A/N: A little happy romance oneshot, hope you guys enjoy!
"Captain. Captain."
"Whuh-"
Still unused to his new lifestyle, he gave a dazed response, blindly reaching for his shield.
The cold steel is thrust into his hands.
"Here. Now get up."
He frowns.
It doesn't feel as smooth as it used to be.
Methodically, his hand slinks down to the third compartment on his belt, reaching for the precious cleaning kit-oh, how long ago was it before he had cleaned-
"Stop it!"
A hand roughly slaps his before it reaches its intended destination.
"You're bleeding out on a damned field in a damned corner in who-knows-where in Nigeria in the damned chill in spring and first thing you do is clean your shield?"
The voice sounds both mocking and skeptical.
Blinking a few times, the fuzzy haze clears and the bloodied face with a mangle of red curls materialises.
And to be honest, he will say that this image is better than the blue haze he just saw.
"Oh."
"Oh," the redhead says, rolling her eyes. "Most emotional and oh-so-striking word ever, Captain."
Damn.
He can feel that dastardly red climbing up his cheeks.
Burning into his ears.
The steady gaze bears into his eyes, softening oh-so-slightly, though recognisable by only a few.
The eyes blink again before she shifts her entire composure into a more professional one.
"Where does it hurt? What are your injuries?"
"Possibly the huge gash pouring red on my forehead, and, oh, a couple of broken ribs, which should be rather obvious given the large tears on my uniform?"
Unconsciously, her eyes sweep down to his torso. And what a good torso that was.
Eyes flicking back up, she takes out a field kit and gives him some emergency meds to relieve the pain, before doing what she can with butterfly stitches and gauze.
And as she draws away, examining her handiwork, his hand shoots out and grabs her wrist.
She is so startled her other hand has unconsciously grabbed her Glock and shoved it into his neck.
"Let me do this." he says calmly, taking the kit from her shocked hands as he cleans her up.
"I can do this myself." she mutters, reaching out for the box.
He moves gracefully, just a little, just enough to keep it out of her reach.
"You helped me, I help you."
A simple fact.
A statement.
No dispute allowed.
He gives her a small smile as his work too is done.
Her throat suddenly feels so dry.
She has no idea what to do. Years of training but nothing she has learned seems to be able to help her now, as she racks her brain for-
"Thank you."
Startled, she stutters.
"T..Thank you."
And he smiles again.
Damn.
This time they are hiding out in a stuffy warehouse, the metal sheets more than keeping the scorching heat of the sun in.
"Of all the possible places, we had to chose a damn greenhouse." she hissed.
He wipes his sweaty brows, frowning as he tries to focus.
She shifts just a little and puts just a little too much weight on her left leg.
Her wince, however slight, makes the mistake much more obvious.
"Are you alright?" he murmurs, eyes and ears still scanning for the enemy.
"Of course I am." she scoffs, flicking a stray strand of hair back. "That is exactly why-"
He puts a finger on her lips.
Startled, she can smell the blood, sweat and lead.
A nanosecond later, he sprints out, charging with twin guns blazing.
And she follows suit.
But no, she doesn't forget.
A week later, back in the safety and security of home (dare he call it so?), Steve Rogers lays down on his bed to sleep.
And he jumps right back up, as an air horn blasted right into his left ear.
They pace through the forest, dry autumn leaves cracking under their feet.
Pant.
Sigh.
Heave.
The vibrant brown and red, however beautiful they may seem, do nothing to calm the fiery red mass of curls.
She mutters angrily under her breath, and he knows that she is doing so in Russian for his sake.
Well, then it means she isn't that angry yet.
Hopefully.
"And we had to listen to him and his goddamned ego. There's a spy who knows the countryside literally like the back of her hand, a god who can summon an all-seeing being, a soldier who has relied on his field training for nearly a century, but no, we had to listen to him and his damn machines!"
Yikes.
By now, he knows not to say anything.
Instead, tentatively, he reaches his hand out and puts it gently, very gently, on her shoulder.
Then he smiles that smile.
"Hey, at least we're together, aren't we?"
And she can't help…
But smile back.
Her mind is blank as the icy cold envelopes her.
She starts to shudder and her pupils dilate.
The hazy voices and images appear again, oh so vividly-
She can hear voices, concerned ones-
Then she remembers that no one, no one, will ever be concerned for her.
Her eyes roll back as she falls onto pairs of strong arms, screams ringing through the air.
And she realises that the screams were hers.
When she wakes up, all of her misfitted friends are there, one particularly guilty-looking at that.
"Hey Nat," Tony says, uncharacteristically caring and soft. "Hope you are feeling better now. Banner and I gave you some meds, please don't kill us."
She doesn't have the strength to smile, much less kill them.
On a second thought, she should be glad.
She nearly smiled.
The room slowly clears but one man stays behind.
He is clearly upset and battered.
"D..did someone kick your puppy?" she croaks, half-amused and half-embarrassed at her weak voice.
He looks even more forlorn at that.
Oops.
"I...I'm sorry." he whispers, like a little boy, too frightened to meet her eyes.
There is a warmth which spreads through her, and she isn't too sure why that is so.
Perhaps she is feeling...motherly?
Her dry lips crack as she smiles.
"Hey, don't feel too bad."
He jumps as a burst of water wet his hair.
She smirks, casually twirling a cup of water in her hand.
The chilling cold freezes right into her spine. Literally.
The gaping wound and gushing blood has her in and out of consciousness.
At least it numbs the pain.
But he isn't so lucky.
He has to endure the ghastly sight while his brain is fully active.
"Stay with me, Natasha," he murmurs, half out of concern and half out of fear.
He fears that she will hear him, and he fears that she will not.
As he sits there in the tainted snow, waiting painfully for the jet to arrive, his heart aches.
And he isn't too sure why.
But what he knows is that when her small (and, dare he say, frail) hand gave a small squeeze, his heart pounded.
He stays by her side, in the dreaded white room with nothing but walls. Blood and grime still drips onto the pristine white floor occasionally, as doctors and nurses try unsuccessfully to drive him out.
In the end, they resort to hosing him down with alcohol.
His eyelids droop as he forces them to open, staring at the steady, fluctuating line on the monitor.
But finally he can't stand it.
His head droops and his body falls, draped across hers.
And he didn't hear the steady quickening beep as a smile adorned her face for the first time in years.
An old couple sit on a bench in a park, sighing wistfully as the autumn leaves fell.
The man turned to the woman.
"Do you remember?"
She smiles.
"Of course."
And they sigh again as they look across the orchard, spotting a much younger (actually much older than they thought!), much more active couple laughing as two children, a boy and a girl, pounced on them, vibrant reddish brown curls matting the top of their heads.