I've been putting off my Post-Civil War fic for these two for so long that I was able to write this and post it first. This is also a post-CW fic, just a shorter and less angsty one. I dunno what this ending is, btw, but I needed to end it before it got 10,000 words longer, as has been happening lately.
Title taken from Sleeping at Last's song "Woodwork". (I actually had a non-SaL song in mind this time, but alas, I cannot stray from this habit very easily).
Enjoy!
-:-
Steve took a deep breath, leaning back against the door of their hotel room. After spending the last couple hours evading whoever the hell had been after them, he was pretty sure they were safe. For now, at least. He should hope so, given how many loops they'd made around town, how often they double-backed and switched up their mode of transportation.
"I think we lost them for now," Natasha said, echoing his thoughts.
They were both soaked from being out in the rain after ditching the car they'd taken. Her red hair was darkened by the water, dripping as she set her duffle down on one side of the bed. They'd just gotten the room with the single bed. It had proved to be more discreet the last several times they'd done it. The owner of the little hotel had completely believed they were a couple, too, especially after Natasha started gushing to the elderly woman in fluent German. It all helped to keep up their low profile.
Growing his hair helped too. In keeping a low profile, that is. Not everyone recognized him anyway, especially when he wasn't wearing his suit, but the beard and longer hair definitely helped. It hadn't been purposeful at first. He just…sort of started getting too tired to maintain the short cut and to shave every day. And then, almost three months ago, after he and the others had split up, the longer hair was good for remaining inconspicuous. Especially after he left Wakanda. He appreciated T'Challa's hospitality more than he could say. And he tried, thanking the king over and over, not just for himself, but what he'd done for Bucky. But after breaking the others out of the Raft, he didn't want to overstay his welcome.
They'd remained for about a week, and then split up. Sam and Scott were in Europe for a little bit before they covertly made their way back into the U.S. to hide out there. Clint and Wanda were still in Europe, as far as Steve knew. It had been a couple weeks since he'd last been able to check in. And Steve, well he'd been content to go off on his own—had wanted it, actually. Or maybe he just thought that's what he deserved. But then Natasha had shown up the night before he left.
It was just like her, too, greeting him with a soft, hey soldier, right before he pulled her into a crushing hug, too glad to see her to say anything at first. After that he'd tried to convince her to go with Clint and Wanda, but she wasn't having it. I made my choice in Berlin, she'd told him. Face it, Rogers. You're stuck with me.
So here they were, three months later, hiding out in a hotel in Munich for the night. They'd move to a different city or town in the morning, once they were patched up and rested. He wasn't sure who was after them. It could've been Hydra or those Watchdogs they'd heard about in the news, or really anyone who wanted Captain America and Black Widow's heads, for the reward or otherwise. At this point, they really had no shortage of enemies out in the world. Either way, whoever it had been, they'd had guns, and they'd managed to get a few good shots in before he and Natasha had gotten away. Still, they'd risked going to a convenience store to pick up food and supplies before hunkering down for the night.
"You can shower first," Steve offered, setting his duffel down on the other side of the bed. "Then I can take a look at that wound."
Natasha shifted the arm with the wound in question. He'd managed to pull them into an alley as bullets had hailed down around them, but he'd still been shot in the shoulder and Natasha had gotten grazed. But his wound was clean, through and through. He could already feel the serum doing its work.
Natasha gave him a pointed look. "You're the one with a hole through your shoulder. Go ahead."
She was being her usual snarky, teasing self, but she looked about as tired as he felt. He wanted to protest that he was fine, that the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins and he honestly didn't even know if he could calm down enough to even focus on showering, but he decided it was best not to argue. "Okay."
"It's been a couple weeks," she said as he started rummaging through his bag for fresh clothes. "So I'll call Sam and Clint and check in."
"Sounds good." He grabbed his clothes and the supplies he'd bought and headed into the bathroom.
With the door tightly shut, Steve turned on the shower and started peeling off his damp clothes, careful around his left shoulder. Not bothering to clean the wound out first, he finished stripping and stepped into the shower. The hot water started to rinse away the blood and dirt and grime that had accumulated over the past couple hours. He showered quickly, then loosely wrapped the wound until Natasha took a better look at it. He dressed and ran a towel through his hair.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, Natasha, still on the phone, caught his gaze briefly and then averted her eyes again, staring down at the floor. Steve wanted to give her some privacy, but there wasn't really anywhere he could go, unless he shut himself awkwardly in the bathroom. So, he busied himself with sifting through his bag for nothing in particular.
