New York, after:

"Are you two still reading?" Tessa asks with an incredulous air. She steps into the living room, small smirk riding over the lip of her once-again-full coffee mug, and makes her way over to the pair sprawled on the floor.

Steve looks up, colorful paperback laying open atop one thigh, Ava laying draped over the other. "Berenstain Bears," he says simply, as though that should explain why they'd been barreling through their ever-growing library all morning.

"Hm," she hums out, almost suspiciously, corner of her mouth rising into an amused grin as she watches the nearly two year old spin and pull herself fully into his lap. "Ever heard of the Mandela Effect?"

His brow crinkles. "No."

She merely nods. "I guess it's sort of moot for you anyway. Since you didn't grow up with those books."

The slight furrow of his forehead turns into a confused grimace as he glances back down at the little girl in his lap. "Sometimes I don't understand your mama at all," he tells her, carefully prying her fingers back as she works to turn the page on the book, crumpling it in the process.

Tessa takes another pull of coffee and points out, "I'm pretty sure they made all of those books into a TV show. You can probably find them on YouTube or something… just let the TV read to her."

He shoots her a rather chiding look. "Did you really just say that?'"

"Just because it's harder, doesn't make it better."

He can see that she's teasing, doesn't mean a word of it. He damn well knows Tessa – the scientist whose shelves are fully furnished with multiple editions of books he's never heard of and would likely be incapable of understanding – well enough to know that she doesn't believe for a moment that television is a suitable substitution for reading to your child. But, still… "You're making me question your mothering instincts again."

She groans dramatically. "Shut up," slithering from her lips amid a small smirk. "I make one crack about filling a sippy cup with wine…"

"You also offered her coffee the other morning," he chimes in with a teasing brow raised high.

"First of all, obviously it was a joke and I would never give my baby coffee. And B, if you think for a second that I wasn't sneaking caffeine throughout my entire pregnancy and getting her used to that sweet, sweet nectar of life, you got another think coming."

He huffs out a laugh, head shaking aimlessly. "Not helping your case, mama." She offers little more than an annoyed snort in response and takes another sip from her steaming mug. "Speaking of," he intones playfully, cocking a brow. "How many cups is that?"

Her eyes narrow. "How many have you seen?"

He shifts a bit, his back pressed awkwardly into the couch, right leg losing circulation from the toddler atop it. He winces as she digs her knee into his quad, bouncing and hammering her palms into the open book. "Two," he responds suspiciously, lifting and maneuvering Ava around without dropping the almost accusing – though admittedly, entertained – stare. "Which means that's probably four."

She shrugs blithely, her eyes ticking down to the desperately squirming, agitatedly babbling little girl. "Looks like you're starting to piss her off," she says with a lilt. "But I guess you do have that effect on women."

"Very funny," he snipes, twisting Ava around in his lap and positioning the open book in front of her in preparation to continue. "I can hear your heart beating from here."

"Liar," she bemoans. "My heart is beating at a perfectly normal, moderately caffeinated decibel."

He snorts out a laugh. "Like you would know."

Her eyes narrow bitterly. "You super soldiers think you're so damn special."

Ava twists in his lap, giving up on slapping the book to get his attention and instead shoving a chubby hand in his face as she stutters out a string of words – bear, bear, now. "Language," he mutters – a thick warning directed at Tessa – before he captures the tiny fingers between his lips with a playful growl, eliciting a shrill peal of laughter from the kid in his lap.

"She's heard a hell of a lot worse than damn," she points out, beaming smile just barely hidden by her mug as she takes another sip while watching the two on the floor. "Besides, it wouldn't be fair of me to hide from her who her mother really is. A fucking foul-mouthed – "

"Tessa!"

She barks out a laugh. "Like you're so innocent."

He expertly bobs around Ava's pawing, voice almost getting drowned out by her escalating squeals – Bears! Bears! – as he replies, "Pretty sure I've never said that around her."

Bear! Now!

"Pretty sure I'm not the one who taught her to say, son of a bitch."

Bear… papa… now!

"She barely said it. And I never would've shouted it out had you not burned me with that pan."

Now, now, now…

"I told you to stand back," she says with a shrug. "Besides, you healed in like thirty seconds."

Papa!

"Still hurt," he declares, wrapping a strong arm around Ava's tiny torso and tugging her back down to a seated position on his lap. "Alright," he mutters softly into her hair. "Alright. Let's get back to the bears."

Tessa's brows tug together as watches the two settle, a swift realization hitting her, a suspicious lilt to her voice as she asks, "Did she… did she just call you papa?"

