emwritesstuff

[emwritesstuff]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[emwritesstuff]

[emwritesstuff]

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DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 9.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. (warnings: diving deep into humans as test subjects in this one. heavy self deprecation, pstd, panic attacks, a lot of apologies for some reason?) (6,670 words)

9: THE THIRD LAW OF NEWTON

It’s Friday afternoon. The Wakandan Princess arrived earlier in an airship that resembled something like a flying Bugatti and made the Quinjet look like a bicycle. Two spear-wielding female warriors - the Dora Milaje, you’ve recently learned - flanked her as she came out of it, which you thought was a little overkill. Royalty treatment, you suppose.

They’re now guarding the doors to the room you’re having your first deprogramming session in, pretending they don’t see you stare.

You’re nervously bouncing your knee up and down as you wait; up and down. Up and down. Up and down. One of the warriors flick her eyes in your direction.

It makes you stop. The movement resumes involuntarily when she looks away.

You’re hoping you won’t regret this. Like every other decision you make, it was an impulsive one; stemmed out of the need to delete every trace of HYDRA that was still in you.

You were born for the use of HYDRA.

That day, when you were showering your frustration away, you took a bath sponge and for the first time in your life, tried to scrub the numbers off.

7463000195.

The skin on your arm is still a little raw, their mark still inked deeply on it.

This procedure has to be the next best thing.

“Try not to look too excited, Shuri might get self conscious.”

You look up suddenly; Bucky is hovering above you, a smirk countering the usual exhaustion in his eyes.

“I just can’t contain myself,” You say, getting up and past him. “What are you doing down here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Moral support?”

Steve walks in just as his best friend says the words, and you hold back a groan. He’s been supporting your decision since you made it; of course he’d be here too.

You just have to pray Shuri is truly the genius people have been raving about.

The room Stark has assigned for the Wakandans is right down the hall from his own lab - and if that one was high-tech, then you didn’t have an adjective for this one. Shuri’s sleek, white and silver equipment now lined the walls, and holograms occupied the space physical screens would be.

“Impressive, no?”

“It’s a little flashy,” You grimace once you realize who you’re talking to; out of the corner of your eye, one of the warrior women tightens the grip on her spear. “Sorry, my…my lady. Your highness?”

The princess laughs. “Please, let’s end the formalities. I’ll be rummaging through your head for the next hour, it’s only fair you just call me Shuri.”

You hold back the urge to say As you wish, Your Highness and bow. “How exactly is this going to work?”

“Essentially the same process we’re doing to Sargeant Barnes. Find the source of your triggers. Unravel the memory and sever the connection to the problematic behaviors.” Her choice of wording makes you frown. “In generic terms.”

“You’re wiping me.”

HYDRA has never wiped your memories - at least you don’t think they have - so you don’t really know how it feels. All you know is that is not a fun time.

Your eyes find the two war veterans just outside the room, two armoire-sized men who could drag you right back in if you made a run for it. You’re almost certain they would never.

But still. They could.

Shuri speaks again as your breaths shallow, “We’re not taking any of your memories away. They will still be in your head, but have no effect on present you. This will be more like… unplugging a cable from the port.”

“Like disarming a bomb.”

It’s not exactly comforting. But it’s not wrong.

“Exactly.” Shuri shifts in place as if you’re making her self conscious. “Not that you—”

“Oh, I am.” You shrug. “Let’s do this, Your High— Shuri?”

Shuri hands you a sort of metal headband and leads you to something that almost looks like a tanning bed, but with all glass casing and soft padding inside. You try not to think of how it looks like a coffin, or a fancy cryopod, instead focusing on the memory of the machine that made Steve Rogers into a super soldier. That one’s a little better.

The contraption you’re getting into looks like all of these combined, with the sci-fi makeover all over it. Shuri takes her place behind a multitude of hologram screens and out of the corner of your eye, you see Rogers on the doorway.

Good to know the Dora Milaje let him walk about like that.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions so we can narrow in your trigger memories,” Shuri says, and you nod. There’s some beeping around your head. Your fingers flex at your sides. “Try not to move too much. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

“Yeah… alright. Fuck it. I’m ready.”

A second passes.

“Where were you born?”

“I… I’m not actually sure.”

There’s a pause. It’s brief, but you notice anyway. You can’t really see anything from where you’re laying down, so you just keep your eyes to the ceiling.

“Where did you grow up?”

At least you know the answer to this one.

“The Brutkasten. 18 miles south from Erda, Norway.” You still remember vividly the trek through the snow during your escape, how you reached the tiny town in less than adequate clothing and with a bullet wound to your side.

You’re sure your raggedy, unexpected appearance raised many questions, but you couldn’t provide answers: mostly because you don’t speak Norwegian.

HYDRA made sure you were made into an island.

“Who was in charge of your programming? Who trained it into you?”

You pull a breath in - no wonder Bucky needed his quiet time after this. The questions are precise and equally invasive, and even if you tried skirting around the spoken answer the memory was already in your head. No running from it.

“Baron Von Strucker. Wolfgang Von Strucker. Head of all of HYDRA’s enhanced human projects, including mine.”

Shuri pauses again. “That’s… are you sure you remember right? I’m having conflicting results.”

Your hands are starting to sweat.

“Strucker trained the programming into me. He was always there to activate—” You interrupt yourself, as something in your head clicks. It makes you consider her question again, and chase another memory instead. “Steiner. Hermann Steiner said he made me. It has to be him.”

“That’s it. Keep going,”

“He…he tampered with my DNA to give me my powers. He said I needed an off-switch. A fail-safe. The-the whole purpose of the words is to keep them under control, I think. If they’re not activated I can’t use my powers properly, and if they are, I’m HYDRA’s perfect weapon.” Your lungs feel empty, and it’s suddenly hard to get them full again. It’s strange to echo Steiner’s words like that. It takes you back to that conversation.

To the warning.

You can hear something beeping and can only guess it’s to do with your vitals. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t—”

“You mentioned something about activation words. Can you recite them for me?”

Your fingers tighten against the soft padding you’re laying on. You need to get through this.

You must. “…and blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.”

“Shuri, perhaps we should—”

“One second, Captain Rogers. Just one second.” Shuri’s voice feels distant, and you can see her turn to someone out of your line of sight. Steve, maybe. The glass upper-half of your pod is open, but it weighs on you all the same.

“Vernetzt. Vernetzt. Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem. Hail HY- HY—”

“Got it.”

Your voice dies inside your throat. They’re talking, you can hear the muffled voices to the left of your pod. You’re buried under the snow, icy rubble burning your skin as your nails dig into cotton fabric and foam. “…not a fail-safe. I’d call it a muzzle.”

Getmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeout

The words don’t come. Your limbs are stuck. You’re a vicious dog, too terrified to leave its cage.

You have no idea the damage you can cause—

The light dies for a few seconds.

Tony Stark’s wail travels from down the darkened hall: the Pac Man.

Not again…

“He really needs to get a no-break for that thing,” Steve’s voice cuts between your frazzled panting, pulling you back into reality all the way from Norway. The lights are back on. You make a pathetic little sound that should have been a chuckle.

Something warm and sturdy helps you sit up, and you realize too late it’s a pair of very muscular, very patriotic arms. “Can we take a break? I need… a minute. Maybe ten,”

“Of course. Let’s do fifteen,”

“I think we can call it a day here. It’s lunchtime anyway.”

“Lunch? It’s 11:30, Captain.”

“That’s lunchtime if you’re retirement home age.” You say matter-of-factly, hopping off the pod. “And he is way past that by this point.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and you shrug. “I’m not saying she’s right, but…” Bucky walks in as the Dora quit guarding the door. “Look I’m not saying retirement but—”

“C’mon, not you too…”

“A vacation! You really need it, bud.”

Steve protests. You nod your head solemnly, stifling a laugh. You push through jellified legs in order to leave the room, fully embracing the lunch time excuse.

“What, you’re not comin’?”

You bite your lip. You want to say it - you really want to say it.

“Where?”

“Lunch. The diner,” Bucky raises one eyebrow at Steve. “You didn’t invite her?”

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“I was going to—” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Was just going to make sure you’re okay first. You know, to go out.”

Bucky waves his metal hand between you and Steve. “Please. This isn’t a date. I’ll be right there.”

Motherfucker.

“Barnes—”

This isn’t a date.

Bucky is right there, across from you and Steve.

And you’re not making out with anyone except this cheeseburger.

They took you to a place named Nemo’s, a diner in Brooklyn that is traditional in every way: burgundy booths made out of that are cracked in places. Silver metal tables. Checkered floors, low lighting even though it’s barely noon.

It’s apparently almost as old as they are, and they’ve been coming here since they were teens; it doesn’t surprise you at all. Creatures of habit, these two. Not to mention the food is to die for.

“Easy, tiger.” Bucky says, making you look up from your sandwich. He tosses you a napkin. “Here. You got grease all over yourself,”

You roll your eyes, but wipe your mouth anyways.

“Let her be, Buck.” You look at Steve in surprise, but he only shrugs and takes a bite out of his own burger. Old-school, with the sliced bread loaf instead of buns and everything. Too many pickles for your taste though.

Bucky’s response is to slap the brim of Roger’s baseball cap, eliciting a laugh out of you.

This is nothing like you’re used to. You’ve been to dinners and Pizza Night at the compound, but those are different. It’s more crowded. There’s more pressure. Even Steve seems at ease here, his shoulders relaxed despite his disguise being flimsy at best. A baseball cap, that’s it? Not even a mustache? Even Bucky’s singular glove is more inconspicuous.

You realize you’re staring when he meets your gaze, a hint of a crooked smile curling his lip upwards. Maybe you should’ve shared the seat with Barnes instead.

“What?”

You breathe in. He looks awfully good under this awful lighting.

Get it the fuck together.

“There’s ketchup on your cheek.” It’s a lie.

But it works: Steve swiftly moves to grab a couple of napkins. The other super soldier is eyeing you suspiciously.

You have to resort to stuffing your face of his fries, which causes enough commotion to allow your cheeks to return to their regular temperature.

“Is Stark not feeding you enough? Jesus,”

You shrug. “These are just really good, and mine are gone. See?” You show him your empty basket and Steve mumbles something about ordering more. “Thanks for bringing me here by the way. I know it’s you guy’s thing.”

“Figured it could lift your spirits after this morning. Like ice cream after the dentist,” Steve says, and you nod. Your spirits are indeed lifted. It feels easy, to just be around them like this.

Because despite your resistance, these two know all of the terrible parts of you. They think there’s hope for you yet, which is the sort of optimism you’re still working on.

“Yeah. If you stayed back you’d just be overthinking yourself to death. And that’s not allowed here.”

You sigh. “It’s just a lot. You guys saw what happened today and it was only the first ever session. If Steiner’s right about me it could be a huge disaster. What if I lose control? What if—” A french fry is flung in your direction, turning concern into vexation.

“No overthinking at Nemo’s.”

“Dick.” You throw the fry back, and he pops it into his mouth with a grin.

“Buck’s got a point, actually. We need to take one step at a time and suffering by anticipation won’t help.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “You’re agreeing with me? Who are you?”

You chuckle. “Seriously, Steve? Not even him?” Bucky makes a face of resignation, shaking his head.

“Besides, you’re one to talk…” He added, quietly.

Steve exhales. “You two gangin’ up on me now? This friendship of yours is really something,”

“We’re the cryo-crew. The HYDRA… rejects. The frozen guinea-pigs?” You and Bucky do a high-five as Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re both in remission now, the nicknames can stop—”

“I like cryo-crew.”

Steve groans. “I can’t believe this.”

Cryo-Crew it is.

Your body stiffens once you notice a man standing slightly northeast to your booth. He’s looking right at you; eyes too focused to have anything but recognition in them. You should’ve known your reprieve wouldn’t last. The months living in the compound made you forget how it felt like, to live on high alert. Bucky is next, frowning at your body language and turning towards your gaze. Then Steve. He streches his right arm across the table in front of your chest. The light bulb right above you flickers.

The man approaches the table, but he doesn’t seem nearly as tense as either three of you. Steve stands. Bucky remains seated but with a tight grip on the back rest of the booth.

Fight or flight, practical demonstration.

“S-sorry sir, Captain Rogers, sir. It’s so hard to find you out on the town like this, I couldn’t help it. Michael Lawrence. VP of the Sentinels of Liberty.” Steve lets out air through his nose, him and Barnes relaxing at the same time. He takes Michael’s hopeful, outstretched hand and shakes it, clapping an amicable hand on his shoulder then towing him away from you and Bucky.

“What. Was that…?”

“Must be ‘nother one of his biggest fans,” Bucky chuckles, pulling the strings of his hoodie. “He’s got a few devoted fan clubs, I always tell him the baseball cap is not enough.”

You scoff. “Right? Like, look at him. He can’t be thinking that’s making him anonymous.” Bucky grins. You’re still on edge, but the tension is dissipating slowly. You can see Steve’s back from here, shaking another few hands and displaying his signature Captain America smile. “I thought it was trouble for a second. Geez.”

“As much trouble as civilians can be. Buncha’ nerds geeking out over a bigger nerd,” He shrugs. “You’re off the hook, Sparky. Relax.”

“Look at where we live, Buck-o. ” He makes a face at the nickname, and you shrug. A Buck-o for a Sparky, it’s only fair. “We’re never off the hook.”

“You got that right.” He sighs. “Even if it was trouble. Those fuckers are not laying their hands on you, or me, ever again.”

You nod. The reassurance makes your chest tighten. You’ve been getting a lot of that lately. You didn’t know you needed it. “It’s not just them though. It’s… S.W.O.R.D. General Hoss, Fury. I feel - I know - they’ve got their eyes on me, just waiting for the moment I slip.” Even Stark. He was funny and he seemed to care, but his initiative towards the Sokovia Accords made it clear he held a high standard for fuck-ups. And you were a big one.

Your knee starts bouncing, making Bucky land a kick on your shin. You send him a glare, but he just smiles fiendishly.

“The Compound situation is… complicated. It’s Hoss’ kennel. The longer we stay, the more strings they got on us.” You nod again, slowly this time. Bucky drums his gloved metal fingers on the table, looking around the diner before speaking. “Won’t be our permanent residence for much longer, though.”

“What? You plan on running off into the sunset with Steve or something?

“Please. He’s not my boyfriend,”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I see the way you look at him. And vice-versa.” You roll your eyes.

“I don’t look at him any sort of way, Barnes. Except maybe disgust. Okay?”

Boyfriend. Some bullshit.

Bucky shakes his head. “Sure thing.”

“…he tell you anything?”

“Nah. He doesn’t kiss n’ tell. Should I ask?”

“No.” You refute quickly, and he narrows his eyes.

You’re not sure why he’s acting like this. Rogers wouldn’t have much to tell anyways.

“Right. Think you fool me with this act—”

You hold back the urge of pulling his hoodie strings and choking him with them, mostly because this place is public and because Steve is now back, shoving the cap back in his head like he’s not six-foot-four and super-soldier shaped.

He slides back beside you, and you scold yourself for relaxing when he does. Dammit. 

Bucky gestures vaguely at the both of you.

“Sharin’ a booth and everything.” Now you really want to choke him. With his own arm, maybe. He shrugs. “Alright. I’m gonna go check if the bathroom stall has that poem we wrote still.” Bucky says, leaving you and Steve at the table with a wink.

Fucking goddammit.

“What’s he on about?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like—”

“It’s nothing, Rogers.” You grit your teeth. You can’t have him noticing how transparent you are, too. He’s now got a hurt look in his eyes, making you sigh. “He’s a shithead. What did uh - Michael - want with you, anyway?”

“He’s got this World War reenactment event, and he wanted to know if I could make an appearance. Gave him an autograph and a picture and sent him on his way.”

Your jaw drops. “What?”

“I know, I know. I don’t really do autographs. But he asked for one—”

“That’s not— he wanted you to do war reenacting with him and his buddies?”

“Yeah. It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that.” Steve shrugs as you shake your head incredulously. “They wanted me to play myself in a movie, too.”

“That’s fucking twisted. Wait, you have a movie?”

“Yes and no. They got some bodybuilder to play me instead. ‘S coming out in a couple months.”

You let the fact sink in for a second.

“Can we go watch it?”

He glares at you. “Absolutely not.” Then laughs. You join him, imagining how ridiculous it would be to watch some action-hero-esque Steve Rogers next to the real thing. “Plenty of better things to watch instead.”

He leans his elbows on the table, looking back at you. The cap conceals most of his expression, but surprisingly you can still see his smile clearly.

It kinda sounds like flirting, even though you know it’s not. Your heart does a somersault regardless.

“Deal.”

Keep it together.

A waitress approaches you after a few minutes. “Can I get you two cuties anything? A milkshake, two straws?”

The table becomes a cacophony of - Oh, no; we’re not—; not like that - as the poor woman stands there with an awkward look on her face. You scoot away from Steve quickly - you hadn’t realized your elbows were brushing this entire time - while he looks around for Bucky.

“He’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”

“Yup. Think he got stuck in the toilet?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s outside already. We should probably vacate the table anyway,” He says, getting up.

Reality sets in as he does, the blood that had rushed up to your face settling back where it’s supposed to be. You watch him drop a couple fifties on the table and half-cover them with his plate. “One for bill. One for tips.”

“I don’t think you know how tips work,” You quip, not at all surprised by his generosity.

Turns out Bucky was not outside. And neither was the car you rode into town.

You’ve been robbed. Three Avengers, actually maybe one and two halves, robbed. You’re 60% sure it was Michael, Cap’s Biggest Fan #37.

You’re staring exasperated at the empty spot on the narrow street you’d parked when Steve comes out of the diner. “Can’t find Bucky anywhere.”

“And we’ve been robbed! Look,” You cry out, pointing at where the Jeep should be.

A look of realization crosses Steve’s face and he groans, rubbing his face.

“What?”

“We weren’t robbed. Bucky took the car and left us here.”

“What?!” Your voice bounces against the brick walls of the buildings around you. “How? Why? You gave him your keys?”

He shook his head. “Must’ve swiped it off my pocket at some point. He’s good at that.”

Goddamn him and his nimble metal fingers. You’re more alike than you thought.

You were about to ask the universe why when the answer chimes in on both your phones.

Have a nice date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! J.B.

“J.B. Fucking ridiculous.” You read the date part again and turn to Steve, showing him your phone screen as if he doesn’t have a twin message on his. “Did you plan this?”

He scowls. “Plan this? Bucky leaving us stranded in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah.” You don’t explain it’s because of the date thing. But you know he’s got it, because his scowl deepens and he suddenly looks offended.

“No. I didn’t plan this.” He takes a step forward, getting right on your face. “You think I couldn’t get myself a date if I wanted one?”

The mention of how easily he could score himself a piece of ass makes you see red for some reason. “Mr. D’Artagnan over here! Good on you,”

“That’s not— do you mean Casanova?”

“Please, don’t act like you’re the king of pop culture.” You cross your arms against your chest. “So you didn’t tell Bucky anything?”

“No. I didn’t.” He breathes out. “I didn’t ask for his help, either. He’s a shit wingman.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You feel betrayed, somehow. There’s no better way to explain it. Like this has been a trap, even though Steve has had nothing to do with it, but his best friend had and he wasn’t here to receive the brunt of your blows. “It’s just— he’s been an ass about this whole date-not-date thing all day, I’m sick of it. And now this.”

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair that leaves it all over the place.

“I thought it was obvious there was nothing like that. This was his idea. A stupid wingman move, that’s it.” The way he says it makes you grit your teeth. “I just don’t get why you’re so angry about it— why do you hate me so much?”

“Because!” You explode. “Because you annoy the shit out of me. Because of you wake me up at 6 a.m. to run. Because you beat my ass during combat training every time, as if letting me win would give you hives. Because you’re too fucking nice and then you’re the Captain again and it’s fucking confusing!”

Because the idea of you dating Steve Rogers is fucking preposterous and you don’t get why suddenly everyone is bothering you about it.

“I’ve done nothing but try and help you. We were fine 10 minutes ago—”

“I can’t tell if you want to help or just sanitize me. You tell me I’m enough when it’s just so obvious I’m not. Just tell me you hate me back, Rogers.” He shakes his head, and you hit his chest, fruitlessly trying to shove him away. “Come on! Be angry back. Say it. I hate you.”

“Stop.” He grabs one of your arms, then the other when you don’t relent. He’s so gentle about it that it makes your eyes well up. “Stop—”

“You hate HYDRA. And you hate me. Just fucking say it—”

“I can’t! I don’t hate you. I don’t. I’m sorry.” His words finally do the trick; you slack on his hold, nearly collapsing into his chest. “I care about you and you— you need to start dealing with that.”

You suck in a sharp breath - the weight of today’s events crashing down all at once - and you finally understand the reason behind your mood swing. Despite Nemo’s rule, you have been overthinking non stop. He cares, even if you don’t deserve it. You only hate his guts some of the time. And you have to deal with that.

The reason why you can’t fucking stand all the nagging is because you know can’t allow yourself to want a silly, normal thing like a date. Not yet.

Steve splays a large hand at your back, the other resting at your hair as your breathing returns to normal. His steady presence helps - you even let a tear or two fall, but you’re composed again in a few minutes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. Thanks for— everything you’ve been doing. And sorry.”

He moves as if he’s not going to let you step away, but his hands fall at his sides. “It’s okay. You’ve had a tough day.”

You scoff. “It’s not okay, Rogers! God. Stop being so… understanding.” You say, putting your hands on your hips but doing your best to keep your attitude at bay. Apologies are not your strong suit. “I’m sorry for a reason. So you have to say ‘apology accepted’ so we can move on.”

Steve raises one eyebrow. “Apology accepted,”

“Great.” You nod. “What now?”

He blinks, finally averting his eyes from you as he looks back to the main street. “There’s a station down two blocks away. Or we can… get a cab.” You make a face, and he nods in agreement. “I could hot wire a car. Maybe not the best idea.”

“You want to steal a car?” You frown. “You know how to steal a car?”

It’s not like the idea isn’t exciting. But the image of Steve Rogers hot wiring a car seems a little surreal to you. Then again, he’s been in the army. He probably knows how to do a lot of illegal shit.

“I’d just return it tomorrow.” He chuckles when you deflate. “Guess we’re taking the train. We can ask Nat to get us at the Compound station.”

“God, this is so humiliating.”

“Sam, then.”

“That’s not better.”

“Better than walk—” His words are cut off by the screeching of tires next to you.

It’s the Jeep.

It’s James Buchanan Barnes.

“Yeah yeah, I was nearly at the Interstate but I felt bad. I think it’s gonna rain. Get in.”

You don’t waste any time. He’s here and it beats asking for Sam, or Nat, to rescue you. Even though you’re itching to get home, to barge into her room and tell her all about it.

“Fucking hell, Bucky. You’re an asshole. Fuck you.”

He grimaces. “Deserved that. Sorry.”

Steve is still out of the car, bracing his hands on the passenger window. “Get out. Let’s switch.” Bucky tilts his head. “You don’t have a license.”

“I’m 93 years old. I know how to drive.” He pauses, then entering a glaring contest with Steve. “I’m an Avenger - sort of. Doubt my lack of license will be their first concern when pulling us over.”

Steve just stares. Your eyes flit from him, to Bucky, and back. Finally, Barnes just sighs and allows the other nonagenarian to take the wheel.

“I could drive.” You’re also an Avenger - sort of.

They both turn to you at the same time. “No.”

Jesus. Okay then.

You don’t go back to the diner on next Friday’s deprogramming session - Steve couldn’t make it, so you and Bucky decided to not go without him despite his protests. Neither of you have valid licenses, after all. Instead you two lounged under the sun and Bucky made you a rum and coke so large that kept you drunk for three hours.

It’s for the best. You went for the intensive program - between two or three sessions a week - and you were in need of something to take off the extra edge.

Shuri’s prodding at your brain is showing results - if those are good or bad, it’s yet to be decided. Your powers have been slipping out of control more often. Tony finally got that nobreak for his Pac-Man machine. You’re running through electric toothbrushes faster than a piranha, but - strangely - you haven’t had a headache in days. The crossroads approaches, you can feel it; you’re gonna have to make a decision soon. Finish the job and lose the little control you had, meaning learning to use your powers from like a baby deer learning to walk, with imminent risk of causing more damage than you can afford, or cutting it short and dealing with a possible head implosion.

It’s great.

You already know what Steve’s opinion is, but you’re yet to make up your own mind about it. You appreciate his faith in you - and everyone else’s. But the more faith they have, the more disappointment you can cause.

It’s getting increasingly harder to detach yourself from them, and if you’re being real honest, you’ve already stopped trying. Whatever plans you’ve had of figuring out your faulty powers and bolting, fading back into anonymity, has been crushed way before the media started calling you Dynamo.

It’s terrifying, because even if bleak, that was a known path forward. And now, you can’t see anything clearly ahead. Just that crossroads.

You’re not fully healed from your old ways, though. Steve Rogers is on national television, back under the limelight and the scrutiny of a bleached blonde host wearing a brightly-colored skirt suit. And you made watching the interview a personal form of self-flagellation.

Holed up in your room, eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet Stark had lent you - you didn’t go for the big TV because Natasha would chastise you for doing this. But you can’t help it. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel… even.

You mute the TV when a picture of you is shown on screen. You look serious, geared up, menacing. The kinda side of yourself the mirror never shows. The question the host asks Steve makes him look to the floor, and you’re glad you can’t hear his answer. Something akin to the one he gave about the risks of allowing Bucky to walk free, you’re sure. You catch the twitch of his lips, the tension in his knuckles. But he takes it in stride, flashing a charming smile when he’s done. Of course he does. He’s Steve Rogers, and the people love him.T

hat’s why he goes to that stuff and not you, or Nat, much less Bucky.

Truth be told, you’re dying to break this cycle, maybe burn the Compound to the ground and throw Captain America’s shield in the garbage. It would cause havoc, for sure. But it would set you all free.

He ends the interview with some heartfelt speech about everyone’s part in keeping the peace. The audience claps.

You wrap your arms around your knees.

You half-watch-half-look at a couple of episodes of Survivor before getting up, headed towards the big kitchen on the communal floor below. There’s a hole in your middle that can only possibly be fixed with food.

And there he is.

Leaning over the balcony, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He got back quicker than you expected, no doubt taking the motorcycle or a helicopter to the CBS News Headquarters.

“Does alcohol have any effect on you?”

You expected him to startle - he doesn’t.

“No. This is mostly wishful thinking,” Steve says, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

“All this pressure and you can’t even be an alcoholic about it. Shame.”

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” He shrugs. “What are you doing up this late?”

You give him a look. You’re positive it’s barely past 11 p.m. “What am I, fourteen?” You retort and he flashes you a sheepish, tired smile. “I wanted a snack. Then I saw you were back from the interview, brooding and trying to get yourself drunk.”

“I wasn’t brooding. I just… needed some air.” He clears his throat. “The interview went well, I mean. But it’s a whole thing. Wardrobe, hair, microphones, shaking hands. The commute.”

You raise your eyebrow, wondering why he can’t bring himself to say the word tired. “As well as something can go when Kaitlyn Holloway and her pink blazer are trying to get you to say something compromising.”

“You watched it.”

“Don’t tell Nat.” You nod when he does. “Figured I should. I put it on mute when you were talking about me though.”

Steve sips his drink and makes a face. “Only good things.”

Laughter escapes you, getting him to raise his head to look at you. “Right, I forget. You’re Steve Rogers and you’re incapable of hating anyone.”

The things he told you last week have been carved into your head. You couldn’t stop mulling it over, and over.

He shakes his head. “No, I hate plenty of things. Like crude language. Wet snow. Bullies.” You knit your eyebrows. Wet snow is new. “…I hate HYDRA and I hate what they’ve done to you. To Bucky.”

Your hands tighten against the railing. “And I hate what the army did to you. What S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hoss are doing.” Your vision goes blurry, and you have to close your eyes.

He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I volunteered for all of that.”

“It’s still—”

“Bullshit?”

You draw in a sharp breath. “Yeah. But no. It’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. I just never saw it that way I s’pose.” His eyes are focused on the horizon, and then his gaze lowers. You shift on your feet.

He doesn’t have to say it. It’s duty. To him, it’s what all of this has always been about.

“Can I ask you a question?” You suddenly feel cold and under dressed, especially comparing your large T-shirt and shorts to Steve’s more formal attire. But that is not unusual. He looks at you, so openly that it makes you shiver. Maybe it’s just the cold wind. “About what you said that day… at the gym. That you can’t, you know—”

He blinks, the memory probably resurfacing. It’s kind of been a long time since you had sex. “Yeah…it’s a bonus effect of the serum apparently. Once you have a family, your priorities change. Serving the country is not your biggest concern anymore, so they went ahead and made sure to kill any chance of that happening.”

Your mouth parts. “You didn’t know,” It comes out in a whisper.

He shakes his head. He’s looking at the whiskey like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Found out after I was thawed out. Routine check-up.”

You clench your fingers. You’re not sure what to say. It makes you want to punch someone – not him this time – but someone.

It’s not fucking fair.

It takes you a moment to answer. “So stubborn as you are, you went and got yourself a family anyways.” You say, gesturing vaguely at the place the Avengers made into their home and trying on a lighthearted tone. You can only hope it works. “And now they’re your biggest priority instead.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s why you gave up the shield to Tony, isn’t it? And that you have to do everything S.W.O.R.D. tells you to—”

“Not everything—”

“But a lot.”

He nods.

“So they let you get them out of the Raft and come live here.”

He nods again.

“I don’t think they’d want this if they knew, Steve.”

“They know and they don’t.”

You stare at him for a second.

“So just—pack your bags and get out of here! Retire or something. Get out of character.”

“I can’t retire. I can help people for a long time still. Besides, people don’t like me out of character. They want Captain America,”

“I don’t.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, fair enough. Is that why you’re always trying to make me lose my temper?”

“Maybe.” You smile coyly. “I’m not saying I like you for you or anything. Just that what I see behind the mask – the shield – is better. ‘Cause it’s real.”

“Look… I’m not two people in one, darlin’. There isn’t this interior battle, or mask, that you think there is. The Captain is me. I’m not sure I know how to not be that anymore. It makes things easier.”

“For who?”

“For everyone,”

“I’m not everyone.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely one of a kind.”

“And you make my life very not-easy.” Understatement of the century.

