Red in the Snow
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel Comics
The temperature starts to drop below the freezing point. The snow grows into violent cascades over the looming shadows of black pine. In silence, he moves in stealth, observing the area with stern blue eyes, but the color of his irises holds the mixtures and intensity of winter, light and darkness. He becomes absent in the harsh world around him. A ghost in the shadows of forest.
He wears his uniform, the colors of patriotism and liberty, and a helmet with a large A painted on the dome of blue graphite. He is battle ready, hardened from the cold and constantly wary of the evoking terrors prowling in the spaces of vacant trees.
His shield gleams as he tilts it up, challenging fear, but his eyes never leave one compromised area. Quietly he stalks, and crouches down, his gloved hands brush over the maroon staining the frozen ground. It's blood; there is no mistake about that.
Undaunted, he calculates his methods of attack, and analyzes the detail-someone has been shot and the opened wound left a trail of depleted blood.
As if a veil pulls over his eyes, he becomes trapped in the darkness, his heavy boots crunched in the snow, as he trudges to a secured encirclement of trees, and there he feels his heart seize in his chest. He loses his sturdy footing and crashes to the ground, he lands beside her, a young woman in black, her scarlet locks fanned over the ground and lips bloodless. His blue eyes narrow at her pale face, and hand smoothing out the tangles.
The young captain keeps her in his view, and he takes her pulse. She is alive, but the gunshot wound, barely gives her the strength to open her eyes, but he is an artist, and scans over every detail of her angelic face. Her expression is stern, indifferent and guarded. He imagines her eyes, and knows the color. Its combination of temperance blue and green obscured with a hint of gray. Her skin looks cold and unwelcoming. It doesn't matter to him; all that matters is her life.
He detaches his shield from his wrist, becoming unarmed for her.
Looking down at her, mesmerized by her beauty, he removes his helmet, and the face of Steven Rogers emerges from the semblance of Captain America. His cut-stone, and broad jaw breathes as feverish sweat welcomes the frigid air. His arched lips are chilled, as he levels his softening gaze to her trim abdomen, a red splotch has managed to seep into the leather. He refuses to let her die. "Not on my watch," he says, his soldier exterior takes over, and rips a piece of his uniform off, and places the scrap of material over her wound, he presses gently and stops the bleeding.
She remains motionless, worried, he lowers his head down, his warm breath ghosts over her still lips. He knows she's disarmed, but Steve keeps his distance and prays that she will make it through this fight.
Steve keeps his fingers latched over her pulse point, and then after moments of waiting for her to come back, he follows his resilient heart, and allows images from black and white film romance to replay in his discipline mind. Taking a heaving breath and feeling flecks of snow powder over his broad shoulders, Steve steals a glance over her face, red hair frames over the cheeks, and his lips curve into a feeble and tender smile as his blue eyes train onto her full lips waiting to feel his kiss.
For a long moment of fighting his heart, uneasy emotions swirl in his eyes, and his radiant soul aches. He knows love can make men weak and vulnerable, but for once in his life, he takes a risk and drops his lips over hers.
He holds a chaste kiss there on her softening flesh, parting as he breathes his unbinding strength into her; he becomes her knight in shining in those moments when he feels her lips move under the wet heat searing from his tentative mouth.
Steve smiles against her melted lips, "You can wake up now," he whispers, lowly.
She won't pull away; instead she devours his lips, making his muscles and skin flex under her touch. She deepens their kiss, her fingers thread into his golden strands, and arms wrap over his thick neck, ignition of passion burns in them. When she pulls away, Steve stares into her teal eyes, as she mirrors his gaze of darkening blue, and a blissful smile beaming on her face, "So can you, soldier."
He blinks, preparing that all of this is a dream, and doubt pierces his heart, deep and hollow. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Natasha," she says, with an uncertain breath. "Romanova."
He nods, faintly, "Steve Rogers." He doesn't put his rank in front of his name, because that's not the real him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Natasha."
"Likewise," she winces; a sting of pain erupts in her side. Her thumb slides over his parted lips, and she sees the trust shining in his clear blue eyes. She senses he's a good man, but he's trapped in a bad time. "You should get out of here... I'm the one they're after... Not you, soldier boy." she replies with a hint of snark in her low voice. "I'll be fine..." she lies, but it's a part of her survival. She uses her art of deception to cheat her way out of complicated situations. Lifting her back off the ground, she half-growls, "Go and find another Sleeping Beauty to kiss."
Steve shakes his head, he can see right through the lie, "You're not fine, Natasha. You have a gunshot wound, and I can't tell if you're bleeding internally. I'm not risking your life because of your stubbornness." he grounded out, firm and almost against her will. "It's Christmas Eve, and I'm not leaving you out here alone to freeze."
Tightening her jaw, Natasha says nothing and holds back her anger and waited out the pain. She tries to avert her gaze from his powerful and soulful eyes, but somehow he managed to infiltrate her barriers. "I didn't ask you to kiss me that was your masculine urges," she rebuffs back, smirking darkly at him. "You need practice on your methods of kissing, Rogers."
She watches his jaw set, finding amusement in his response to her coy remarks, but it doesn't last. He is quick in movement, and then encloses his arms around her, lifting her lithe body off the ground, and holds the red haired woman close to his chest.
"Wait..." she stammers and hitches out a cold breath; feeling compromised and unnerved by his suffocating warmth. "What are you doing?"
"Consider this a Christmas gift, Natasha Romanova," Steve says, with a firm smile, and then he crushes another hard kiss on her lips, and takes the words out of her mouth. When they broke away, his lips ghost over her clenched jaw, "Merry Christmas, "Steve whispers as she faints in the security of his arms. Grabbing his shield, he carries her limp body to a safe place. He presses another kiss on the top of her head, and then he feels her steady breath against his exposed heart. "Natasha."