He's already back into the book, a sentence or two in, when he hears her, so it takes him a moment to answer, finishing up and turning the page before glancing up at her muddled face. There's a hesitancy when he responds, as though he doesn't quite want to utter the words, his eyes dropping – almost guiltily – to avoid her curious gaze. "Papa Bear," he mutters blankly. He gives a halfhearted shrug just as Ava slaps a hand delightedly down onto the colorful characters on the page before turning and beaming up at Steve. "Just a… character in the stories."

She nods slowly, eyes assessing – not just watching, but studying – Ava's reaction to his reading. Her interaction with Steve. Papa.

For a long, quiet moment, she stands, looming over the sweet scene that to anyone else would appear like a lazy morning of father-daughter bonding. There's an inkling of pain rising in the back of her mind as she silently observes – Steve's strong arm wrapped loosely around the girl's middle, holding her in place as she bounces excitedly in his lap; Ava's smile, wide and real and true, every time her eyes bounce from the book to the grinning man over her shoulder. But there's also a warm pooling of comfort that begins to collect in her gut. At first she thinks it might be coming from them, this smooth and placid energy. But it takes just a breath of a moment for her to realize that it's actually blossoming and spreading from within.

She finally shakes her head, shakes free all of the comforting – and confusing – thoughts, and clears her throat. "Well, let me know when you two are done. I told Nat that we'd be there by noon."

He flips another page, lets Ava run her fingers over the brightly colored illustrations as she investigates this next scene. "Ah, yeah," he breathes out easily. "Girls' day." Then, quirking his eyes up at her, forcing his voice a bit low, he says, "Try to get her outta the compound, will ya? She's too cooped up there. It's not good for her."

"Yeah," she sighs out. "I know. I want to get caught up on where things are with… everyone. But after that, I was going make her go to the park with us. It's usually pretty empty," like most places, she almost tacks on. "We'll have our pick of swings."

He leans back a bit into the couch behind him, arm still snug around Ava's middle as he otherwise directs all of his attention up at Tessa. "Still no words on Barton?" She shakes her head no, face pinching into a tight grimace. "And nothing on any of the X-Men? Still?"

She shrugs. "They've always been good at hiding. Got a hell of a lot better at it after… after what happened in Canada. You know that."

"Yeah," he mutters, absently hugging the baby closer to his chest. "Guess it just seems like… Things are different now, you know?"

She lets out a small hum, gaze drifting down to focus on her young daughter – her young mutant daughter. "Anti-mutant legislation is still on the books. Things might be different. But that doesn't mean they're… safe. For us."

He gives a small nod and drops his lips down to Ava's head, laying a quick kiss in her curls before shifting back into his storytelling voice and finishing up their book.

000

The compound is quiet these days. No. That's an understatement of epic proportions. The compound is… dead. Little more than ghostly images of Vision seeping through the walls on his way into Wanda's room. Or the barely there tinkle of Sam's laughter reverberating down the halls. The sounds of a hectic kitchen and common room, full of family on a Sunday afternoon or an evening deemed movie night, are little more than haunting echoes of those who no longer exist.

And of the others, those who do still live, well… Bruce had disappeared long ago, burying himself in a lab somewhere, only checking in periodically, just to make sure everyone is still alive. Rhodey comes and goes. And the others too… the new crew. An oddly affectless blue woman whose cold demeanor far outrivals the Widow's. Okoye, whom Nat now counts as a friend, but only ever speaks to via the virtual coms. Carol… whatever the hell she is. And… a talking racoon.

Most days, it's quiet at the compound. Still. Dead. It makes it easy for one day to slip into the next, for all of the silent, barren, lifeless moments to flow together, stretching into one endless after. That's how Natasha chooses to think of it, this new world. This is all simply after. And before is nothing more than a heap of faded memories, hopes and dreams that had fluttered away on the wind just as easily as all of the ashes of her friends. Her family.

In the after there is only silence, and the ghosts that haunt this compound.

But hope, there's still a hint of that.

They may yet find Clint and bring him home. Though, really, after all he's lost, she's not sure he'll even still be the Barton she knew at all. And they might find some of Tessa's family, a thing that would bring her comfort – and could help the world build some new heroes for the fights that this after is sure to bring. And they might still… help. They may be able to help what's left of the world… the universe. And one day – even after all these years and all of the failures that have piled one on top of another – she might be able to finally white out all of that red still burning bright in her ledger.

And there's one other thing, one thing that sits in the back of her mind – as well as in numerous frames around every inch of the compound she inhabits – and helps her to see that there may still be a future worth something. Her little Ava Grace.