"Yeah, I miss you, too, Clint," Natasha said quietly. "I gotta go, but I'll call again soon."
A moment later, she hung up. Steve watched her. She took a deep breath, and didn't look at him as she started grabbing her things to head into the bathroom. Before she could escape into the bathroom, Steve stepped around the bed and wrapped a hand gently around her wrist. She stilled, shoulders slumping, but she didn't pull away. It took her another minute to look up at him, and when she did, her eyes were shining.
"Nat," he murmured.
"I'm okay, Steve," she replied, equally quiet. "Really. It's just…it's been a long day."
He nodded. "I know." He pulled her in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her gently, so as not to aggravate her arm too much. She returned the gesture, lifting her arms around him and squeezing. He bent down and she tucked her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her take a shuddering breath, and then relax further into his embrace.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Always." He pulled back slowly, meeting her eyes.
They stood like that, just inches apart, looking at each other. Steve wanted to reach out to her again, wanted to touch her, but he held back. His feelings for Natasha were sometimes very…complicated. She was one of his best friends in the world. They'd seen each other at some of their lowest points, and even when he didn't really want to see anyone, somehow, her company never bothered him. But then there were times like this, when all he could think about was that silly undercover kiss on the escalator, the even more gentle, heart-pounding one on his cheek in the cemetery. Her mouth curved into a small smile.
She tilted her head towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna go shower."
He nodded, maybe a tad too quickly. "Yeah, of course."
Her smile got bigger as she grabbed her things and headed towards the bathroom, throwing him one last playful look over her shoulder, like she knew exactly what she did to him. Which, she probably did.
-:-
Natasha was still smiling when she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind her. She took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was pounding. She'd called Sam and gotten a quick update. And then she called Clint, and she didn't know why, but that had just unleashed something in her. The weight of the day had come crashing down on her shoulders when her best friend picked up the phone and she'd heard his voice. And then Steve…Steve had stopped her from running away from him like she always did, had pulled her in and held her close.
"Shit," she muttered to herself. It was actually almost laughable. Never in a million years would she have expected to feel the way about Steve that she did. She'd been so mad at Fury for splitting her and Clint up after the Battle of New York, mad that he'd stuck her with the incredibly naïve Steve Rogers, who was also incredibly inexperienced in the world of espionage. It had felt like a punishment. But only at first. And then, somehow, much to her own surprise, she found that she actually liked him. They started hanging out like normal friends. And somewhere between all the missions and movie nights with take-out and those late nights where they confided in each other some of their deepest fears…well, she'd started seeing him as more than a friend. Well, still as a friend. But as a friend that had the intense, incredibly real possibility of being something more.
The past couple of months had made it so much worse. It was just the two of them, and all the close quarters was making it a lot harder to deny her feelings. She'd been in close quarters with him before, of course. Seen him in states of half-dress, had slept with him in the same bed before. But here, there was no mission, no rules. No boundaries, really. And she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to cross that line. She knew that it was a bad idea, especially since Steve hadn't been quite the same since Berlin and after. She knew that he and Tony had fought, that it was bad, but she sensed he was still holding something back from her, and it was eating him up inside.
It's not a good idea, she told herself. Besides, he might not even feel the same. Given the way she caught him looking at her sometimes, she didn't think that was true, but her smile fell from her face nevertheless. She could feel exhaustion seeping back into her bones. She set her things down on the bathroom counter and peeled off her wet jacket. She looked at her left arm, the red gouge across the flesh of her bicep. It looked worse than it felt, with the blood smeared all around the wound. She grabbed a washcloth and went into autopilot, methodically cleaning around the graze. She rifled through her plastic bag for the first aid supplies she picked up, and paused when she saw the box of hair dye. She pulled it out, contemplating. She'd bought it on a whim. They'd been in the convenience store, Steve had been grabbing food and she'd been picking up extra toiletries when it had caught her eye, not even taking enough time to examine the color before stuffing it in with the rest of her stuff. She looked at it now, noting the silvery blonde dye she held in her hands.
