feel tears wanting to leak from her eyes. From behind her eyelids memories play, like the reels of film in the movie theaters Steve used to sneak into with Bucky. There are his large hands – rough, but gentle – caressing acres of her bare skin, taking the time to tease her breasts and nipples before dexterous fingers trail over the flare of her hips before disappearing inside of her, exploring for the first time, anxious and curious.
There's the plush slant of his lips tasting her. His tongue tentative, blue eyes dark with lust, searching her own; silently asking if the moves he's making are right, and she only has the strength to grip at his hair or shake her head 'no.'
His thick hips, wantonly pressing into her slim ones.
And finally him sliding inside of her; the two of them connected at last, skin sliding against skin, mouths slanting together and hands roaming everywhere.
"Sharon..." Sam's voice, softer and nowhere near as distant as earlier, shocks her back into the present.
She can't bring herself to say the words; saying them will make it real, too real for her to handle, so she just reaches into her pocket and silently hands him the stick.
"Fuck," He husks under his breath, the plus sign staring back at him. Then he looks up at her, her face ready to crumble into tears he knows she'll never let fall in front of him, and he murmurs the curse again, "Fuck."
She can count on her fingers and toes, buildings that she's walked into that are more dangerous than the Margaret Sanger Center on Bleeker St in lower Manhattan, but this building – just brick and mortar – feels more dangerous than any terrorist cell, arms dealer's hideout, weapons factory or whatever.
She knows no one's following her, that Fury gave up after she ditched his out-matched newbies, but going to Brooklyn – like her heart is screaming out for her to do – is still too much of a risk. She knows she should tell him, that he deserves to know – this [baby] is a part of him too, but she just can't. She can't talk to him about this, about how she's desperate to go back to S.H.I.E.L.D. thatthe life of an agent is the only one she knows, that she can't possibly be a good mother; she's a liar [isn't she?], trained in ways to kill [not nurture], made for espionage, combat and everything that mother's aren't supposed to be.
Her stomach lurches; images flashing in front of her eyes, that she can't control.
Steve's furiously reading pregnancy books, constantly asking her questions, going to the doctors at S.H.I.E.L.D. worried that the baby might have his old health problems, that the serum could affect them negatively, babying her, and each one is more real than the next.
There's his large hand on her growing stomach. His blue eyes wide with wonder as the doctor moves the transducer over her stomach, showing them the baby; technology he never dreamed of. She wants peanut butter, but he's staunch in his denial, every one of his pregnancy books telling him it's better to be safe than sorry, and he has to bribe her with chocolate – at least it has anti-oxidants – so she stops pouting.
They're painting the nursery. He whispers, at night, to the baby. He tells her, voice husky and drunk with love, how he wants the baby to have her nose.
And without taking a step into the clinic, she's gone.
"I know you're not going to let me in," She chokes back the rising sob in her throat, standing outside his door, wet and shaking from the torrential downpour she got caught in after fleeing from the clinic. "But I also know how much you hate being the..." She stops herself, remembering his phrasing when one of the neighbors caught them in a heated embrace. "Scuttlebutt," She wants to giggle, but it's a strangled noise that escapes. "So you're going to have to let me in, unless you want everyone knowing your business. I'll stand out here all night if I have to. Steve," She sobs out his name, pounding desperately at the wood of his door. "Please."
The door swings open and she stumbles forward, having been leaning against it, and he catches her easily; his super solider reflexes on full display.
It's almost too much for her, being pressed against his powerful chest, feeling his heat through her soaked clothes, his smell surrounding her.
She doesn't want to cry in front of him ever again, but she can't stop the tears, as much as she wants to.
When she finally stops crying, through bleary eyes, she can see that he brought her to the couch. She's suddenly cold, the shock of his heat being gone, being felt all the way to her bones.
She hates being without the heat of him.
She's reminded of how cold her bed has been lately. How empty she feels.
"You're not supposed to be here." He says evenly, face as blank as the night they shared the elevator.
"And that..." She stops herself, the string of words stay buried, just playing over in her mind but not leaving her lips; plane crash should've killed you.
She huffs angrily, fingers tangling in her wet, heavy hair. Swiping at her eyes, she knows there are more diplomatic ways to tell him, but she just says them, blunt and stark. "I'm pregnant."
Shock slowly spreads across his handsome face; eyes widening, mouth slowly opening. Whether he's going to say something or not, she doesn't know, so she fills the silence that's making her want to curl in on herself or run as fast as she can, disappearing from his life the same way Kate had.