He chuckles. “This place… might not be paradise, but it has a purpose. Look around you. Controlled environment and plenty of support for Bucky, amnesty for Natasha, a safe place for Wanda… it’s not like you’ve done any differently. You’re using this place and its resources as much as I am.”

“It’s different. I’m doing this because I wanted to. I’m selfish. I was reluctant at first… but it was my choice for my own benefit.” He doesn’t seem to agree, but you only shrug. “I just think you should start doing what you want for a change.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve leans in, and it’s like he’s captured you with nothing but his eyes. So, so blue. And grey. Like the sky, that is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. Tonight, you can almost see stars in them if you look hard enough. While you were caught, you hadn’t noticed his hand come up to tuck your hair behind your ear, stopping when it cups your jaw.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, like it’s a secret. Because it might be.

“I’m doing what I want, for a change.”

His nose brushes yours before he kisses you, much less urgently than last time. It’s tender. So much so it leaves you paralyzed, your fingers tingling.

You don’t know what to do; this is a one of a kind thing to you. He kisses you like he wants you to sigh when you think about him. Like he wants you to write his name on your notebook and circle it with a heart. Like… like he wants you.

When he pulls back, your eyes are still closed. He’s smiling when you finally open them, a crooked thing. None of that poster-like shit.

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

You stand there, shell shocked, willing yourself to move and to affirm that you hate him. You can’t.

Steve Rogers picks up the empty glass and starts making his way back inside, stopping to look at you before closing the sliding doors. He stays there for a bit, nodding as if he’s decided something, and then holds the doors open, half inside and looking back at you in invitation. You hesitate for a split second. Then, your legs begin moving, half on their own accord, and he smiles like the sun.

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 9.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. (warnings: diving deep into humans as test subjects in this one. heavy self deprecation, pstd, panic attacks, a lot of apologies for some reason?) (6,670 words)

9: THE THIRD LAW OF NEWTON

It’s Friday morning. The Wakandan Princess arrived earlier in an airship that resembled something like a flying Bugatti and made the Quinjet look like a bicycle. Two spear-wielding female warriors - the Dora Milaje, you’ve recently learned - flanked her as she came out of it, which you thought was a little overkill. Royalty treatment, you suppose.

They’re now guarding the doors to the room you’re having your first deprogramming session in, pretending they don’t see you stare.

You’re nervously bouncing your knee up and down as you wait; up and down. Up and down. Up and down. One of the warriors flick her eyes in your direction.

It makes you stop. The movement resumes involuntarily when she looks away.

You’re hoping you won’t regret this. Like every other decision you make, it was an impulsive one; stemmed out of the need to delete every trace of HYDRA that was still in you.

You were born for the use of HYDRA.

That day, when you were showering your frustration away, you took a bath sponge and for the first time in your life, tried to scrub the numbers off.

7463000195.

The skin on your arm is still a little raw, their mark still inked deeply on it.

This procedure has to be the next best thing.

“Try not to look too excited, Shuri might get self conscious.”

You look up suddenly; Bucky is hovering above you, a smirk countering the usual exhaustion in his eyes.

“I just can’t contain myself,” You say, getting up and past him. “What are you doing down here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Moral support?”

Steve walks in just as his best friend says the words, and you hold back a groan. He’s been supporting your decision since you made it; of course he’d be here too.

You just have to pray Shuri is truly the genius people have been raving about.

The room Stark has assigned for the Wakandans is right down the hall from his own lab - and if that one was high-tech, then you didn’t have an adjective for this one. Shuri’s sleek, white and silver equipment now lined the walls, and holograms occupied the space physical screens would be.

“Impressive, no?”

“It’s a little flashy,” You grimace once you realize who you’re talking to; out of the corner of your eye, one of the warrior women tightens the grip on her spear. “Sorry, my…my lady. Your highness?”

The princess laughs. “Please, let’s end the formalities. I’ll be rummaging through your head for the next hour, it’s only fair you just call me Shuri.”

You hold back the urge to say As you wish, Your Highness and bow. “How exactly is this going to work?”

“Essentially the same process we’re doing to Sargeant Barnes. Find the source of your triggers. Unravel the memory and sever the connection to the problematic behaviors.” Her choice of wording makes you frown. “In generic terms.”

“You’re wiping me.”

HYDRA has never wiped your memories - at least you don’t think they have - so you don’t really know how it feels. All you know is that is not a fun time.

Your eyes find the two war veterans just outside the room, two armoire-sized men who could drag you right back in if you made a run for it. You’re almost certain they would never.

But still. They could.

Shuri speaks again as your breaths shallow, “We’re not taking any of your memories away. They will still be in your head, but have no effect on present you. This will be more like… unplugging a cable from the port.”

“Like disarming a bomb.”

It’s not exactly comforting. But it’s not wrong.

“Exactly.” Shuri shifts in place as if you’re making her self conscious. “Not that you—”

“Oh, I am.” You shrug. “Let’s do this, Your High— Shuri?”

Shuri hands you a sort of metal headband and leads you to something that almost looks like a tanning bed, but with all glass casing and soft padding inside. You try not to think of how it looks like a coffin, or a fancy cryopod, instead focusing on the memory of the machine that made Steve Rogers into a super soldier. That one’s a little better.

The contraption you’re getting into looks like all of these combined, with the sci-fi makeover all over it. Shuri takes her place behind a multitude of hologram screens and out of the corner of your eye, you see Rogers on the doorway.

Good to know the Dora Milaje let him walk about like that.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions so we can narrow in your trigger memories,” Shuri says, and you nod. There’s some beeping around your head. Your fingers flex at your sides. “Try not to move too much. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

“Yeah… alright. Fuck it. I’m ready.”

A second passes.

“Where were you born?”

“I… I’m not actually sure.”

There’s a pause. It’s brief, but you notice anyway. You can’t really see anything from where you’re laying down, so you just keep your eyes to the ceiling.

“Where did you grow up?”

At least you know the answer to this one.

“The Brutkasten. 18 miles south from Erda, Norway.” You still remember vividly the trek through the snow during your escape, how you reached the tiny town in less than adequate clothing and with a bullet wound to your side.

You’re sure your raggedy, unexpected appearance raised many questions, but you couldn’t provide answers: mostly because you don’t speak Norwegian.

HYDRA made sure you were made into an island.

“Who was in charge of your programming? Who trained it into you?”

You pull a breath in - no wonder Bucky needed his quiet time after this. The questions are precise and equally invasive, and even if you tried skirting around the spoken answer the memory was already in your head. No running from it.

“Baron Von Strucker. Wolfgang Von Strucker. Head of all of HYDRA’s enhanced human projects, including mine.”

Shuri pauses again. “That’s… are you sure you remember right? I’m having conflicting results.”

Your hands are starting to sweat.

“Strucker trained the programming into me. He was always there to activate—” You interrupt yourself, as something in your head clicks. It makes you consider her question again, and chase another memory instead. “Steiner. Hermann Steiner said he made me. It has to be him.”

“That’s it. Keep going,”

“He…he tampered with my DNA to give me my powers. He said I needed an off-switch. A fail-safe. The-the whole purpose of the words is to keep them under control, I think. If they’re not activated I can’t use my powers properly, and if they are, I’m HYDRA’s perfect weapon.” Your lungs feel empty, and it’s suddenly hard to get them full again. It’s strange to echo Steiner’s words like that. It takes you back to that conversation.

To the warning.

You can hear something beeping and can only guess it’s to do with your vitals. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t—”

“You mentioned something about activation words. Can you recite them for me?”

Your fingers tighten against the soft padding you’re laying on. You need to get through this.

You must. “…and blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.”

“Shuri, perhaps we should—”

“One second, Captain Rogers. Just one second.” Shuri’s voice feels distant, and you can see her turn to someone out of your line of sight. Steve, maybe. The glass upper-half of your pod is open, but it weighs on you all the same.

“Vernetzt. Vernetzt. Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem. Hail HY- HY—”

“Got it.”

Your voice dies inside your throat. They’re talking, you can hear the muffled voices to the left of your pod. You’re buried under the snow, icy rubble burning your skin as your nails dig into cotton fabric and foam. “…not a fail-safe. I’d call it a muzzle.”

Getmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeout

The words don’t come. Your limbs are stuck. You’re a vicious dog, too terrified to leave its cage.

You have no idea the damage you can cause—

The light dies for a few seconds.

Tony Stark’s wail travels from down the darkened hall: the Pac Man.

Not again…

“He really needs to get a no-break for that thing,” Steve’s voice cuts between your frazzled panting, pulling you back into reality all the way from Norway. The lights are back on. You make a pathetic little sound that should have been a chuckle.

Something warm and sturdy helps you sit up, and you realize too late it’s a pair of very muscular, very patriotic arms. “Can we take a break? I need… a minute. Maybe ten,”

“Of course. Let’s do fifteen,”

“I think we can call it a day here. It’s lunchtime anyway.”

“Lunch? It’s 11:30, Captain.”

“That’s lunchtime if you’re retirement home age.” You say matter-of-factly, hopping off the pod. “And he is way past that by this point.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and you shrug. “I’m not saying she’s right, but…” Bucky walks in as the Dora quit guarding the door. “Look I’m not saying retirement but—”

“C’mon, not you too…”

“A vacation! You really need it, bud.”

Steve protests. You nod your head solemnly, stifling a laugh. You push through jellified legs in order to leave the room, fully embracing the lunch time excuse.

“What, you’re not comin’?”

You bite your lip. You want to say it - you really want to say it.

“Where?”

“Lunch. The diner,” Bucky raises one eyebrow at Steve. “You didn’t invite her?”

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“I was going to—” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Was just going to make sure you’re okay first. You know, to go out.”

Bucky waves his metal hand between you and Steve. “Please. This isn’t a date. I’ll be right there.”

Motherfucker.

“Barnes—”

This isn’t a date.

Bucky is right there, across from you and Steve.

And you’re not making out with anyone except this cheeseburger.

They took you to a place named Nemo’s, a diner in Brooklyn that is traditional in every way: burgundy booths made out of that are cracked in places. Silver metal tables. Checkered floors, low lighting even though it’s barely noon.

It’s apparently almost as old as they are, and they’ve been coming here since they were teens; it doesn’t surprise you at all. Creatures of habit, these two. Not to mention the food is to die for.

“Easy, tiger.” Bucky says, making you look up from your sandwich. He tosses you a napkin. “Here. You got grease all over yourself,”

You roll your eyes, but wipe your mouth anyways.

“Let her be, Buck.” You look at Steve in surprise, but he only shrugs and takes a bite out of his own burger. Old-school, with the sliced bread loaf instead of buns and everything. Too many pickles for your taste though.

Bucky’s response is to slap the brim of Roger’s baseball cap, eliciting a laugh out of you.

This is nothing like you’re used to. You’ve been to dinners and Pizza Night at the compound, but those are different. It’s more crowded. There’s more pressure. Even Steve seems at ease here, his shoulders relaxed despite his disguise being flimsy at best. A baseball cap, that’s it? Not even a mustache? Even Bucky’s singular glove is more inconspicuous.

You realize you’re staring when he meets your gaze, a hint of a crooked smile curling his lip upwards. Maybe you should’ve shared the seat with Barnes instead.

“What?”

You breathe in. He looks awfully good under this awful lighting.

Get it the fuck together.

“There’s ketchup on your cheek.” It’s a lie.

But it works: Steve swiftly moves to grab a couple of napkins. The other super soldier is eyeing you suspiciously.

You have to resort to stuffing your face of his fries, which causes enough commotion to allow your cheeks to return to their regular temperature.

“Is Stark not feeding you enough? Jesus,”

You shrug. “These are just really good, and mine are gone. See?” You show him your empty basket and Steve mumbles something about ordering more. “Thanks for bringing me here by the way. I know it’s you guy’s thing.”

“Figured it could lift your spirits after this morning. Like ice cream after the dentist,” Steve says, and you nod. Your spirits are indeed lifted. It feels easy, to just be around them like this.

Because despite your resistance, these two know all of the terrible parts of you. They think there’s hope for you yet, which is the sort of optimism you’re still working on.

“Yeah. If you stayed back you’d just be overthinking yourself to death. And that’s not allowed here.”

You sigh. “It’s just a lot. You guys saw what happened today and it was only the first ever session. If Steiner’s right about me it could be a huge disaster. What if I lose control? What if—” A french fry is flung in your direction, turning concern into vexation.

“No overthinking at Nemo’s.”

“Dick.” You throw the fry back, and he pops it into his mouth with a grin.

“Buck’s got a point, actually. We need to take one step at a time and suffering by anticipation won’t help.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “You’re agreeing with me? Who are you?”

You chuckle. “Seriously, Steve? Not even him?” Bucky makes a face of resignation, shaking his head.

“Besides, you’re one to talk…” He added, quietly.

Steve exhales. “You two gangin’ up on me now? This friendship of yours is really something,”

“We’re the cryo-crew. The HYDRA… rejects. The frozen guinea-pigs?” You and Bucky do a high-five as Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re both in remission now, the nicknames can stop—”

“I like cryo-crew.”

Steve groans. “I can’t believe this.”

Cryo-Crew it is.

Your body stiffens once you notice a man standing slightly northeast to your booth. He’s looking right at you; eyes too focused to have anything but recognition in them. You should’ve known your reprieve wouldn’t last. The months living in the compound made you forget how it felt like, to live on high alert. Bucky is next, frowning at your body language and turning towards your gaze. Then Steve. He streches his right arm across the table in front of your chest. The light bulb right above you flickers.

The man approaches the table, but he doesn’t seem nearly as tense as either three of you. Steve stands. Bucky remains seated but with a tight grip on the back rest of the booth.

Fight or flight, practical demonstration.

“S-sorry sir, Captain Rogers, sir. It’s so hard to find you out on the town like this, I couldn’t help it. Michael Lawrence. VP of the Sentinels of Liberty.” Steve lets out air through his nose, him and Barnes relaxing at the same time. He takes Michael’s hopeful, outstretched hand and shakes it, clapping an amicable hand on his shoulder then towing him away from you and Bucky.

“What. Was that…?”

“Must be ‘nother one of his biggest fans,” Bucky chuckles, pulling the strings of his hoodie. “He’s got a few devoted fan clubs, I always tell him the baseball cap is not enough.”

You scoff. “Right? Like, look at him. He can’t be thinking that’s making him anonymous.” Bucky grins. You’re still on edge, but the tension is dissipating slowly. You can see Steve’s back from here, shaking another few hands and displaying his signature Captain America smile. “I thought it was trouble for a second. Geez.”

“As much trouble as civilians can be. Buncha’ nerds geeking out over a bigger nerd,” He shrugs. “You’re off the hook, Sparky. Relax.”

“Look at where we live, Buck-o. ” He makes a face at the nickname, and you shrug. A Buck-o for a Sparky, it’s only fair. “We’re never off the hook.”

“You got that right.” He sighs. “Even if it was trouble. Those fuckers are not laying their hands on you, or me, ever again.”

You nod. The reassurance makes your chest tighten. You’ve been getting a lot of that lately. You didn’t know you needed it. “It’s not just them though. It’s… S.W.O.R.D. General Hoss, Fury. I feel - I know - they’ve got their eyes on me, just waiting for the moment I slip.” Even Stark. He was funny and he seemed to care, but his initiative towards the Sokovia Accords made it clear he held a high standard for fuck-ups. And you were a big one.

Your knee starts bouncing, making Bucky land a kick on your shin. You send him a glare, but he just smiles fiendishly.

“The Compound situation is… complicated. It’s Hoss’ kennel. The longer we stay, the more strings they got on us.” You nod again, slowly this time. Bucky drums his gloved metal fingers on the table, looking around the diner before speaking. “Won’t be our permanent residence for much longer, though.”

“What? You plan on running off into the sunset with Steve or something?

“Please. He’s not my boyfriend,”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I see the way you look at him. And vice-versa.” You roll your eyes.

“I don’t look at him any sort of way, Barnes. Except maybe disgust. Okay?”

Boyfriend. Some bullshit.

Bucky shakes his head. “Sure thing.”

“…he tell you anything?”

“Nah. He doesn’t kiss n’ tell. Should I ask?”

“No.” You refute quickly, and he narrows his eyes.

You’re not sure why he’s acting like this. Rogers wouldn’t have much to tell anyways.

“Right. Think you fool me with this act—”

You hold back the urge of pulling his hoodie strings and choking him with them, mostly because this place is public and because Steve is now back, shoving the cap back in his head like he’s not six-foot-four and super-soldier shaped.

He slides back beside you, and you scold yourself for relaxing when he does. Dammit. 

Bucky gestures vaguely at the both of you.

“Sharin’ a booth and everything.” Now you really want to choke him. With his own arm, maybe. He shrugs. “Alright. I’m gonna go check if the bathroom stall has that poem we wrote still.” Bucky says, leaving you and Steve at the table with a wink.

Fucking goddammit.

“What’s he on about?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like—”

“It’s nothing, Rogers.” You grit your teeth. You can’t have him noticing how transparent you are, too. He’s now got a hurt look in his eyes, making you sigh. “He’s a shithead. What did uh - Michael - want with you, anyway?”

“He’s got this World War reenactment event, and he wanted to know if I could make an appearance. Gave him an autograph and a picture and sent him on his way.”

Your jaw drops. “What?”

“I know, I know. I don’t really do autographs. But he asked for one—”

“That’s not— he wanted you to do war reenacting with him and his buddies?”

“Yeah. It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that.” Steve shrugs as you shake your head incredulously. “They wanted me to play myself in a movie, too.”

“That’s fucking twisted. Wait, you have a movie?”

“Yes and no. They got some bodybuilder to play me instead. ‘S coming out in a couple months.”

You let the fact sink in for a second.

“Can we go watch it?”

He glares at you. “Absolutely not.” Then laughs. You join him, imagining how ridiculous it would be to watch some action-hero-esque Steve Rogers next to the real thing. “Plenty of better things to watch instead.”

He leans his elbows on the table, looking back at you. The cap conceals most of his expression, but surprisingly you can still see his smile clearly.

It kinda sounds like flirting, even though you know it’s not. Your heart does a somersault regardless.

“Deal.”

Keep it together.

A waitress approaches you after a few minutes. “Can I get you two cuties anything? A milkshake, two straws?”

The table becomes a cacophony of - Oh, no; we’re not—; not like that - as the poor woman stands there with an awkward look on her face. You scoot away from Steve quickly - you hadn’t realized your elbows were brushing this entire time - while he looks around for Bucky.

“He’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”

“Yup. Think he got stuck in the toilet?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s outside already. We should probably vacate the table anyway,” He says, getting up.

Reality sets in as he does, the blood that had rushed up to your face settling back where it’s supposed to be. You watch him drop a couple fifties on the table and half-cover them with his plate. “One for bill. One for tips.”

“I don’t think you know how tips work,” You quip, not at all surprised by his generosity.

Turns out Bucky was not outside. And neither was the car you rode into town.

You’ve been robbed. Three Avengers, actually maybe one and two halves, robbed. You’re 60% sure it was Michael, Cap’s Biggest Fan #37.

You’re staring exasperated at the empty spot on the narrow street you’d parked when Steve comes out of the diner. “Can’t find Bucky anywhere.”

“And we’ve been robbed! Look,” You cry out, pointing at where the Jeep should be.

A look of realization crosses Steve’s face and he groans, rubbing his face.

“What?”

“We weren’t robbed. Bucky took the car and left us here.”

“What?!” Your voice bounces against the brick walls of the buildings around you. “How? Why? You gave him your keys?”

He shook his head. “Must’ve swiped it off my pocket at some point. He’s good at that.”

Goddamn him and his nimble metal fingers. You’re more alike than you thought.

You were about to ask the universe why when the answer chimes in on both your phones.

Have a nice date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! J.B.

“J.B. Fucking ridiculous.” You read the date part again and turn to Steve, showing him your phone screen as if he doesn’t have a twin message on his. “Did you plan this?”

He scowls. “Plan this? Bucky leaving us stranded in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah.” You don’t explain it’s because of the date thing. But you know he’s got it, because his scowl deepens and he suddenly looks offended.

“No. I didn’t plan this.” He takes a step forward, getting right on your face. “You think I couldn’t get myself a date if I wanted one?”

The mention of how easily he could score himself a piece of ass makes you see red for some reason. “Mr. D’Artagnan over here! Good on you,”

“That’s not— do you mean Casanova?”

“Please, don’t act like you’re the king of pop culture.” You cross your arms against your chest. “So you didn’t tell Bucky anything?”

“No. I didn’t.” He breathes out. “I didn’t ask for his help, either. He’s a shit wingman.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You feel betrayed, somehow. There’s no better way to explain it. Like this has been a trap, even though Steve has had nothing to do with it, but his best friend had and he wasn’t here to receive the brunt of your blows. “It’s just— he’s been an ass about this whole date-not-date thing all day, I’m sick of it. And now this.”

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair that leaves it all over the place.

“I thought it was obvious there was nothing like that. This was his idea. A stupid wingman move, that’s it.” The way he says it makes you grit your teeth. “I just don’t get why you’re so angry about it— why do you hate me so much?”

“Because!” You explode. “Because you annoy the shit out of me. Because of you wake me up at 6 a.m. to run. Because you beat my ass during combat training every time, as if letting me win would give you hives. Because you’re too fucking nice and then you’re the Captain again and it’s fucking confusing!”

Because the idea of you dating Steve Rogers is fucking preposterous and you don’t get why suddenly everyone is bothering you about it.

“I’ve done nothing but try and help you. We were fine 10 minutes ago—”

“I can’t tell if you want to help or just sanitize me. You tell me I’m enough when it’s just so obvious I’m not. Just tell me you hate me back, Rogers.” He shakes his head, and you hit his chest, fruitlessly trying to shove him away. “Come on! Be angry back. Say it. I hate you.”

“Stop.” He grabs one of your arms, then the other when you don’t relent. He’s so gentle about it that it makes your eyes well up. “Stop—”

“You hate HYDRA. And you hate me. Just fucking say it—”

“I can’t! I don’t hate you. I don’t. I’m sorry.” His words finally do the trick; you slack on his hold, nearly collapsing into his chest. “I care about you and you— you need to start dealing with that.”

You suck in a sharp breath - the weight of today’s events crashing down all at once - and you finally understand the reason behind your mood swing. Despite Nemo’s rule, you have been overthinking non stop. He cares, even if you don’t deserve it. You only hate his guts some of the time. And you have to deal with that.

The reason why you can’t fucking stand all the nagging is because you know can’t allow yourself to want a silly, normal thing like a date. Not yet.

Steve splays a large hand at your back, the other resting at your hair as your breathing returns to normal. His steady presence helps - you even let a tear or two fall, but you’re composed again in a few minutes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. Thanks for— everything you’ve been doing. And sorry.”

He moves as if he’s not going to let you step away, but his hands fall at his sides. “It’s okay. You’ve had a tough day.”

You scoff. “It’s not okay, Rogers! God. Stop being so… understanding.” You say, putting your hands on your hips but doing your best to keep your attitude at bay. Apologies are not your strong suit. “I’m sorry for a reason. So you have to say ‘apology accepted’ so we can move on.”

Steve raises one eyebrow. “Apology accepted,”

“Great.” You nod. “What now?”

He blinks, finally averting his eyes from you as he looks back to the main street. “There’s a station down two blocks away. Or we can… get a cab.” You make a face, and he nods in agreement. “I could hot wire a car. Maybe not the best idea.”

“You want to steal a car?” You frown. “You know how to steal a car?”

It’s not like the idea isn’t exciting. But the image of Steve Rogers hot wiring a car seems a little surreal to you. Then again, he’s been in the army. He probably knows how to do a lot of illegal shit.

“I’d just return it tomorrow.” He chuckles when you deflate. “Guess we’re taking the train. We can ask Nat to get us at the Compound station.”

“God, this is so humiliating.”

“Sam, then.”

“That’s not better.”

“Better than walk—” His words are cut off by the screeching of tires next to you.

It’s the Jeep.

It’s James Buchanan Barnes.

“Yeah yeah, I was nearly at the Interstate but I felt bad. I think it’s gonna rain. Get in.”

You don’t waste any time. He’s here and it beats asking for Sam, or Nat, to rescue you. Even though you’re itching to get home, to barge into her room and tell her all about it.

“Fucking hell, Bucky. You’re an asshole. Fuck you.”

He grimaces. “Deserved that. Sorry.”

Steve is still out of the car, bracing his hands on the passenger window. “Get out. Let’s switch.” Bucky tilts his head. “You don’t have a license.”

“I’m 93 years old. I know how to drive.” He pauses, then entering a glaring contest with Steve. “I’m an Avenger - sort of. Doubt my lack of license will be their first concern when pulling us over.”

Steve just stares. Your eyes flit from him, to Bucky, and back. Finally, Barnes just sighs and allows the other nonagenarian to take the wheel.

“I could drive.” You’re also an Avenger - sort of.

They both turn to you at the same time. “No.”

Jesus. Okay then.

You don’t go back to the diner on next Friday’s deprogramming session - Steve couldn’t make it, so you and Bucky decided to not go without him despite his protests. Neither of you have valid licenses, after all. Instead you two lounged under the sun and Bucky made you a rum and coke so large that kept you drunk for three hours.

It’s for the best. You went for the intensive program - between two or three sessions a week - and you were in need of something to take off the extra edge.

Shuri’s prodding at your brain is showing results - if those are good or bad, it’s yet to be decided. Your powers have been slipping out of control more often. Tony finally got that nobreak for his Pac-Man machine. You’re running through electric toothbrushes faster than a piranha, but - strangely - you haven’t had a headache in days. The crossroads approaches, you can feel it; you’re gonna have to make a decision soon. Finish the job and lose the little control you had, meaning learning to use your powers from like a baby deer learning to walk, with imminent risk of causing more damage than you can afford, or cutting it short and dealing with a possible head implosion.

It’s great.

You already know what Steve’s opinion is, but you’re yet to make up your own mind about it. You appreciate his faith in you - and everyone else’s. But the more faith they have, the more disappointment you can cause.

It’s getting increasingly harder to detach yourself from them, and if you’re being real honest, you’ve already stopped trying. Whatever plans you’ve had of figuring out your faulty powers and bolting, fading back into anonymity, has been crushed way before the media started calling you Dynamo.

It’s terrifying, because even if bleak, that was a known path forward. And now, you can’t see anything clearly ahead. Just that crossroads.

You’re not fully healed from your old ways, though. Steve Rogers is on national television, back under the limelight and the scrutiny of a bleached blonde host wearing a brightly-colored skirt suit. And you made watching the interview a personal form of self-flagellation.

Holed up in your room, eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet Stark had lent you - you didn’t go for the big TV because Natasha would chastise you for doing this. But you can’t help it. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel… even.

You mute the TV when a picture of you is shown on screen. You look serious, geared up, menacing. The kinda side of yourself the mirror never shows. The question the host asks Steve makes him look to the floor, and you’re glad you can’t hear his answer. Something akin to the one he gave about the risks of allowing Bucky to walk free, you’re sure. You catch the twitch of his lips, the tension in his knuckles. But he takes it in stride, flashing a charming smile when he’s done. Of course he does. He’s Steve Rogers, and the people love him.T

hat’s why he goes to that stuff and not you, or Nat, much less Bucky.

Truth be told, you’re dying to break this cycle, maybe burn the Compound to the ground and throw Captain America’s shield in the garbage. It would cause havoc, for sure. But it would set you all free.

He ends the interview with some heartfelt speech about everyone’s part in keeping the peace. The audience claps.

You wrap your arms around your knees.

You half-watch-half-look at a couple of episodes of Survivor before getting up, headed towards the big kitchen on the communal floor below. There’s a hole in your middle that can only possibly be fixed with food.

And there he is.

Leaning over the balcony, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He got back quicker than you expected, no doubt taking the motorcycle or a helicopter to the CBS News Headquarters.

“Does alcohol have any effect on you?”

You expected him to startle - he doesn’t.

“No. This is mostly wishful thinking,” Steve says, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

“All this pressure and you can’t even be an alcoholic about it. Shame.”

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” He shrugs. “What are you doing up this late?”

You give him a look. You’re positive it’s barely past 11 p.m. “What am I, fourteen?” You retort and he flashes you a sheepish, tired smile. “I wanted a snack. Then I saw you were back from the interview, brooding and trying to get yourself drunk.”

“I wasn’t brooding. I just… needed some air.” He clears his throat. “The interview went well, I mean. But it’s a whole thing. Wardrobe, hair, microphones, shaking hands. The commute.”

You raise your eyebrow, wondering why he can’t bring himself to say the word tired. “As well as something can go when Kaitlyn Holloway and her pink blazer are trying to get you to say something compromising.”

“You watched it.”

“Don’t tell Nat.” You nod when he does. “Figured I should. I put it on mute when you were talking about me though.”

Steve sips his drink and makes a face. “Only good things.”

Laughter escapes you, getting him to raise his head to look at you. “Right, I forget. You’re Steve Rogers and you’re incapable of hating anyone.”

The things he told you last week have been carved into your head. You couldn’t stop mulling it over, and over.

He shakes his head. “No, I hate plenty of things. Like crude language. Wet snow. Bullies.” You knit your eyebrows. Wet snow is new. “…I hate HYDRA and I hate what they’ve done to you. To Bucky.”

Your hands tighten against the railing. “And I hate what the army did to you. What S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hoss are doing.” Your vision goes blurry, and you have to close your eyes.

He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I volunteered for all of that.”

“It’s still—”

“Bullshit?”

You draw in a sharp breath. “Yeah. But no. It’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. I just never saw it that way I s’pose.” His eyes are focused on the horizon, and then his gaze lowers. You shift on your feet.

He doesn’t have to say it. It’s duty. To him, it’s what all of this has always been about.

“Can I ask you a question?” You suddenly feel cold and under dressed, especially comparing your large T-shirt and shorts to Steve’s more formal attire. But that is not unusual. He looks at you, so openly that it makes you shiver. Maybe it’s just the cold wind. “About what you said that day… at the gym. That you can’t, you know—”

He blinks, the memory probably resurfacing. It’s kind of been a long time since you had sex. “Yeah…it’s a bonus effect of the serum apparently. Once you have a family, your priorities change. Serving the country is not your biggest concern anymore, so they went ahead and made sure to kill any chance of that happening.”

Your mouth parts. “You didn’t know,” It comes out in a whisper.

