"To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction; or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts." – Sir Isaac Newton, Principia Mathematica.
The soldier knew.
He knew, what his words must have sounded like.
A goddamn love confession.
Granted, it wasn't direct. In fact, it was as oblique and subtle as it could possibly get (the word 'love' never once appeared). But still, the tenor was there. The words were out there in the air, whether they chose to admit it or not. Well, he would admit it, no doubt. But would she?
The suite was quiet except for the sounds of heavy breathing of a man and a woman. Under more normal circumstances, those sounds would certainly be associated with more pleasant and pleasurable activities, but then again, when there was a growing-size puddle of blood on the floor, it ain't rocket science to figure out that the circumstances didn't quite fit into the definition of 'normal'.
Steve remained rooted on his spot, with their entire heated exchange stuck on replay in his mind. Every time when he reached the end of the playback (the point where the glass shattered in his hands), his mind would always come to the same conclusion: that he had really done it this time, that he had ruined their friendship… no, it was probably more than that, their relationship… ugh, that didn't sound quite right either… their partnership…thing… whatever, completely.
He had fucked up the best thing that had happened to his life ever since the Super Soldier Serum.
He didn't spare a single glance at her. He couldn't. Because if he did, it would feel like it was the last time he would ever see her face again. And that would absolutely break him.
His head was dipped low, like how a defeated man's would be. His chin rubbed continuously against the knot of the black tie tucked neatly between his collars.
His eyes were focused on his feet and nothing else.
He was waiting, no, dreading, for the sound to come. That sound of the front door being opened and slammed shut. That sound, which would no doubt mark the beginning of his everlasting misery.
But it didn't come.
Maybe not yet?
Maybe she had already slipped out through the balcony or the bedroom windows and you're none the wiser, you asshole.
Eventually, the pain trickled in, triggered by drops of his own blood pooling on his foot, right at the valley between the big toe and the second toe.
Right. He had forgotten his own strength and had broken things again as a result. Funny how that kept happening when things involved her. Then again, was it really that surprising? After all, she was truly the one woman with the power to get under his skin like nobody else. Hell, not even aliens raining down from a hole in the sky could match her ability to get under his skin. Hey, on second thought, screw the aliens. Not even The Hulk could affect him as much as she does.
One hell of a woman she was.
The most maddening, infuriating, challenging and ball-busting woman he had ever met in his entire life.
And he was in love with her.
So help him God, he was absolutely crazy about her; in a head-over-heels-shattering-glasses-with-bare-hands-getting-whacked-in-the-face-by-a-900-pound-punching-bag sort of way.
In other words, he was screwed.
Totally, undeniably, and utterly screwed, for all eternity.
As the seconds ticked by, the throbbing pain on his wounded right hand became increasingly difficult to ignore. The pain, pulsing in unison with his heartbeat, was rendered infinitely worse by the burning sensation courtesy of the 'vodka dressing' on his wound. The smell of blood and vodka didn't escape his enhanced olfactory senses. As unpleasant as the stench was, he was actually grateful for it, because he could then use that bloody (literally and figuratively) stench as an excuse to explain the absence of her sweet scent instead of crediting it to her actual physical absence from the room. At least he would still have some sort of 'excuse' to trick himself into believing that she was still there, with him, in the room. Objectivity be damned.
He should deal with the blood, pick up the broken pieces, fix his torn flesh, and clean up the mess. He should. He really should. But he was too afraid to move. Too afraid to lift his head and see her gone from the room, from his life, forever. God, he so wished that this was all was just another one of his hallucinations – from the moment their conversation turned bitter to the moment the glass shattered in his grip. How he wished that this was all just some sick oeuvre of his glucose-deprived brain, and that he would eventually wake up to the sight of Natasha standing in front of him, shaking his arm, asking if he was okay while he stared forever into those captivating emerald orbs of hers. Hell, he thought it would be better if this entire 'Civil War' debacle had been a nightmare, and that he would eventually wake up to see his team, his family, still intact.
A tear slipped down his left cheek.
Instead of wiping it off, he followed the path of his own tear and watched it drop into the blood-vodka puddle, diluting the crimson liquid.
Her soft voice came to his rescue.
"Steve… let me take a look at the hand…"
Her voice…
Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
God, how could a voice that had roused so much anger from within him not five minutes ago now seemed so soothing, and so alluring?
Was this the effect of the often pedestalized 'power of love'?
Was this living, physical proof of the old aphorism, 'love conquers all'?
He finally dared to lift his gaze from his feet.
He noticed that her back was no longer touching against the bedroom door, and that she was now standing in front of him.
At least she's still here.
He took a breath and shook his head, "It's nothing. It'll close up in 15 minutes, and heal completely in 30 minutes."
He tried to sound nonchalant. Tried to. But even the deaf could pick up the hoarseness in his usually clear-cut baritone.