"There's my sweet girl!" she coos, dropping to her knees as the toddler haphazardly races for her. She wraps her into a tight embrace and swings her up into her arms, plopping her onto her hip where she intends to keep her for as long as the precious little curly haired monster will allow. "How's my kiska, huh?"

"Oh, speaking of kiskas," Tessa hums out, wide eyes stretching across the common room. "Where are my little kitties? Eddie!" she calls out sweetly, easily sidestepping her friend and daughter in search of the cats that now inhabit this otherwise empty abode with Natasha. "Phoebe?!"

Nat gives Ava a little bounce in her arms, beaming as the girl bleats out a shrill giggle, and tosses over her shoulder, "Last I saw, they were both laying out in the sun in the atrium."

"Hm," she mutters, disappointment clear on her face as she turns and drops the diaper bag to the sofa. "Guess I'll hunt them down later."

"What have you been feeding her?" Natasha turns to ask, a small laugh tumbling out amid the words. "She's huge!"

Tessa gives her a disappointed glare – "She's not huge. You're going to give her a complex." – and flops heavily down onto the leather couch herself. "And lately, it's been mostly fish sticks."

"She is her mother's child," she jokes lightly before lowering herself to the floor in an easy, fluid motion. She sits amid a stretch of toys – the same ones that have been sitting out, covering the floor in this corner of the common room since their last visit nearly three weeks ago – and delicately folds her legs up beneath her, holding Ava in her lap as she reaches out and sweeps a load of blocks near for her to play with.

"So," Tessa intones, dragging the word out endlessly. Her eyes ping around the room, no doubt taking in the dust and clutter and general feel of the place… equal parts lived in and decaying. "You know I'm not one for… picking up. Or cleaning of any kind. But…"

"But?" she asks, raising an almost threatening brow.

She shrugs. "Steve hired us a maid," she says absently. "She's this woman from one of his support groups… needed work. And, man, I think I might be in love with her." She leans back into the sofa, the warm familiarity of the soft leather at her back sending a trickling sense of calm throughout her. "I forgot what color the tile in the bathroom was. I swear, she must've gotten into the grout with a toothbrush."

The redhead laughs despite herself, easily positions Ava in her lap and reaches out to help her pile blocks high. "And you want me to hire her?"

"She'd probably be grateful for it. And you wouldn't be breathing in all this dust."

"Is that the doctor telling me to look out for my respiratory health, or the overbearing friend trying to keep me from seeming… depressed."

Her head pops suddenly up and off the cushion, a fiery glare shooting from her bright green eyes. "I am not overbearing."

A crooked grin blooms on Natasha's face. "I just assumed you were channeling Steve."

She waves a dismissive hand through the air – "Just shoot me if that starts happening." – and pulls herself upright. "Anything new around here?" she asks with a forced levity. "Or, you know, in the universe at large?"

She issues a blithe shrug, face falling, unintentionally forming a frown. "Carol's still bouncing from planet to planet, trying to… I don't know, help clean things up?"

Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically. "She thinks she's so cool just because she can travel intergalactically."

A swift snort of laughter falls out of Nat's mouth. "Jealous?"

"An alien god once told me that I'm powerful enough to lay waste to the entire universe," she mutters with a smirk. "I'm holding onto that."

Another laugh. "Honestly, I'd love to see you and Carol throw down. Might have devastating consequences for all remaining life… but I bet it'd be hell'a entertaining."

She too gives a little chortle. Then, in a low, almost nervous tone, "Speaking of that alien god…"

Nat merely shakes her head. "Still holed up across the ocean… refusing calls…"

She nods, a languid and intentional movement. "Anything on any of the X-Men? The Brotherhood?"

Ava leans forward and swipes at the tall tower of blocks they had been building, squealing with glee when they all tumble to the floor in a widespread heap. Natasha smiles crookedly and reaches out to gather them near, beginning the build yet again. "Most of the focus has been off world. Rhodey's still on the lookout. Okoye too, not that we think any of them moved over to her side of the world. When Steve and I…" her voice drifts off, choking on the other names, aching to say, and Sam and Wanda, but swallowing down the urge. "When we were looking for them… before…" She shakes her head lazily. "Seemed like the network Magneto built – the safehouses and communes – were mostly in North America and Europe." She glances up at Tessa. "We did finally get confirmation that Dr. MacTaggert was lost in the Snap. Rhodes got into the Mutant Research Facility last month and… well, it's pretty much all gone."