He shakes his head. He’s looking at the whiskey like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Found out after I was thawed out. Routine check-up.”

You clench your fingers. You’re not sure what to say. It makes you want to punch someone – not him this time – but someone.

It’s not fucking fair.

It takes you a moment to answer. “So stubborn as you are, you went and got yourself a family anyways.” You say, gesturing vaguely at the place the Avengers made into their home and trying on a lighthearted tone. You can only hope it works. “And now they’re your biggest priority instead.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s why you gave up the shield to Tony, isn’t it? And that you have to do everything S.W.O.R.D. tells you to—”

“Not everything—”

“But a lot.”

He nods.

“So they let you get them out of the Raft and come live here.”

He nods again.

“I don’t think they’d want this if they knew, Steve.”

“They know and they don’t.”

You stare at him for a second.

“So just—pack your bags and get out of here! Retire or something. Get out of character.”

“I can’t retire. I can help people for a long time still. Besides, people don’t like me out of character. They want Captain America,”

“I don’t.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, fair enough. Is that why you’re always trying to make me lose my temper?”

“Maybe.” You smile coyly. “I’m not saying I like you for you or anything. Just that what I see behind the mask – the shield – is better. ‘Cause it’s real.”

“Look… I’m not two people in one, darlin’. There isn’t this interior battle, or mask, that you think there is. The Captain is me. I’m not sure I know how to not be that anymore. It makes things easier.”

“For who?”

“For everyone,”

“I’m not everyone.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely one of a kind.”

“And you make my life very not-easy.” Understatement of the century.

He chuckles. “This place… might not be paradise, but it has a purpose. Look around you. Controlled environment and plenty of support for Bucky, amnesty for Natasha, a safe place for Wanda… it’s not like you’ve done any differently. You’re using this place and its resources as much as I am.”

“It’s different. I’m doing this because I wanted to. I’m selfish. I was reluctant at first… but it was my choice for my own benefit.” He doesn’t seem to agree, but you only shrug. “I just think you should start doing what you want for a change.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve leans in, and it’s like he’s captured you with nothing but his eyes. So, so blue. And grey. Like the sky, that is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. Tonight, you can almost see stars in them if you look hard enough. While you were caught, you hadn’t noticed his hand come up to tuck your hair behind your ear, stopping when it cups your jaw.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, like it’s a secret. Because it might be.

“I’m doing what I want, for a change.”

His nose brushes yours before he kisses you, much less urgently than last time. It’s tender. So much so it leaves you paralyzed, your fingers tingling.

You don’t know what to do; this is a one of a kind thing to you. He kisses you like he wants you to sigh when you think about him. Like he wants you to write his name on your notebook and circle it with a heart. Like… like he wants you.

When he pulls back, your eyes are still closed. He’s smiling when you finally open them, a crooked thing. None of that poster-like shit.

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

You stand there, shell shocked, willing yourself to move and to affirm that you hate him. You can’t.

Steve Rogers picks up the empty glass and starts making his way back inside, stopping to look at you before closing the sliding doors. He stays there for a bit, nodding as if he’s decided something, and then holds the doors open, half inside and looking back at you in invitation. You hesitate for a split second. Then, your legs begin moving, half on their own accord, and he smiles like the sun.

[emwritesstuff]

@nekoannie-chan @alessandraavengers @js-favnanadoongi @bean-bean2000 @masterofnonesstuff @reejero @agentxx92 @mimimarvelingmarvel @spn-imagines-fics @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @soupiemeowmeow

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 8.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: Denial is a river in Egypt. (warnings: mentions of human experimentation, unresolved feelings, YEARNING, protective! steve) (5,039 words)

8: GRAVITATIONAL PULL

Steve Rogers, as it turns out, is one fucking sore loser.

So far, he’s been fine and dandy kicking your ass during close combat training, with an unchanging score of 10-0 every single time. This is the only time this week that you spent more than 5 minutes in the same room. It’s been so peaceful.

You’re 8-6, you were promised a break once you’ve gotten him to say “fold” a 5th time, but here you are at round number 15 with no signs of stopping. All because you’ve started to learn to redirect the kinetic energy (Bruce taught you that) of his blows into your own movements, finally standing at somewhat equal level during fights with the super-soldiers.

“Rogers—” You nearly snarl as he slams you down on the mat, trying to get his attention again by punching his bicep. “I need a fucking break. We need a break.”

He doesn’t seem he’s listening, so focused on beating you he doesn’t even answer you right away. With an exhale he releases most of the hold he has on you, despite not disengaging immediately. You tell yourself the weight of his body bothers you, and tap his arm again.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, rolling off from on top of you.

“God, finally.” You manage to finally get up, reaching up for your water bottle. You’re spent. You might not even have the energy to argue with him this time. “What’s going on?”

Steve doesn’t even look at you. It’s like he can’t, and normally you wouldn’t care about whatever is troubling him. But like previously stated, things have gotten… complicated. Complex.

“They want us back on the field. I’ve been trying to delay this as much as can, but the missions are piling up. Hoss’ visit last week was his first warning.” You don’t really know what he’s means about warning, but he doesn’t explain. “I’m just… I’m distracted. Stressed. ”

“So you took that out on me? I’m not your fucking punchbag, you asshole. ” You complain, putting your hands on your hips. Steve is looking up at you, bracing his hands on his knees. You make sure to demonstrate zero sympathy. “What exactly are these missions?”

“The kind where the U.S. Defense Department should be deploying his military, but sends us instead.” Natasha pipes in, hopping down from her treadmill. “To fight for the country’s imperialistic affairs instead of everyone’s benefit.”Steve nods.“The Avengers are supposed to take care of international level threats. Aliens and terrorists, not a country with different interests than theirs. And because of the Sokovia Accords, we don’t have agency anymore. Not even me.” Steve says, and your jaw goes slack.

“Making us mercenaries.”“Government-issued mercenaries, pretty much. Orders are orders,” Nat complements.“This is such—”

“Bullshit, yeah.” Steve runs his hands through his hair, and you share a look with Nat. You’ve never seen him like this. Maybe she has, although she seems just as stunned as you are right now. “They want you to go, too.”

“Okay? I’m not stoked about it, but I’ll go,” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem satisfied.It’s surprising they want that considering how the last mission went - but you figure a faulty super weapon is better than nothing. It’s an awfully familiar feeling.

He gets up, rolling his shoulders back. You can almost hear the tension making his muscles snap. “I’d rather you not be involved in any of this. None of you, really.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Drop it. You play the martyr enough, Cap.” You have to agree. And he’s incredibly annoying for it. “But he’s not wrong, Sparky. The less you put yourself under that HYDRA training of yours, the better.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “Not you too! I already said I’m fine.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s not exactly a fun time, sure. That’s why… I’ve been considering setting up an appointment with Shuri. Also, HYDRA can get fucked.”

The confession makes Steve breathe out, like a cloud has been dispersed. He nods at you and you point a finger at him.

“No promises— just one day, one check-up. It’s good that you’re both here, actually.” You inhale, preparing yourself to ask the question. No better time than now, you suppose. “I want to talk to Steiner again. This motherfucker knew all about stuff I didn’t even know I could do and is apparently my only source of knowledge about myself. I need some answers and I was wondering if you two could go with me? I doubt Fury will clear me to go there again, with or without company, so—”

It’s Nat who cuts off your rambling. “So you want someone to go against Fury’s orders with you.” She tilts her head.

“Basically, yeah. Well, not really orders. Advice. Principles?”

“I’m already there, babe.” Nat has a smirk on her face.

You breathe a sigh of relief, then bite your bottom lip when you look at Steve, with his hands on his hips and concern on his face.

There’s a phase of Steve Rogers’ you’re nostalgic about without ever experiencing it yourself: when Bucky Barnes was revealed as the Winter Soldier and he went against everyone and everything because he believe in his best friend. That confidence.

That faith.

“Look. I know you’re Complacent-Cap right now, but—” “I’m in.”

Oh. Okay.

“Alright. Cool. This might— I mean, if it works, one less problem for you, huh? And just for the record, there’s other ways for you to relieve stress that aren’t wrestling me, you know?”

You blink once you realize how your sentence sounds. Steve blushes. You can feel your cheeks getting warmer, too.

Is Nat still here?

Jesus Christmas.

“Not that I’m offering any of… that. I’m not.”

Steve clears his throat, rubbing the back of his very pink neck. Thankfully, Romanoff saves the day. “Come on, Sparky. Let’s hit the showers.”

Can’t come with: distracting One-eyed Eagle. Don’t do anything too stupid. x

You stare at the text as if Nat is going to reply with a Just Kidding! But the cold at the pit of your stomach confirms this isn’t a prank - it’s very unlike Natasha Romanoff, too.

“She’s not coming.” You tell Steve, furrowing your brows when he nods.

“I know. Last minute meeting with Fury. She can still buy us time, though.”

Great. They both knew about this in advance, and Natasha decided to tell you one single minute ago because she knew you’d want to postpone your visit to Dr. Steiner.

Now you have to share a Jeep with Steve Rogers.At least it’s a car, and not his Harley. You don’t need that extra edge.

He gives you a full body check before leaving, but you don’t need help with your seat belt this time. The silence is as loud as the bike’s rumbling, though.

You hate it, as much as you hate how his jaw is set and focused while you’re fidgety and restless.

You didn’t think you’d come to regret your escapade with Steve Rogers, at least not like this. Things have been different since then. If you walk into a room, he leaves it. Distant. Or he doesn’t, then he’s gentle and warm. It’s fucking confusing.

The radio becomes your first attempt at a distraction, skipping stations and messing with the volume dial until your anxiety is hopefully muted.

His eyes flit towards your hand once. Twice. “Can’t you just pick a station?”

“Nothing’s calling to me.”

“Then just turn it off.”

You huff, harshly turning the dial until the radio went off. “I guess a silent, awkward car ride will be good. It’s a good change from the anxiety,”

With arms crossed against your chest you turn to the window, watching the trees speed by in a blur of green. It’s nice out here, upstate. It would be nicer if this road trip was in fact a road trip and not you walking head first into a mousetrap.

On your peripheral, you see him tighten his hold on the steering wheel. “Why is this awkward?”

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you haven’t been avoiding me like I have the boils.”

“I’m not avoiding you like you have the boils.”

You scoff. “This is why I wanted Nat. We jumped each other’s bones once and you can’t even—”

“Jesus, why do you have to say it like that?”“—be in the same room as me!” “We trained together yesterday.” And it still felt like you weren’t even there. “Yeah? How about the past few weeks?” “Do you even want me around?”

You want to throw something at him. Your boots would do, if it lacing them up wasn’t so much work. “No.”

“Alright. Then why does it matter if I’m avoiding you?” “Oh, so you are avoiding me! Finally.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought you hated me.” “I do. But this is making shit worse, Steve.”

“How?”

“It’s making it weird.”

“God, you’re impossible.” Steve sighs. “…I told you I wasn’t good at casual stuff.”

You can see the silhouette of the confinement facility approaching. Maybe it’s because you were pushing his buttons, but Steve has been pushing the pedal: you don’t remember the ride being this short, last time.

“Rogers, we’re adults. That didn’t change anything, and it doesn’t make things between us casual.”

“Doesn’t it? You act very casual about it.”

You scoff. “It was one time, and like you said that day, it’s not happening again. I don’t care that you regret it.” He exhales, and since you’re looking right at him you see when his throat bobs. “That’s not— I don’t—”

Your eyes narrow, stopping him right before he starts the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit. “So don’t worry about hurting my feelings or whatever, okay? I’m not catchin’em.”

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough for the oppressive concrete building to be right in front of you now: you’ve arrived.

His eyes are ahead as men carrying heavy firearms approach; you hate that you can identify the exact model. Heckler & Koch. German submachines. Quick-firing, nasty little things.

“You got it all wrong, you know.” He says quietly, looking at you finally after identifying himself at the gate.

The words make you frown. His eyes are softer than you anticipated, and his fingers twitch over the steering wheel.

There’s a knock at the window. The guard gives Steve a nod. “Welcome back, Captain Rogers.”

Oh yeah. You’re seeing Steiner today. Right now, in fact.

This has been a decent distraction, all things considered.

Your legs feel like jelly as you climb out of the car. Blood roars in your ears as you walk inside the prison, tailed closely by Captain Rogers himself. His presence at your side makes Hermann Steiner raise his unkempt grey eyebrows.

“You’ve brought in a friend today, Fräulein.”

“Hardly.”

The mad-doctor shakes his head, amused. Rogers is outside the visitation room, leaning against the wall too lackadaisically to be anything but intentional. You know he’s coiled tight and ready to snap, if needed.

“Did you watch the little video I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“And I take it you’re making use of your - our - secret ingredient? You look much better than last time.”

You dip your head.

Of course, he’s not wrong about that. It was his plan all along, and as far as he knows, everything is going according to it. You’re back, right in front of him again.

“That’s why I’m here, actually.” Your leg is bouncing. “It’s not really a secret anymore - and I found someone that can wipe it right off me. Isn’t that great?”

The doctor’s eyes widen, and he moves as if to reach for you if he wasn’t restrained in the chair. “You cannot do this!”

“It’s not you, it’s me. Yadda-yadda.”

“You have no idea what you’ll unleash - your powers, you - were not made for this. Believe me when I say you need everything that is within you. The way your body reacts when you use your skills, the threat of shutting down— it is all by design.”

“Here’s the thing: it’s not just when I use them. It’s killing me, you fucker.”

He looks down, having the nerve to look sad about it. “It is necessary.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, Fräulein— I do. I made you.”

“What, from clay?”

“I am a mere geneticist, not a sculptor. No, dearest. Your DNA was engineered to be HYDRA’s perfect weapon. Every weapon needs an off switch.”

Engineered DNA. If there was ever any hope you were anything but Frankenstein’s monster, it had been squashed under Steiner’s government-issued rubber clogs.

When you say nothing, he continues: “Indeed these symptoms should not be happening when you’re not manipulating energy, but I suppose no experiment is predictable.”

Your lip twitches in disgust. “You knew I could do more than just electricity.” He perks up in his seat. “I was not exaggerating when I said I made you, Fräulein. Von Strucker too arrogant to believe I could create such power… too cautious to allow you to truly bloom. But look now: that brief conversation of ours and you have already grown to such heights.”

“Oh, you’re not trying to take the fucking credit for this.” You have to grip the seat of your chair to keep yourself from lunging at him.

“Think of what you could achieve under my guidance. Get me out of this cage and you’ll see the glorious future we could make… shaping the world as we see fit.”

“You’re so desperate it’s sad. You want me to break you out for what? So I can go back to being your guinea pig? Your weapon?” You scoff, crossing your arms against your chest.

“Is that not what you are?” “Shut. Up.” Steiner smiles. It makes you sick.

“You were not designed to function on your own, dear girl. You must accept this truth.” There’s heavy dread at the pit of your stomach, weighing you down further with every word that comes out of his mouth. “Like it or not, you need me. You were born for the use of HYDRA.” “Trust me, I’d let my brain implode before I see you wearing a lab coat ever again, Doctor. The cell bars suit you better.”

“Fräulein, Fräulein…You’d risk the lives of all of these people you seem to care so much about? You have no idea the damage you can cause without strict control.”

“Do you?”

He hesitates for a second. And it’s enough: the things he’d revealed throughout your conversation made it seem like he also didn’t know the full extent of your powers. Did he even know about Joule’s Principle? How much of his knowledge about you was confined to simple theories and speculation?

“I’ve seen the news, about Union City. You think that was a simple miscalculation on your part? An accident? I wonder if your little Avenger friends will see you any differently when one of them becomes a casualty.”

You get up abruptly, eyes searching for Steve Rogers on the other side of the glass. He’s not there. You blink, wetting your dry lips with your tongue. You never wanted less privacy than in this moment.

“Do not forget my words, my dear. I know what I created. You are smart, despite all your poor decisions. ”

“Fuck you, Steiner.”

He’s about to open his mouth when the door slams open and Steve walks in, flanked by two armed prison guards. They take Hermann Steiner away, but his smug smile remains in the room with you.

You’re still looking at the empty chair when Steve murmurs your name.

You have to swallow the involuntary sigh of relief that comes up when you look up at him. “How much did you hear?”

He rolls his shoulders, as if to shrug away the tension before answering.

“Enough.”

The ride back was also silent and tense, but in a different, heavier way. You almost wish you still had it in you to keep on bickering with Steve about the nameless thing you had going on.

Steve had slowed down the car once a message from Fury had come in, Natasha’s bought time run out at last.

You both, my office. No detours.

His effort was commendable, but your hands were clammy as you recalled the conversation at the prison, chest tightening with each mile you got closer to the compound. Dr. Steiner’s words simmered inside your head. When one of them becomes a casualty. When, not if.

Nick Fury’s office is dark and imposing, with a security system rival to the Pentagon. At least you assumed. He gestures for you to take one of the leather chairs in front of his desk but Steve chooses to stand, hovering behind you like a concrete wall. Fury gives him a brief glare for that.

“I was under the assumption your stay at the compound was to rehabilitate you from HYDRA, not to make family visits to them.”

“That piece of shit is not my fucking family.” You feel Steve shift at your back, but you can’t bother with censoring your words right now. “If you’re so against HYDRA, why do you want me to use the programming they gave me? You saw the video, you know who used to train me.”

“You know better than anyone that can never work, Nick.” Steve adds, and your lips purse. “Bucky thought he was hopeless but he’s been doing better. It can be the same for her.”

Fury sighs. “This isn’t all just up to me, Cap. We’re all making concessions here. Not just you. This place is balanced precariously on top of what S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D. and the government wants and what you - we - think it’s the right thing. One slip and it all crumbles.” He knocks over a decorative pile of blocks to get his point across.

“I insisted for her to consider the deprogramming. This was on me.” You frown at Steve, and he nods back at you.

“I’m sure it was, Cap. And that’s exactly what I’ll be putting on the incident report.”

You hate the politics game, and you hate yourself for walking willingly into it. Now you’re too tangled into it to walk out. One wrong move, the wrong piece removed, and everything collapses like a stupid game of Jenga.

“Do you understand my job here now, recruit?” The way he refers to you make you blink, your attention on him fully. You nod weakly. “The Sokovia Accords are still in effect. Rogers breaks them, it’s a misjudgement; he’s a war hero. You break them, you get a ticket to the Raft.”

“Fury.”

“You’ve already threatened me with that.” You say, taking one of the little blocks and flicking it away. “You wanna lock me up? Do it. I’m done taking orders and being a good little tool for some ruling power to use. The US of A, Nazis, whoever.”

Fury follows the block, shaking his head.

“That’s the thing. I could do it: I don’t want to have to. But I need you to cooperate. S.W.O.R.D has interest in you, and that gives you some leverage.” You roll your eyes. “For now, anyway. You’re on thin ice, Sparky.”

“Don’t call me that. And I’m pretty sure this is carpet.”

He leans back on his chair, opening his arms in resignation. Still, his point was not completely off. You’re sure he knows that, and that’s exactly why he’s letting you have the last word.

You and Rogers walk together to the elevator. He lives one floor above you, and now you’re thankful the Compound is large enough to help you avoid each other. You’re not sure you can make a sensible decision when he’s looking at you like that. Because it makes you feel safe. And that is very, very dangerous.

One strike, you’re out. You could either conform and be exactly what the people you despise want you to be or set yourself loose, becoming what they already think you are. A weapon of mass destruction in both outcomes. No matter which path you went on, you had a feeling that it was only a matter of time until disaster struck anyway.

You were born for HYDRA to use. I know what I created.

Now you’re close to being something S.W.O.R.D. could use.

Steve stops the elevator from closing once it stops on your floor. “I won’t let them take you to the Raft. Whatever you decide.”

You let out a breath, glaring at the ceiling before turning back to him with your eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? A few months ago you’d fly me over personally.”

He shrugs. There’s the danger.

“Promise?” Your voice is softer than expected when you say it.

“Yeah. I promise.”

You chuckle. “Okay. When can Shuri see me?”

“We ever met? You know, before.”

You forget what Bucky’s voice sounds like sometimes. He doesn’t hang out with anyone that much, the exception being Steve, and lately, you. He’s the kind of guy who tolerates few people, and you seem to be one of those now. It’s surprising.

He still keeps quiet most of the time though. Just sits there, like a weirdo.

You don’t mind it— also surprising. Maybe he finds solace in the fact you both share a messed-up history, like two co-workers would with a shitty boss. Which is putting it lightly, but it’s not innacurate, either.

His question makes you open your eyes, squinting them at the sunshine immediately after. “No. The Winter Soldier was just something the overseers would use to make us behave.” He turns to you with a confused frown on his face. “The Soldat doesn’t like naughty children! You know, like the world’s worst Santa,”

Bucky lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.

“Why do you ask?” You say, sitting up in your lounge chair.

Another thing you share is your taste for is toasting like lizards under the sun. Maybe it’s all those years living in military bases where frost is eternal and sleeping in cryo-freeze pods instead of beds; it didn’t surprise you when he plopped down on the lounger next to yours 20 minutes ago, likely eager to unwind after another deprogramming session. You never ask how it went, and you think he appreciates that.

Your own first session is happening later this week.

“I was just remembering how we wouldn’t really talk when you first got here.” He shrugs. “And wondering if… If I did something, to you, back then,” He confesses quickly, the words coming out as if they were one single thing.

“Buck, we never ran into one another until I stepped into this place. I wasn’t ready to hang out with anyone who didn’t force themselves onto me.” It’s an honest answer; he seems relieved. “Besides, back then it wouldn’t have been you. It would’ve been him - the Soldat.”

He groans. “You sound just like Steve.”

You make a face from the comparison. Bucky can’t be more wrong.

“Okay— the sun is shining, I’m in a bikini, so please don’t ruin my good mood.” You let out a huff when he laughs. “I’m dead serious.”

“Me too.”

“Where’s he at, by the way? Don’t you guys go get burgers and fries after your thing?” It’s Wednesday - Barnes and Rogers always go to a vintage diner in the city for an early lunch after the appointment with Shuri.

Yeah, yeah. You know their schedule. Pathetic, but you’re too observant not to pick these details up. Old men and their 11 a.m lunches.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “He can’t take a day off to save his life—”

“Hoss?”

“Nah, he was done with that two weeks ago. Poor bastard. It’s this talk show he’s going to at NBC or somethin’ like that. Everyone wants to know about Dynamo,”

You had a feeling that your debut as a recruit Avenger would gather media attention. “Great. I’m sure he’ll tell everyone what a great hero I am.”

“I’m sure he’ll keep everyone happy like he did after Union City. He’s not really known for lying, though.”

You blow air through your lips at his words. You didn’t like remembering how Steve had spent hours with the press because of your fiasco, because it made you feel bad and hate him a little less.

A few seconds of breeze fill the silence.

“I don’t think I deserve all that.” You say quietly, without thinking.

You were already aware of what he’s sacrificed for his friends. Appeasing the press, handing over the shield to Tony Stark. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D and the U.S. agenda. Explanations, penance, compromise. Now you’ve been dragged into it, and you wish the way you feel about the whole Steve Rogers/Captain America situation could be as simple as it was when you first got here.

“Well it’s not all that and it’s not all for you, don’t flatter yourself too much.”

“Oh fuck you, Winter Cuckoo-Bananas.” Bucky is grinning despite the name calling and the amount of profanity you mutter under your breath. “Could I wallow in self-pity for once? Thanks.”

He nods, and you fall back into amiable silence. The pressure in you chest eases.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I do, either.”

“Bullshit, Buck.” He gives you a look, but you only shrug. The name slipped out despite your better judgment, and you wonder for a moment if he’s looking at you that way because Buck is a privilege reserved to Rogers or because you sound just like him again. Fuck. “You might not be the same heartthrob you were in the 40’s, but doesn’t mean you’re not still salvageable.”

“I thought we were having self-pity time, Sparks. Let me have this.”

“Save it to your next therapy session.” Bucky whines. You both laugh. “Just saying though— a haircut might do you wonders.”

“Same to you.”

He doesn’t specify if it’s about therapy, a haircut or all of what has been discussed previously.

“Please. The sewer rat look makes everyone fall at my feet,”

“Yeah. From fright.”

Your head snaps in his direction, arm reaching to punch his ribs but he reacts faster, dodging your blow and pushing your lounger away.

“Shut up, Barnes.”

“Hey, you started it. I’m just stronger. And faster.” You roll your eyes, recomposing yourself. Bucky sighs, making you look at him. “I know you’re anxious about this whole thing. But Steve — he’s got you.”

“It’s not really Steve I’m worried about.”

The biggest surprise of them all.

He hums. “You’re already on the right track, with the deprogramming and everything. If I deserve a second chance, you do too.”

You bite your bottom lip. The sun warming your skin makes you feel more positive than usual. “I really hope you’re right, Bucky.”

0300 hours.

He’s laying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 3 a.m. and Steve Rogers hasn’t slept a wink. The red numbers on the alarm clock seems to be laughing at him, and it’s all because of her.

Time is not something that has been on Steve’s side, not since 1943 when he took the damned serum. He’s been out of time, on the wrong time, and now he’s running out of it. He needs to get his friends out of this compound and away from S.W.O.R.D’s orders and scrutiny, but Bucky’s not quite done with his deprogramming yet. Sparky’s first session is tomorrow. She’ll need time too.

He needs to hold the fort a while longer.

He’s also running out of patience to keep everyone’s moods placated. Tony Stark, Hoss, NBC. Conflict seems imminent and inevitable, no matter how much he puts himself in between the clash. It doesn’t help that he can’t get his mind off the harbinger of it all.

Don’t worry about hurting my feelings or whatever. I’m not catchin’em.

This is why he doesn’t flipping do casual.

He’s more than familiar with one night stands— he’s not dead and he’s never been a prude in between sheets, either. But it’s one thing when both parties go their own ways, not seeing the other again if they can help it. That’s easy.

But with her, nothing is ever easy.

She’s difficult and it makes everything difficult, too.

Bothered by his distance and bothered when he’s near. It takes everything in him not to fight her, demand a clear statement over her feelings, expose his own. The avoidance is the only way he still finds some semblance of control over himself, and she can’t even give him that.

She takes and she takes, his resistance meager at best.

Steve pulls the bed sheet from his legs, and stalks over to the living room he shares with Bucky. His best friend has fallen asleep on the couch, holding on to a bucket of popcorn as if it was a cushion. It’s half empty. Steve takes it from his hands and places it on the coffee table before making his way down to the gym.

The truth is that he wants her. Badly. He wants her when she gives him attitude and he wants her when it’s just the two of them and her guard is down by just a little. She makes him want to hit something, like this punching bag, and protect her from the world. Show her how ugly and wonderful it really is.

Kiss her until it bruises.

Break every rule just to see how her eyes sparkle.

Steve can’t name the feeling. But it’s there, stretched taut like a string.

He can feel it, ready to snap, everything he’s built of himself hanging by a thread and she had been the one to unravel it.

It’s laughable.

The terrible truth that if she were to ask, he’d hand everything out willingly, too.

Laughable how he came down here to get his mind off things, off her, and he still hopes she’ll come through the sliding doors like the last time.

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 8.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: Denial is a river in Egypt. (warnings: mentions of human experimentation, unresolved feelings, YEARNING, protective! steve) (5,039 words)

8: GRAVITATIONAL PULL

Steve Rogers, as it turns out, is one fucking sore loser.

So far, he’s been fine and dandy kicking your ass during close combat training, with an unchanging score of 10-0 every single time. This is the only time this week that you spent more than 5 minutes in the same room. It’s been so peaceful.

You’re 8-6, you were promised a break once you’ve gotten him to say “fold” a 5th time, but here you are at round number 15 with no signs of stopping. All because you’ve started to learn to redirect the kinetic energy (Bruce taught you that) of his blows into your own movements, finally standing at somewhat equal level during fights with the super-soldiers.

“Rogers—” You nearly snarl as he slams you down on the mat, trying to get his attention again by punching his bicep. “I need a fucking break. We need a break.”

He doesn’t seem he’s listening, so focused on beating you he doesn’t even answer you right away. With an exhale he releases most of the hold he has on you, despite not disengaging immediately. You tell yourself the weight of his body bothers you, and tap his arm again.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, rolling off from on top of you.

“God, finally.” You manage to finally get up, reaching up for your water bottle. You’re spent. You might not even have the energy to argue with him this time. “What’s going on?”

Steve doesn’t even look at you. It’s like he can’t, and normally you wouldn’t care about whatever is troubling him. But like previously stated, things have gotten… complicated. Complex.

“They want us back on the field. I’ve been trying to delay this as much as can, but the missions are piling up. Hoss’ visit last week was his first warning.” You don’t really know what he’s means about warning, but he doesn’t explain. “I’m just… I’m distracted. Stressed. ”

“So you took that out on me? I’m not your fucking punchbag, you asshole. ” You complain, putting your hands on your hips. Steve is looking up at you, bracing his hands on his knees. You make sure to demonstrate zero sympathy. “What exactly are these missions?”

“The kind where the U.S. Defense Department should be deploying his military, but sends us instead.” Natasha pipes in, hopping down from her treadmill. “To fight for the country’s imperialistic affairs instead of everyone’s benefit.”

Steve nods.

“The Avengers are supposed to take care of international level threats. Aliens and terrorists, not a country with different interests than theirs. And because of the Sokovia Accords, we don’t have agency anymore. Not even me.” Steve says, and your jaw goes slack.

“Making us mercenaries.”

“Government-issued mercenaries, pretty much. Orders are orders,” Nat complements.

“This is such—”

“Bullshit, yeah.” Steve runs his hands through his hair, and you share a look with Nat. You’ve never seen him like this. Maybe she has, although she seems just as stunned as you are right now. “They want you to go, too.”

“Okay? I’m not stoked about it, but I’ll go,” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem satisfied.It’s surprising they want that considering how the last mission went - but you figure a faulty super weapon is better than nothing. It’s an awfully familiar feeling.

He gets up, rolling his shoulders back. You can almost hear the tension making his muscles snap. “I’d rather you not be involved in any of this. None of you, really.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Drop it. You play the martyr enough, Cap.” You have to agree. And he’s incredibly annoying for it. “But he’s not wrong, Sparky. The less you put yourself under that HYDRA training of yours, the better.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “Not you too! I already said I’m fine.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s not exactly a fun time, sure. That’s why… I’ve been considering setting up an appointment with Shuri. Also, HYDRA can get fucked.”