She was touching his injured hand now, her left hand grabbing at the wrist, "That doesn't look like nothing, Steve. Let me take a look."
She gave a slight tug.
He didn't budge.
"It's fine, Nat. I've had worse."
She tugged harder.
He tried to pull away from her grasp, but something weird happened. Something which he had, until now, thought to be impossible.
His superhuman strength failed him.
His superhuman strength actually failed him.
God, how pathetic he was right then, even his strength, the trusted advantage and power which he had so often relied on in combat situations, crumbled at the mere feel of her skin against his. It truly terrified him a little, seeing the amount of power this woman had over him. She could literally crush him into pieces if she really wanted to. Take him asunder. Crush him. Pulverize him.
"Steve…"
There was something in her voice. Something… that sounded a bit like fear, or worry.
Steve closed his eyes, struggling to find some sort of balance between the feeling of comfort radiating from her touch and the stinging pain from the wound. The pain, as unsettling as it was, was also the reason why the woman of his dreams was even touching him. The pain was the cause of all the comfort that he was feeling from her touch. So for him to prolong the tantalizing comfort of her hand on his wrist, the pain had to stay. And the result was the perfect amalgamation of two paradoxical sensations, pain and comfort, both coexisting in harmony.
He blew out a breath.
"Nat, you don't have to do this. I'll deal with it later. Really, it's fine…"
"Steve…let go of the glass."
He opened his eyes.
"What?" he looked at her with confusion.
"Steve…let go of the glass. Please…" her tone was firm, but her eyes were pleading.
Pleading, she was pleading with him.
He glanced down at his hand and understood why.
The base of the rocks glass didn't shatter completely, and a huge chunk of it was lodged within his palm. Because he was still clenching his fist like as if his life depended on it.
Guess that explained the huge puddle.
He unclenched his fist slowly. Three or four loose pieces dropped to the floor, but the main chunk remained stuck within his flesh.
Immediately, Natasha's left hand yanked at Steve's tie, causing him to stumble forward, nearly colliding with her body.
"Nat. Stop…" Steve said weakly.
He shuddered at how utterly pathetic his voice sounded.
He sounded like a wounded feline who hadn't had anything to eat in months.
Natasha ignored him, and began dragging the supersoldier by his tie over to the kitchen counter.
Yeah, she's feisty, that one. If there's anyone who could manhandle a supersoldier, it'd be her.
Steve inwardly scoffed at the thought.
Big deal, asshole. She had even manipulated Loki before. Loki. A freaking demigod. Manhandling a supersoldier? Pfft, like that's even a big deal.
When they reached the counter, she shoved (God, she was sexy, acting all feisty and badass like that) him down on a stool and proceeded to yank his injured hand towards the brightest area of the kitchen counter before taking a seat on the opposite side of the counter.
She began inspecting the wound before he could say another word.
"It's not as bad as it seems, Nat. Look, it's late and you probably just got here and-"
"God, Rogers. Would you just shut up already?! I'm trying to be a nurse here." Her tone was snarky, but it still managed to bring out a tiny smile from Steve. A rather miraculous occurrence, considering how their previous conversation had turned out.
Maybe she was just that good at making him smile.
"Ты идиот you idiot…" Natasha said, her eyes still focused on inspecting his wound.
Steve managed a little smirk.
"You know…Nat. Of all the years we've known each other, this is actually the first time you've called me an idiot, right to my face, at least." Steve said tiredly.
"That's because this is the only time you've truly acted like one." she stared daggers at him.
"Right. I suppose I deserved that." Steve sighed.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Steve went for a joke.
"Hey, you sure you don't wanna let me deal with the wound instead while you stand guard at the couch? I mean, it is my blood. Wouldn't be surprised if a bunch of HYDRA goons burst through the balcony any second from now to take samples of it."
"And whose fault do you think is that?" She mocked without taking her eyes off his hand.
"Touché. Look-"
Steve was cut off abruptly when the spy stood up from her seat.
"Sit tight. And don't you dare move. I'm just gonna go grab some tools from the front reception. Maybe they have a Medi-Kit or something. Then I'll come up and deal with the wound."
Steve glanced up at her and was met with her don't-fucking-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-kill-you face.
God. So feisty. Reminds me so much of Peggy.
After a gulp, Steve said, "Yeah, okay."
She let go of his hand and walked around the counter towards the front door.
He couldn't take his eyes off her.
She turned her head back over her shoulders when she reached the door, "If you so much as think of moving an inch away from that stool, Rogers, so help me God, I will skin you alive, you got it?"
Steve gulped, again.
Feisty. Sexy. And hot. Is it weird to be thinking about kissing her right now?
Jesus, it'd been barely minutes since they yelled at each other…and he was already thinking of ripping her clothes off?
Criminy, what had he become?
A man in love. A voice in his head (which sounded suspiciously like Bucky's) whispered to him.
"Yes Ma'am…" was all he managed to say before the front door slammed shut.