Tessa nods her head, a placid, unreadable expression washing over her face as she takes that in. "I still think the Professor is out there somewhere," she says after a long, silent moment, her voice low and subdued, gaze ticking off towards nothing. "It's hard, you know? I… I can't always tell anymore if what I feel is living energy or…"

"But you think you feel him?"

She looks up slowly, a sad, exhausted sheen to her eyes, and she nods.

"Well, Rhodes is still on the lookout," she hums, smiling wide as Ava knocks down another tower.

"But he's still mostly following Clint's trail?"

"Trying to," she mutters with a shrug.

"And?"

She looks up at her, locks onto her blank stare – no more expectant looks these days, not after so many disappointments, so long without change – and she forces out another shrug.

"I hate this," Tessa declares thickly, toeing off her shoes and folding her legs up beneath her on the couch. "It's been almost three years. Where is he?"

Another shrug. Another seemingly nonchalant expression… never mind the fact that – she knows – Tessa can see right through it. "He's still hurting."

Her head whips back around, leveling her friend with a heated stare. "We're all still hurting," she bites out.

"I know. But…" She drops her eyes and shakes her head slowly back and forth. "Those kids…"

A breath catches in Tessa's chest, a low groan pulling as she blinks her eyes shut – just long enough to stave off the sudden of wave pain that comes with even just the thought of losing her kid – and opens them again, a far more tender air to her gaze as she meets Natasha's waiting eyes. She shakes her head. And Nat nods hers. A silent agreement between the both of them to avoid this path.

"I just…" she starts, breathing out a sigh. "I miss him."

"Yeah," Natasha agrees, ducking her head and burying her nose briefly in Ava's hair, sucking in the sweet smell of her lavender baby shampoo. "Me too."

"I'm so tired of being so alone," she huffs out, the declaration seeming more pouty than despondent. It's a byproduct of time, or so it seems. Grief slowly moving from being utterly unbearable to a painful, constant distraction to – now, nearly three years in – a bitter annoyance.

Nat props her chin atop Ava's head and glances at her glowering friend. "You're not alone," she reminds her with a brow raised high.

Tessa merely rolls her eyes, offering no words in response.

"You know," she begins to muse, sly quirk to her lips. "Back in the day… back before Barnes showed up… Barton and I had an ongoing bet about when you and Captain America would finally hook up."

"Yeah, I know," she utters with a disinterested air. "Clint told me he'd give me two hundred bucks to seduce Steve on New Years once." She glances over at the woman across from her, eyes narrowed almost threateningly. "How much was on the table?"

"Then? 'Bout five grand," she says with a shrug.

Tessa scoffs loudly. "And he was only willing to give me two hundred," she laments thickly. "Cheap bastard."

"You know it'd be okay, though," she says after a long moment of heady silence, her attention seemingly wholly on helping Ava stack blocks high. "Now, I mean." Tessa looks at her with an almost weary expression. "No one doubts you loved Barnes. Love him. No one would ever think you didn't still… even if you and Steve – "

"He might," she interrupts swiftly. "He's James' best friend," she points out, as though it weren't common knowledge. "What would you think if your best friend's widow started fucking someone else?"

Her eyes widen. "Three years after his death? I'd think it was about damn time."

She lets out the smallest, breathy chuckle, but shakes her head just the same, trains her eyes on the little girl in Natasha's lap. "I still miss him everyday."

"I know," she agrees easily.

"And so does Steve."

She nods again. "I know."

"It wouldn't be… it wouldn't be fair."

"Tessa," she hums out, a hint of reprimand to her voice. "You and Steve have always had a connection. I'm not saying it was bound to become… romantic. But it's always been there. There has always been love there."

Her head pivots slowly to-and-fro. "But not the same…"

"No," she goes on, raising a knowing brow. "It's not the same as what you had with James. But it's still love. And…" She lets out a long, deep sigh. "Look, I don't want to push you to do anything that you don't want to do. That's not what this is about. Clint and I called off our bet the day you and Barnes got married, so I no longer have a dog in this fight."

Her head snaps up, eyes blowing wide as she stares the redhead down. "You didn't call it off until then? We'd been living together for like two years by the time we got married."

"Wanted to wait until things were official," she says with a blasé tone. "There was a lot of money on the line." Tessa gives her a disappointed stare. She responds with a lame roll of her eyes. "The point is that, I'm only bringing this up because I know that it's on your mind. And it sure as hell is on Steve's."

Her legs kick out from under her, body folding forward, elbows dropping to her knees as she leans in. "He told you that?" she asks, brows knitting nervously together.

