First and foremost, I've never read the comics but I love Thirteen and Steve together. Please don't get mad if my version of Thirteen is different than the comic Thirteen. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. It all belongs to Marvel (sadly).
She couldn't sleep a wink. The excitement of a new adventure, a new mission, was too much for her to handle. She had to vent somehow or another, however. So, she did it in the only way she knew how.
The arena, where agents learned to fight for their lives, wasn't usually a calming place. But for Thirteen it was. She understood that the endorphins made her feel not only better, but more relaxed as well.
It was midnight. Everyone else in the hellicarrier was supposed to be asleep, so she moved with absolute stealth through the halls.
She entered the arena in complete silence, making sure to shut the door before she turned on the extremely bright lights.
The arena, in its full glory, was an empty mess: wall paper tearing in various places, bleak and creepy light fixtures graced the ceilings, and the only color that was used was the very bright and cheery, beige.
Thirteen shrugged her duffle bag off of her left shoulder, resting it on a bench a few steps away from the punching bag.
She let the rhythm of her punches-one, one two, one, three four-to take her to a different place, a different time.
It was the summer before she turned sixteen. The summer before she started working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Her last summer as a normal human being. The day was any other ordinary day, but deep down, Thirteen understood its greatness. Her great aunt had just arrived home from the asylum. She was dying, the great war hero, and Thirteen's father paid as much as he could to have his sister home for her last days.
With the summer sun shining bright and high in the noon day sky, the limo skirted onto the Carter Manor driveway. The driver exited the vehicle, walking to the passenger side and opened the back door. The frail, old woman sat there, white hair glistening in the light. Her brown eyes, once filled with excitement and warmth were now dull and lifeless. Her great aunt Peggy was coming home to die, and everyone knew it, even her.
Thirteen stopped punching when she felt the atmosphere in the room change. The door she shut so carefully had been opened, and she wasn't as alone as she had been previously.
She spun around, leg lifting with her as the momentum pushed her, finally facing the stranger. But, he didn't allow her foot to even graze his face, because instead he caught her foot with his hand, barely an inch from his façade.
"Captain?" Thirteen exclaimed. She expected a superior, maybe director Fury or Hill. Most likely Hill, checking up on Thirteen, wondering if the agent was okay after three years of absence.
"Do you always resort to violence when you first meet someone or am I just lucky?" He quipped, taking Thirteen off-guard. Previously, she had assumed he didn't have much of "a game with women", but he seemed to be doing fine with her. And she knew how intimidating she could be.
"Sorry. Force of habit." She muttered. Their eyes met, icy blue on a clear blue ocean, her daggers on his calm visage. He gently released her leg, letting it drop to the ground.
"I didn't expect anyone else to be awake." He carried a duffle bag that resembled Thirteen's over his shoulder, absent-mindedly tugging at its various zippers and strings like a child trying to avoid something. Walking to the same bench her bag sat, he placed his down, taking out tape and binding his hands.
"Couldn't sleep. You?"
"Same. How's the hand, miss?" The Captain gestured to her tightly bound hand with a tip of his head.
"Like I said, it was just a scratch. And, since you brought it up, I just want to apologize. Sometimes I act before actually thinking things through. It's both a blessing and a curse. It seemed like the right thing to do, in the moment, but once I saw how you reacted, I regretted it."
"So it was a test to see how I would react to violence?"
"No. Not at all! Well, maybe it didn't start off that way, but it seems like that sounds better than the fact that I'm just impulsive. So, let's go with your idea."
"I accept your apology, Agent Thirteen." he smiled, showing off his pearly whites. She was somewhat dazzled by his confidence. "Now that we get the chance to do it, I would like to formally introduce myself, miss. I'm Steve Rogers." he held out his hand, again, just like before in hopes she would grasp it.
"I'm Agent Thirteen. Espionage agent for S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Nice to meet you, miss." He smiled again, she smiled back-her first smile in what felt like years.
He grasped her hand and they both shook. It was a traditional way of introducing themselves, but to them it seemed like it meant much more. They could feel the electricity igniting within their hands, a big ball of energy bursting to life due to their touch. She looked him in the eyes, noticing the sudden change in color on his face-the reddening of his cheeks and the takeover of black on blue in his eyes. Fearing something cute or romantic, Thirteen broke the physical connection, hoping to cut off every connection-chemical and sexual-in doing so.
"Do you come here too when you can't think?"
"I come here when I think too much." Was his reply. For some reason, she expected that one. Coming from the 40s and being suddenly placed in the 21st century, he had to have thoughts on everyone he used to his know. His friends, comrades, love interests. He had to know they were all dead. And that must be absolute torture. Being perfectly at piece and content one moment, to have all of that taken away and replaced by insanity the next.
"I'm sorry." Was all she said. Because really, what could she say. "I'll just leave you to your thoughts, then." She quickly added.
"No! Miss, stay. Please. You were here first. The gentlemanly thing to do is to give you what is rightfully yours." He walked back to his duffle bag and began un-binding his hands. He zipped it up and re-placed it over his shoulder. It wasn't until he reached the door that she opened her mouth.
"There's really no reason we both can't share. We both seem to need it." Little did she know she wasn't talking about the arena, but instead she was preaching about the company.
"Are you sure, Miss? I don't want to impose..."