The confession makes Steve breathe out, like a cloud has been dispersed. He nods at you and you point a finger at him.

“No promises— just one day, one check-up. It’s good that you’re both here, actually.” You inhale, preparing yourself to ask the question. No better time than now, you suppose. “I want to talk to Steiner again. This motherfucker knew all about stuff I didn’t even know I could do and is apparently my only source of knowledge about myself. I need some answers and I was wondering if you two could go with me? I doubt Fury will clear me to go there again, with or without company, so—”

It’s Nat who cuts off your rambling. “So you want someone to go against Fury’s orders with you.” She tilts her head.

“Basically, yeah. Well, not really orders. Advice. Principles?”

“I’m already there, babe.” Nat has a smirk on her face.

You breathe a sigh of relief, then bite your bottom lip when you look at Steve, with his hands on his hips and concern on his face.

There’s a phase of Steve Rogers’ you’re nostalgic about without ever experiencing it yourself: when Bucky Barnes was revealed as the Winter Soldier and he went against everyone and everything because he believe in his best friend. That confidence.

That faith.

“Look. I know you’re Complacent-Cap right now, but—” “I’m in.”

Oh. Okay.

“Alright. Cool. This might— I mean, if it works, one less problem for you, huh? And just for the record, there’s other ways for you to relieve stress that aren’t wrestling me, you know?”

You blink once you realize how your sentence sounds. Steve blushes. You can feel your cheeks getting warmer, too.

Is Nat still here?

Jesus Christmas.

“Not that I’m offering any of… that. I’m not.”

Steve clears his throat, rubbing the back of his very pink neck. Thankfully, Romanoff saves the day. “Come on, Sparky. Let’s hit the showers.”

Can’t come with: distracting One-eyed Eagle. Don’t do anything too stupid. x

You stare at the text as if Nat is going to reply with a Just Kidding! But the cold at the pit of your stomach confirms this isn’t a prank - it’s very unlike Natasha Romanoff, too.

“She’s not coming.” You tell Steve, furrowing your brows when he nods.

“I know. Last minute meeting with Fury. She can still buy us time, though.”

Great. They both knew about this in advance, and Natasha decided to tell you one single minute ago because she knew you’d want to postpone your visit to Dr. Steiner.

Now you have to share a Jeep with Steve Rogers.At least it’s a car, and not his Harley. You don’t need that extra edge.

He gives you a full body check before leaving, but you don’t need help with your seat belt this time. The silence is as loud as the bike’s rumbling, though.

You hate it, as much as you hate how his jaw is set and focused while you’re fidgety and restless.

You didn’t think you’d come to regret your escapade with Steve Rogers, at least not like this. Things have been different since then. If you walk into a room, he leaves it. Distant. Or he doesn’t, then he’s gentle and warm. It’s fucking confusing.

The radio becomes your first attempt at a distraction, skipping stations and messing with the volume dial until your anxiety is hopefully muted.

His eyes flit towards your hand once. Twice. “Can’t you just pick a station?”

“Nothing’s calling to me.”

“Then just turn it off.”

You huff, harshly turning the dial until the radio went off. “I guess a silent, awkward car ride will be good. It’s a good change from the anxiety,”

With arms crossed against your chest you turn to the window, watching the trees speed by in a blur of green. It’s nice out here, upstate. It would be nicer if this road trip was in fact a road trip and not you walking head first into a mousetrap.

On your peripheral, you see him tighten his hold on the steering wheel. “Why is this awkward?”

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you haven’t been avoiding me like I have the boils.”

“I’m not avoiding you like you have the boils.”

You scoff. “This is why I wanted Nat. We jumped each other’s bones once and you can’t even—”

“Jesus, why do you have to say it like that?”“—be in the same room as me!” “We trained together yesterday.” And it still felt like you weren’t even there. “Yeah? How about the past few weeks?” “Do you even want me around?”

You want to throw something at him. Your boots would do, if it lacing them up wasn’t so much work. “No.”

“Alright. Then why does it matter if I’m avoiding you?” “Oh, so you are avoiding me! Finally.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought you hated me.” “I do. But this is making shit worse, Steve.”

“How?”

“It’s making it weird.”

“God, you’re impossible.” Steve sighs. “…I told you I wasn’t good at casual stuff.”

You can see the silhouette of the confinement facility approaching. Maybe it’s because you were pushing his buttons, but Steve has been pushing the pedal: you don’t remember the ride being this short, last time.

“Rogers, we’re adults. That didn’t change anything, and it doesn’t make things between us casual.”

“Doesn’t it? You act very casual about it.”

You scoff. “It was one time, and like you said that day, it’s not happening again. I don’t care that you regret it.” He exhales, and since you’re looking right at him you see when his throat bobs. “That’s not— I don’t—”

Your eyes narrow, stopping him right before he starts the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit. “So don’t worry about hurting my feelings or whatever, okay? I’m not catchin’em.”

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough for the oppressive concrete building to be right in front of you now: you’ve arrived.

His eyes are ahead as men carrying heavy firearms approach; you hate that you can identify the exact model. Heckler & Koch. German submachines. Quick-firing, nasty little things.

“You got it all wrong, you know.” He says quietly, looking at you finally after identifying himself at the gate.

The words make you frown. His eyes are softer than you anticipated, and his fingers twitch over the steering wheel.

There’s a knock at the window. The guard gives Steve a nod. “Welcome back, Captain Rogers.”

Oh yeah. You’re seeing Steiner today. Right now, in fact.

This has been a decent distraction, all things considered.

Your legs feel like jelly as you climb out of the car. Blood roars in your ears as you walk inside the prison, tailed closely by Captain Rogers himself. His presence at your side makes Hermann Steiner raise his unkempt grey eyebrows.

“You’ve brought in a friend today, Fräulein.”

“Hardly.”

The mad-doctor shakes his head, amused. Rogers is outside the visitation room, leaning against the wall too lackadaisically to be anything but intentional. You know he’s coiled tight and ready to snap, if needed.

“Did you watch the little video I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“And I take it you’re making use of your - our - secret ingredient? You look much better than last time.”

You dip your head.

Of course, he’s not wrong about that. It was his plan all along, and as far as he knows, everything is going according to it. You’re back, right in front of him again.

“That’s why I’m here, actually.” Your leg is bouncing. “It’s not really a secret anymore - and I found someone that can wipe it right off me. Isn’t that great?”

The doctor’s eyes widen, and he moves as if to reach for you if he wasn’t restrained in the chair. “You cannot do this!”

“It’s not you, it’s me. Yadda-yadda.”

“You have no idea what you’ll unleash - your powers, you - were not made for this. Believe me when I say you need everything that is within you. The way your body reacts when you use your skills, the threat of shutting down— it is all by design.”

“Here’s the thing: it’s not just when I use them. It’s killing me, you fucker.”

He looks down, having the nerve to look sad about it. “It is necessary.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, Fräulein— I do. I made you.”

“What, from clay?”

“I am a mere geneticist, not a sculptor. No, dearest. Your DNA was engineered to be HYDRA’s perfect weapon. Every weapon needs an off switch.”

Engineered DNA. If there was ever any hope you were anything but Frankenstein’s monster, it had been squashed under Steiner’s government-issued rubber clogs.

When you say nothing, he continues: “Indeed these symptoms should not be happening when you’re not manipulating energy, but I suppose no experiment is predictable.”

Your lip twitches in disgust. “You knew I could do more than just electricity.” He perks up in his seat. “I was not exaggerating when I said I made you, Fräulein. Von Strucker too arrogant to believe I could create such power… too cautious to allow you to truly bloom. But look now: that brief conversation of ours and you have already grown to such heights.”

“Oh, you’re not trying to take the fucking credit for this.” You have to grip the seat of your chair to keep yourself from lunging at him.

“Think of what you could achieve under my guidance. Get me out of this cage and you’ll see the glorious future we could make… shaping the world as we see fit.”

“You’re so desperate it’s sad. You want me to break you out for what? So I can go back to being your guinea pig? Your weapon?” You scoff, crossing your arms against your chest.

“Is that not what you are?” “Shut. Up.” Steiner smiles. It makes you sick.

“You were not designed to function on your own, dear girl. You must accept this truth.” There’s heavy dread at the pit of your stomach, weighing you down further with every word that comes out of his mouth. “Like it or not, you need me. You were born for the use of HYDRA.” “Trust me, I’d let my brain implode before I see you wearing a lab coat ever again, Doctor. The cell bars suit you better.”

“Fräulein, Fräulein…You’d risk the lives of all of these people you seem to care so much about? You have no idea the damage you can cause without strict control.”

“Do you?”

He hesitates for a second. And it’s enough: the things he’d revealed throughout your conversation made it seem like he also didn’t know the full extent of your powers. Did he even know about Joule’s Principle? How much of his knowledge about you was confined to simple theories and speculation?

“I’ve seen the news, about Union City. You think that was a simple miscalculation on your part? An accident? I wonder if your little Avenger friends will see you any differently when one of them becomes a casualty.”

You get up abruptly, eyes searching for Steve Rogers on the other side of the glass. He’s not there. You blink, wetting your dry lips with your tongue. You never wanted less privacy than in this moment.

“Do not forget my words, my dear. I know what I created. You are smart, despite all your poor decisions. ”

“Fuck you, Steiner.”

He’s about to open his mouth when the door slams open and Steve walks in, flanked by two armed prison guards. They take Hermann Steiner away, but his smug smile remains in the room with you.

You’re still looking at the empty chair when Steve murmurs your name.

You have to swallow the involuntary sigh of relief that comes up when you look up at him. “How much did you hear?”

He rolls his shoulders, as if to shrug away the tension before answering.

“Enough.”

The ride back was also silent and tense, but in a different, heavier way. You almost wish you still had it in you to keep on bickering with Steve about the nameless thing you had going on.

Steve had slowed down the car once a message from Fury had come in, Natasha’s bought time run out at last.

You both, my office. No detours.

His effort was commendable, but your hands were clammy as you recalled the conversation at the prison, chest tightening with each mile you got closer to the compound. Dr. Steiner’s words simmered inside your head. When one of them becomes a casualty. When, not if.

Nick Fury’s office is dark and imposing, with a security system rival to the Pentagon. At least you assumed. He gestures for you to take one of the leather chairs in front of his desk but Steve chooses to stand, hovering behind you like a concrete wall. Fury gives him a brief glare for that.

“I was under the assumption your stay at the compound was to rehabilitate you from HYDRA, not to make family visits to them.”

“That piece of shit is not my fucking family.” You feel Steve shift at your back, but you can’t bother with censoring your words right now. “If you’re so against HYDRA, why do you want me to use the programming they gave me? You saw the video, you know who used to train me.”

“You know better than anyone that can never work, Nick.” Steve adds, and your lips purse. “Bucky thought he was hopeless but he’s been doing better. It can be the same for her.”

Fury sighs. “This isn’t all just up to me, Cap. We’re all making concessions here. Not just you. This place is balanced precariously on top of what S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D. and the government wants and what you - we - think it’s the right thing. One slip and it all crumbles.” He knocks over a decorative pile of blocks to get his point across.

“I insisted for her to consider the deprogramming. This was on me.” You frown at Steve, and he nods back at you.

“I’m sure it was, Cap. And that’s exactly what I’ll be putting on the incident report.”

You hate the politics game, and you hate yourself for walking willingly into it. Now you’re too tangled into it to walk out. One wrong move, the wrong piece removed, and everything collapses like a stupid game of Jenga.

“Do you understand my job here now, recruit?” The way he refers to you make you blink, your attention on him fully. You nod weakly. “The Sokovia Accords are still in effect. Rogers breaks them, it’s a misjudgement; he’s a war hero. You break them, you get a ticket to the Raft.”

“Fury.”

“You’ve already threatened me with that.” You say, taking one of the little blocks and flicking it away. “You wanna lock me up? Do it. I’m done taking orders and being a good little tool for some ruling power to use. The US of A, Nazis, whoever.”

Fury follows the block, shaking his head.

“That’s the thing. I could do it: I don’t want to have to. But I need you to cooperate. S.W.O.R.D has interest in you, and that gives you some leverage.” You roll your eyes. “For now, anyway. You’re on thin ice, Sparky.”

“Don’t call me that. And I’m pretty sure this is carpet.”

He leans back on his chair, opening his arms in resignation. Still, his point was not completely off. You’re sure he knows that, and that’s exactly why he’s letting you have the last word.

You and Rogers walk together to the elevator. He lives one floor above you, and now you’re thankful the Compound is large enough to help you avoid each other. You’re not sure you can make a sensible decision when he’s looking at you like that. Because it makes you feel safe. And that is very, very dangerous.

One strike, you’re out. You could either conform and be exactly what the people you despise want you to be or set yourself loose, becoming what they already think you are. A weapon of mass destruction in both outcomes. No matter which path you went on, you had a feeling that it was only a matter of time until disaster struck anyway.

You were born for HYDRA to use. I know what I created.

Now you’re close to being something S.W.O.R.D. could use.

Steve stops the elevator from closing once it stops on your floor. “I won’t let them take you to the Raft. Whatever you decide.”

You let out a breath, glaring at the ceiling before turning back to him with your eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? A few months ago you’d fly me over personally.”

He shrugs. There’s the danger.

“Promise?” Your voice is softer than expected when you say it.

“Yeah. I promise.”

You chuckle. “Okay. When can Shuri see me?”

“We ever met? You know, before.”

You forget what Bucky’s voice sounds like sometimes. He doesn’t hang out with anyone that much, the exception being Steve, and lately, you. He’s the kind of guy who tolerates few people, and you seem to be one of those now. It’s surprising.

He still keeps quiet most of the time though. Just sits there, like a weirdo.

You don’t mind it— also surprising. Maybe he finds solace in the fact you both share a messed-up history, like two co-workers would with a shitty boss. Which is putting it lightly, but it’s not innacurate, either.

His question makes you open your eyes, squinting them at the sunshine immediately after. “No. The Winter Soldier was just something the overseers would use to make us behave.” He turns to you with a confused frown on his face. “The Soldat doesn’t like naughty children! You know, like the world’s worst Santa,”

Bucky lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.

“Why do you ask?” You say, sitting up in your lounge chair.

Another thing you share is your taste for is toasting like lizards under the sun. Maybe it’s all those years living in military bases where frost is eternal and sleeping in cryo-freeze pods instead of beds; it didn’t surprise you when he plopped down on the lounger next to yours 20 minutes ago, likely eager to unwind after another deprogramming session. You never ask how it went, and you think he appreciates that.

Your own first session is happening later this week.

“I was just remembering how we wouldn’t really talk when you first got here.” He shrugs. “And wondering if… If I did something, to you, back then,” He confesses quickly, the words coming out as if they were one single thing.

“Buck, we never ran into one another until I stepped into this place. I wasn’t ready to hang out with anyone who didn’t force themselves onto me.” It’s an honest answer; he seems relieved. “Besides, back then it wouldn’t have been you. It would’ve been him - the Soldat.”

He groans. “You sound just like Steve.”

You make a face from the comparison. Bucky can’t be more wrong.

“Okay— the sun is shining, I’m in a bikini, so please don’t ruin my good mood.” You let out a huff when he laughs. “I’m dead serious.”

“Me too.”

“Where’s he at, by the way? Don’t you guys go get burgers and fries after your thing?” It’s Wednesday - Barnes and Rogers always go to a vintage diner in the city for an early lunch after the appointment with Shuri.

Yeah, yeah. You know their schedule. Pathetic, but you’re too observant not to pick these details up. Old men and their 11 a.m lunches.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “He can’t take a day off to save his life—”

“Hoss?”

“Nah, he was done with that two weeks ago. Poor bastard. It’s this talk show he’s going to at NBC or somethin’ like that. Everyone wants to know about Dynamo,”

You had a feeling that your debut as a recruit Avenger would gather media attention. “Great. I’m sure he’ll tell everyone what a great hero I am.”

“I’m sure he’ll keep everyone happy like he did after Union City. He’s not really known for lying, though.”

You blow air through your lips at his words. You didn’t like remembering how Steve had spent hours with the press because of your fiasco, because it made you feel bad and hate him a little less.

A few seconds of breeze fill the silence.

“I don’t think I deserve all that.” You say quietly, without thinking.

You were already aware of what he’s sacrificed for his friends. Appeasing the press, handing over the shield to Tony Stark. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D and the U.S. agenda. Explanations, penance, compromise. Now you’ve been dragged into it, and you wish the way you feel about the whole Steve Rogers/Captain America situation could be as simple as it was when you first got here.

“Well it’s not all that and it’s not all for you, don’t flatter yourself too much.”

“Oh fuck you, Winter Cuckoo-Bananas.” Bucky is grinning despite the name calling and the amount of profanity you mutter under your breath. “Could I wallow in self-pity for once? Thanks.”

He nods, and you fall back into amiable silence. The pressure in you chest eases.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I do, either.”

“Bullshit, Buck.” He gives you a look, but you only shrug. The name slipped out despite your better judgment, and you wonder for a moment if he’s looking at you that way because Buck is a privilege reserved to Rogers or because you sound just like him again. Fuck. “You might not be the same heartthrob you were in the 40’s, but doesn’t mean you’re not still salvageable.”

“I thought we were having self-pity time, Sparks. Let me have this.”

“Save it to your next therapy session.” Bucky whines. You both laugh. “Just saying though— a haircut might do you wonders.”

“Same to you.”

He doesn’t specify if it’s about therapy, a haircut or all of what has been discussed previously.

“Please. The sewer rat look makes everyone fall at my feet,”

“Yeah. From fright.”

Your head snaps in his direction, arm reaching to punch his ribs but he reacts faster, dodging your blow and pushing your lounger away.

“Shut up, Barnes.”

“Hey, you started it. I’m just stronger. And faster.” You roll your eyes, recomposing yourself. Bucky sighs, making you look at him. “I know you’re anxious about this whole thing. But Steve — he’s got you.”

“It’s not really Steve I’m worried about.”

The biggest surprise of them all.

He hums. “You’re already on the right track, with the deprogramming and everything. If I deserve a second chance, you do too.”

You bite your bottom lip. The sun warming your skin makes you feel more positive than usual. “I really hope you’re right, Bucky.”

0300 hours.

He’s laying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 3 a.m. and Steve Rogers hasn’t slept a wink. The red numbers on the alarm clock seems to be laughing at him, and it’s all because of her.

Time is not something that has been on Steve’s side, not since 1943 when he took the damned serum. He’s been out of time, on the wrong time, and now he’s running out of it. He needs to get his friends out of this compound and away from S.W.O.R.D’s orders and scrutiny, but Bucky’s not quite done with his deprogramming yet. Sparky’s first session is tomorrow. She’ll need time too.

He needs to hold the fort a while longer.

He’s also running out of patience to keep everyone’s moods placated. Tony Stark, Hoss, NBC. Conflict seems imminent and inevitable, no matter how much he puts himself in between the clash. It doesn’t help that he can’t get his mind off the harbinger of it all.

Don’t worry about hurting my feelings or whatever. I’m not catchin’em.

This is why he doesn’t flipping do casual.

He’s more than familiar with one night stands— he’s not dead and he’s never been a prude in between sheets, either. But it’s one thing when both parties go their own ways, not seeing the other again if they can help it. That’s easy.

But with her, nothing is ever easy.

She’s difficult and it makes everything difficult, too.

Bothered by his distance and bothered when he’s near. It takes everything in him not to fight her, demand a clear statement over her feelings, expose his own. The avoidance is the only way he still finds some semblance of control over himself, and she can’t even give him that.

She takes and she takes, his resistance meager at best.

Steve pulls the bed sheet from his legs, and stalks over to the living room he shares with Bucky. His best friend has fallen asleep on the couch, holding on to a bucket of popcorn as if it was a cushion. It’s half empty. Steve takes it from his hands and places it on the coffee table before making his way down to the gym.

The truth is that he wants her. Badly. He wants her when she gives him attitude and he wants her when it’s just the two of them and her guard is down by just a little. She makes him want to hit something, like this punching bag, and protect her from the world. Show her how ugly and wonderful it really is.

Kiss her until it bruises.

Break every rule just to see how her eyes sparkle.

Steve can’t name the feeling. But it’s there, stretched taut like a string.

He can feel it, ready to snap, everything he’s built of himself hanging by a thread and she had been the one to unravel it.

It’s laughable.

The terrible truth that if she were to ask, he’d hand everything out willingly, too.

Laughable how he came down here to get his mind off things, off her, and he still hopes she’ll come through the sliding doors like the last time.

[emwritesstuff]

@celestialevie @i-kleist @nickangel13  @bigcowboydreamalien @austynparksandpizza @justab-eautifulmess @furievonalexandria @buckybsgirl @emotionallyandphysicallydone @netflixxgodess @neenieweenie @mishafaye @obsssedwithjustaboutanything @supernaturalcat7 @bilesxbilinskixlahey @certainwonderlandperfection @katieraven @cataves @eliwinchester-barnes @pham-tastical @miakatharinaa @adangerousbalance @bluemoon-icecream @emptyloverofmine @vicmc624

as the world caves in | ch. 11 | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: You are a ghost story. A former Air Force pilot who had her plane shot down by Germany in 1945, but here you were in 2023, alive and frozen in your 25-year-old body.

You haven’t seen Bucky since the 1940’s, before his fall, before you went on a suicide mission only to come back alive. You aren’t sure reliving those memories – and being a living memory of everything the man has lost – is the best for him.

But you and Bucky won’t be apart for long.

masterlist | AO3

notes: :') We've come to the final chapter. Short and sweet. I still want to write an epilogue (yes I've seen the Thunderbolts* trailer) but this is the official ending of the fic! Thank you for riding this ride with me. (warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of death, depressive states, wwii) (word count: 1.9K)

The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His best friend, in a sundress, his jacket around her shoulders.

Bucky had dutifully ignored all of Sam’s quips and eyebrow wiggling as much as he could, but he couldn’t ignore this. As a familiar, melodic tune filled the summer air, his feet carried him half against his will to where she was sitting, his hand offering something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

He hadn’t taken a girl to dance in seventy-some years.

But alas, a song was playing and he could feel the warmth of her body as they began swaying along the dancefloor, danger and elation wrestling for the main spot in his chest but finding no room. She’d taken all of it.

While they were like this, muscle memory kicking in as Bucky led them as a pair across the dance floor, it was like 1945 and beyond had never happened. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier, or the ghost of it. She wasn’t a WASP WWII hero with too much baggage and responsibilities. Just a boy and a girl, how it should’ve been if things were simple and fate wasn’t cruel.

He could’ve found the courage to ask her to dance, again and again, and ruin their friendship with a romance. They’d have a little house by the coast to go for the summer, and she’d laugh at how much sand he’d gotten in his shoes. Jimmy Barnes would’ve given her his last name, and by 2023 they’d both be not much but memories in their grandchildren’s heads.

“Buck.”

Her voice brought him back to a reality where two people who should be memories from the past were still alive and kicking. And what a blessing it was, to have her be more than just a memory or a photograph.

What a curse, to want to kiss her so badly and spoil the one good thing he’d gotten out of all of this bullshit.

He took Sam’s interruption and ran with it, literally, leaving her standing alone on the dancefloor as shame and self-consciousness creeped in. Because he could handle losing everything else, but not this. Not her.

Seventy-something years and Bucky was still a damned coward.

He reflected again on this many hours later, staring at the rising sun as if it was mocking him. A new day so he could do exactly what he’d been doing: eat around the edges, careful not to take too much but never really savoring anything.

He’d almost done it back at her house, her having the grace of smoothing over the awkwardness like the good diplomat she was. It was like he never learned; here we was again, being pulled in her direction like a magnet, his body aching and his insides burning for her in a way he didn’t remember ever feeling.

What used to be a sweet teenaged infatuation evolved into a ground-splintering love, not for the girl she used to be, but for the woman she was now.

It’s what drove Bucky up the stairs, leaving the laughing sunrise behind him, as if a new day wasn’t to come and the chance of his world being shattered wasn’t imminent.

He should be content with the bickering and the gentle, lingering touches; he should be fine with meeting once in a while to catch up on each other’s lives, admiring her from afar as if she was a star he could only wish upon. He wasn’t.

Bucky wasn’t content with much, lately.

Any doubt was vanished when he stepped into the corridor of rooms 302-316 and found her still standing there, wide eyes mirroring his, wet with longing and desperation.

In the spam of seconds, he took her face in his hands and did something he should’ve done seventy-something years ago: he kissed her.

Your fingers found his wrists, seeking leverage from them as a lifetime of fantasizing turned into reality and threatened to make you float away. Your name fell from his lips in a shaky whisper and he almost dared to pull away, but you didn’t let him. You should’ve kissed him that day in English soil, before you both died to the world and the time you belonged to. You kissed him in the present for your younger self, as if you were running out of time.

You weren’t. You knew you weren’t. But rational thinking could not reach you, not there in between his arms. You kissed him for your present self, who loved him so quietly for so long you forgot how loud your heart could be. He took it in stride, tangling his fingers in your hair and making you sigh.

He whispered your name again, pleading, but you shook your head, unsure what you’re denying him of; you tasted the salty tears before you could feel them on his face, or yours, it’s all the same at this point.

“Sugar, please look at me.” He said, still holding your face and planting kisses over your closed eyes. “Please,”

You looked up at him and his silver-rimmed eyes, your own spilling over despite his effort in wiping the emotion off your cheeks. “Bucky—”

You needed to tell him that you could not bear to have him explain himself; that you understood, that you would never hold this moment against him, but he didn’t let you. He ran his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, and you quietened.

“I should’ve done this such a long time ago. I’ve been so afraid to lose you I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how much I love you. I love you like crazy, because that’s what I am,” You’d be ready to disagree but sobs filled your throat, your hands fisted on his shirt the only thing tethering you to earth. “So much has changed but not this— never this. If anything this only grew. I’ve loved you for a lifetime, so please, please, be mine.”

Your hand reached up, tracing the line of his brow, his nose, his lips. He leaned into it, free from any previous inhibition. You’d been so blind in your fear. In your denial. Bucky Barnes now laid open on your palm, crying like the boy he once was and asking you to do the very thing you’ve been doing all of these years.

“There hasn’t been a single minute in this in this life where I haven’t been completely yours, James Barnes. I’ve loved you for a lifetime,” His shoulders sagged in relief, and he smiled brighter than the rising sun. Brighter than two suns, even.

Early morning bled into afternoon. The heat of the New Orleans air made your bare skin feverish and sticky, but neither you nor Bucky could bring yourselves to untangle your tangled limbs or move. His metal arm was the only solace against the heatwave, running up and down your back and making you shiver.

“This feels like a dream,”

 “I don’t think we’d be so sweaty if it was, Sugar.” He tightened his arm around you. “This is real. ’Sides, it’s so much better than any dream my fucked-up head could have concocted.”

You hummed a protest, raising your torso to look at him. “Don’t say that.”

“Mean it,” He cupped your face with his human hand, and you sighed. “I’ve got permanent damage. There is going to be bad days. This is why it took me so long. I just don’t wanna be more trouble than I’m worth,”

“Bucky…”

He insisted.  “I know you’re stubborn enough to stick around, I just—”

“I spent two weeks in bed when you resurfaced as the soldier.” You blurted out, sitting up fully. There was concern in Bucky’s eyes, and he kept you in place as you searched for a piece of clothing to cover up. Your eyes burned with the promise of more crying. “I’ve worked for S.H.I.E.L.D for decades and you were right under my nose,”

Your voice broke, then you finally found the shirt Bucky discarded early on the floor. “I took orders from the people making you a slave. I couldn’t find you because they kept you from me. Peggy, Howard, everyone. If I’d known—”

“None of that was your fault.” He said, urgent hands reaching for you to get back in bed with him. “You were just as much a weapon as I was. I never held that against you and I never will,”

“I felt like a fraud. Steve had to come and help me bathe, eat, brush my hair.” You mumbled, wiping the stray tears with the back of your hand. “I felt like I didn’t deserve the privilege of having you in my life again. And I was terrified that you wouldn’t want to be. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” He shook his head, sitting up with you. Leaned close so he could rest his forehead against yours. “And I was a coward for not saying I loved you before you went on that fuckin’ mission in ’42. Acting like a prick because I was too scared to lose you.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I didn’t listen.”

If you had, you wouldn’t be here. You’d never take the serum, and both Bucky and Steve, your boys, would be too further in time for you to catch. You’d be nothing but a face in each other’s memories.

“You never listen…”

You both chuckled, a pathetic, half-drowned thing on your end. “Exactly. So quit saying I’m too good for you. We’re exactly the same,”

Bucky shook his head again but gave in, kissing you sweetly then placing a kiss on your shoulder. You doubted he’d truly let that go, and you were ready to argue with him about it for the rest of time. He wrapped his arms around you and you did the same, staying like that for a while. Doing nothing but breathing in one another and allowing the past and the guilt to dissolve away.

“That’s why I’ll still complain about your terrible coffee.” Bucky scoffed at that, tightening his hold on you as if it was a punishment and not the best thing ever. “And make fun of you for being terrible with technology. Help you through the bad days and enjoy every minute of the good,”

“My coffee’s not that bad,” He grumbled, not addressing anything else and knowing you’d read between the lines. You both laughed.

“Just because this is going to be a long, winding road, doesn’t mean I don’t want to walk it with you, James.”

“’Till there’s two suns in the horizon?”

You hummed.  “I don’t think this world is caving in anytime soon. You know it, people’ve tried.”

He grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s live, Bucky Barnes. You and me. Just… live.”

Bucky’s eyes were warm under the dim lights of your motel room. This moment wasn’t the world wasn’t at its end. It probably never would.

This… this was just the beginning.

He smiled. The crooked, perfect show of teeth Bucky brought from the past just for you. “We ain’t getting any younger, Sugar.”

[emwritesstuff]

as the world caves in | ch. 11 | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: You are a ghost story. A former Air Force pilot who had her plane shot down by Germany in 1945, but here you were in 2023, alive and frozen in your 25-year-old body.

You haven’t seen Bucky since the 1940’s, before his fall, before you went on a suicide mission only to come back alive. You aren’t sure reliving those memories – and being a living memory of everything the man has lost – is the best for him.