Natasha pulls herself upright, straightening her back, setting her shoulders stiffly. "He told me that you two kissed. That things got… heated."

Again, her eyes blow wide, jaw dropping. "He told you that?"

She lets loose a small snicker. "C'mon, Tess. It's not like he has a lot of friends left to talk to right now. Other than you. And he said that you refuse to discuss it."

Her shoulders drop, entire body seeming to deflate as a thick sense of shame washes over her. "I don't want to talk about it," she mumbles. "I don't see why we have to."

"Maybe you don't." Tessa looks back up at her with a questioning stare. "You could just give in and jump each other's bones and never say a word about any of it," she suggests with a crooked grin. Then, lips tightening into a thin, stern line, she declares, "But you cannot ignore it. That isn't fair. To either of you."

She ducks her head – again, shame coiling around her… shame and embarrassment both. "When… when did he tell you?" she starts, voice slow and hesitant.

"Last time he came by, I guess… maybe a few weeks ago."

A bright blush begins to bloom across her cheeks, reaching over to the very tips of her ears. "Oh," she mutters simply.

Another crash of blocks. Another delighted squeal. Natasha reaches out to absently gather the toys near once again and she cocks a curious – suspicious – glance at her friend. "Oh? What does that mean?"

"Nothing," she says without looking up, the rosy flush now spreading down her neck.

"Bullshit," she mutters, reaching up to cover the baby's ears as she says it. "Tell me."

Tessa lets out a long, deep huff of a breath and leans further forward on her elbows, dropping her head into her hands and squeezing her eyes tightly shut for a long, steeling moment before looking back up at the patiently waiting redhead. "Yeah… a few weeks ago, we kissed. Really… yeah. But it's also happened before," she says finally, the words rushing out of her in an unimpeded stream. "A few times. Just kissing. Nothing more. Nothing ever more. And, Nat… I just… I feel horrible about it. Every. Single. Time."

Her brow twists in confusion. "Wait a minute. Before when?"

She shakes her head lazily. "Just before Ava's birthday. That was the first time. It was…" She shrugs. "I don't know… it sounds so… lame. But I just… I was… cold. And he was so damn warm. And I just…"

Nat slowly lifts the baby from her lap, setting her onto the floor atop a blanket pulled from nearby. And she crawls across to Tessa's side, easily pulls herself up onto the couch beside her, before reaching out a hand to rest upon her knee.

"Sometimes…" she begins again, speaking around the swiftly forming lump in her throat. "Sometimes we'll sleep in the same bed." She shrugs, gaze hitting the floor, adamantly refusing to meet Natasha's. "Since then… for a few months now, I guess."

"For almost a year," she corrects, taking in the bewildered look that Tessa gives her when she finally does crane her neck to meet her gaze. "You said it was before Ava's birthday? She's got another one coming up next month."

Yes. Yes it had been almost a year then. Almost a year since they first kissed, tightly clinging to each other in the silent kitchen that night, the baby asleep just down the hall. James' baby asleep just down the hall.

And it was merely weeks later that she invited him into her bed. Not like that. No. It was to soothe her to sleep when nothing else would work. To hold her and calm her and… offer just a bit of warmth to melt the ice that had collected around her heart, her soul. She had been cold, so terribly cold. And he had agreed, seemingly without reservation, to curl up beside her, him laying atop the comforter as she curled beneath the sheets and extra covers, longing to once more be filled with the warmth that oozed from his chest that night in the kitchen.

They had slept like that most nights throughout the winter. And into the spring. Only splitting and sleeping separately – though tossing and turning would be a more apt description of what occurred when they were alone – once the record-breaking heat of summer seeped in.

Just last month – as the crinkle of dried leaves blew past her open bedroom window, the chill of fall finally setting in, so late in coming it seemed – he lingered casually in her doorway, barefoot in sweats, as she read curled up in bed. "Can I come in?" he'd asked, nothing but confidence to his tone.

She'd nodded and scooted over a bit, making room for him to sit, to tell her whatever it was that was on his mind. But he'd said nothing in that moment, instead sidling down the bed – still atop the comforter – to lie down beside her. Without any hesitation, she shoved a bookmark into her book, tossed it onto the nightstand, and flipped off the light, before curling easily around his strong back.

He had told her after – the next morning, when the sun was still hanging low in the sky, the world only barely waking around them – that he felt the desperate pull… to be near her, to hold her, to curl around her in the middle of the night and feel her warmth seep through him. He'd told her of the daily guilt that weighed him down. And the almost palpable desire. He'd told her that he hated himself more and more with each passing day. But that his love for her only seemed to grow.