She looked at herself in the mirror, at the dirty, rain-damp red locks hanging around her face. She'd cut her hair shorter again a couple weeks ago, but left the red. She'd always had her red hair. Other girls in the Red Room changed their appearance, including their hair color, in order to carry out a mission. But Natasha had never done that. Sure, by now she'd had variations of red over the years, but it had always been red. It was the color she'd been born with. A way to hold onto the mother who had given it to her, a way to stay herself, to have control, even in the Red Room where they stripped every other part of her away.
Unfortunately, right now the red hair was a risk. Her face was a lot more recognizable than it had once been, since she was an Avenger. Ex-Avenger at the moment. Steve was smart, growing his hair out. When he'd done that, when his beard had grown fuller, his hair longer, Natasha had been startled at first. Pleasantly so. It was a good look on him, despite the fact that some days, the days like today, it made him look so much older, so much more tired. And that part of her…that part of her that saw him as more than a friend, there were days when she wondered what it would be like to reach out and touch his face, to kiss him and feel the scratch of that beard. She pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they surfaced, including now, once again denying her feelings. Natasha looked at the box of dye again. Not leaving any time to second-guess herself, she opened it up and started going to work.
-:-
"Hey," Steve said when he heard the bathroom door. He set his phone down and then looked up— "Oh."
He froze for a moment, staring at Natasha's hair. She'd cut it a couple weeks ago, and he'd been secretly pleased. He'd always liked her hair short. He liked it when it was long, too, of course. It made the temptation to run his fingers through it that much stronger, though. Still, he liked her short hair. He'd heard the cheap blow-dryer in the bathroom going off, but he certainly hadn't expected this. Her hair was platinum blonde, almost silvery. He stood, almost mechanically, too focused on the color of her hair to really notice what his body was doing.
Natasha had stopped moving, still a couple feet away from him. She reached up and toyed with the short locks, shifting on her feet uncertainly. She made an equally uncertain face, eyebrows scrunching up. "You hate it, don't you?"
Steve shook his head. "I didn't say that." He still couldn't decide if he liked it or not. She'd always had red hair and it was…startling to see her without it, but he didn't hate it. "It's…different," he decided.
She raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head just so. It was so her that he almost laughed. No hair color could change the fact that she was still Natasha, through and through. "Which means you hate it."
He raised a hand, taking a step towards her. "Hey, I didn't say that. Now you're just putting words in my mouth."
He was smiling now, standing just a foot away from her. It took her a moment, but then she smiled a little too. It was soft, and he had that urge to reach out and run his fingers through her hair, tuck it behind her ear. He kept his hands firmly at his sides.
"You really don't hate it?" she asked, a little bit of doubt creeping back into her tone.
"No. Really, I don't. It'll take some getting used to, but…it's still you."
Her shoulders relaxed. Then she gave a little shrug. "Yeah, I mean, like you said, I'll have to get used to it, but it's just for a little while. Just, you know, to try and stay under the radar."
Natasha hardly ever—or rather, never—stumbled over her words, but she seemed to be struggling now. Steve wanted to tell her something, anything, to reassure her. He wanted to tell her that, soon, everything would be all right and they could go home. But he didn't know when that would actually be a reality. Neither of them did. So he said nothing.
"Hey, um," he cleared his throat, "did you want me to take a look at your arm?"
Natasha seemed glad for the change of subject. "I'm okay, actually. I cleaned it out and patched it up while I was waiting for the dye to set. But, I can patch you up, if you want."
He nodded. "Yeah, sure."
She turned and headed back into the bathroom and he followed her.
"Sit," she ordered, gesturing to the toilet. He did as she said as she washed her hands and then rummaged through her plastic bag for the extra first aid supplies they'd gotten. Steve took a moment to look at her, noting that she'd changed for the night into a long-sleeved black tee and sleep shorts. He was pretty sure the shirt had been his, but he decided not to say anything. He couldn't decide what kind of mood she was in tonight, so there was a fifty-fifty chance she would flat-out deny it, or start teasing him.
She worked in silence for the longest time, taking off the bandage he'd applied and then taking her time to clean the wound. It was quiet, save for the occasional sound of the faucet whenever she needed the sink.