But you and Bucky won’t be apart for long.

masterlist | AO3

notes: :') We've come to the final chapter. Short and sweet. I still want to write an epilogue (yes I've seen the Thunderbolts* trailer) but this is the official ending of the fic! Thank you for riding this ride with me. (warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of death, depressive states, wwii) (word count: 1.9K)

eleven: sunrise

The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His best friend, in a sundress, his jacket around her shoulders.

Bucky had dutifully ignored all of Sam’s quips and eyebrow wiggling as much as he could, but he couldn’t ignore this. As a familiar, melodic tune filled the summer air, his feet carried him half against his will to where she was sitting, his hand offering something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

He hadn’t taken a girl to dance in seventy-some years.

But alas, a song was playing and he could feel the warmth of her body as they began swaying along the dancefloor, danger and elation wrestling for the main spot in his chest but finding no room. She’d taken all of it.

While they were like this, muscle memory kicking in as Bucky led them as a pair across the dance floor, it was like 1945 and beyond had never happened. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier, or the ghost of it. She wasn’t a WASP WWII hero with too much baggage and responsibilities. Just a boy and a girl, how it should’ve been if things were simple and fate wasn’t cruel.

He could’ve found the courage to ask her to dance, again and again, and ruin their friendship with a romance. They’d have a little house by the coast to go for the summer, and she’d laugh at how much sand he’d gotten in his shoes. Jimmy Barnes would’ve given her his last name, and by 2023 they’d both be not much but memories in their grandchildren’s heads.

“Buck.”

Her voice brought him back to a reality where two people who should be memories from the past were still alive and kicking. And what a blessing it was, to have her be more than just a memory or a photograph.

What a curse, to want to kiss her so badly and spoil the one good thing he’d gotten out of all of this bullshit.

He took Sam’s interruption and ran with it, literally, leaving her standing alone on the dancefloor as shame and self-consciousness creeped in. Because he could handle losing everything else, but not this. Not her.

Seventy-something years and Bucky was still a damned coward.

He reflected again on this many hours later, staring at the rising sun as if it was mocking him. A new day so he could do exactly what he’d been doing: eat around the edges, careful not to take too much but never really savoring anything.

He’d almost done it back at her house, her having the grace of smoothing over the awkwardness like the good diplomat she was. It was like he never learned; here we was again, being pulled in her direction like a magnet, his body aching and his insides burning for her in a way he didn’t remember ever feeling.

What used to be a sweet teenaged infatuation evolved into a ground-splintering love, not for the girl she used to be, but for the woman she was now.

It’s what drove Bucky up the stairs, leaving the laughing sunrise behind him, as if a new day wasn’t to come and the chance of his world being shattered wasn’t imminent.

He should be content with the bickering and the gentle, lingering touches; he should be fine with meeting once in a while to catch up on each other’s lives, admiring her from afar as if she was a star he could only wish upon. He wasn’t.

Bucky wasn’t content with much, lately.

Any doubt was vanished when he stepped into the corridor of rooms 302-316 and found her still standing there, wide eyes mirroring his, wet with longing and desperation.

In the spam of seconds, he took her face in his hands and did something he should’ve done seventy-something years ago: he kissed her.

Your fingers found his wrists, seeking leverage from them as a lifetime of fantasizing turned into reality and threatened to make you float away. Your name fell from his lips in a shaky whisper and he almost dared to pull away, but you didn’t let him. You should’ve kissed him that day in English soil, before you both died to the world and the time you belonged to. You kissed him in the present for your younger self, as if you were running out of time.

You weren’t. You knew you weren’t. But rational thinking could not reach you, not there in between his arms. You kissed him for your present self, who loved him so quietly for so long you forgot how loud your heart could be. He took it in stride, tangling his fingers in your hair and making you sigh.

He whispered your name again, pleading, but you shook your head, unsure what you’re denying him of; you tasted the salty tears before you could feel them on his face, or yours, it’s all the same at this point.

“Sugar, please look at me.” He said, still holding your face and planting kisses over your closed eyes. “Please,”

You looked up at him and his silver-rimmed eyes, your own spilling over despite his effort in wiping the emotion off your cheeks. “Bucky—”

You needed to tell him that you could not bear to have him explain himself; that you understood, that you would never hold this moment against him, but he didn’t let you. He ran his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, and you quietened.

“I should’ve done this such a long time ago. I’ve been so afraid to lose you I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how much I love you. I love you like crazy, because that’s what I am,” You’d be ready to disagree but sobs filled your throat, your hands fisted on his shirt the only thing tethering you to earth. “So much has changed but not this— never this. If anything this only grew. I’ve loved you for a lifetime, so please, please, be mine.”

Your hand reached up, tracing the line of his brow, his nose, his lips. He leaned into it, free from any previous inhibition. You’d been so blind in your fear. In your denial. Bucky Barnes now laid open on your palm, crying like the boy he once was and asking you to do the very thing you’ve been doing all of these years.

“There hasn’t been a single minute in this in this life where I haven’t been completely yours, James Barnes. I’ve loved you for a lifetime,” His shoulders sagged in relief, and he smiled brighter than the rising sun. Brighter than two suns, even.

Early morning bled into afternoon. The heat of the New Orleans air made your bare skin feverish and sticky, but neither you nor Bucky could bring yourselves to untangle your tangled limbs or move. His metal arm was the only solace against the heatwave, running up and down your back and making you shiver.

“This feels like a dream,”

 “I don’t think we’d be so sweaty if it was, Sugar.” He tightened his arm around you. “This is real. ’Sides, it’s so much better than any dream my fucked-up head could have concocted.”

You hummed a protest, raising your torso to look at him. “Don’t say that.”

“Mean it,” He cupped your face with his human hand, and you sighed. “I’ve got permanent damage. There is going to be bad days. This is why it took me so long. I just don’t wanna be more trouble than I’m worth,”

“Bucky…”

He insisted.  “I know you’re stubborn enough to stick around, I just—”

“I spent two weeks in bed when you resurfaced as the soldier.” You blurted out, sitting up fully. There was concern in Bucky’s eyes, and he kept you in place as you searched for a piece of clothing to cover up. Your eyes burned with the promise of more crying. “I’ve worked for S.H.I.E.L.D for decades and you were right under my nose,”

Your voice broke, then you finally found the shirt Bucky discarded early on the floor. “I took orders from the people making you a slave. I couldn’t find you because they kept you from me. Peggy, Howard, everyone. If I’d known—”

“None of that was your fault.” He said, urgent hands reaching for you to get back in bed with him. “You were just as much a weapon as I was. I never held that against you and I never will,”

“I felt like a fraud. Steve had to come and help me bathe, eat, brush my hair.” You mumbled, wiping the stray tears with the back of your hand. “I felt like I didn’t deserve the privilege of having you in my life again. And I was terrified that you wouldn’t want to be. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” He shook his head, sitting up with you. Leaned close so he could rest his forehead against yours. “And I was a coward for not saying I loved you before you went on that fuckin’ mission in ’42. Acting like a prick because I was too scared to lose you.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I didn’t listen.”

If you had, you wouldn’t be here. You’d never take the serum, and both Bucky and Steve, your boys, would be too further in time for you to catch. You’d be nothing but a face in each other’s memories.

“You never listen…”

You both chuckled, a pathetic, half-drowned thing on your end. “Exactly. So quit saying I’m too good for you. We’re exactly the same,”

Bucky shook his head again but gave in, kissing you sweetly then placing a kiss on your shoulder. You doubted he’d truly let that go, and you were ready to argue with him about it for the rest of time. He wrapped his arms around you and you did the same, staying like that for a while. Doing nothing but breathing in one another and allowing the past and the guilt to dissolve away.

“That’s why I’ll still complain about your terrible coffee.” Bucky scoffed at that, tightening his hold on you as if it was a punishment and not the best thing ever. “And make fun of you for being terrible with technology. Help you through the bad days and enjoy every minute of the good,”

“My coffee’s not that bad,” He grumbled, not addressing anything else and knowing you’d read between the lines. You both laughed.

“Just because this is going to be a long, winding road, doesn’t mean I don’t want to walk it with you, James.”

“’Till there’s two suns in the horizon?”

You hummed.  “I don’t think this world is caving in anytime soon. You know it, people’ve tried.”

He grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s live, Bucky Barnes. You and me. Just… live.”

Bucky’s eyes were warm under the dim lights of your motel room. This moment wasn’t the world wasn’t at its end. It probably never would.

This… this was just the beginning.

He smiled. The crooked, perfect show of teeth Bucky brought from the past just for you. “We ain’t getting any younger, Sugar.”

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 7.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: There's more to your powers than you could have imagined. my biannual update, a large boy at least... do you guys still read this thing? (warnings: inaccurate science, brief mention of HYDRA shenanigans and minor injury) (7,411 words)

7: JOULE'S PRINCIPLE

After swinging your leg over the seat, you’re left with no other choice but to put your arms around his waist to hold on. The wind whipping around and the lapses in stability has you clinging to Steve against your better judgment, even though he’s a skilled rider and you doubt he’d get both of you into an accident.

Still, it’s enough to make you decide you’re definitely a car person.

Although you have to admit having an unobstructed view is great. You can see the entire city from the bridge you’re crossing, twinkling like it did in your imagination. It’s nice to know it does it justice. You now get why everyone loves this place so much, and you don’t regret being irresponsible one bit.

The bike is also pretty convenient. Steve zips through traffic, and soon enough the city views become a treeline and the Compound gates welcome you in.

“The lights are back on!” You say, loud enough for Steve to hear over the noise of the Harley— you’re not sure how much his super hearing can pick up.

His answer comes roughly in the same volume, as he drives you into the garage: “The maintenance guys got to it pretty quickly. No harm done, besides the temporary outage.”

“And Tony’s PacMan streak?” You ask, hopeful he’d say that was left intact too.

“…and Tony’s PacMan record streak.” This stupid video game will get you kicked out one day, you’re sure of it. Steve sighs as your shoulders fall, despite him looking way more amused at the situation than you are.

He has to help you with the helmet straps again, and you flinch from the cold feel of his fingertips. “Besides that, everything’s back to normal.” His touch makes you feel like you poked a live wire, or like when you zap yourself with your powers. “Are you—”

You shove the jacket into his chest the second Nat’s bleached-blonde head pokes inside the garage. Bruce follows right after her, and it makes you want to tease her about it, but the look on her face is so serious you decide against it.

“There you are! Bruce told us what happened during training. Are you okay?”

“He… told you. He told you everything?” You look over her shoulder at your doctor, and he shrugs apologetically.

“We were worried when you fucked off. Don’t do that again.”

You widen your eyes a little, then give her a sheepish look. “Sorry I stole your car.” Nat smiles.

“Don’t sweat it. It was smart you dumped it at the train station, actually. It has a tracker I can’t take out.” The way she says it makes you think that she can’t because she isn’t allowed to, not because she doesn’t know how. Natasha would know how.

You don’t mention that you were feeling way too queasy to drive her favorite BMW all the way to New York City, and that’s why you opted for the train; it’s likely not a very good idea, considering how cool she’s being about it all.

You’re not even sweating.

“You’re lucky Steve found your ass before we had to bring S.W.O.R.D. into the picture.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was lucky he was in town.”

“In town?” Bruce questions, and you look at him as the four of you leave the garage in direction of the Compound living area. “No, he said he was gonna find you himself—”

“Bruce.”

“—didn’t he ‘Tasha? Just took off on his Harley and–”

“Bruce!”

“…what?” Before you can finish turning to Rogers and question his previous statement, he’s already got the elevator half closed.

You glower at the metal doors. He was right about things being back to normal - here was evidence he is back to helicoptering you, watching your every step because of course he wouldn’t find you capable of staying out of trouble; and you are back to feeling the bitter taste of animosity on your tongue.

You suppose this your own fault. Maybe you should just accept you’re stuck in this place forever.

Steve lets out a big, slow breath as the elevator doors close, leaving Sparky and her pinched eyebrows on the floor below. It’s for the best. He wouldn’t have answers for her nor himself at the moment. The feel of her body, her legs, wrapped around him made him feel electrified without her using those powers of hers.

He sure wishes he had them as an excuse.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him when the doors open again, welcoming him into their shared quarters.

“You’re back already. You found her?”

Steve nods, walking over to the kitchen and fetching a bottle of water. He’d found her alright, looking cold and distracted on the steps of the Brooklyn Museum.

“She good?”

He nods again. “Barely put up a fight.” He’s glad he acted fast and got to her before anyone else took notice, because that would be a whole lotta trouble and she was enough of it on a normal day.

The thought of a S.W.A.T team being sent, anything that seemed too much like an arrest, or in truth, anyone other than himself finding her made his skin crawl.

Maybe he was a control freak. She’d told him so herself, more than a few times now.

“No— I mean, is she good. Physically, mentally?”

Steve looks up from his water. Bucky’s empathy was not really a rare occurrence, but he’s surprised nonetheless. HYDRA is as much his enemy as it is Steve’s, and he figured that would be too big of a barrier for Bucky to cross. Apparently not.

“She’s good, Buck. All back to normal.”

Back to extensive training. Back to occasional missions. Back to mutual dislike, the image of her in his jacket already a hazy, surreal memory.

Shoved away like the jacket itself, the second Natasha had eyes on them. Normalcy.

Bucky nods, knowing as well as Steve that for people like them, and her, nothing was ever really normal.

“Try not being too hard on her tomorrow.”

“I’ll be moderately hard.” Steve shakes his head, biting the innerside of his lip to stop the chuckle that wants to come out. It’s such a stupid piece of humor.

That’s what she said, Rogers.

“I hate this,” You mutter to his broad back, and he turns to you briefly. Of course he wouldn’t slow down to keep up with your pace; his own fitness routine is more important than camaraderie, especially when you’re involved. “Three more laps.”

“What? It was two!”

“It’s three now,” Steve Rogers is a petty, insufferable little motherfucker.

Well, not actually little. It’s the principle.

“Screw you.”

You’re almost waiting for him to clap back with a “you did”, or maybe “language” but that is how you’d react. Definitely waiting for him to add another lap, or ten. He doesn’t do either, just keeps on running ahead of you.

It’s like nothing even happened.

You shake your shoulders and head like a dog does when it’s wet, as if the innuendos were water drops.

You’re not a fan of running. It’s hard for you to understand how people say they run to clear their heads, because your way to do that is taking a nap. Or several.

Taking advantage of the current distance between you and Rogers, you pause, your hands on your knees and lungs working quickly for more air. You’re surprised when he turns instead of going around to finish the lap.

“Keep up, Sparky.”

You groan, standing up with your hands on your hips and shoving a petulant finger to his chest. “Don’t call me that. I could fry you like a fish andrunright out of here. Make sure to use money this time—”

“Don’t.” He’s not looking at you. His eyes stare behind and above you, and when you turn Fury is watching you both. There’s another man with him, in a fancy military uniform that screams everything but friendly. “Just. Keep. Up.”

The urgency in Steve’s tone makes you frown. His gritted teeth. He hasn’t stopped staring at the other two.

Alrighty, then. “Three more laps?” He nods, and you resume your early morning run.

You’re both one lap in when you speak again. “Who’s that?”

“That’s General Hoss. He’s Chief Commander of the NSA.” He looks back to check if you’re following, but you aren’t, neither his pace nor the words. “National Security Agency?”

“So… he’s pest control.” You bite your lip when he agrees. “He’s here because of yesterday, isn’t he?”

“I’m guessing yes.” Frost seeps into your bones, the regret Steve wanted you to feel yesterday finally kicking in. Like he can read your mind, he continues.“I’ll talk to him when we’re done here. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Who’s worried?” A humorless laugh leaves your lips. You keep on running. “Last one, Cap.”

He nods. “That’s the spirit,”

By the middle of the third and final lap, Bruce Banner is standing at the side of the track field, a clipboard on his hands. You stop when Rogers does, a little surprised he doesn’t make the doctor wait for you to finish your workout.

“You feeling okay? You look a little green,”

“Good morning to you too. Cap.” He says tiredly, but you’re proud of your joke regardless. Even Steve has a curl to his lip this time.

You’re wearing them all down, little by little.

“What can we do for you, Banner?”

“I’m going to need Sparky here at the lab.” You raise an eyebrow. The routine checkup is supposed to be on Monday. “Me and Tony have been analyzing your data and have a few theories about your powers being unstable.”

“Okay…” The thought of the two scientists turning you into their little project makes you feel a little uneasy.

Tony Stark specially.

“Oh great, you’re here. Why are you sweaty? It’s 7 a.m.”

You point back to Rogers with your thumb, then realized that not only there was a crowd, but also an audience to your personal shitshow. Of course Tony had to drag the spider kid into this.

“Mornin’ run.”

“Ew. No time for a shower though, lucky us. Come sit over here.” Stark ushers you to a chair, strapping your monitoring bracelets on.

“Do you plan on explaining what in the fuck you’re about to do to me?” Steve mutters a timid language, and you both glare at him. “Or at least what is it that you found out about my powers?”

He sighs and stops what he’s doing, as if you’re wasting his precious time. “What do you know about Joule’s Principle? Physics?”

“In short? Nothing.”

“Then there’s no point in explaining anything to you.”

You’re about to tell him to shove the laws of physics up his wormhole when Bruce turns from the computer he was typing on.

“Joule’s Principle is a theory about energy conversion. Basically, an electric current produces heat as it passes through a conductor,” Bruce pulls up a full body scan, your full body scan, the areas on your head, torso and hands colored deep red and orange. “This shows your body temperature spiking as your powers flare.”

“So…I am the conductor in this Joojoo…thing?”

“Joule’s Principle, my little genius. And from our observations the extreme overheating could be causing all of those gross side effects of yours. The dry cleaners were concerned about that, by that way— ”

“Just get to the point, Tony.” Steve is leaning casually on the doorframe, his eyes focused on your body scans.

Stark’s head whips in his direction. “Didn’t notice you were still here, ‘Merica.”

In all honesty, you hadn’t either.

“Anyway, the side effects- especially bad when you’re not feeding off a generator. So! Here’s a little gift for you, from me and my little elves Banner and Peter.”

You blink once. It’s a lot to digest, especially when Peter Parker is shoving a glass case on your hands, with a small glowing disc floating inside.

“Do you like it?!” He says, and you wish you could mirror his teenage nerd enthusiasm.

“Uh… sure? Very shiny. Is it gonna fix everything?”

“Yes! I mean, not exactly. Maybe?” It’s Tony’s turn to answer, and you look at Bruce for help. He gives you a sympathetic smile and nods, agreeing with his mad scientist colleague.

Great. “And you can match Mr. Stark!”

…great.

“Uh– match? Isn’t your thing basically a mini atomic bomb? How am I suppose to use this? Wait, isn’t yours inside your chest ? Where—”

“Whoa, whoa… slow down. It’s not an atomic bomb, it’s a fusion reactor. And it’s going on your suit.” You breathe out a sigh of relief, although maybe you shouldn’t. Rogers also seems relieved.

Of course it’s going on the suit.

They wouldn’t just carve a hole in your body…right? Right. You’re still coming down from that small panic when FRIDAY speaks out. Captain Rogers, General Hoss is waiting for you at the lobby.

The monitor bracelets on your wrists make sure to tell everyone about your heartbeat spiking up. Your eyes find Steve’s, his posture now stiff and imposing. The good old by-the-book Captain America everyone knows and loves.

“I’m on my way, FRIDAY.” Shit. Shit shit fucking shit—

You can only imagine how that meeting is going to go. You’re probably fucked.

Right?

Maybe you’re hallucinating, but you swear he mouths three words to you before leaving: I got you.

“Sparky, you need to breathe.”

You draw in a desperate breath, only now realizing your lungs were completely empty.

“What…what were you saying?”

“The fusion reactor is going to be installed on your suit, giving you essentially an endless energy source for you to feed off from. We noticed that your side effects are more intense when you don’t. While they might not go away completely, it might help.” You nod, it makes sense. Sort of.

“Wait— isn’t this nuclear energy? My thing is electricity, I don’t know if you noticed.”

“My Pac-Man machine surely did. Which brings us to our second point… I’ve never seen electricity put cracks on a concrete wall, babycakes.”

You shake your head, as you would if your ears were full of water.

There’s something you need to pick up from what they’re saying, but you’re not a science person like they are.

“Our main theory is that your powers are not simply manipulating electricity,” Bruce says, pulling up a screen with graphics you don’t understand. “But also converting it. We believe the electricity you converted into mechanical energy is what caused the damages to the wall. Which means you could probably do it the other way around—”

“Like a dynamo!” Peter pipes up, and he and Tony share a look.

It scares you almost as much as the outcome of General Hoss’ and Steve’s conversation.

“A what?”

“A dynamo is a type of old-school energy converting machine, like you but made of iron and magnets. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?” In your indignation, you don’t pay attention to the fact that Bruce is still explaining things.

“I’m not old-school. You have me confused with the other guy.”

“—So by analizing all this data your suit and the other tests picked up, well, it seemed natural that you could convert all other types of energy into each other. Thermal, electric, mechanical, nuclear, sound, the possibilities are—”

Endless. The potential is endless.

Dr. Hermann Steiner knew it all along.

The dots connect in your brain almost instantly: your words, your failsafe— it uncapped the ability to harness so much energy it took your powers to a whole other level. Giving HYDRA all of the control in their hands, turning you into a near-perfect, glass-domed weapon.

Until now. Maybe.

Something tells you that S.W.O.R.D is going to have a field day with this information.

What an absolutely insane week you’re having.

“I feel like this isn’t right.”

It takes Wanda a couple of seconds to answer. “Your knees are a little bent, but you’ll get there.”

Your body is folded awkwardly into the downwards dog position, the muscles at the back of your legs burning from the unfamiliar stretch. Wanda’s so good at it she puts Natasha to shame, and that one has never lost her ballerina skills.

“I’m not sure how this is supposed to be relaxing and therapeutic,”

“It helps if you focus more on your breathing than in complaining.” She grins at you, looking at little crazy from this angle.

“I’m not complaining. It’s just an— observation,” You’re slightly out of breath, and she laughs. Things have fallen into routine after General Hoss’ visit. You’re not entirely sure what the results of his conversation with Steve were, but it’s been four days since and besides the fittings with your improved suit and a promise of testing out Stark and Banner’s theory soon, not much has changed.

Beside the whole…Steve Rogers thing. You’ve barely seen him these days, since he has been leaving the Compound every single day and when he is home he makes sure to stay out of your way. And everyone else’s. You know you should be feeling elated, but for some reason it bothers you.

His constant hovering and nagging would be better than this. Probably.

Wanda announces it’s time for the reverse warrior position, and you swear you hear your joints creaking as you move into it.

“Speaking of observation,” You start now that your lungs have air in them and you can breathe again. “What’s going on with you and Vision?”

She opens her eyes slowly, tilting her head at you innocently. “Nothing’s going on. Me and Vis are just good friends.”

Her accent makes the words drag slightly, thickened as she does when she wants to play tough.

“Right. As good as Nat and Bruce, eh?” Wanda blushes, and you grin like the Cheshire cat. Bingo.

“I’ll trade that answer for one about you and Steve.” Your grin falls off your face at the same time hers grows.

“What makes you think there’s something with me and him? We’re not even good friends, and besides, he’s been avoiding me like the pla–”

“Us witches always know. Hi Steve!”

You whip your head in the direction she’s looking, fast enough to rival a horror movie. Wanda’s giggling as you stare at the empty doorway, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re the worst.”

“You started it.” She says, standing beside you to correct your posture. “Come on, deep breath. Remember the mantra?”

You glare at her while you say “Om” , elongating the O instead of addressing her first comment.

The both of you finally get to sit in a comfortable silence, after the many torturous positions you attempt to twist your body into. You have to concentrate to keep your eyes closed and not hyper alert to your surroundings.

She’s so much better at it than you are it’s almost funny, despite her insisting every time that you’ve been doing better and should keep practicing.

Not that you’re planning on giving up your joint yoga sessions anytime soon.

Wanda Maximoff is probably the most welcoming and understanding out of all of your housemates, with endless patience for dealing with your moods as if they were her own. From what you knew, she’d been in a similar position as you are now. Maybe that was why.

Maybe she was just good.

You weren’t asking about Vision simply out of curiosity: although a part of it was, you needed to know if a stern conversation with him would be necessary.

After nearly three months, she was one of the only you could confidently call your friend, besides Nat. It was… a strange feeling, still.

“Hello, Stark.”

“Fuck off. You can’t get me with that one anymore,” You call Wanda out humorously, eliciting a laugh out of her.

“I thought Yoga was supposed to make you zen,” Tony Stark’s actual voice startles you, making you jump.

He’s standing at the previously empty doorway, hands on his hips as he stares at you as if you’re wasting his precious time. You make a face at him, raising your shoulders in question, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“For the suit’s first real test drive, Tiny Taser. I had FRIDAY call you fifteen minutes ago!” He says, urging you to your feet.

“We can’t hear FRIDAY from here. I blocked all noises out… for zen purposes,” Wanda pipes up, and you barely have time to fight against his antics and shoot her an apologetic look as he ushers you out of the room and through the endless Compound corridors.

You end up in a glorified broom closet, with Tony reinforcing that you have 30 seconds to change into the suit or he’s making you do this on your underwear.

Alas, you’ve changed, you’re about 10% zen, and you have an audience. Natasha waves at you from behind the tempered glass where Tony is also going for safety purposes. Bruce appears behind her with a clipboard in hand.

You see Nick Fury and Rhodes at the back of the elevated platform as well, making you wonder if Netflix isn’t on today or something.

Oh, and let’s not forget Peter Parker.

They’ve place a bunch of different things on the floor for you: an array of lamps and electronic devices; heavy metal objects, like oversized dumbbells. Barrels, some empty, some filled with firewood. A chair, very thoughtful of them.

“What do I do with this shit?”

Tony Stark comes to the center of the window, leaning over a small microphone.

“You’re so sweet, aren’t you? So delicate. You can start by–” Tony is eager to get his experiment going, but someone interrupts him, though you can’t make out who or what they said. “He’s the man’s little lapdog for the week and we get held up because of that? There’s no time to lose, Romanoff.”

“Should I do some tricks?” You say, making your fingers sparkle with lightning. No one seems to be amused.

You shrug, taking to repeating your HYDRA words quietly, falling into the familiar empty head space. The best way to get precise results, since you’d be using them during missions too.

You’re more than halfway finished when the door to the test room opens and slams closed, heavy footsteps following. Steve Rogers - or better yet, Captain America - strides in, fully clad in his own tactical suit. The vintage one. “I’m here– sorry I’m late.”

As if you needed any extra pressure. Fuck me.

“What’s with the costume? Hoss made you do a kid’s birthday party?” Stark quips, and you would’ve laughed if not for the present circumstances.

“Don’t start, Tony.”

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

You really wish that last sentence wasn’t part of it.

“Alright, Sparky. Now that we’re all here, let’s get this show going.” You nod, watching as Rogers climbs up the metal steps to join the others. “We want you to focus on using the reactor on your suit as your main source of energy. I put some stuff for you to play with there, start with your usual party trick first. Anything else, Dr. Banner?”

“If you feel anything out of the ordinary just stop immediately. We have your wrist monitors functioning at all times too.”

You can see that Rogers is saying something to them, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Take it easy, your safety is most important. I thought that went without saying,” Tony says through the speakers.

You take a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the task and not on the group watching you. It should be nerve-wracking but it’s not, thanks to how your programming works: the energy flows from the arc reactor down to your palms, lighting up the special seams of your suit in the process.

You almost miss the feel of the electricity inside you, running on the surface of your skin instead. It’s like being under a cold shower.

With little effort you make the lamps that were displayed light up, picking up a small one and holding it in your palms until the thin glass bursts.

“Sparky? Everything good?”

“Yeah.” You don’t look up, although a voice at the back of your head says you should be protesting over the rampant use of the nickname.

You move on to the other electronics, satisfied as they all power up one by one. It was easy enough, something you could do with or without a special suit. Your usual symptoms are nowhere to be found however: a very promising result.

“Let’s tackle the other stuff now. Maybe thermal energy? The barrel in front of you has wood, try getting a fire going.”

You walk over to where Tony suggested, staring at the wood. A fire? How on earth– you’re flabbergasted they’re just letting you play and figure things out, even in this very controlled environment, when it clicks.

It might be cheating, but if you zap the wood hard enough a fire could spark.

And it does. Your lips curl as the woods begin to burn, heating up your extended hand. Heat. You can feel it on your palm, scorching instead of the familiar coldness. If the arc-reactor is a source… what isn’t?

The potential is endless.

You push your hand further into the barrel. The fire is close enough to blister skin, but you barely feel it; all you care about is the new type of energy flowing towards you as the flames roar.

It’s enough to make you stumble backwards, your palms red and burnt, eyes dry and wide. Your body feels unbearably hot. It’s not as easy to control as you expected, probably because it’s so new, leaving you to release it all at once against whatever is on the way.

The thing you classified as a large dumbbell is knocked down as your blast strikes, rolling away. The other empty barrel crashes against the concrete wall.

Half melted.

You look down at your hands. Your temple is starting to hurt, but only a little bit. “Bruce, how’s my levels?”

“…surprisingly within range.”

This time, you turn your eyes towards the audience behind the glass. You probably look deranged, wide-eyed and grinning. Steve Rogers’ eyebrows are so close to one another they look like a singular line, and if it wasn’t for the glass he’d lean off the rail and fall into your little playground.

All this attention on you, as if he hadn’t spent the past few days pretending you didn’t exist. Typical.

Not that you care.

Nat comes up to him, touching his arm and saying something in his ear. His attention shifts from you to her, and you look away.

He didn’t have to be here, did he? You wish he’d gotten caught at whatever schmoozing to General Hoss he was doing before this.

You huff through your nose, cursing your programming for not being exactly thorough with keeping your feelings at bay. The more you used it, the more loopholes you found; if someone was able to elicit a strong enough emotion out of you, it was able to slip through the cracks of the flimsy mental armor. Rogers was one of those people. Natasha too if she picked her words right.

Maybe it was the lack of rewiring your brains every time you used it, like HYDRA used to do. It was extensive and painful, much more taxing than what you do now to come down from the programming. You are definetely not reminiscing that part.

Von Strucker could stay dead and buried.

If you could not use it at all, you wouldn’t. Fury’s presence in the training room is enough evidence of how much you have to.