And she kissed him. Again. For the fourth or fifth or twentieth time, she couldn't be sure, each and every short and tender kiss – each and every hungry, fervid one – melting back into the closeted space of her mind, the place where deeply buried memories go… delights and despairs that are better left denied.

But she had kissed him then, pulling him near, tugging down the covers that separated their bodies and pressing herself into him. She had kissed him and cradled him and ran her fingers through his golden hair, let out a small, tight moan when he reached to the back of her skull and wound his fingers up in her curls. She had kissed him and breathed into him a tender reassurance, a comfort and encouragement, a promise that she had no real intention of ever keeping.

But, no, she had not ever talked to him about it, hadn't – and wouldn't – utter a single word. Because, really, there were no words in any language that cover all that needed to be said.

"I can't…" Tessa begins, unsure quite where to go. Her head drops again, down into her open palms. "I can't… let go."

"Of James?" Nat asks softly.

She shakes her head desperately back and forth, flinging aside memories of a warm bed and smooth skin beneath her fingertips, the steadily rising sun peaking in between the curtains, low, soft breaths of her baby on the monitor behind her. "Of everything. Of James. And of our life together. And of the way Steve fit into our life back then. And of the fact that Ava is his baby. But… but… Steve is…" she breaks off suddenly, pinching her lips tightly together. Pained, weary eyes glance up at Natasha, lock onto her curious and patient stare. "Steve is her dad," she says, laying out the truth that they all know, but never say. Then, barely a breath, "papa."

Natasha nods, slowly, leisurely, as she plans her words out, thinks about how best to explain what she's felt for years now. "There was a before," she states simply. "And it wasn't always great. You know that. But there was happiness there. And love. And, Tessa, you never should let that go… what you had then, you will always have that. But… we're in the after now. And here… well, you can either give in and move on and let yourself find… something… some sort of happiness. With your best friend. With your daughter's father? Or…" She raises a single brow, wiggles it teasingly as a small smirk rolls over her face. "You can be like me and just… stay stuck… here." A long, languid sigh spills from her lips. "If I were you, I'd try to be anyone but me."

000

When Tessa returns that evening, the sun setting and casting a bright orange glow over the otherwise gray city, it's without Ava in tow.

"Oh, okay," Steve mutters with a surprised intonation when she explains that she left her with Natasha for the night. "Did you plan that?" he asks, brows scrunched as he finishes up washing the last dish – finally deciding, minutes before her return, to clean up the remnants from their pancake breakfast this morning – and turns to face her. "I mean, did you pack enough clothes and diapers? Does she have Busy Bunny?"

Busy Bunny, that ugly gray rabbit… one ear half chewed off, fake fur and internal fluff rigid and clumped from too many washings. Ava can't sleep without it. She can barely function if the stuffed animal's good ear isn't tightly clenched in her fist. Did she bring Busy Bunny with them on the day-long trip out of the city? "Of course," she replies with a huff, eyes rolling dramatically back. "I'm not an idiot."

Steve nods, confusion and – is it uncertainty? – still pulling awkwardly at his features. "Okay. But… you didn't mention anything about leaving her there…"

She ducks her head, folds her arms tightly across her chest as she leans a hip into the counter next to her. "Yeah… no." A pair of bright green eyes ping up to lock onto his, her stare intense, a bit frantic. "I didn't… I wasn't…" She clears her throat and breathes out a clumsy, airy chuckle. "It was… last minute."

"Okay," he repeats, tone soft and low, forehead still deeply furrowed. He takes a single step closer to her, tossing aside the dish towel as he too leans a hip casually into the counter, just inches from hers. She looks down to see his hand, his strong, lithe fingers, splayed across the granite countertop, slowly sliding towards her. She watches as it creeps closer, stilling beside her, his thumb slowly rising up and swiping delicately – a barely there touch – along the waistband of her jeans. "You gonna tell me what's going on?" he asks, the tenor of his voice causing her core to clench.

She lets out a long, exhausted-sounding sigh, punctuates the end with another short, awkward laugh. Her head shakes. Her arms tighten across her chest. And when she returns her gaze to meet his, those beautiful, bright green eyes look to be coated in a glistening sheen of despair.

It's nothing he hasn't seen before. Nothing he hasn't experienced a hundred times already – her mood shifting suddenly into a confused mishmash of okay-but-not-okay. Tears spilling down her cheeks, even as she smiles at him, laughs with him. Lays in bed and softly kisses him. It's nothing new, and it no longer breaks his heart, not like it used to. It simply is what it is.