Finally, without looking at him, she said quietly, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Saving me back there in that alley." She paused for so long that Steve wasn't sure if she was going to speak again. She finished putting a new clean bandage over both sides of the wound, taping it off. She met his gaze. "If you hadn't acted so quickly, things could've been a lot worse."
He touched her hand briefly where it was still resting on his shoulder. "You would've done the same for me."
She looked down at the floor for just a moment, hand falling away from his shoulder. "Yeah, well, guess I owe you again."
He smiled, just a little, recalling the last time they'd had a conversation like this, what felt like a million years ago in D.C. "No. If anything, I owe you."
"For?"
"Berlin. The airport." Even as he said the words, he knew they had weight, and Natasha exhaled a little sharply, like she'd been knocked over by it. She stared at him, seemingly unable to speak. The intensity of her gaze was enough to bowl him over but he held it, waiting. After another long moment, she still hadn't said anything, so he plowed ahead. "Do you regret it? Letting me go?"
She was quiet for another minute, and he briefly wondered if she was thinking of a different time, forever ago, in that cemetery when she'd walked away and he let her. Somehow, it seemed, no matter how many times they walked away from each other, they kept finding their way back to each other once again.
"No," she whispered finally. "Not for a second. If I had to go back, I'd make the same choice."
That relieved some of the tension knotting in his chest. But still, "Even though we're stuck in this situation? Even though we're here, when we—when you—should be at home?"
"We're partners. You're stuck with me, remember?" She smiled a little and he copied the movement. She licked her lips, exhaling slowly. "Besides, it wouldn't be much of a home without you, anyway."
Now it was his turn to feel like the breath had been punched out of him. Not for the first time, there were a dozen different things he could say, but only one thing kept coming to mind. He cleared his throat, shifting on the toilet seat as he looked up at her.
"Hey, Nat?"
"Mm." She was watching him, waiting.
"Is that my shirt?"
If she was surprised at all by his question, she didn't show it. With a completely straight face, worthy of her Black Widow title, she said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He looked at her a moment longer before conceding with a little nod. Her eyes sparkled, and he thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smirk creeping onto her face when she leaned down and kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment before she pulled away. She gave him a soft smile, despite the teasing light still dancing in her eyes. "Goodnight, Steve."
"Goodnight, Natasha," he whispered in return.
She gave him one more smile before turning and heading back into the bedroom. Steve was left in the bathroom with a freshly bandaged shoulder and a kiss burning on his cheek.
-:-
Two weeks later they were being tracked again. Steve was pretty sure it was the same guys that were after them in Munich. They'd been switching cities, hopping the border to Amsterdam, then Brussels, and then doubling back to Germany to stay in Cologne, while spending the night in various small towns in between. Given all the moving around they'd been doing, he and Natasha had been sure they'd lost whoever was after them, but clearly that wasn't the case.
"There's too many people, I can't tell how many of them there are," Steve told Natasha. They were currently making their way through Cologne's Old Town. Though the crowds of end-of-summer tourists and regular citizens were making it difficult to pinpoint how many guys were tailing them, they had hoped it would make it harder for the bad guys to find them as well. So far it was working, but Steve knew they needed to lose them soon before things got ugly.
"There were at least six of them in Munich," Natasha said. Steve knew she was tense, worried like he was, but it certainly didn't show. They were holding hands, trying to look like any number of the couples wandering the square. Steve had to remind himself to relax and smile once in a while, like they were having the time of their life. "They could've gathered reinforcements since then."
"I just want to know how they found us." He took a deep breath when he felt the frustration rising in his chest again. "We ditched our phones after Munich, we've been switching up transportation, and we've scanned for tracking devices. I don't get it."
"They're good," Natasha agreed. "We'll just have to try a little harder to lay low. But first we have to lose them."
He nodded. She was right. He scanned the crowds again, trying to look nonchalant like Natasha had trained him to do. He'd already taken note of the conspicuous black car that had been parked by one of the main entrances of the square, back the way they'd came. He noted another one now, in the direction they were heading, though still a ways up the street. "Two cars," he said quietly, "and at least two teams of guys on foot. They're watching the main entrances to the square, so we're gonna have to take a different route. If we can get somewhere the cars can't fit, we can take out the footmen."