“Now that’s a Dynamo if I’ve ever seen one. Right, Peter?” Tony says on the intercoms, and you look back to see Peter Parker enthusiastically putting both his thumbs up.

You groan. “No. I don’t need a superhero nickname, Stark.”

“But it’s great!” Peter says.

“Too late sugarplum, you already got business cards on the way.”

“Try not to fog the glass, Rogers.” Natasha’s voice calls out on his ear, and Steves snaps out of the trance he was in.

You and that wild smile of yours, with powers just as untamed. The sight filled him with a foreign pride. It worried him immensely.

“Her vitals might be regular but she has to be more careful,” He reinforces, turning to Bruce and ignoring Nat for a second. She raises one eyebrow. Steve shrugs.

He hadn’t missed the blisters forming on the skin of your palms, something you’d feel only later but his super-soldier vision had picked up.

S.W.O.R.D was already more interested in you than he’d like, and you’ve been pushing yourself hard enough. He doesn’t want you to find out where your breaking point is.

Instinct tells him that HYDRA still having vestigial roots inside your head is what’s keeping you from harnessing your powers fully, despite the immediate effects of the programming. He can tell when you’re under the spell, his eyes finding indifference instead of a passionate hatred inside your gaze.

With abilities like these, it could all go to shit if you’re not in control. The guys in suits wouldn’t hesitate in retiring a malfunctioning S.W. on the Raft.

Sentient Weapon. Asset.

The thought makes him cringe.

“We won’t let anything bad happen to her,” Natasha whispers, and he tightens his fists against the rail. It’s a silent agreement. He’d guaranteed General Hoss your record would be set straight and that he’d oversee it personally. Control freak. He was paying that vow with cashed in favors and his dignity. This damned old suit was proof enough. Itchy, too.

The outcome of that morning turns out to be unbelievably positive, even with the stupid new nickname. You’re eager to keep finding out what you can do with your powers — S.W.O.R.D is eager to have you on the field, putting them to good use. Which in hindsight it’s quite stupid of them.

The mission had gone to shit. It had been an intelligently laid trap, with an empty warehouse building stuffed to the brim with explosives, the HYDRA rats long gone from there, resulting in the side of the building being blown to smithereens. No one was dead, which was the most important thing, but you saw ambulances speeding by as you boarded the Quinjet. The media arrived before they could, transmitting the failure live. So much for no casualties. No one felt like saying anything, not even you, ears still ringing from the blast and trying to make sense of the sight in front of you. Steve Rogers, with his shoulders hanging in defeat. His hair looks powdery from the soot and cement that littered the air.

You’re sure yours is the same way. He shares a look with you, but it feels like a question, so you tear your gaze away, whatever had been locked away slowly rising to the surface as you recite your words in reverse order. You can’t handle another half hour in this emotional limbo; you’ll just have to deal with the comedown in this noisy flying tin can instead of your quiet bathroom.

You wonder if any of it could’ve been avoided. How did none of you see this coming? It looked too easy. Too good to be true.In a whim, you used your powers to keep you all from being buried under the rubble. Rogers, Romanoff, Wilson, yourself.

But if you hadn’t deflected the blast, those neighboring buildings wouldn’t be affected. Cars crashed on the streets trying to avoid the falling concrete.

You’re the getting the hang of it, sure, but it can be either too much or too little especially working with anything that isn’t electricity.

Despite it all, the worst of it that you’ve seen was a man with a broken leg and a poor Lexus that was already on it’s last breath anyways. You’re unsure about the extent of the material damage.

It’s New Jersey’s fault for being so damn crammed, Nat says, and you want to laugh. It’s her way of assuring you everything would be okay, and you focus on the part of you that believes her.

Despite it all, everyone is alive.

One thing is certain: for the good side and the bad, it’s all your fault.

There are reporters climbing over themselves once the Quinjet lands, and Steve makes his way down first; they all also nearly climb over him too, shooting questions out so fast you can’t keep up.

His broad back basically shields you from them, almost intentionally, which is great because you suddenly can’t breathe and your surroundings are feeling too tight. Damned programming that only works when it wants.

When a stray reporter finally notices you, Sam and Nat are already grabbing your shoulders and towing you away from the crowd.

“We left him behind,” You croak once the three of you are inside the elevator and you catch a glimpse of Steve’s now straightened posture, nothing like the one on the flight back. Nat squeezes your arm in a comforting gesture, but then you look at her and see some dried blood on the side of her face. Bright red as her hair used to be.“He’ll be fine. The news channels love him,” She sighs. “At least more than they do us.”

You’re quite aware of that; you’ve seen some snippets of his interviews on YouTube. He’s always dressed sharp, not a hair out of place. The gleaming smile of America’s greatest hero.

Tony has the TV on when you arrive to the communal living room, Roger’s appearance miles away from that mental image, except for the way he always carries himself at times like these: composed, with a gentle demeanor and attentive eyes.

You hate the diplomatic part of this job.

Despite Stark’s protests, you sink on the expensive leather couch, not having the will to do anything else. Your chest feels tighter, your throat dry; is this what guilt feels like?

Someone could’ve died today.

Either way, it’s your fault.

Steve Rogers moves on to another reporter from another news channel and the one that’s on the TV begins recounting this morning’s incident.

The cameras did you dirty; everything the news got from you is a blurry picture of your face. Your eyes have more white in them than usual, and you could probably benefit from a hairbrush and nose job. Your stance is akin to a cornered wild animal, almost.

You’re not like him at all.

Rogers is back on the screen, speaking into a microphone even though there’s at least three others near his face. You don’t really register the words.

Just accident and comes with the job.

His eyebrow twitches for a single second, but it’s enough to take you back to your shared look on the Quinjet.

“Hey. You really need to go shower before Tony hoses you down right here.”

Natasha’s voice sounds distant from your left - your ear is still ringing slightly, but it’s enough to pull you out of your flat-screen induced trance.

“Yeah— yeah, okay. I’m going.” You get up, but it’s hard not to look at TV again now that they’re showing the aftermath of today’s mission.

Avengers leave warehouse destroyed at Union City: 2 surrounding buildings suffered severe structural damage.

5 people are hospitalized. 8 units have been evacuated.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it too much, okay?” From the right, her voice is somehow distant too - but you can’t blame the explosion this time. “We’ve made worse mistakes. And yours saved all our asses.”

It’s hard to focus on the bright side when you are the accident that comes with the job.

“I don’t think Fox News would love that statement, Romanoff.”

“That’s why Steve does the interviews. He’s good at keeping the peace,” You finally manage to look at Natasha. Her face and hair are clean now; hair wet, a very large T-shirt that definitely does not belong to her hanging from her shoulders. “and they like him more than they do us anyway.”

“‘Cause they think they own him,” You roll your eyes. “and he’s too good to tell them to fuck off.“

Steve’s pleasant façade is back on the screen, and it makes you feel a little sick.

“Wow, you’re starting to sound like you care about him,”

You glare at her, an incredulous noise coming out of your mouth, and you think you might actually be sick. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Good.” She laughs, and you don’t bother turning as you make your way to your room. “I won’t tell him, you know?”

“Fuck you!”

Natasha laughs harder.

You come out of your bedroom at least an hour later to a quiet, dim-lit floor. Your feet make little sound as you pad towards the kitchen you share with Wanda and Nat, and you don’t bother turning any more lights on besides the one inside the fridge.

You’re like a raccoon this time of the night, hungry for any kind of trashy snack you could get your hands on; it doesn’t help that you tried to speed up the coming down process of your powers and it made your stomach reject its contents.

With your head inside the refrigerator you almost don’t hear the sound of the elevator doors closing shut, and the heavy steps that followed - almost.

Steve Rogers is back at last.

His shoulders are slumped, hair and uniform still grimy from earlier. His face is the worst of all, with dark circles, droopy eyelids and smeared soot from where he probably rubbed it countless times during the press conference.

Eyebrows scrunched up in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting to run into you.

“You look like shit,”

He breathes out a tired laugh. You half expect him to say it back to you. He doesn’t. “I know. I just wanted some water before I go fix all of—this,”

It’s something logical, really - you’re the one closest to the fridge, so you pour him a glass. You’re not gonna overthink that.

“The news people were here this whole time?” He hums in response, downing the glass of water like Tony Stark would do with a shot of tequila.

“CBS just left a few minutes ago.”

You’re also not gonna overthink about the way he looks at you when you take the glass from him and fill it up again. He drinks it slower this time.

“They’re pieces of shit.” “They’re part of this job. We do ours, and they do theirs.”

“It’s still bullshit.”He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

For once you’re more focused on your nightly snack - tortilla chips and a queso dip you pulled out from the back of the fridge - than Steve’s presence at your side. You’re waiting for him to just to go upstairs without another word.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s so quiet after you can hear your heartbeat speeding.

You meticulously scoop the still cold queso with a tortilla chip before turning to answer. “Me? I’m fine,” He’s assessing you with his eyes, and you regret not covering up more. You pop the chip into your mouth. “Just hungry.’

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve sighs. “I know what you’re doing.”

You scowl.

“Yeah? What am I doing, Rogers?”

“Answering my questions with questions,” He says, running a hand through his dirty hair. “I know you’re using your HYDRA words during missions. During training.”

“So? It’s not like it’s a secret.”

You can tell he’s becoming irritated. Good.

“I know it’s taking a toll on you. Coming down from it, and everything else.” You frown, trying to square up to when he steps closer. “I just— I think you should stop using them.”

“No.”

“Maybe I can talk to Shuri and she can—”

“Really? You want to deprogram me? My powers are already out of control as it is, and you want to remove the one thing that gives me the slightest edge over them?” You nearly snarl, and he closes his eyes.

Neither of you are in the best headspace for this conversation.

You’ve seen the headlines. If that’s what they think of you semi-functional, you wonder what it would be like if you’re not.“Nothing that comes from HYDRA can be for your sake, Bucky is getting be—”“I am not Bucky.” You huff, and you want to throw something at him. And here you thought he was starting to accept you.

“I know. You— are you gonna let me finish?”“No. I’m fine like this—“

“Fine? You’re everything but,” You stare up at him, breaths quickening, waiting to hear him make clear how he thought you weren’t good enough. “You think I don’t know about how frequent your migraines are? About the morphine? The nosebleeds, the nausea, all of it?”

“So what? They’re not as bad with the new suit.”

“And the programming? Reliving that shit, again and again? You can’t convince me you’re tough enough to not let it bother you.”

“I am tough. I am HYDRA scum, am I not? Maybe I’m reminiscing,”Steve scoffs. “You can lie to everyone else. Not to me.”You breathe out through your nose, closing your eyes to fight off your annoyance. You try to remember he took one for the team today, with the press.“It’s fine. I’m finally being useful during missions, just like everyone always wanted—”

“Not at that cost. You don’t need to be useful—”

“Really? Because as far as I know, the only reason I’m still here is to be functional. An asset. This was the deal from the start, do you think anything but that will be enough?”

“It’s enough for me.”

You blink. It feels like the blood has drained from where it had rushed into your head, leaving it empty, your hands clammy. This night has taken such a wild turn you will need at least a couple days to process it fully. Steve and you are standing very close now, so much that your field of vision is nearly entirely filled of him. If you stood on your tiptoes your foreheads would be touching, even if you don’t remember stepping any closer. He looks the way you feel - exhausted.

“Has it ever crossed your mind, Steve, that my failsafe is there for a reason? What if I’m even worse without it?” You say quietly, voicing the fear at last.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” The way he says it makes you want to be a pathological optimistic like him.“Just… think about it, okay?”

It takes you a second, but you nod anyways. He squeezes your arms gently, and you only now notice he’s had his hand cradling your elbows ever since you were within reach.

“What about you?” Your question seems to catch him off-guard, and he tilts his head. “How are you feeling, I mean.”

If you moved your hands just a little, you’d be touching his chest.

“I’m—I’m fine. I’m good.”“Are you sure?”

Steve’s hand is still on your arms, his thumbs caressing your skin like you’re the one that needs comfort. Not that you don’t… but it doesn’t matter either way.

“I do this all the time.” You decide you’ll have to be content with his answer, even if his body language is telling you what his words aren’t. His eyes are soft like you’ve never seen before; at least not directed at you.There’s other things to be concerned about, however: the heat from his hands and the way he looks at you making your knees weak.

He’s so damn close.

“You really need a shower, good lord. You smell like wet dog.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m going now.” Steve says, letting go of you and stepping back, just a little. “G’night.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else.

“‘Night, Steve.”

You’ll never tell a soul about the urge you just had to smother yourself in his arms, and how your queso and chips were forgotten on the kitchen counter as you scurried back to your room.

[emwritesstuff]

@nekoannie-chan @alessandraavengers @js-favnanadoongi @bean-bean2000 @masterofnonesstuff @reejero @agentxx92 @mimimarvelingmarvel @spn-imagines-fics @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 7.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: There's more to your powers than you could have imagined. my biannual update, a large boy at least... do you guys still read this thing? (warnings: inaccurate science, brief mention of HYDRA shenanigans and minor injury) (7,411 words)

7: JOULE'S PRINCIPLE

After swinging your leg over the seat, you’re left with no other choice but to put your arms around his waist to hold on. The wind whipping around and the lapses in stability has you clinging to Steve against your better judgment, even though he’s a skilled rider and you doubt he’d get both of you into an accident.

Still, it’s enough to make you decide you’re definitely a car person.

Although you have to admit having an unobstructed view is great. You can see the entire city from the bridge you’re crossing, twinkling like it did in your imagination. It’s nice to know it does it justice. You now get why everyone loves this place so much, and you don’t regret being irresponsible one bit.

The bike is also pretty convenient. Steve zips through traffic, and soon enough the city views become a treeline and the Compound gates welcome you in.

“The lights are back on!” You say, loud enough for Steve to hear over the noise of the Harley— you’re not sure how much his super hearing can pick up.

His answer comes roughly in the same volume, as he drives you into the garage: “The maintenance guys got to it pretty quickly. No harm done, besides the temporary outage.”

“And Tony’s PacMan streak?” You ask, hopeful he’d say that was left intact too.

“…and Tony’s PacMan record streak.” This stupid video game will get you kicked out one day, you’re sure of it. Steve sighs as your shoulders fall, despite him looking way more amused at the situation than you are.

He has to help you with the helmet straps again, and you flinch from the cold feel of his fingertips. “Besides that, everything’s back to normal.” His touch makes you feel like you poked a live wire, or like when you zap yourself with your powers. “Are you—”

You shove the jacket into his chest the second Nat’s bleached-blonde head pokes inside the garage. Bruce follows right after her, and it makes you want to tease her about it, but the look on her face is so serious you decide against it.

“There you are! Bruce told us what happened during training. Are you okay?”

“He… told you. He told you everything?” You look over her shoulder at your doctor, and he shrugs apologetically.

“We were worried when you fucked off. Don’t do that again.”

You widen your eyes a little, then give her a sheepish look. “Sorry I stole your car.” Nat smiles.

“Don’t sweat it. It was smart you dumped it at the train station, actually. It has a tracker I can’t take out.” The way she says it makes you think that she can’t because she isn’t allowed to, not because she doesn’t know how. Natasha would know how.

You don’t mention that you were feeling way too queasy to drive her favorite BMW all the way to New York City, and that’s why you opted for the train; it’s likely not a very good idea, considering how cool she’s being about it all.

You’re not even sweating.

“You’re lucky Steve found your ass before we had to bring S.W.O.R.D. into the picture.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was lucky he was in town.”

“In town?” Bruce questions, and you look at him as the four of you leave the garage in direction of the Compound living area. “No, he said he was gonna find you himself—”

“Bruce.”

“—didn’t he ‘Tasha? Just took off on his Harley and–”

“Bruce!”

“…what?” Before you can finish turning to Rogers and question his previous statement, he’s already got the elevator half closed.

You glower at the metal doors. He was right about things being back to normal - here was evidence he is back to helicoptering you, watching your every step because of course he wouldn’t find you capable of staying out of trouble; and you are back to feeling the bitter taste of animosity on your tongue.

You suppose this your own fault. Maybe you should just accept you’re stuck in this place forever.

Steve lets out a big, slow breath as the elevator doors close, leaving Sparky and her pinched eyebrows on the floor below. It’s for the best. He wouldn’t have answers for her nor himself at the moment. The feel of her body, her legs, wrapped around him made him feel electrified without her using those powers of hers.

He sure wishes he had them as an excuse.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him when the doors open again, welcoming him into their shared quarters.

“You’re back already. You found her?”

Steve nods, walking over to the kitchen and fetching a bottle of water. He’d found her alright, looking cold and distracted on the steps of the Brooklyn Museum.

“She good?”

He nods again. “Barely put up a fight.” He’s glad he acted fast and got to her before anyone else took notice, because that would be a whole lotta trouble and she was enough of it on a normal day.

The thought of a S.W.A.T team being sent, anything that seemed too much like an arrest, or in truth, anyone other than himself finding her made his skin crawl.

Maybe he was a control freak. She’d told him so herself, more than a few times now.

“No— I mean, is she good. Physically, mentally?”

Steve looks up from his water. Bucky’s empathy was not really a rare occurrence, but he’s surprised nonetheless. HYDRA is as much his enemy as it is Steve’s, and he figured that would be too big of a barrier for Bucky to cross. Apparently not.

“She’s good, Buck. All back to normal.”

Back to extensive training. Back to occasional missions. Back to mutual dislike, the image of her in his jacket already a hazy, surreal memory.

Shoved away like the jacket itself, the second Natasha had eyes on them. Normalcy.

Bucky nods, knowing as well as Steve that for people like them, and her, nothing was ever really normal.

“Try not being too hard on her tomorrow.”

“I’ll be moderately hard.” Steve shakes his head, biting the innerside of his lip to stop the chuckle that wants to come out. It’s such a stupid piece of humor.

That’s what she said, Rogers.

“I hate this,” You mutter to his broad back, and he turns to you briefly. Of course he wouldn’t slow down to keep up with your pace; his own fitness routine is more important than camaraderie, especially when you’re involved. “Three more laps.”

“What? It was two!”

“It’s three now,” Steve Rogers is a petty, insufferable little motherfucker.

Well, not actually little. It’s the principle.

“Screw you.”

You’re almost waiting for him to clap back with a “you did”, or maybe “language” but that is how you’d react. Definitely waiting for him to add another lap, or ten. He doesn’t do either, just keeps on running ahead of you.

It’s like nothing even happened.

You shake your shoulders and head like a dog does when it’s wet, as if the innuendos were water drops.

You’re not a fan of running. It’s hard for you to understand how people say they run to clear their heads, because your way to do that is taking a nap. Or several.

Taking advantage of the current distance between you and Rogers, you pause, your hands on your knees and lungs working quickly for more air. You’re surprised when he turns instead of going around to finish the lap.

“Keep up, Sparky.”

You groan, standing up with your hands on your hips and shoving a petulant finger to his chest. “Don’t call me that. I could fry you like a fish andrunright out of here. Make sure to use money this time—”

“Don’t.” He’s not looking at you. His eyes stare behind and above you, and when you turn Fury is watching you both. There’s another man with him, in a fancy military uniform that screams everything but friendly. “Just. Keep. Up.”

The urgency in Steve’s tone makes you frown. His gritted teeth. He hasn’t stopped staring at the other two.

Alrighty, then. “Three more laps?” He nods, and you resume your early morning run.

You’re both one lap in when you speak again. “Who’s that?”

“That’s General Hoss. He’s Chief Commander of the NSA.” He looks back to check if you’re following, but you aren’t, neither his pace nor the words. “National Security Agency?”

“So… he’s pest control.” You bite your lip when he agrees. “He’s here because of yesterday, isn’t he?”

“I’m guessing yes.” Frost seeps into your bones, the regret Steve wanted you to feel yesterday finally kicking in. Like he can read your mind, he continues.“I’ll talk to him when we’re done here. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Who’s worried?” A humorless laugh leaves your lips. You keep on running. “Last one, Cap.”

He nods. “That’s the spirit,”

By the middle of the third and final lap, Bruce Banner is standing at the side of the track field, a clipboard on his hands. You stop when Rogers does, a little surprised he doesn’t make the doctor wait for you to finish your workout.

“You feeling okay? You look a little green,”

“Good morning to you too. Cap.” He says tiredly, but you’re proud of your joke regardless. Even Steve has a curl to his lip this time.

You’re wearing them all down, little by little.

“What can we do for you, Banner?”

“I’m going to need Sparky here at the lab.” You raise an eyebrow. The routine checkup is supposed to be on Monday. “Me and Tony have been analyzing your data and have a few theories about your powers being unstable.”

“Okay…” The thought of the two scientists turning you into their little project makes you feel a little uneasy.

Tony Stark specially.

“Oh great, you’re here. Why are you sweaty? It’s 7 a.m.”

You point back to Rogers with your thumb, then realized that not only there was a crowd, but also an audience to your personal shitshow. Of course Tony had to drag the spider kid into this.

“Mornin’ run.”

“Ew. No time for a shower though, lucky us. Come sit over here.” Stark ushers you to a chair, strapping your monitoring bracelets on.

“Do you plan on explaining what in the fuck you’re about to do to me?” Steve mutters a timid language, and you both glare at him. “Or at least what is it that you found out about my powers?”

He sighs and stops what he’s doing, as if you’re wasting his precious time. “What do you know about Joule’s Principle? Physics?”

“In short? Nothing.”

“Then there’s no point in explaining anything to you.”

You’re about to tell him to shove the laws of physics up his wormhole when Bruce turns from the computer he was typing on.

“Joule’s Principle is a theory about energy conversion. Basically, an electric current produces heat as it passes through a conductor,” Bruce pulls up a full body scan, your full body scan, the areas on your head, torso and hands colored deep red and orange. “This shows your body temperature spiking as your powers flare.”

“So…I am the conductor in this Joojoo…thing?”

“Joule’s Principle, my little genius. And from our observations the extreme overheating could be causing all of those gross side effects of yours. The dry cleaners were concerned about that, by that way— ”

“Just get to the point, Tony.” Steve is leaning casually on the doorframe, his eyes focused on your body scans.

Stark’s head whips in his direction. “Didn’t notice you were still here, ‘Merica.”

In all honesty, you hadn’t either.

“Anyway, the side effects- especially bad when you’re not feeding off a generator. So! Here’s a little gift for you, from me and my little elves Banner and Peter.”

You blink once. It’s a lot to digest, especially when Peter Parker is shoving a glass case on your hands, with a small glowing disc floating inside.

“Do you like it?!” He says, and you wish you could mirror his teenage nerd enthusiasm.

“Uh… sure? Very shiny. Is it gonna fix everything?”

“Yes! I mean, not exactly. Maybe?” It’s Tony’s turn to answer, and you look at Bruce for help. He gives you a sympathetic smile and nods, agreeing with his mad scientist colleague.

Great. “And you can match Mr. Stark!”

…great.

“Uh– match? Isn’t your thing basically a mini atomic bomb? How am I suppose to use this? Wait, isn’t yours inside your chest ? Where—”

“Whoa, whoa… slow down. It’s not an atomic bomb, it’s a fusion reactor. And it’s going on your suit.” You breathe out a sigh of relief, although maybe you shouldn’t. Rogers also seems relieved.

Of course it’s going on the suit.

They wouldn’t just carve a hole in your body…right? Right. You’re still coming down from that small panic when FRIDAY speaks out. Captain Rogers, General Hoss is waiting for you at the lobby.

The monitor bracelets on your wrists make sure to tell everyone about your heartbeat spiking up. Your eyes find Steve’s, his posture now stiff and imposing. The good old by-the-book Captain America everyone knows and loves.

“I’m on my way, FRIDAY.” Shit. Shit shit fucking shit—

You can only imagine how that meeting is going to go. You’re probably fucked.

Right?

Maybe you’re hallucinating, but you swear he mouths three words to you before leaving: I got you.

“Sparky, you need to breathe.”

You draw in a desperate breath, only now realizing your lungs were completely empty.

“What…what were you saying?”

“The fusion reactor is going to be installed on your suit, giving you essentially an endless energy source for you to feed off from. We noticed that your side effects are more intense when you don’t. While they might not go away completely, it might help.” You nod, it makes sense. Sort of.

“Wait— isn’t this nuclear energy? My thing is electricity, I don’t know if you noticed.”

“My Pac-Man machine surely did. Which brings us to our second point… I’ve never seen electricity put cracks on a concrete wall, babycakes.”

You shake your head, as you would if your ears were full of water.

There’s something you need to pick up from what they’re saying, but you’re not a science person like they are.

“Our main theory is that your powers are not simply manipulating electricity,” Bruce says, pulling up a screen with graphics you don’t understand. “But also converting it. We believe the electricity you converted into mechanical energy is what caused the damages to the wall. Which means you could probably do it the other way around—”

“Like a dynamo!” Peter pipes up, and he and Tony share a look.

It scares you almost as much as the outcome of General Hoss’ and Steve’s conversation.

“A what?”

“A dynamo is a type of old-school energy converting machine, like you but made of iron and magnets. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?” In your indignation, you don’t pay attention to the fact that Bruce is still explaining things.

“I’m not old-school. You have me confused with the other guy.”

“—So by analizing all this data your suit and the other tests picked up, well, it seemed natural that you could convert all other types of energy into each other. Thermal, electric, mechanical, nuclear, sound, the possibilities are—”

Endless. The potential is endless.

Dr. Hermann Steiner knew it all along.

The dots connect in your brain almost instantly: your words, your failsafe— it uncapped the ability to harness so much energy it took your powers to a whole other level. Giving HYDRA all of the control in their hands, turning you into a near-perfect, glass-domed weapon.

Until now. Maybe.

Something tells you that S.W.O.R.D is going to have a field day with this information.

What an absolutely insane week you’re having.

“I feel like this isn’t right.”

It takes Wanda a couple of seconds to answer. “Your knees are a little bent, but you’ll get there.”

Your body is folded awkwardly into the downwards dog position, the muscles at the back of your legs burning from the unfamiliar stretch. Wanda’s so good at it she puts Natasha to shame, and that one has never lost her ballerina skills.

“I’m not sure how this is supposed to be relaxing and therapeutic,”

“It helps if you focus more on your breathing than in complaining.” She grins at you, looking at little crazy from this angle.

“I’m not complaining. It’s just an— observation,” You’re slightly out of breath, and she laughs. Things have fallen into routine after General Hoss’ visit. You’re not entirely sure what the results of his conversation with Steve were, but it’s been four days since and besides the fittings with your improved suit and a promise of testing out Stark and Banner’s theory soon, not much has changed.

Beside the whole…Steve Rogers thing. You’ve barely seen him these days, since he has been leaving the Compound every single day and when he is home he makes sure to stay out of your way. And everyone else’s. You know you should be feeling elated, but for some reason it bothers you.

His constant hovering and nagging would be better than this. Probably.

Wanda announces it’s time for the reverse warrior position, and you swear you hear your joints creaking as you move into it.

“Speaking of observation,” You start now that your lungs have air in them and you can breathe again. “What’s going on with you and Vision?”

She opens her eyes slowly, tilting her head at you innocently. “Nothing’s going on. Me and Vis are just good friends.”

Her accent makes the words drag slightly, thickened as she does when she wants to play tough.

“Right. As good as Nat and Bruce, eh?” Wanda blushes, and you grin like the Cheshire cat. Bingo.

“I’ll trade that answer for one about you and Steve.” Your grin falls off your face at the same time hers grows.

“What makes you think there’s something with me and him? We’re not even good friends, and besides, he’s been avoiding me like the pla–”

“Us witches always know. Hi Steve!”

You whip your head in the direction she’s looking, fast enough to rival a horror movie. Wanda’s giggling as you stare at the empty doorway, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re the worst.”

“You started it.” She says, standing beside you to correct your posture. “Come on, deep breath. Remember the mantra?”

You glare at her while you say “Om” , elongating the O instead of addressing her first comment.

The both of you finally get to sit in a comfortable silence, after the many torturous positions you attempt to twist your body into. You have to concentrate to keep your eyes closed and not hyper alert to your surroundings.

She’s so much better at it than you are it’s almost funny, despite her insisting every time that you’ve been doing better and should keep practicing.

Not that you’re planning on giving up your joint yoga sessions anytime soon.

Wanda Maximoff is probably the most welcoming and understanding out of all of your housemates, with endless patience for dealing with your moods as if they were her own. From what you knew, she’d been in a similar position as you are now. Maybe that was why.

Maybe she was just good.

You weren’t asking about Vision simply out of curiosity: although a part of it was, you needed to know if a stern conversation with him would be necessary.

After nearly three months, she was one of the only you could confidently call your friend, besides Nat. It was… a strange feeling, still.

“Hello, Stark.”

“Fuck off. You can’t get me with that one anymore,” You call Wanda out humorously, eliciting a laugh out of her.

“I thought Yoga was supposed to make you zen,” Tony Stark’s actual voice startles you, making you jump.

He’s standing at the previously empty doorway, hands on his hips as he stares at you as if you’re wasting his precious time. You make a face at him, raising your shoulders in question, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“For the suit’s first real test drive, Tiny Taser. I had FRIDAY call you fifteen minutes ago!” He says, urging you to your feet.

“We can’t hear FRIDAY from here. I blocked all noises out… for zen purposes,” Wanda pipes up, and you barely have time to fight against his antics and shoot her an apologetic look as he ushers you out of the room and through the endless Compound corridors.

You end up in a glorified broom closet, with Tony reinforcing that you have 30 seconds to change into the suit or he’s making you do this on your underwear.

Alas, you’ve changed, you’re about 10% zen, and you have an audience. Natasha waves at you from behind the tempered glass where Tony is also going for safety purposes. Bruce appears behind her with a clipboard in hand.

You see Nick Fury and Rhodes at the back of the elevated platform as well, making you wonder if Netflix isn’t on today or something.

Oh, and let’s not forget Peter Parker.

They’ve place a bunch of different things on the floor for you: an array of lamps and electronic devices; heavy metal objects, like oversized dumbbells. Barrels, some empty, some filled with firewood. A chair, very thoughtful of them.

“What do I do with this shit?”

Tony Stark comes to the center of the window, leaning over a small microphone.

“You’re so sweet, aren’t you? So delicate. You can start by–” Tony is eager to get his experiment going, but someone interrupts him, though you can’t make out who or what they said. “He’s the man’s little lapdog for the week and we get held up because of that? There’s no time to lose, Romanoff.”