"I was going to get an abortion." She reveals, voice small and her body shaking, but not from the rain. "I was going to get an abortion, without even telling you about it, and it's not like you would have any way of knowing – S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't handling it, so Stark couldn't hack the database for you or anything, and I..."
"You weren't going to tell me?" The words are spoken slowly, hurt coloring each syllable and her stomach lurches while her heart becomes lodged in her throat.
"No." There's more honesty in those two letters than he's ever heard from her.
"Why?"
"Because there's nothing here," She motions between them. "Everything that was here, was a lie. You weren't in love with me," She hiccups, sobs creeping in. "You were in love with Kate. You don't even know me. And I know, I know it's my own fault, but it's the truth. Just like the truth is, I can't raise a baby. I can't be a mother. I'm an agent, a spy, someone who's trained to kill, to lie, to cheat, to steal to do whatever it takes as long as the goal of the mission is reached, no matter what the consequences. What the hell kind of mother would all of that make me?"
"There wasn't..." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "A small part of you, of Sharon Carter that was inside Kate Taylor? Nothing?"
"Sing, Sing, Sing is good but I've always been partial to 'Now That I Know You.' Benny Goodman, despite everyone loving Sinatra, is my favorite crooner. My Great Aunt loved to play his records."
"Drawing – mostly cityscapes and landscapes – relaxes me. I get why you like it so much, even if you won't tell me what you need to relax from."
"Oh, I could soooooo take you. I kickbox, three times a week. I got serious skills, Rogers."
"If it has peanut butter in it, no matter what it is, I'll probably roundhouse it. Like, I am a garbage disposal when it comes to peanut butter. So, um, hide your jar when I come over."
More memories flooded back, the months they spent together, bleeding together and she answered him honestly again, "There was a lot of me inside Kate Taylor. Too much, really."
She pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself. "That," She looked at him from beneath her lashes, her voice heavy. "Was the problem."
"Not from where I'm standing."
He gives her a fresh change of clothes – one of his white T-shirt's and khakis that she has to roll up – after she showers, so she doesn't 'catch her death.' She wants to laugh at his old phrasing, but doesn't. There nowhere near a place where she can laugh freely in front of him like she once did.
She sleeps on the couch, her stomach turning into a pit of longing, because he offers her his bed, but she doesn't [can't] accept it.
She's gone before he wakes up, a feat in and of itself, because he rises [basically] with the sun. She's back in her own clothes, taking his down to the basement to be laundered later, and once she gets back to her apartment, she collapses on the couch; her body so tired, that she doesn't register the loss of his perfectly clean and spicy smell.
It's like she's in a tunnel... Or at least to her ears, it's like she's in a tunnel. Her eyes can barely focus, everything blurred and faded in front of them. But what she does recognize is pain. Like, her body's being torn from the inside out, like something's clawing at her stomach, desperate to get out and the only way it can is to shred her insides.
She feels boneless; not in the way that Steve would make her feel after they made love, but like her body is just limp and useless.
"You're going to be okay..." She vaguely hears someone whispering, saying that over and over. There's the faint feel of lips against her forehead, just a quick, gentle press and then nothing.
There's just nothing, nothing but black.
Until all there is, is white. Her eyes squint, struggling to adjust to the stark white she's surrounded by. In the corner, hunched into a chair that's far too small for his hulking well-built frame, is Steve. His chin is being propped by his elbow, his hair is uncharacteristically mussed, his clothes wrinkled and rumpled, and she's confused.
She's never seen him so unkempt.
"Steve..."
Immediately his eyes snap open and he's by her side in seconds. He's smoothing her hair back, his fingers are caressing her cheek, and her brows burrow down. He's closer to her than he's been in months, and while she loves it and wants more, she doesn't understand.
She was sure he hated her, that it would take years for him to ever look at her and not see the woman who betrayed him.
"Sharon..." His voice is raw and there's just a hint of trembling in his strong jaw. "Do you..."
In an instant, it all comes back. There's the sudden wave of dizziness. Then it's the figurative punch to the gut, her stomach suddenly tender. The burn of her lower abdomen contracting. Pain charging through her body at a rapid pace.
She can see herself stumbling, managing to get to her cell phone and then she hears herself, "Steve," She wheezes, breath barely escaping her constricting lungs as more pain comes. "The b-baby."
"The baby is gone." It's not a question, it's a statement, and waves of confusion come at her.
"I'm so sorry." He whispers, clutching at her hand.
And that's how they stay; him clutching her hand, and her staring into his bottomless blue eyes, hoping he understands what she's not saying.
That, once again, she's the one who's sorry. That this is all her fault. Just like everything that's ever happened between them has been.