"That might just buy us enough time," she said. "Steve—"
One second they were walking along the street, and the next, two tourist buses pulled up and emptied, and fresh crowd of people spilling around them, chattering excitedly in a dozen different languages with their cameras at the ready. Natasha's hand slipped out of his own and Steve lost her. He turned left and right, panic instantly rising in his chest. There were too many people around, too many pressing too close to him. He struggled to focus. He had to find her—he had to—
"Shit," he muttered, "Shit, shit."
He resisted the urge to call out her name, lest it draw attention to him. He tried to remain calm, tried to call upon the spy training she'd given him. Focus, he thought, and started scanning the crown anew, looking for her red hair. Red hair, red hair, red hair. He repeated it in his head like a mantra, like if he thought it long and hard enough, she would appear back at his side. Red hair, red—his stomach dropped. Her hair wasn't red anymore. She'd dyed it.
"Fuck." Screw safety. "Nat! Nat, where—?"
"Steve." He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm, and in seconds he was turning, pulling her to him.
"Nat." Relief flooded his chest. He made the hug brief—they couldn't risk standing there for long, but when he pulled back, he took a second just to look at her. The concern was evident in her eyes, but so was the urgency.
"Steve," she repeated. "New plan. The tourist bus, it's leaving again in a few minutes. We'll just blend in till then, and then get off on one of the next stops. We can double back to the hotel from there."
He nodded. He could tell she wanted to ask him about what just happened, but this wasn't the time. The look she gave him simply said, later. Without another word, he took her hand again and made an effort to blend into the crowd.
-:-
That night they're in Dusseldorf. They'd made it back to their hotel in Cologne, fully expecting to be followed. Anticipating the ambush, they'd been able to take out all but two of the dozen guys that had been after them. Steve had wanted to pursue their getaway car, but Natasha had convinced him it wasn't worth it. They'd scared them off, hopefully for longer than just a few weeks. Still, they'd decided it wasn't safe to stay in Cologne so they'd driven forty minutes northwest, booking a last minute hotel.
Steve had just finished organizing his duffel when Natasha came out of the bathroom. She was wearing the same long-sleeved black shirt from a few weeks ago when she'd patched him up that night in Munich. It was big on her, hitting the tops of her thighs, and he was pretty sure she was just wearing a pair of underwear beneath it. He wasn't bothered by it, though. They'd given up modesty for comfort a long time ago. She was just finishing toweling off her damp hair, the blonde a shade darker because of the water still clinging to it. When she finished, she set the towel on her side of the bed they were sharing and turned to look at him.
"Are we gonna talk about what happened today?" she asked. She didn't sound angry or annoyed or anything. Just curious, and concerned.
Steve sighed through his nose, shaking his head a little. "It's nothing, Nat."
Now she looked a little annoyed. "Yeah, right. Clearly you were upset. Just talk to me, Steve."
He didn't move for another moment. Ever since Berlin, he'd been a little more anxious, having more nightmares, his PTSD symptoms showing up a little more often than they had in the past couple years. And earlier, when he'd lost Natasha in the crowd, with all those people closing in around him, he couldn't breathe. He hadn't had an asthma attack since the serum had been injected into him, but that's what it had felt like today. His chest had tightened, and he hadn't seemed to be able to get enough air into his lungs. He couldn't lose Natasha. He couldn't.
Steve stepped around the edge of the bed and she copied his movements until they were standing a foot apart. She looked up at him, waiting.
"It's silly, really," he said, half to himself. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he folded his arms across his chest. "When I lost you in the crowd, I panicked." He paused, but Natasha just waited patiently for him to continue. "I couldn't see you, and then when I tried to find you I…I was looking for your red hair."
Her shoulders slumped at his admission, understanding coloring her features. When she spoke, her voice was soft, surprised. "Oh."
"Like I said, it was silly. I just…I can't lose you, Nat. Which, after everything that's happened, is probably incredibly selfish of me. You shouldn't have to be going through any of this shit. You're just too important to me, and when I thought I'd lost you today—"
"Hey." Natasha reached up and touched his face, smoothing a thumb over his cheek. "It's okay."
He leaned into her touch, and before he even fully realized that she'd closed the gap between them, her lips were on his, both her hands cupping his face. The kiss was soft, but it stole his breath away all the same. He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his sides, then to her waist, slowly pulling her even closer. Natasha's hands fell from his face, slid down across his chest, and then stayed there. Her gaze was locked on his as she lowered herself off her tiptoes. For a moment, she looked incredibly small standing before him.