“Should I do some tricks?” You say, making your fingers sparkle with lightning. No one seems to be amused.

You shrug, taking to repeating your HYDRA words quietly, falling into the familiar empty head space. The best way to get precise results, since you’d be using them during missions too.

You’re more than halfway finished when the door to the test room opens and slams closed, heavy footsteps following. Steve Rogers - or better yet, Captain America - strides in, fully clad in his own tactical suit. The vintage one. “I’m here– sorry I’m late.”

As if you needed any extra pressure. Fuck me.

“What’s with the costume? Hoss made you do a kid’s birthday party?” Stark quips, and you would’ve laughed if not for the present circumstances.

“Don’t start, Tony.”

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

You really wish that last sentence wasn’t part of it.

“Alright, Sparky. Now that we’re all here, let’s get this show going.” You nod, watching as Rogers climbs up the metal steps to join the others. “We want you to focus on using the reactor on your suit as your main source of energy. I put some stuff for you to play with there, start with your usual party trick first. Anything else, Dr. Banner?”

“If you feel anything out of the ordinary just stop immediately. We have your wrist monitors functioning at all times too.”

You can see that Rogers is saying something to them, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Take it easy, your safety is most important. I thought that went without saying,” Tony says through the speakers.

You take a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the task and not on the group watching you. It should be nerve-wracking but it’s not, thanks to how your programming works: the energy flows from the arc reactor down to your palms, lighting up the special seams of your suit in the process.

You almost miss the feel of the electricity inside you, running on the surface of your skin instead. It’s like being under a cold shower.

With little effort you make the lamps that were displayed light up, picking up a small one and holding it in your palms until the thin glass bursts.

“Sparky? Everything good?”

“Yeah.” You don’t look up, although a voice at the back of your head says you should be protesting over the rampant use of the nickname.

You move on to the other electronics, satisfied as they all power up one by one. It was easy enough, something you could do with or without a special suit. Your usual symptoms are nowhere to be found however: a very promising result.

“Let’s tackle the other stuff now. Maybe thermal energy? The barrel in front of you has wood, try getting a fire going.”

You walk over to where Tony suggested, staring at the wood. A fire? How on earth– you’re flabbergasted they’re just letting you play and figure things out, even in this very controlled environment, when it clicks.

It might be cheating, but if you zap the wood hard enough a fire could spark.

And it does. Your lips curl as the woods begin to burn, heating up your extended hand. Heat. You can feel it on your palm, scorching instead of the familiar coldness. If the arc-reactor is a source… what isn’t?

The potential is endless.

You push your hand further into the barrel. The fire is close enough to blister skin, but you barely feel it; all you care about is the new type of energy flowing towards you as the flames roar.

It’s enough to make you stumble backwards, your palms red and burnt, eyes dry and wide. Your body feels unbearably hot. It’s not as easy to control as you expected, probably because it’s so new, leaving you to release it all at once against whatever is on the way.

The thing you classified as a large dumbbell is knocked down as your blast strikes, rolling away. The other empty barrel crashes against the concrete wall.

Half melted.

You look down at your hands. Your temple is starting to hurt, but only a little bit. “Bruce, how’s my levels?”

“…surprisingly within range.”

This time, you turn your eyes towards the audience behind the glass. You probably look deranged, wide-eyed and grinning. Steve Rogers’ eyebrows are so close to one another they look like a singular line, and if it wasn’t for the glass he’d lean off the rail and fall into your little playground.

All this attention on you, as if he hadn’t spent the past few days pretending you didn’t exist. Typical.

Not that you care.

Nat comes up to him, touching his arm and saying something in his ear. His attention shifts from you to her, and you look away.

He didn’t have to be here, did he? You wish he’d gotten caught at whatever schmoozing to General Hoss he was doing before this.

You huff through your nose, cursing your programming for not being exactly thorough with keeping your feelings at bay. The more you used it, the more loopholes you found; if someone was able to elicit a strong enough emotion out of you, it was able to slip through the cracks of the flimsy mental armor. Rogers was one of those people. Natasha too if she picked her words right.

Maybe it was the lack of rewiring your brains every time you used it, like HYDRA used to do. It was extensive and painful, much more taxing than what you do now to come down from the programming. You are definetely not reminiscing that part.

Von Strucker could stay dead and buried.

If you could not use it at all, you wouldn’t. Fury’s presence in the training room is enough evidence of how much you have to.

“Now that’s a Dynamo if I’ve ever seen one. Right, Peter?” Tony says on the intercoms, and you look back to see Peter Parker enthusiastically putting both his thumbs up.

You groan. “No. I don’t need a superhero nickname, Stark.”

“But it’s great!” Peter says.

“Too late sugarplum, you already got business cards on the way.”

“Try not to fog the glass, Rogers.” Natasha’s voice calls out on his ear, and Steves snaps out of the trance he was in.

You and that wild smile of yours, with powers just as untamed. The sight filled him with a foreign pride. It worried him immensely.

“Her vitals might be regular but she has to be more careful,” He reinforces, turning to Bruce and ignoring Nat for a second. She raises one eyebrow. Steve shrugs.

He hadn’t missed the blisters forming on the skin of your palms, something you’d feel only later but his super-soldier vision had picked up.

S.W.O.R.D was already more interested in you than he’d like, and you’ve been pushing yourself hard enough. He doesn’t want you to find out where your breaking point is.

Instinct tells him that HYDRA still having vestigial roots inside your head is what’s keeping you from harnessing your powers fully, despite the immediate effects of the programming. He can tell when you’re under the spell, his eyes finding indifference instead of a passionate hatred inside your gaze.

With abilities like these, it could all go to shit if you’re not in control. The guys in suits wouldn’t hesitate in retiring a malfunctioning S.W. on the Raft.

Sentient Weapon. Asset.

The thought makes him cringe.

“We won’t let anything bad happen to her,” Natasha whispers, and he tightens his fists against the rail. It’s a silent agreement. He’d guaranteed General Hoss your record would be set straight and that he’d oversee it personally. Control freak. He was paying that vow with cashed in favors and his dignity. This damned old suit was proof enough. Itchy, too.

The outcome of that morning turns out to be unbelievably positive, even with the stupid new nickname. You’re eager to keep finding out what you can do with your powers — S.W.O.R.D is eager to have you on the field, putting them to good use. Which in hindsight it’s quite stupid of them.

The mission had gone to shit. It had been an intelligently laid trap, with an empty warehouse building stuffed to the brim with explosives, the HYDRA rats long gone from there, resulting in the side of the building being blown to smithereens. No one was dead, which was the most important thing, but you saw ambulances speeding by as you boarded the Quinjet. The media arrived before they could, transmitting the failure live. So much for no casualties. No one felt like saying anything, not even you, ears still ringing from the blast and trying to make sense of the sight in front of you. Steve Rogers, with his shoulders hanging in defeat. His hair looks powdery from the soot and cement that littered the air.

You’re sure yours is the same way. He shares a look with you, but it feels like a question, so you tear your gaze away, whatever had been locked away slowly rising to the surface as you recite your words in reverse order. You can’t handle another half hour in this emotional limbo; you’ll just have to deal with the comedown in this noisy flying tin can instead of your quiet bathroom.

You wonder if any of it could’ve been avoided. How did none of you see this coming? It looked too easy. Too good to be true.In a whim, you used your powers to keep you all from being buried under the rubble. Rogers, Romanoff, Wilson, yourself.

But if you hadn’t deflected the blast, those neighboring buildings wouldn’t be affected. Cars crashed on the streets trying to avoid the falling concrete.

You’re the getting the hang of it, sure, but it can be either too much or too little especially working with anything that isn’t electricity.

Despite it all, the worst of it that you’ve seen was a man with a broken leg and a poor Lexus that was already on it’s last breath anyways. You’re unsure about the extent of the material damage.

It’s New Jersey’s fault for being so damn crammed, Nat says, and you want to laugh. It’s her way of assuring you everything would be okay, and you focus on the part of you that believes her.

Despite it all, everyone is alive.

One thing is certain: for the good side and the bad, it’s all your fault.

There are reporters climbing over themselves once the Quinjet lands, and Steve makes his way down first; they all also nearly climb over him too, shooting questions out so fast you can’t keep up.

His broad back basically shields you from them, almost intentionally, which is great because you suddenly can’t breathe and your surroundings are feeling too tight. Damned programming that only works when it wants.

When a stray reporter finally notices you, Sam and Nat are already grabbing your shoulders and towing you away from the crowd.

“We left him behind,” You croak once the three of you are inside the elevator and you catch a glimpse of Steve’s now straightened posture, nothing like the one on the flight back. Nat squeezes your arm in a comforting gesture, but then you look at her and see some dried blood on the side of her face. Bright red as her hair used to be.“He’ll be fine. The news channels love him,” She sighs. “At least more than they do us.”

You’re quite aware of that; you’ve seen some snippets of his interviews on YouTube. He’s always dressed sharp, not a hair out of place. The gleaming smile of America’s greatest hero.

Tony has the TV on when you arrive to the communal living room, Roger’s appearance miles away from that mental image, except for the way he always carries himself at times like these: composed, with a gentle demeanor and attentive eyes.

You hate the diplomatic part of this job.

Despite Stark’s protests, you sink on the expensive leather couch, not having the will to do anything else. Your chest feels tighter, your throat dry; is this what guilt feels like?

Someone could’ve died today.

Either way, it’s your fault.

Steve Rogers moves on to another reporter from another news channel and the one that’s on the TV begins recounting this morning’s incident.

The cameras did you dirty; everything the news got from you is a blurry picture of your face. Your eyes have more white in them than usual, and you could probably benefit from a hairbrush and nose job. Your stance is akin to a cornered wild animal, almost.

You’re not like him at all.

Rogers is back on the screen, speaking into a microphone even though there’s at least three others near his face. You don’t really register the words.

Just accident and comes with the job.

His eyebrow twitches for a single second, but it’s enough to take you back to your shared look on the Quinjet.

“Hey. You really need to go shower before Tony hoses you down right here.”

Natasha’s voice sounds distant from your left - your ear is still ringing slightly, but it’s enough to pull you out of your flat-screen induced trance.

“Yeah— yeah, okay. I’m going.” You get up, but it’s hard not to look at TV again now that they’re showing the aftermath of today’s mission.

Avengers leave warehouse destroyed at Union City: 2 surrounding buildings suffered severe structural damage.

5 people are hospitalized. 8 units have been evacuated.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it too much, okay?” From the right, her voice is somehow distant too - but you can’t blame the explosion this time. “We’ve made worse mistakes. And yours saved all our asses.”

It’s hard to focus on the bright side when you are the accident that comes with the job.

“I don’t think Fox News would love that statement, Romanoff.”

“That’s why Steve does the interviews. He’s good at keeping the peace,” You finally manage to look at Natasha. Her face and hair are clean now; hair wet, a very large T-shirt that definitely does not belong to her hanging from her shoulders. “and they like him more than they do us anyway.”

“‘Cause they think they own him,” You roll your eyes. “and he’s too good to tell them to fuck off.“

Steve’s pleasant façade is back on the screen, and it makes you feel a little sick.

“Wow, you’re starting to sound like you care about him,”

You glare at her, an incredulous noise coming out of your mouth, and you think you might actually be sick. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Good.” She laughs, and you don’t bother turning as you make your way to your room. “I won’t tell him, you know?”

“Fuck you!”

Natasha laughs harder.

You come out of your bedroom at least an hour later to a quiet, dim-lit floor. Your feet make little sound as you pad towards the kitchen you share with Wanda and Nat, and you don’t bother turning any more lights on besides the one inside the fridge.

You’re like a raccoon this time of the night, hungry for any kind of trashy snack you could get your hands on; it doesn’t help that you tried to speed up the coming down process of your powers and it made your stomach reject its contents.

With your head inside the refrigerator you almost don’t hear the sound of the elevator doors closing shut, and the heavy steps that followed - almost.

Steve Rogers is back at last.

His shoulders are slumped, hair and uniform still grimy from earlier. His face is the worst of all, with dark circles, droopy eyelids and smeared soot from where he probably rubbed it countless times during the press conference.

Eyebrows scrunched up in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting to run into you.

“You look like shit,”

He breathes out a tired laugh. You half expect him to say it back to you. He doesn’t. “I know. I just wanted some water before I go fix all of—this,”

It’s something logical, really - you’re the one closest to the fridge, so you pour him a glass. You’re not gonna overthink that.

“The news people were here this whole time?” He hums in response, downing the glass of water like Tony Stark would do with a shot of tequila.

“CBS just left a few minutes ago.”

You’re also not gonna overthink about the way he looks at you when you take the glass from him and fill it up again. He drinks it slower this time.

“They’re pieces of shit.” “They’re part of this job. We do ours, and they do theirs.”

“It’s still bullshit.”He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

For once you’re more focused on your nightly snack - tortilla chips and a queso dip you pulled out from the back of the fridge - than Steve’s presence at your side. You’re waiting for him to just to go upstairs without another word.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s so quiet after you can hear your heartbeat speeding.

You meticulously scoop the still cold queso with a tortilla chip before turning to answer. “Me? I’m fine,” He’s assessing you with his eyes, and you regret not covering up more. You pop the chip into your mouth. “Just hungry.’

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve sighs. “I know what you’re doing.”

You scowl.

“Yeah? What am I doing, Rogers?”

“Answering my questions with questions,” He says, running a hand through his dirty hair. “I know you’re using your HYDRA words during missions. During training.”

“So? It’s not like it’s a secret.”

You can tell he’s becoming irritated. Good.

“I know it’s taking a toll on you. Coming down from it, and everything else.” You frown, trying to square up to when he steps closer. “I just— I think you should stop using them.”

“No.”

“Maybe I can talk to Shuri and she can—”

“Really? You want to deprogram me? My powers are already out of control as it is, and you want to remove the one thing that gives me the slightest edge over them?” You nearly snarl, and he closes his eyes.

Neither of you are in the best headspace for this conversation.

You’ve seen the headlines. If that’s what they think of you semi-functional, you wonder what it would be like if you’re not.“Nothing that comes from HYDRA can be for your sake, Bucky is getting be—”“I am not Bucky.” You huff, and you want to throw something at him. And here you thought he was starting to accept you.

“I know. You— are you gonna let me finish?”“No. I’m fine like this—“

“Fine? You’re everything but,” You stare up at him, breaths quickening, waiting to hear him make clear how he thought you weren’t good enough. “You think I don’t know about how frequent your migraines are? About the morphine? The nosebleeds, the nausea, all of it?”

“So what? They’re not as bad with the new suit.”

“And the programming? Reliving that shit, again and again? You can’t convince me you’re tough enough to not let it bother you.”

“I am tough. I am HYDRA scum, am I not? Maybe I’m reminiscing,”Steve scoffs. “You can lie to everyone else. Not to me.”You breathe out through your nose, closing your eyes to fight off your annoyance. You try to remember he took one for the team today, with the press.“It’s fine. I’m finally being useful during missions, just like everyone always wanted—”

“Not at that cost. You don’t need to be useful—”

“Really? Because as far as I know, the only reason I’m still here is to be functional. An asset. This was the deal from the start, do you think anything but that will be enough?”

“It’s enough for me.”

You blink. It feels like the blood has drained from where it had rushed into your head, leaving it empty, your hands clammy. This night has taken such a wild turn you will need at least a couple days to process it fully. Steve and you are standing very close now, so much that your field of vision is nearly entirely filled of him. If you stood on your tiptoes your foreheads would be touching, even if you don’t remember stepping any closer. He looks the way you feel - exhausted.

“Has it ever crossed your mind, Steve, that my failsafe is there for a reason? What if I’m even worse without it?” You say quietly, voicing the fear at last.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” The way he says it makes you want to be a pathological optimistic like him.“Just… think about it, okay?”

It takes you a second, but you nod anyways. He squeezes your arms gently, and you only now notice he’s had his hand cradling your elbows ever since you were within reach.

“What about you?” Your question seems to catch him off-guard, and he tilts his head. “How are you feeling, I mean.”

If you moved your hands just a little, you’d be touching his chest.

“I’m—I’m fine. I’m good.”“Are you sure?”

Steve’s hand is still on your arms, his thumbs caressing your skin like you’re the one that needs comfort. Not that you don’t… but it doesn’t matter either way.

“I do this all the time.” You decide you’ll have to be content with his answer, even if his body language is telling you what his words aren’t. His eyes are soft like you’ve never seen before; at least not directed at you.There’s other things to be concerned about, however: the heat from his hands and the way he looks at you making your knees weak.

He’s so damn close.

“You really need a shower, good lord. You smell like wet dog.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m going now.” Steve says, letting go of you and stepping back, just a little. “G’night.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else.

“‘Night, Steve.”

You’ll never tell a soul about the urge you just had to smother yourself in his arms, and how your queso and chips were forgotten on the kitchen counter as you scurried back to your room.

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 7.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: There's more to your powers than you could have imagined. my biannual update, a large boy at least... do you guys still read this thing? (warnings: inaccurate science, brief mention of HYDRA shenanigans and minor injury) (7,411 words)

7: JOULE'S PRINCIPLE

After swinging your leg over the seat, you’re left with no other choice but to put your arms around his waist to hold on. The wind whipping around and the lapses in stability has you clinging to Steve against your better judgment, even though he’s a skilled rider and you doubt he’d get both of you into an accident.

Still, it’s enough to make you decide you’re definitely a car person.

Although you have to admit having an unobstructed view is great. You can see the entire city from the bridge you’re crossing, twinkling like it did in your imagination. It’s nice to know it does it justice. You now get why everyone loves this place so much, and you don’t regret being irresponsible one bit.

The bike is also pretty convenient. Steve zips through traffic, and soon enough the city views become a treeline and the Compound gates welcome you in.

“The lights are back on!” You say, loud enough for Steve to hear over the noise of the Harley— you’re not sure how much his super hearing can pick up.

His answer comes roughly in the same volume, as he drives you into the garage: “The maintenance guys got to it pretty quickly. No harm done, besides the temporary outage.”

“And Tony’s PacMan streak?” You ask, hopeful he’d say that was left intact too.

“…and Tony’s PacMan record streak.” This stupid video game will get you kicked out one day, you’re sure of it. Steve sighs as your shoulders fall, despite him looking way more amused at the situation than you are.

He has to help you with the helmet straps again, and you flinch from the cold feel of his fingertips. “Besides that, everything’s back to normal.” His touch makes you feel like you poked a live wire, or like when you zap yourself with your powers. “Are you—”

You shove the jacket into his chest the second Nat’s bleached-blonde head pokes inside the garage. Bruce follows right after her, and it makes you want to tease her about it, but the look on her face is so serious you decide against it.

“There you are! Bruce told us what happened during training. Are you okay?”

“He… told you. He told you everything?” You look over her shoulder at your doctor, and he shrugs apologetically.

“We were worried when you fucked off. Don’t do that again.”

You widen your eyes a little, then give her a sheepish look. “Sorry I stole your car.” Nat smiles.

“Don’t sweat it. It was smart you dumped it at the train station, actually. It has a tracker I can’t take out.” The way she says it makes you think that she can’t because she isn’t allowed to, not because she doesn’t know how. Natasha would know how.

You don’t mention that you were feeling way too queasy to drive her favorite BMW all the way to New York City, and that’s why you opted for the train; it’s likely not a very good idea, considering how cool she’s being about it all.

You’re not even sweating.

“You’re lucky Steve found your ass before we had to bring S.W.O.R.D. into the picture.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was lucky he was in town.”

“In town?” Bruce questions, and you look at him as the four of you leave the garage in direction of the Compound living area. “No, he said he was gonna find you himself—”

“Bruce.”

“—didn’t he ‘Tasha? Just took off on his Harley and–”

“Bruce!”

“…what?” Before you can finish turning to Rogers and question his previous statement, he’s already got the elevator half closed.

You glower at the metal doors. He was right about things being back to normal - here was evidence he is back to helicoptering you, watching your every step because of course he wouldn’t find you capable of staying out of trouble; and you are back to feeling the bitter taste of animosity on your tongue.

You suppose this your own fault. Maybe you should just accept you’re stuck in this place forever.

Steve lets out a big, slow breath as the elevator doors close, leaving Sparky and her pinched eyebrows on the floor below. It’s for the best. He wouldn’t have answers for her nor himself at the moment. The feel of her body, her legs, wrapped around him made him feel electrified without her using those powers of hers.

He sure wishes he had them as an excuse.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him when the doors open again, welcoming him into their shared quarters.

“You’re back already. You found her?”

Steve nods, walking over to the kitchen and fetching a bottle of water. He’d found her alright, looking cold and distracted on the steps of the Brooklyn Museum.

“She good?”

He nods again. “Barely put up a fight.” He’s glad he acted fast and got to her before anyone else took notice, because that would be a whole lotta trouble and she was enough of it on a normal day.

The thought of a S.W.A.T team being sent, anything that seemed too much like an arrest, or in truth, anyone other than himself finding her made his skin crawl.

Maybe he was a control freak. She’d told him so herself, more than a few times now.

“No— I mean, is she good. Physically, mentally?”

Steve looks up from his water. Bucky’s empathy was not really a rare occurrence, but he’s surprised nonetheless. HYDRA is as much his enemy as it is Steve’s, and he figured that would be too big of a barrier for Bucky to cross. Apparently not.

“She’s good, Buck. All back to normal.”

Back to extensive training. Back to occasional missions. Back to mutual dislike, the image of her in his jacket already a hazy, surreal memory.

Shoved away like the jacket itself, the second Natasha had eyes on them. Normalcy.

Bucky nods, knowing as well as Steve that for people like them, and her, nothing was ever really normal.

“Try not being too hard on her tomorrow.”

“I’ll be moderately hard.” Steve shakes his head, biting the innerside of his lip to stop the chuckle that wants to come out. It’s such a stupid piece of humor.

That’s what she said, Rogers.

“I hate this,” You mutter to his broad back, and he turns to you briefly. Of course he wouldn’t slow down to keep up with your pace; his own fitness routine is more important than camaraderie, especially when you’re involved. “Three more laps.”

“What? It was two!”

“It’s three now,” Steve Rogers is a petty, insufferable little motherfucker.

Well, not actually little. It’s the principle.

“Screw you.”

You’re almost waiting for him to clap back with a “you did”, or maybe “language” but that is how you’d react. Definitely waiting for him to add another lap, or ten. He doesn’t do either, just keeps on running ahead of you.

It’s like nothing even happened.

You shake your shoulders and head like a dog does when it’s wet, as if the innuendos were water drops.

You’re not a fan of running. It’s hard for you to understand how people say they run to clear their heads, because your way to do that is taking a nap. Or several.

Taking advantage of the current distance between you and Rogers, you pause, your hands on your knees and lungs working quickly for more air. You’re surprised when he turns instead of going around to finish the lap.

“Keep up, Sparky.”

You groan, standing up with your hands on your hips and shoving a petulant finger to his chest. “Don’t call me that. I could fry you like a fish andrunright out of here. Make sure to use money this time—”

“Don’t.” He’s not looking at you. His eyes stare behind and above you, and when you turn Fury is watching you both. There’s another man with him, in a fancy military uniform that screams everything but friendly. “Just. Keep. Up.”

The urgency in Steve’s tone makes you frown. His gritted teeth. He hasn’t stopped staring at the other two.

Alrighty, then. “Three more laps?” He nods, and you resume your early morning run.

You’re both one lap in when you speak again. “Who’s that?”

“That’s General Hoss. He’s Chief Commander of the NSA.” He looks back to check if you’re following, but you aren’t, neither his pace nor the words. “National Security Agency?”

“So… he’s pest control.” You bite your lip when he agrees. “He’s here because of yesterday, isn’t he?”

“I’m guessing yes.” Frost seeps into your bones, the regret Steve wanted you to feel yesterday finally kicking in. Like he can read your mind, he continues.“I’ll talk to him when we’re done here. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Who’s worried?” A humorless laugh leaves your lips. You keep on running. “Last one, Cap.”

He nods. “That’s the spirit,”

By the middle of the third and final lap, Bruce Banner is standing at the side of the track field, a clipboard on his hands. You stop when Rogers does, a little surprised he doesn’t make the doctor wait for you to finish your workout.

“You feeling okay? You look a little green,”

“Good morning to you too. Cap.” He says tiredly, but you’re proud of your joke regardless. Even Steve has a curl to his lip this time.

You’re wearing them all down, little by little.

“What can we do for you, Banner?”

“I’m going to need Sparky here at the lab.” You raise an eyebrow. The routine checkup is supposed to be on Monday. “Me and Tony have been analyzing your data and have a few theories about your powers being unstable.”

“Okay…” The thought of the two scientists turning you into their little project makes you feel a little uneasy.

Tony Stark specially.

“Oh great, you’re here. Why are you sweaty? It’s 7 a.m.”

You point back to Rogers with your thumb, then realized that not only there was a crowd, but also an audience to your personal shitshow. Of course Tony had to drag the spider kid into this.

“Mornin’ run.”

“Ew. No time for a shower though, lucky us. Come sit over here.” Stark ushers you to a chair, strapping your monitoring bracelets on.

“Do you plan on explaining what in the fuck you’re about to do to me?” Steve mutters a timid language, and you both glare at him. “Or at least what is it that you found out about my powers?”

He sighs and stops what he’s doing, as if you’re wasting his precious time. “What do you know about Joule’s Principle? Physics?”

“In short? Nothing.”

“Then there’s no point in explaining anything to you.”

You’re about to tell him to shove the laws of physics up his wormhole when Bruce turns from the computer he was typing on.

“Joule’s Principle is a theory about energy conversion. Basically, an electric current produces heat as it passes through a conductor,” Bruce pulls up a full body scan, your full body scan, the areas on your head, torso and hands colored deep red and orange. “This shows your body temperature spiking as your powers flare.”

“So…I am the conductor in this Joojoo…thing?”

“Joule’s Principle, my little genius. And from our observations the extreme overheating could be causing all of those gross side effects of yours. The dry cleaners were concerned about that, by that way— ”

“Just get to the point, Tony.” Steve is leaning casually on the doorframe, his eyes focused on your body scans.

Stark’s head whips in his direction. “Didn’t notice you were still here, ‘Merica.”

In all honesty, you hadn’t either.

“Anyway, the side effects- especially bad when you’re not feeding off a generator. So! Here’s a little gift for you, from me and my little elves Banner and Peter.”

You blink once. It’s a lot to digest, especially when Peter Parker is shoving a glass case on your hands, with a small glowing disc floating inside.

“Do you like it?!” He says, and you wish you could mirror his teenage nerd enthusiasm.

“Uh… sure? Very shiny. Is it gonna fix everything?”

“Yes! I mean, not exactly. Maybe?” It’s Tony’s turn to answer, and you look at Bruce for help. He gives you a sympathetic smile and nods, agreeing with his mad scientist colleague.

Great. “And you can match Mr. Stark!”

…great.

“Uh– match? Isn’t your thing basically a mini atomic bomb? How am I suppose to use this? Wait, isn’t yours inside your chest ? Where—”

“Whoa, whoa… slow down. It’s not an atomic bomb, it’s a fusion reactor. And it’s going on your suit.” You breathe out a sigh of relief, although maybe you shouldn’t. Rogers also seems relieved.

Of course it’s going on the suit.

They wouldn’t just carve a hole in your body…right? Right. You’re still coming down from that small panic when FRIDAY speaks out. Captain Rogers, General Hoss is waiting for you at the lobby.

The monitor bracelets on your wrists make sure to tell everyone about your heartbeat spiking up. Your eyes find Steve’s, his posture now stiff and imposing. The good old by-the-book Captain America everyone knows and loves.

“I’m on my way, FRIDAY.” Shit. Shit shit fucking shit—

You can only imagine how that meeting is going to go. You’re probably fucked.

Right?

Maybe you’re hallucinating, but you swear he mouths three words to you before leaving: I got you.

“Sparky, you need to breathe.”

You draw in a desperate breath, only now realizing your lungs were completely empty.

“What…what were you saying?”

“The fusion reactor is going to be installed on your suit, giving you essentially an endless energy source for you to feed off from. We noticed that your side effects are more intense when you don’t. While they might not go away completely, it might help.” You nod, it makes sense. Sort of.

“Wait— isn’t this nuclear energy? My thing is electricity, I don’t know if you noticed.”

“My Pac-Man machine surely did. Which brings us to our second point… I’ve never seen electricity put cracks on a concrete wall, babycakes.”

You shake your head, as you would if your ears were full of water.

There’s something you need to pick up from what they’re saying, but you’re not a science person like they are.

“Our main theory is that your powers are not simply manipulating electricity,” Bruce says, pulling up a screen with graphics you don’t understand. “But also converting it. We believe the electricity you converted into mechanical energy is what caused the damages to the wall. Which means you could probably do it the other way around—”

“Like a dynamo!” Peter pipes up, and he and Tony share a look.

It scares you almost as much as the outcome of General Hoss’ and Steve’s conversation.

“A what?”

“A dynamo is a type of old-school energy converting machine, like you but made of iron and magnets. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?” In your indignation, you don’t pay attention to the fact that Bruce is still explaining things.

“I’m not old-school. You have me confused with the other guy.”

“—So by analizing all this data your suit and the other tests picked up, well, it seemed natural that you could convert all other types of energy into each other. Thermal, electric, mechanical, nuclear, sound, the possibilities are—”

Endless. The potential is endless.

Dr. Hermann Steiner knew it all along.

The dots connect in your brain almost instantly: your words, your failsafe— it uncapped the ability to harness so much energy it took your powers to a whole other level. Giving HYDRA all of the control in their hands, turning you into a near-perfect, glass-domed weapon.

Until now. Maybe.

Something tells you that S.W.O.R.D is going to have a field day with this information.

What an absolutely insane week you’re having.

“I feel like this isn’t right.”

It takes Wanda a couple of seconds to answer. “Your knees are a little bent, but you’ll get there.”

Your body is folded awkwardly into the downwards dog position, the muscles at the back of your legs burning from the unfamiliar stretch. Wanda’s so good at it she puts Natasha to shame, and that one has never lost her ballerina skills.

“I’m not sure how this is supposed to be relaxing and therapeutic,”

“It helps if you focus more on your breathing than in complaining.” She grins at you, looking at little crazy from this angle.