"Steve," she breathes out into the small space between them. Her eyes blink rapidly for a beat of a moment, sending a small cascade of tears from her eyes, clearing them of that murky veil so that she might see him clearly. A quick huff – almost annoyed, irritated at her own intrusive emotions – and another sigh, and her arms loosen a bit around her, shoulders dropping just slightly. "Steve," she repeats, tone deep and sincere as she looks up at him. "I know… it isn't fair. None of this is."

His face is stern and expressionless, giving away nothing. He's not entirely sure what she's talking about right now, but even so, he knows exactly what she means. No words fall from his lips, no confused inquiries nor pleas for explanation. He simply… remains. Tall and still and strong before her.

Her eyes tick away for a brief moment, a quick sniffle punctuating the now heady silence. "I just," she begins again, her hip pulling away from the counter and weight beginning to shift awkwardly from one foot to the other. Her gaze returns to him and she states simply, "You knew him better than anyone." The words that follow all tumble out in a swift and haphazard cascade. "So just tell me. Will you tell me? Because I really need to know. I just need to know. What would he want me to do? What?"

"Tess," he breathes out finally. His head begins to shake in something akin to disappointment. "I might've known him best when we were kids… when we were at war. But since he came back… it's always been you. No one knew him better than you." He too shifts away from the counter and folds his arms across his chest, creating a profile to mirror hers. His gaze is tender but also somehow stern. Perceptive. Compelling. "And I'm pretty sure you know what he'd want. I'm pretty sure he told you."

Had he? Had he told her what he'd want her to do? In a time like this? A time… without him?

I just want what's best for you, she recalls him saying once, amid an argument on the side of the road.

I want you to live your life and be happy, even if I'm not there to see it, she hears him telling her, the words only barely distracting her from the texture of the scar on his chest, still puckered – still there – beneath her hand, serving as the most awful reminder of his vulnerability.

She says nothing to Steve – in the here and now, in the after – merely standing utterly still as Bucky's voice rings through her ears, carrying the weight of time.

It's a moment more, a moment of being trapped between two worlds, clinging equally to the deep tenor of her husband's voice and the craved warmth radiating off of the man before her. It's just a single, breathless moment before the echo in her mind is drowned out entirely.

"Honestly, Tess," he says, interrupting her spinning thoughts. "It doesn't matter anyway. What he wanted. What you wanted back then. None of it matters." He shifts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels as his arms curl even tighter around him. "What do you want? Now. You."

She hesitates, her mouth bobbing slowly for a long beat. "I don't know. I… I want to stop crying. I want to be happy. Or… close to it. I feel like… like I'm always going to be sad. Like there's always going to be this part of me that's… broken. But I… I want that piece to be, I don't know… smaller."

He nods. "Okay. That's a start."

"A start?"

He steps closer, the heat from his body spilling into her. "What do you want, Tess?"

"I want Ava to want to be around me," she mutters, voice small. "I want to teach her and guide her and, I don't know, be good… set a good example for her. I… I want to… God, it sounds so stupid…" She snuffles a bit, rolling her eyes dramatically. "I want to be her… her guiding light. Her star. Fuck," she huffs out with an evasive shrug.

Steve just laughs – a small but sincere guffaw – as he reaches out and lays a palm on her wrist, gently pries apart her still-crossed arms. "You already are," he says with a grin, his hand sliding down to grip hers, giving a tight squeeze. "You're everything to her."

She lets out a sardonic snort – "No, I'm not." – and gazes up at him with a tender look. "We are." Her free hand slowly rises to his cheek, palm cupping his smooth, always clean-shaven jawline. Her fingers trail up, tips gliding into his tightly cropped hair. "We're her family. And I want that for her. I want her to have a family that… that loves her and is always there for her. She needs that."

He gives a slight nod, his eyes lazily blinking shut as he naturally bends into her touch and presses a chaste kiss to the heel of her hand. Then he leans away, gently tugging her hand down and wrapping it – just like the other – into his large, tight embrace. "What do you want for you?" he asks, voice low and slow. "What do you need?"

She swallows thickly, her own eyes turning dark with desire, an undeniable heat gathering in her core, as she locks onto his patient, oddly knowing gaze. "I need," she begins, stilling just long enough for her tongue to flick out and swiftly wet her lips. "I need to be… touched. I miss… I miss being touched. And held. And…" She twists both of her hands inside of his much larger ones, grasps tightly to his fingers and bears down as if to drive home the absolute truth of what she's about to say. "I miss being taken apart and filled up and fucked."