"I can't lose you either," she whispered. Steve just stared at her, not sure what to say. He was still too stunned by the kiss, but then a small part of him realized that maybe this is what they were working towards the whole time. The past four years of being Avengers and partners, of dancing around each other, of getting close to a moment like this but never taking that final step, maybe all of it had been leading up to this moment. Steve wasn't sure if he believed in fate or meant-to-be, but he couldn't deny that it felt like all the shit they've been through, all the bad times, had to be worth it somehow.
He found himself leaning down towards her again, his hands still on her waist, squeezing just so. Natasha stretched back up on her toes. When their noses bumped, lips a fraction of an inch apart, she asked, "Is this okay?"
Steve licked his lips, their breaths mingling. "Yes."
There was a pause. Steve could feel her hovering in front of him, seconds from crashing into him altogether. Her fingers fisted around the material of his shirt, and they're finally colliding once more. The kiss is still soft, slow, but it's more methodical. Purposeful. This time they're both sure about the kiss, about what they want. He kissed her a little harder, breath coming out in little pants as he wound one of his arms all the way around her waist and pulled her flush to him. A little noise escaped the back of her throat and Steve groaned. He slipped his other hand underneath the hem of her—his—shirt. Her skin was so warm. He found the waistband of her underwear, toyed with the edge of the cotton fabric. Her grip on the front of his shirt tightened, and then she was winding her other hand around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair and tugging lightly.
"Nat," he murmured.
She put both her hands against his chest, palms splayed flat as she pushed lightly, moving him towards the bed. Once he was seated on the edge, she swung a leg over his, gripped his shoulders and lowered herself onto his lap. His breath caught in his throat, the pressure at the front of his jeans suddenly a lot more noticeable. He thought Natasha noticed too, because he saw a hint of a smirk before she reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head. Steve knew that Natasha had seen him without a shirt before, but this time is different. He watched as her eyes slowly roved over him, fingers tracing over his muscles. He sucked in a breath as her fingers traveled lower, skimmed right along the waistband of his jeans.
"Nat," he groaned again.
She paused, eyes earnest as she met his gaze. "Is this still okay?"
"More than okay." No hesitation on his part, but the look on her face made him take a second. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, laughing a little. "I guess it's a little silly," she said, echoing his earlier statement. "I've just wanted this for a lot longer than I care to admit, so I guess I'm a little nervous."
This surprised him. It was hard to imagine Natasha being nervous about anything. But she also just said that this is something she's wanted, maybe for a long time. He'd wondered before, of course, if she felt the same way about him, but now that she said it out loud, it's almost more impossible to believe. "You've wanted this?"
Natasha bit her lower lip, nodded again. "Yes."
There's a million things he could say that are far more eloquent, but he just replied, "Me too."
Relief flooded her gaze, and she leaned forward to kiss him again. He trailed a hand up and down her spine, pulling her as close to him as he possibly can. "I'm nervous too," he mumbled against her lips, "but at least you know what you're doing."
That made her laugh and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. She smiled at him, eyes sparkling. "Well, you're not doing so bad, super soldier. And you're a pretty quick learner." She smirked, raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Not always very good at following orders, but maybe we can change that."
It's his turn to laugh now. He chuckled, then wrapped both arms around her, pulling her to him so he could kiss her again. They kissed until they were both breathless, and then their clothes came off, dropping piece by piece onto the floor. When they're laying together, Natasha's hips flush with his own as she moved atop him, Steve reached a hand up and ran his fingers through her blonde locks. In response she stroked a hand down his cheek, thumb brushing across his bearded jawline. He guided her down so he could kiss her again, groaning as their hips shifted with the movement.
"Can I confess something?" he murmured against her lips.
"Yes," she breathed, pulling back just enough so that she could look at him.
"I don't mind the blonde," he said, running his fingers through her hair again for emphasis. "But I really miss the red."
She stared at him for a moment, then gave him a soft smile. "Me too." She kissed him again. "And just in case I didn't say it before, I really like the beard."
He almost can't kiss her again because he's grinning like a fool. But then they're moving together as one, falling over that edge they've been hanging on for years, and Steve can't help but think there's nowhere else he'd rather be.