"The only imposing that's been done is my fist on your jaw, so I kind of owe it to you." she sighed sarcastically. He didn't get it.
And so the two of them, side by side-chancing glances back and forth, hiding blushes-punched the living daylights out of their nightmares, barely tiring themselves out. But after some certain amount of minutes the couple was heading in separate directions, on the way to sweeter dreams.
Crash! She was abruptly interrupted from her thoughts by the sound of Steve's bag being punched off its sockets and landing with a loud thud on the far wall.
She looked at Steve with utter disbelief, staring back and forth between him and the wall. His face-filled with such rage and hatred, guilt and sadness-was scrunched up in pain. His eyes were closed and his nostrils flared, his chest heaving up and down.
"Are you okay?" she asked, placing her hands on the bag to stop it from swinging and, vicariously, from squeaking. He didn't answer. Thirteen asked a different question instead. "You miss it, don't you?"
She wasn't the touchy-feely kind of person most normal people were. She preferred to keep her emotions in check, and preferred those around her to do the same. But, for some reason, she was different around him. For some reason, she really cared.
"Oh, come on. You can trust me; I haven't tried to harm you in over an hour." This got him to smile.
Before, he had kept his eyes on the bag that was slumped on the wall farthest from them, but once she asked her questions, he looked her straight in the face. Their stare was steady. His cheeks did not redden, he did not drop his gaze, and he did not waver.
"I don't know why I miss it. I didn't use to fit in. You might not know this, but I was the little guy. I didn't exactly...look the same way I do now. But, now, if I still looked the same I'd be treated differently. The world is different than how it was when I left, some for the better, some for the worse; I just don't know why..."
"You don't miss the time. You miss the people. Your friends. Your family."
"That's just the thing. I had no family, and all of my friends died."
"Oh, come on. There had to be someone back then that you cared for." She knew the answer to the question he wouldn't reply to. Having the infamous Peggy Carter as her aunt, Thirteen had heard all of the stories of their time spent together. Peggy had really loved him, and she was sure he felt the same, but he had to be the "damn hero and save the damn world." It took Peggy years to come to terms with his assumed death, and years after that to start rebuilding her life. That's mostly what brought her to the brink of sanity and eventually sent her overboard. The Captain. Her Captain.
"There was one woman. I thought she was the one I'd been waiting for. She's long gone now. She was the first person I wanted to see when I got out, but it turns out she died ten years ago. I never had any luck with women, this just proves that even more."
She had never met a man who talked with such emotion and conviction. Therefore, she had no idea what to do to cheer him up. So she thought of what made her happy.
Violence.
"Come on. You need to vent out your frustrations. And not just on some stupid bag of sand." She added as he glanced toward the punching bag. "Come over here." Walking towards the empty space where agents sparred, she jumped up and down, exciting her endorphins and loosening her muscles all in one.
He walked over, eyes unsure of what he was really seeing. She wore nothing but a sports bra and Nike shorts, revealing way too much for his own comfort. Her hands and ankles were bandaged, making it impossible for more scratches just from contact with his skin.
"We're gonna spar. " He shook his head no, saying something about how he "won't fight a lady, miss." She wouldn't take no for an answer, however. And she could be very convincing. "You need to let out all of that pent up guilt and sadness and rage you have inside of yourself and just punch something. And, seeing as how you can't get enough satisfaction from punching bags, maybe you can if you have a human partner."
It took him a few minutes to give in, but eventually he agreed.
They both got into their stance: a few paces from each other, hands up in protective position, knees bent and feet dancing along on the floor. He sure wasn't going to throw the first punch-literally-so she stepped up-again, literally- and threw a "one, two, fake": she faked with her right fist, distracting him, then punched him with her left. Their skin did not make contact. He knew what she was doing and stopped her with the blunt of his arm. Blue on blue met. Next, she tried to side-swipe him; he deflected her again. He still hadn't laid a hand on her.
She knew she had to get on his nerves to really make him let go of his issues.
"My great aunt fights better than you and she's dead."
"I'm not going to hit a lady."
"Don't think of me as just a lady. I'm more than that." she spat, hoping the beloved captain would at least try to hit her. "I am every American who you let down. Every American who hated you when you came back. How dare you leave us to fend for ourselves, Captain. Didn't you know we needed a hero. We needed you and you took a vacation as a capsicle! And then you come waltzing back into our lives like you did nothing wrong, expecting us to worship you like we did before."
"I had to go down with the ship." he almost shouted. His voice sounded strained, like he was using everything he had not to punch her in the face and leave her cripples against the far wall like his punching bag. She knew she just had to say one more thing to unless the beast that had been so calm for three years.
"I bet that girl you were in love with cried herself to sleep for weeks, maybe years because you not only let this country down, but you let her down, too." And that was that. He finally snapped.
He came rushing at her so fast she ran into the far wall with fear. He was inches away from her now, and his fist was pulling back, ready to spring forward. He let it go, and she braced herself for the impact.
It never came, but the sound next to her left ear nearly busted her eardrums. He had hit the wall instead of her.
"I told you: I never hit a lady." he said, anger still evident on his tongue. He strode away to the bench where his duffle bag sat, unbound his hands, and walked through the door.
Whoops, thought Thirteen. Maybe I shouldn't have done that.
Hope you guys liked it! The next chapter will probably be up either tomorrow or the next day. Be patient!