yea, i don't know either. also: it's such a good, appropriate song for them. check it out, if you have the time.

...

day six; till the casket drops by zz ward.

It occurs to Maria that, far more than anything, she's loyal to Rogers more than she anticipates to. It doesn't stop even when he takes off the mask, picks up a normal hoodie and straps on a normal shoe. It comes to the point she nearly couldn't see where Captain America ends, and where Steve Rogers start. (Although of course she can. Of course she can.

Captain America would be the one to carry the shield and tell her to not disobey command; the one to be walking into the line of fire and sashay through every bullet like it's nothing but flies. Steve's gentler. Steve's the one who cooks for her and laughs at her stupid little remarks; the one that checks the newspaper for a new movie coming up before dinner and asks her about Clint's modern references from eight friggin' hours ago. Captain America is strong, made to fight a war; Steve is more human. Kind, unearthly young and beautifully awkward at times.)

It's the point of her loyalty, she means. Who is she loyal to, by the end of the day. The order of the Captain, or the gentle heart of Rogers?

She doesn't know.

At some moment later, she decides it doesn't matter.

Rogers is Rogers. And she likes him. Genuinely do so. His mentality on justice and what's truly right irks her (in a way that reminds her all of her minor, unacceptable faults that she has to carry everyday, some she even has to mask from him), but the world needs him. His strength, his morales, his abilities. This, Maria learns right from the moment Fury slides her the SSR files and tells her to study. (He's still on the Arctic at that time, their people working on defrosting him meticulously; Phil ringing her about every two hours to giggle.)

But what she doesn't realise is, watching his amused blue eyes search for hers and the way that he breathes a chuckle near her cheekbones while they're visiting a fair last week (Barton fucking insists), she might've need him just as much.

She likes him. That's been known. But to what extent?

(It scares her.)

((She doesn't draw lines anymore. Every time she tries, she ends up pulling the little dumb clown drawing that he draws for her about four? Five years ago? It's stupid.))

He asks her one night, his shield in place, her gun by her side, and she's biting her tongue from the pain of a bullet slicing one of her thigh just moments before (she knows he notices the wound; she's glad he's quiet about it though) and he may have attired himself with the good 'ol blue-red-white striped costume, but it's all Steve Rogers when his voice tumbles out. "Are you—" he breathes, "Are you sure, Maria? You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Rogers."

He doesn't shut up. Of course he doesn't.

Firmer now, his voice collects courage, carrying out his message in a more authoritative tone. "You don't have to come with me. You don't have to do this."

"Who's going to cover your ass then, Cap?" They both know Sam's where he needs to be, Clint too. If they're lucky, Rhodes might show up. Maria's praying that he does.

"Maria." He sighs, stops. "Hill." He gets confused with the appropriate title to call her now, even on the field. It's kind of funny. In a very obtuse way.

"I'm not going anywhere, Cap." She glares at her now, teeth grinding together and she tells herself her breath doesn't hitch when he slides one calloused hand to her thigh, gripping steadily on the bullet wound like a lifeline.

He's got a lot of nerve, she snorts in her head, rolling her eyes.

"You never do," he mutters under his breath, a small humourless grin hooks by his lips, and he exhales out, frustrated probably — good — and Maria tries to wonder about anything else besides from his hand spreading unnecessary warmth throughout her entire body. "But 'till when? At what cost?"

She slits him another glare. Sharper now. Meaner.

Jesus, he's so stupid sometimes.

"How dare you," she hisses, and his grip on her thigh tightens. Just a bit. His face growing serious. Is he seriously questioning her loyalty? She wants to slap him. Is he worried? "Fuck you, Steve."

"Maria."

"Till my casket fucking drops, you hear me?" She tells him agitatedly, fisting her fingers from curling it around her hair and pulling them out. "Till I can't fucking move, 'till I stop breathing." She huffs, "Is that enough of an answer for you?"

And the she imagines it: fighting for him. With him. She can do that. She can. She's good like that. And she's done it before. Multiple times.

And until he loses his damn mind and somehow turns his back against the nation (which she'll make sure he doesn't), she won't have any problem doing just that.

He stares at her for a long, lingering time; the atmosphere heavy in the air; her breathing comes in harsh, quick, unfocused. She wonders if he could hear it. She hasn't doubt that he could.

He's still gripping her thigh.

Ridiculous.

And then, moronically, he manages: "I don't want you to die."

Out of all the things! Really? She doesn't say, and stares back at him. She doesn't point out how overwhelm it is to hear how much truth he drips into his words — how he truly doesn't want her to die. It's kind of crazy, really, how he simply requests such a thing. In a world they're thrusted in, any of them could die just like that. She could die just this next second. Next hour. Tomorrow. Right now.

But.

She exhales out, nodding, treading the fingers now soaked with her blood, still plasters right against her thigh, with hers, catching the warmth.

I don't want you to die, he says.

"Then don't let me," she says back.

He nods his head.