His expression never changes, never shifts in the least, remaining set and placid. But his eyes – much like hers – darken, the bright baby blue deepening and graying before nearly disappearing altogether as his pupils widen the closer he gets. He's a breath away, forehead nearly resting atop hers when he splits his lips apart to utter the question, "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Her emphatic nod gets lost in the shuffle as she lunges forward, capturing his lips with her own, clanging teeth and colliding into his chest as her hands immediately release his and move to press into his back. Pawing, clawing, grasping desperately at the thick flannel that covers his shoulder blades. She dives lower and tugs the shirt from his waistband – who tucks in a flannel anyway? – pulling almost violently at it to get to the soft, hot flesh beneath.

He pulls back, releases her already raw, swollen lips, though not before swiping his tongue languidly along the pouty, puffed out bottom one. A quick sweep of his arms and the offending button down is gone, thrown off to the side… somewhere. His hands are fast – faster than her own brain, it seems – as they reach out and tug the sweater off over her head before she even registers that it's her turn to shed clothing.

Again, they kiss, the taste of each of them now being achingly familiar, though still smacking of forbidden. But neither can get enough. In the months that have passed since that night – here in this same quiet kitchen – when they first toed that distinct but invisible line, when they first crossed it, there have been so many tastes. And now here they are, appetites whetted, bodies aching and hungry, mouths ready to devour.

Tessa lays a small nip at the corner of his mouth before pulling away, just a bit, just enough to catch a glimpse of his flushed face. "What do you want, Steve?" she asks him then, voice barely even a whisper, yet loud enough to echo throughout his entire being.

He stills in her grasp, the muscles in his strong back tightening beneath her fingertips. She opens her senses up and feels a rush of pure, thick, dangerous desire ooze out of him. It's unlike anything she's ever felt from this man before. In all the years they've known each other, loved each other, taken care of each other, she's not once sensed this kind of longing spill from him. This kind of need. This kind of hunger.

There are no words that he can offer in response to her question, none ever formulate in his mind. But he knows the answer all the same, knows exactly what he wants, has known for months now. He's just been waiting for her to catch up.

The stillness breaks, shatters like a million tiny shards of ice splitting apart around them, as he swiftly grabs her by the hips and spins her around, giving a small shove forward before bending her over the kitchen table. The bowl of fruit at the center of the table jostles and spills with the impact of the two of them colliding forward. A plastic sippy gets knocked across the room as Tessa's arms fly out to find purchase. She lets out a surprised laugh… then a hitched breath as he leans into her, rock hard beneath his perfectly pressed khakis.

He pulls back suddenly and tugs down her pants, undoing the button and zipper in one quick, deft move and yanking the jeans down her legs. He gives her the moment she needs to step out of them, stands back and watches as she blindly shakes them from around her ankles, never moving from her spot splayed upon the table. Once she's free of the pants, he leans in again, trails his fingers up the length of her thighs, up to her hips where they sink into her skin, palms spread wide as his thumbs glide beneath the waistband of her panties, pressing small bruises into the tender flesh above her ass before hooking into the thin material and tearing it away.

And there it is. A wide swath of brilliant red, white, and blue. A remnant of his past life, a reminder of who he used to be. A stamp, a sigil, a marker. His shield.

One hand slides from her hip and trails along her pelvis, setting off a rush of trembling goosebumps that pock Tessa's skin and cause her gasp. Then two fingers slowly slip inside, curling into her, touching – just like she asked – as his other arm wraps around her middle and holds – just like she needs.

He leans over the top of her, nuzzling his nose into the hair at the base of her skull before trailing soft kisses down the length of her spine, feeling her breath shudder in and out of her chest as he goes, lips slowly navigating down to the brightly colored tattoo. He stops there, huffing hot breaths into her skin for a lingering moment before diving forward and kissing, licking, nipping at the shield – his shield – on her ass. Sucking a mark and scraping his teeth along her flesh as he listens to her keen and moan. As he feels her tighten around his fingers.

He fucks her – just like she wants. He fucks her right there on the kitchen table. Hard. Harder than she ever expected sweet, wholesome Captain America to be capable of doing. He fucks her like he needs it. More than she ever could.

And in the final moment – pressed up against the edge of the table, hard, fast thrusts forcing all the air from her lungs – in that final bruising, biting, bursting moment, just as she feels all of the want and need that he's carried and denied for so long spill out of him and into her… in that moment, she finally manages to let go of the before.