"Just what are you boys thinking of doing?" Nick Fury took hard, hurried pace along the stony cold ground, the sound of waves and seawind a floating harmony in the background.

"Good. You're back on time." Said Sam, who was fussing with the knots of the captured sea captain's docked fishing boat.

"Hi Nick!" Bucky waved his metal arm and smiled ear to ear, as if unbeknownst to Nick Fury's protest of this outrageousness. "We're going sailing."

"I did not give you orders to GO sailing. Besides, this is a tugboat, gentlemen. It runs on diesel. It does not have one bloody sail. Where's the captain anyways?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Still tied to his lovely chair inside. We're just getting the boat ready."

Bucky walked up to the older man, handing him a badly handrawn map. Nick Fury immediately took interest in it and studied it carefully.

"We gotta go before the high tide's washed in." Sam announced. "Current'll be so strong we won't make it anywhere by then."

"Which means we have until sunrise." Fury concluded. "How do we know that Steve and Natasha will be on this island?"

Bucky tilted his head and raised his shoulders. "That's the thing. We don't. But it won't hurt to check it out. He said that Ulysses Klaue sent an army to the island to make sure Steve and Natasha are dead. I don't know. Let's hope that's not true."

Sam walked past the two men and returned with the Brazilian captain, still with his hands tied behind his back.

"Ulysses Klaue?" Nick Fury wavered in his stance upon hearing the name. "Since when is Klaw in this whole thing?"

"Another unsolved piece of puzzle." Sam sighed.

"Alright." Fury clasped his hands together. "We must keep our eyes and ears open. We could be walking into a trap."

"Yeah I've got a pair of friends called Smith and Wesson." Sam patted on his belt holster. "And a 47."

Nick Fury shook his head with a chuckle. "Nice and prepared. And you, Barnes?"

"I've got a metal arm." He said, smiling smugly. Realizing that Fury was not at all satisfied with his answer, he added, "And an M4."

"Good. Come on, Sam. Let's get the captain on board."

"Sir. Yes, sir."

Brooklyn, 2016.

Sometimes they would sleep with their clothes on; lie next to each other and backs to one another, too tired for all the lovey-dovey charades they play with just like other couples.

Other times they'd be completely naked, and every other week they'd not sleep at all, stay awake at his apartment with sweaty bodies and heavy gasps of breaths and moan and sometimes she'd feel like those moments were the moments that they're most in love.

But some other times they'd not be doing anything at all, and they'd be sipping coffee or watch a movie or she would read a book and he would cook up something from the leftovers in the kitchen and whenever he'd turn up on the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and look at her, that's when she realized how much she was in love with him, with the perfection of the moment; a perfection she can't take back.

"Does it smell good?" He'd bring her a plate of random mixtures of items, one time it was mozzarella topped french fries, then another a stir fry of rice, chicken nuggets and tomato sauce. His creations don't always taste best but that's not the point—she loved him too much to complain.

They'd dance around the living room. Star in small, silly musicals of their own, tapping their feet to the beat of his old wartime tunes or bobbing their heads to Joan Jett. He'd stay quiet when she sang, and she tried to ignore how he'd look at her with such admiration whenever he heard her sing. He can't sing and he knows it—but what does it matter. In her eyes he was too perfect, still.

He'd tell her about his random thoughts throughout the day and sometimes they'd laugh aloud but other times they'd end up absorbed in an intellectual discussion—she loved hearing him talk and loved how thoughtful he was for listening to every argument she had even though they sometimes don't see eye to eye on certain matters.

But life's not comprised of mere honey and flowers, it also comprised of tears, arguments, fights. The constant battle of ego and wit, over silly mistakes that each of them made from time to time. She had a habit of going out and forgetting to let him know of her whereabouts and he hated that. He had a tendency of wanting to have of everything exactly as he'd want it to be—a perfectionist at its core--and she couldn't stand him for it. There would be yells of rage and anger echoing all over the walls of his apartment and their unresolved anger would reside in their silence for hours, sometimes even days. But in the end they'd always come to a peaceful resolution. They'd be sleeping in the same bed again and they'd be kissing and laughing at each other's jokes again.

"I'm sorry." She whispered to him at one rainy evening, resting her chin on his bare shoulder, pressing her sweater covered figure over his bare back. "Please don't be mad. Not today."

He let out a sigh. "Just... try to let me know where you are."

"But I'm alright. I'm alright, see?" She hugged him from behind, her palms on his chest. The sounds of rain outside a symphony to their chatter. "I'm alright, Steve."

He turned his head so their lips would meet. He kissed her softly, slowly. "I get worried."

"Come on. I can take care of myself, captain."

"You never know what's gonna happen, though. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I know, Steve." She repositioned herself on the bed and moved to his front before kissing him.

That night when they lied next to each other on the bed he buried his nose on the top of her head and said in a faint voice, "I don't wanna lose you."

"You're not." She replied sleepily, nudging on his chest.

He slipped his fingers through her hair, gently brushing along her crimson curls. "I love you."

It took her a while but then she replied, for the first time in her life:

"Me too."