“I’m not complaining. It’s just an— observation,” You’re slightly out of breath, and she laughs. Things have fallen into routine after General Hoss’ visit. You’re not entirely sure what the results of his conversation with Steve were, but it’s been four days since and besides the fittings with your improved suit and a promise of testing out Stark and Banner’s theory soon, not much has changed.

Beside the whole…Steve Rogers thing. You’ve barely seen him these days, since he has been leaving the Compound every single day and when he is home he makes sure to stay out of your way. And everyone else’s. You know you should be feeling elated, but for some reason it bothers you.

His constant hovering and nagging would be better than this. Probably.

Wanda announces it’s time for the reverse warrior position, and you swear you hear your joints creaking as you move into it.

“Speaking of observation,” You start now that your lungs have air in them and you can breathe again. “What’s going on with you and Vision?”

She opens her eyes slowly, tilting her head at you innocently. “Nothing’s going on. Me and Vis are just good friends.”

Her accent makes the words drag slightly, thickened as she does when she wants to play tough.

“Right. As good as Nat and Bruce, eh?” Wanda blushes, and you grin like the Cheshire cat. Bingo.

“I’ll trade that answer for one about you and Steve.” Your grin falls off your face at the same time hers grows.

“What makes you think there’s something with me and him? We’re not even good friends, and besides, he’s been avoiding me like the pla–”

“Us witches always know. Hi Steve!”

You whip your head in the direction she’s looking, fast enough to rival a horror movie. Wanda’s giggling as you stare at the empty doorway, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re the worst.”

“You started it.” She says, standing beside you to correct your posture. “Come on, deep breath. Remember the mantra?”

You glare at her while you say “Om” , elongating the O instead of addressing her first comment.

The both of you finally get to sit in a comfortable silence, after the many torturous positions you attempt to twist your body into. You have to concentrate to keep your eyes closed and not hyper alert to your surroundings.

She’s so much better at it than you are it’s almost funny, despite her insisting every time that you’ve been doing better and should keep practicing.

Not that you’re planning on giving up your joint yoga sessions anytime soon.

Wanda Maximoff is probably the most welcoming and understanding out of all of your housemates, with endless patience for dealing with your moods as if they were her own. From what you knew, she’d been in a similar position as you are now. Maybe that was why.

Maybe she was just good.

You weren’t asking about Vision simply out of curiosity: although a part of it was, you needed to know if a stern conversation with him would be necessary.

After nearly three months, she was one of the only you could confidently call your friend, besides Nat. It was… a strange feeling, still.

“Hello, Stark.”

“Fuck off. You can’t get me with that one anymore,” You call Wanda out humorously, eliciting a laugh out of her.

“I thought Yoga was supposed to make you zen,” Tony Stark’s actual voice startles you, making you jump.

He’s standing at the previously empty doorway, hands on his hips as he stares at you as if you’re wasting his precious time. You make a face at him, raising your shoulders in question, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“For the suit’s first real test drive, Tiny Taser. I had FRIDAY call you fifteen minutes ago!” He says, urging you to your feet.

“We can’t hear FRIDAY from here. I blocked all noises out… for zen purposes,” Wanda pipes up, and you barely have time to fight against his antics and shoot her an apologetic look as he ushers you out of the room and through the endless Compound corridors.

You end up in a glorified broom closet, with Tony reinforcing that you have 30 seconds to change into the suit or he’s making you do this on your underwear.

Alas, you’ve changed, you’re about 10% zen, and you have an audience. Natasha waves at you from behind the tempered glass where Tony is also going for safety purposes. Bruce appears behind her with a clipboard in hand.

You see Nick Fury and Rhodes at the back of the elevated platform as well, making you wonder if Netflix isn’t on today or something.

Oh, and let’s not forget Peter Parker.

They’ve place a bunch of different things on the floor for you: an array of lamps and electronic devices; heavy metal objects, like oversized dumbbells. Barrels, some empty, some filled with firewood. A chair, very thoughtful of them.

“What do I do with this shit?”

Tony Stark comes to the center of the window, leaning over a small microphone.

“You’re so sweet, aren’t you? So delicate. You can start by–” Tony is eager to get his experiment going, but someone interrupts him, though you can’t make out who or what they said. “He’s the man’s little lapdog for the week and we get held up because of that? There’s no time to lose, Romanoff.”

“Should I do some tricks?” You say, making your fingers sparkle with lightning. No one seems to be amused.

You shrug, taking to repeating your HYDRA words quietly, falling into the familiar empty head space. The best way to get precise results, since you’d be using them during missions too.

You’re more than halfway finished when the door to the test room opens and slams closed, heavy footsteps following. Steve Rogers - or better yet, Captain America - strides in, fully clad in his own tactical suit. The vintage one. “I’m here– sorry I’m late.”

As if you needed any extra pressure. Fuck me.

“What’s with the costume? Hoss made you do a kid’s birthday party?” Stark quips, and you would’ve laughed if not for the present circumstances.

“Don’t start, Tony.”

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

You really wish that last sentence wasn’t part of it.

“Alright, Sparky. Now that we’re all here, let’s get this show going.” You nod, watching as Rogers climbs up the metal steps to join the others. “We want you to focus on using the reactor on your suit as your main source of energy. I put some stuff for you to play with there, start with your usual party trick first. Anything else, Dr. Banner?”

“If you feel anything out of the ordinary just stop immediately. We have your wrist monitors functioning at all times too.”

You can see that Rogers is saying something to them, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Take it easy, your safety is most important. I thought that went without saying,” Tony says through the speakers.

You take a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the task and not on the group watching you. It should be nerve-wracking but it’s not, thanks to how your programming works: the energy flows from the arc reactor down to your palms, lighting up the special seams of your suit in the process.

You almost miss the feel of the electricity inside you, running on the surface of your skin instead. It’s like being under a cold shower.

With little effort you make the lamps that were displayed light up, picking up a small one and holding it in your palms until the thin glass bursts.

“Sparky? Everything good?”

“Yeah.” You don’t look up, although a voice at the back of your head says you should be protesting over the rampant use of the nickname.

You move on to the other electronics, satisfied as they all power up one by one. It was easy enough, something you could do with or without a special suit. Your usual symptoms are nowhere to be found however: a very promising result.

“Let’s tackle the other stuff now. Maybe thermal energy? The barrel in front of you has wood, try getting a fire going.”

You walk over to where Tony suggested, staring at the wood. A fire? How on earth– you’re flabbergasted they’re just letting you play and figure things out, even in this very controlled environment, when it clicks.

It might be cheating, but if you zap the wood hard enough a fire could spark.

And it does. Your lips curl as the woods begin to burn, heating up your extended hand. Heat. You can feel it on your palm, scorching instead of the familiar coldness. If the arc-reactor is a source… what isn’t?

The potential is endless.

You push your hand further into the barrel. The fire is close enough to blister skin, but you barely feel it; all you care about is the new type of energy flowing towards you as the flames roar.

It’s enough to make you stumble backwards, your palms red and burnt, eyes dry and wide. Your body feels unbearably hot. It’s not as easy to control as you expected, probably because it’s so new, leaving you to release it all at once against whatever is on the way.

The thing you classified as a large dumbbell is knocked down as your blast strikes, rolling away. The other empty barrel crashes against the concrete wall.

Half melted.

You look down at your hands. Your temple is starting to hurt, but only a little bit. “Bruce, how’s my levels?”

“…surprisingly within range.”

This time, you turn your eyes towards the audience behind the glass. You probably look deranged, wide-eyed and grinning. Steve Rogers’ eyebrows are so close to one another they look like a singular line, and if it wasn’t for the glass he’d lean off the rail and fall into your little playground.

All this attention on you, as if he hadn’t spent the past few days pretending you didn’t exist. Typical.

Not that you care.

Nat comes up to him, touching his arm and saying something in his ear. His attention shifts from you to her, and you look away.

He didn’t have to be here, did he? You wish he’d gotten caught at whatever schmoozing to General Hoss he was doing before this.

You huff through your nose, cursing your programming for not being exactly thorough with keeping your feelings at bay. The more you used it, the more loopholes you found; if someone was able to elicit a strong enough emotion out of you, it was able to slip through the cracks of the flimsy mental armor. Rogers was one of those people. Natasha too if she picked her words right.

Maybe it was the lack of rewiring your brains every time you used it, like HYDRA used to do. It was extensive and painful, much more taxing than what you do now to come down from the programming. You are definetely not reminiscing that part.

Von Strucker could stay dead and buried.

If you could not use it at all, you wouldn’t. Fury’s presence in the training room is enough evidence of how much you have to.

“Now that’s a Dynamo if I’ve ever seen one. Right, Peter?” Tony says on the intercoms, and you look back to see Peter Parker enthusiastically putting both his thumbs up.

You groan. “No. I don’t need a superhero nickname, Stark.”

“But it’s great!” Peter says.

“Too late sugarplum, you already got business cards on the way.”

“Try not to fog the glass, Rogers.” Natasha’s voice calls out on his ear, and Steves snaps out of the trance he was in.

You and that wild smile of yours, with powers just as untamed. The sight filled him with a foreign pride. It worried him immensely.

“Her vitals might be regular but she has to be more careful,” He reinforces, turning to Bruce and ignoring Nat for a second. She raises one eyebrow. Steve shrugs.

He hadn’t missed the blisters forming on the skin of your palms, something you’d feel only later but his super-soldier vision had picked up.

S.W.O.R.D was already more interested in you than he’d like, and you’ve been pushing yourself hard enough. He doesn’t want you to find out where your breaking point is.

Instinct tells him that HYDRA still having vestigial roots inside your head is what’s keeping you from harnessing your powers fully, despite the immediate effects of the programming. He can tell when you’re under the spell, his eyes finding indifference instead of a passionate hatred inside your gaze.

With abilities like these, it could all go to shit if you’re not in control. The guys in suits wouldn’t hesitate in retiring a malfunctioning S.W. on the Raft.

Sentient Weapon. Asset.

The thought makes him cringe.

“We won’t let anything bad happen to her,” Natasha whispers, and he tightens his fists against the rail. It’s a silent agreement. He’d guaranteed General Hoss your record would be set straight and that he’d oversee it personally. Control freak. He was paying that vow with cashed in favors and his dignity. This damned old suit was proof enough. Itchy, too.

The outcome of that morning turns out to be unbelievably positive, even with the stupid new nickname. You’re eager to keep finding out what you can do with your powers — S.W.O.R.D is eager to have you on the field, putting them to good use. Which in hindsight it’s quite stupid of them.

The mission had gone to shit. It had been an intelligently laid trap, with an empty warehouse building stuffed to the brim with explosives, the HYDRA rats long gone from there, resulting in the side of the building being blown to smithereens. No one was dead, which was the most important thing, but you saw ambulances speeding by as you boarded the Quinjet. The media arrived before they could, transmitting the failure live. So much for no casualties. No one felt like saying anything, not even you, ears still ringing from the blast and trying to make sense of the sight in front of you. Steve Rogers, with his shoulders hanging in defeat. His hair looks powdery from the soot and cement that littered the air.

You’re sure yours is the same way. He shares a look with you, but it feels like a question, so you tear your gaze away, whatever had been locked away slowly rising to the surface as you recite your words in reverse order. You can’t handle another half hour in this emotional limbo; you’ll just have to deal with the comedown in this noisy flying tin can instead of your quiet bathroom.

You wonder if any of it could’ve been avoided. How did none of you see this coming? It looked too easy. Too good to be true.In a whim, you used your powers to keep you all from being buried under the rubble. Rogers, Romanoff, Wilson, yourself.

But if you hadn’t deflected the blast, those neighboring buildings wouldn’t be affected. Cars crashed on the streets trying to avoid the falling concrete.

You’re the getting the hang of it, sure, but it can be either too much or too little especially working with anything that isn’t electricity.

Despite it all, the worst of it that you’ve seen was a man with a broken leg and a poor Lexus that was already on it’s last breath anyways. You’re unsure about the extent of the material damage.

It’s New Jersey’s fault for being so damn crammed, Nat says, and you want to laugh. It’s her way of assuring you everything would be okay, and you focus on the part of you that believes her.

Despite it all, everyone is alive.

One thing is certain: for the good side and the bad, it’s all your fault.

There are reporters climbing over themselves once the Quinjet lands, and Steve makes his way down first; they all also nearly climb over him too, shooting questions out so fast you can’t keep up.

His broad back basically shields you from them, almost intentionally, which is great because you suddenly can’t breathe and your surroundings are feeling too tight. Damned programming that only works when it wants.

When a stray reporter finally notices you, Sam and Nat are already grabbing your shoulders and towing you away from the crowd.

“We left him behind,” You croak once the three of you are inside the elevator and you catch a glimpse of Steve’s now straightened posture, nothing like the one on the flight back. Nat squeezes your arm in a comforting gesture, but then you look at her and see some dried blood on the side of her face. Bright red as her hair used to be.“He’ll be fine. The news channels love him,” She sighs. “At least more than they do us.”

You’re quite aware of that; you’ve seen some snippets of his interviews on YouTube. He’s always dressed sharp, not a hair out of place. The gleaming smile of America’s greatest hero.

Tony has the TV on when you arrive to the communal living room, Roger’s appearance miles away from that mental image, except for the way he always carries himself at times like these: composed, with a gentle demeanor and attentive eyes.

You hate the diplomatic part of this job.

Despite Stark’s protests, you sink on the expensive leather couch, not having the will to do anything else. Your chest feels tighter, your throat dry; is this what guilt feels like?

Someone could’ve died today.

Either way, it’s your fault.

Steve Rogers moves on to another reporter from another news channel and the one that’s on the TV begins recounting this morning’s incident.

The cameras did you dirty; everything the news got from you is a blurry picture of your face. Your eyes have more white in them than usual, and you could probably benefit from a hairbrush and nose job. Your stance is akin to a cornered wild animal, almost.

You’re not like him at all.

Rogers is back on the screen, speaking into a microphone even though there’s at least three others near his face. You don’t really register the words.

Just accident and comes with the job.

His eyebrow twitches for a single second, but it’s enough to take you back to your shared look on the Quinjet.

“Hey. You really need to go shower before Tony hoses you down right here.”

Natasha’s voice sounds distant from your left - your ear is still ringing slightly, but it’s enough to pull you out of your flat-screen induced trance.

“Yeah— yeah, okay. I’m going.” You get up, but it’s hard not to look at TV again now that they’re showing the aftermath of today’s mission.

Avengers leave warehouse destroyed at Union City: 2 surrounding buildings suffered severe structural damage.

5 people are hospitalized. 8 units have been evacuated.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it too much, okay?” From the right, her voice is somehow distant too - but you can’t blame the explosion this time. “We’ve made worse mistakes. And yours saved all our asses.”

It’s hard to focus on the bright side when you are the accident that comes with the job.

“I don’t think Fox News would love that statement, Romanoff.”

“That’s why Steve does the interviews. He’s good at keeping the peace,” You finally manage to look at Natasha. Her face and hair are clean now; hair wet, a very large T-shirt that definitely does not belong to her hanging from her shoulders. “and they like him more than they do us anyway.”

“‘Cause they think they own him,” You roll your eyes. “and he’s too good to tell them to fuck off.“

Steve’s pleasant façade is back on the screen, and it makes you feel a little sick.

“Wow, you’re starting to sound like you care about him,”

You glare at her, an incredulous noise coming out of your mouth, and you think you might actually be sick. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Good.” She laughs, and you don’t bother turning as you make your way to your room. “I won’t tell him, you know?”

“Fuck you!”

Natasha laughs harder.

You come out of your bedroom at least an hour later to a quiet, dim-lit floor. Your feet make little sound as you pad towards the kitchen you share with Wanda and Nat, and you don’t bother turning any more lights on besides the one inside the fridge.

You’re like a raccoon this time of the night, hungry for any kind of trashy snack you could get your hands on; it doesn’t help that you tried to speed up the coming down process of your powers and it made your stomach reject its contents.

With your head inside the refrigerator you almost don’t hear the sound of the elevator doors closing shut, and the heavy steps that followed - almost.

Steve Rogers is back at last.

His shoulders are slumped, hair and uniform still grimy from earlier. His face is the worst of all, with dark circles, droopy eyelids and smeared soot from where he probably rubbed it countless times during the press conference.

Eyebrows scrunched up in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting to run into you.

“You look like shit,”

He breathes out a tired laugh. You half expect him to say it back to you. He doesn’t. “I know. I just wanted some water before I go fix all of—this,”

It’s something logical, really - you’re the one closest to the fridge, so you pour him a glass. You’re not gonna overthink that.

“The news people were here this whole time?” He hums in response, downing the glass of water like Tony Stark would do with a shot of tequila.

“CBS just left a few minutes ago.”

You’re also not gonna overthink about the way he looks at you when you take the glass from him and fill it up again. He drinks it slower this time.

“They’re pieces of shit.” “They’re part of this job. We do ours, and they do theirs.”

“It’s still bullshit.”He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

For once you’re more focused on your nightly snack - tortilla chips and a queso dip you pulled out from the back of the fridge - than Steve’s presence at your side. You’re waiting for him to just to go upstairs without another word.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s so quiet after you can hear your heartbeat speeding.

You meticulously scoop the still cold queso with a tortilla chip before turning to answer. “Me? I’m fine,” He’s assessing you with his eyes, and you regret not covering up more. You pop the chip into your mouth. “Just hungry.’

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve sighs. “I know what you’re doing.”

You scowl.

“Yeah? What am I doing, Rogers?”

“Answering my questions with questions,” He says, running a hand through his dirty hair. “I know you’re using your HYDRA words during missions. During training.”

“So? It’s not like it’s a secret.”

You can tell he’s becoming irritated. Good.

“I know it’s taking a toll on you. Coming down from it, and everything else.” You frown, trying to square up to when he steps closer. “I just— I think you should stop using them.”

“No.”

“Maybe I can talk to Shuri and she can—”

“Really? You want to deprogram me? My powers are already out of control as it is, and you want to remove the one thing that gives me the slightest edge over them?” You nearly snarl, and he closes his eyes.

Neither of you are in the best headspace for this conversation.

You’ve seen the headlines. If that’s what they think of you semi-functional, you wonder what it would be like if you’re not.“Nothing that comes from HYDRA can be for your sake, Bucky is getting be—”“I am not Bucky.” You huff, and you want to throw something at him. And here you thought he was starting to accept you.

“I know. You— are you gonna let me finish?”“No. I’m fine like this—“

“Fine? You’re everything but,” You stare up at him, breaths quickening, waiting to hear him make clear how he thought you weren’t good enough. “You think I don’t know about how frequent your migraines are? About the morphine? The nosebleeds, the nausea, all of it?”

“So what? They’re not as bad with the new suit.”

“And the programming? Reliving that shit, again and again? You can’t convince me you’re tough enough to not let it bother you.”

“I am tough. I am HYDRA scum, am I not? Maybe I’m reminiscing,”Steve scoffs. “You can lie to everyone else. Not to me.”You breathe out through your nose, closing your eyes to fight off your annoyance. You try to remember he took one for the team today, with the press.“It’s fine. I’m finally being useful during missions, just like everyone always wanted—”

“Not at that cost. You don’t need to be useful—”

“Really? Because as far as I know, the only reason I’m still here is to be functional. An asset. This was the deal from the start, do you think anything but that will be enough?”

“It’s enough for me.”

You blink. It feels like the blood has drained from where it had rushed into your head, leaving it empty, your hands clammy. This night has taken such a wild turn you will need at least a couple days to process it fully. Steve and you are standing very close now, so much that your field of vision is nearly entirely filled of him. If you stood on your tiptoes your foreheads would be touching, even if you don’t remember stepping any closer. He looks the way you feel - exhausted.

“Has it ever crossed your mind, Steve, that my failsafe is there for a reason? What if I’m even worse without it?” You say quietly, voicing the fear at last.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” The way he says it makes you want to be a pathological optimistic like him.“Just… think about it, okay?”

It takes you a second, but you nod anyways. He squeezes your arms gently, and you only now notice he’s had his hand cradling your elbows ever since you were within reach.

“What about you?” Your question seems to catch him off-guard, and he tilts his head. “How are you feeling, I mean.”

If you moved your hands just a little, you’d be touching his chest.

“I’m—I’m fine. I’m good.”“Are you sure?”

Steve’s hand is still on your arms, his thumbs caressing your skin like you’re the one that needs comfort. Not that you don’t… but it doesn’t matter either way.

“I do this all the time.” You decide you’ll have to be content with his answer, even if his body language is telling you what his words aren’t. His eyes are soft like you’ve never seen before; at least not directed at you.There’s other things to be concerned about, however: the heat from his hands and the way he looks at you making your knees weak.

He’s so damn close.

“You really need a shower, good lord. You smell like wet dog.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m going now.” Steve says, letting go of you and stepping back, just a little. “G’night.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else.

“‘Night, Steve.”

You’ll never tell a soul about the urge you just had to smother yourself in his arms, and how your queso and chips were forgotten on the kitchen counter as you scurried back to your room.

[emwritesstuff]

me staring at my ceiling after y/n does the most FLABBERGASTING thing ever

[emwritesstuff]

dynamo memes with no context whatsoever

[emwritesstuff]

Steve's choices / Bucky's lack thereof

[emwritesstuff]

You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years.

[emwritesstuff]

taglist: @nekoannie-chan @alessandraavengers @js-favnanadoongi @bean-bean2000 @masterofnonesstuff @reejero @agentxx92 @mimimarvelingmarvel @spn-imagines-fics

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 6.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: Oh boy. Sorry about the long wait! Writing smut really stumps me, so I hope this isn't so bad. The smut is marked by red dividers - MDNI. (warnings: SMUT!!! (full on p in v, slight edging, fingering), mentions of human experimentation, brainwashing, blood, WWII) (5,351 words)

6: ENTHALPY

Rogers tenses as your lips touches his. For a moment you think he’s gonna push you away and start lecturing you.

Then, his hand is at the back of your neck, keeping you in place as his tongue brushes yours and deepening the kiss that you started.

Your heart hammers inside your chest, torn between nerves and exhilaration. He tastes like you imagined he would. Fresh, minty, with something sweet that lingers just like in the way he smells. You don’t allow your mind to register that you had been wondering about it and that you were right, swatting the thought away like a fly.

What you do like thinking about is that Steve seems just as frustrated as you, with his urgent hands, not allowing either of you to breathe.

He doesn’t stop to say anything. You don’t, either. It’s an ungraceful dance you’re doing, fighting with each other’s lips until your back hits a wall and you’re hoisted up, putting your legs around his waist to keep from falling.

You doubt he’d let you though, from the grip he has on your ass cheeks.

But it’s the look in his eyes that has your breath stuttering. You nearly metaphorically hit the mat three times and say fold, from the way he’s looking down at your barely covered body. Like you’re a prey he’s been dying to catch.

And you walked right into it.

Started it, even.

The rhythm changes when he leans in, slowly capturing your lips with his. Steve sighs when your nails scrape the hairs at the back of his neck, then groans when you roll your hips into his. He’s hard. You smirk against his mouth.

You’re having it your way, no matter if he thinks he’s setting the pace.

With shaky but eager fingers, you start to pull his T-shirt up his torso. He has to let go of you to shrug if off, but you stay put, glued to the wall.

Your robe is next to drop to the floor, the loose knot now completely undone by Steve. He uses the opportunity to trace a path from your belly button all the way down to your core, so painfully slow you have to hold back to knocking your head back onto concrete. His fingers are hooked on the sides of your underwear when he pauses, looking into your eyes. “You sure?”

You let out an exasperated breath, grasping his wrist and moving it to the spot you actually need his hand to be. Such a time to be a goody-two-shoes. Both of you make a satisfied noise when his fingers enter your heat.“Don’t forget I started this, Rogers.”

“Drop the attitude or I won’t let you finish.”

There’s a part of you that wants to snap back at him with double the strength. I’ll give you attitude, you extremely hot-sweaty-infuriating-super-soldier. But there’s a bigger part of you with more urgent wants, needs, so you snap your mouth shut instead. Well, until he rubs circles on your clitoris and you let out a loud moan.

He chuckles, and you’re pressed so close to each other that you feel the rumble of it in his chest. Your eyebrows pinch together at how cocky he is, and not at how your stomach flutters at the feeling.

It has to be the way he works you up, circling your nipple with his thumb. He does it like he’s done it a million times. And maybe he has.

But he does it like it has been you, in all of them.

Your mouth feels dry, so you brings his lips to yours again.

You don’t know how this man can know exactly the spots that get your toes curling.

Maybe he’s a mind reader. “You’re dripping.”

Maybe it just has been a while for you. That’s definitely it.

You throw your head back when your cunt flutters, pleasure coiling at your lower stomach. “Oh, god,”

You’re not religious. All you can see when you look up in search of deliverance is Steve Rogers and his halo made of fluorescent light.

The smile that he gives at your noises is an even brighter flash of luminance, and you start wondering if this might be too far to come back from.

It’s no use thinking about it now.

You bite your lip when he pulls his cock out of his pants, not even whining too much when he pulls his fingers out of you. You’re too distracted.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You huff. “Want me to insult you or something?” There’s a pause while he shakes his head, lifting your leg and pressing against you. You balk when you realize it. “You like when I do it!”

“Think you got me all figured out, huh?” He teases your entrance with his tip, making the rest of your bragging die out on your throat. “I just like getting you to shut up.”

His hand comes to rest on the side of your neck, squeezing so lightly you almost don’t feel it. It’s like when he tells you to focus during missions. It works.

You both make unholy noises when Steve enters you. The fill is exquisite, easily the biggest you’ve ever had, and it has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head.

The pace he sets is unforgiving, nearly knocking the wind out of you. You’re almost glad he’s been beating you into shape the past few months.

He’s got his head tucked at the crook of your neck, giving you the perfect opening to make some damage of your own. His movements stutter when you latch your lips to his neck, alternating between kissing and biting the salted, sweat-slicked flesh.

It’s a filthy act.

It makes you giddy with delight, how low you’ve gotten him to stoop. Steve Rogers, the picture of decency. You’ve either corrupted him enough or peeled enough of his layers to reveal that as a side of him. You’re not sure what you like more.

Your other leg is hoisted up, making him go even deeper inside of you. “You look so pretty like this,” He pants. You now have to hold on for dear life as he pumps his cock into you, crossing your ankles at his lower back. You’re looking up at him, eyes glazed and mouth parted in a silent moan. “You were so much trouble, and all I had to do— was fuck you into submission.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, in a desperate attempt for leverage and for fighting back. To show him you’re not submitting in the slightest.

“I hate you.”

“I know, darlin’.”

The feel of him dragging up and down against the walls of your cunt has your brain going foggy. If it was important, you wouldn’t be able to tell where you are. Right now, you don’t even know your name.

“M’gonna cum.” You breathe, hiding on his collarbone. A chill runs down your spine as the words leave you and you realize what you’ve just done. And Steve slows down.

He thrusts so slow you almost tear up.

A cruel move from someone always so benevolent.

“Shhh. ” Steve coos, his warm breath tickling the hairs behind your ear. “You’ll get everything you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Each promise is marked by his cock reaching that sweet spot, and you have ire and bliss swimming inside you, both ready to burst.

You cry out when he removes himself completely, still holding on to you. It’s torture. The overstimulation from your inner conflict and pleasure has you trembling.

He walks over to the elevated fighting rink, lowering you onto the steps and filling you up again. You gasp, your hands finding his shoulders again.

“See?” He says, starting to move faster. “Just keep being a good girl, yeah?”

He kisses your neck when you nod. Maybe only a little submitting, temporarily.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You manage in between breaths. “I’m not gonna start…taking orders…after this.”

“Would never expect that,” Steve chuckles. Another deep thrust. “Shit, I’m close too.”

You let your head fall back now that reprieve is near, your nails raking against his scalp as he takes one of your breasts into his mouth. His movements are erratic now, and neither of you have it in you to talk. Heavy breathing and the contact of skin echoes around the large, subterranean gym.

You’re nearly chanting his name when you come, and nothing but cries of pleasure leave your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, just like the last time, but so, so much better. It tips him over the edge too, and he buries himself in with a grunt. His thoughts must be as fuzzy as yours, with not one question as to where his cum belonged.

Perhaps it’s to prove how much he owns you, in this moment.

He gathers himself quicker than you do. “I— I didn’t think… Are you—?” The red on his cheeks makes you giggle. It’s a sound as foreign to you than it probably is to him.

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t… you know.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I can, either.”

You tilt your head, suddenly curious to know what he means by that. But he’s already tying his pants back on, handing you your robe.

Time to get back into the real world.

“You need to know that I don’t do… casual.”

You turn back to him, now as covered as you can be. One eyebrow raised. “You fall in love after one fuck?”

He winces. Probably at the crude choice of word, but you feel like you need it to be this way right now. “I mean that we won’t be doing this again.”

Ah.

Of course. “No worries here, Cap. First and last time.”

He nods.

So that is that. You both need a shower and personally, you want a good amount of distance. You feel like you’ve left something on this gym, like a weight that was keeping you from moving on. Perhaps it’s just your dignity.

Either way, you’ve probably gotten your fill of Steve Rogers for this and the next decade, and you’re ready to not think about him ever again.

You don’t get it.

You just don’t understand why, in this highly technological building, all of the glasses and cups are stored so high up. Surely Stark could have invented moving cabinets by now. It’s not like you’re the shortest of them, but you’re definitely not tall enough to reach the glass you want. The rest is in the dishwasher and F.R.I.D.A.Y. has warned you twice not to open it.

You just want some coke to go with your popcorn.

The smell of it still fills the kitchen, rich buttery goodness waiting for you along with your paused movie. It’s another slow day today, where most of your housemates are out and about, with granted exit and a very detailed brief of where they’d be (you’re sure Natasha faked hers). You’re not allowed that privilege yet, at least not unchaperoned. And you’re positive Rogers would be the one chosen for the task, so you don’t bother. If you were to just leave, the security system would alert everyone who can stop you right away. And to the Raft you’d go. At least on that, you and the others are on the same boat. As far as you know, only Stark and Rhodes can come and go as they want. Regardless, today the Compound was left empty for you to enjoy and watch whatever you want.

You grunt, reaching as high as you can. You’re at risk of pulling a muscle like this, but it’s less absurd than the fact that this kitchen doesn’t have a single step stool.

You almost scream when a metal hand joins yours inside the cabinet, grabbing the glass you want with ease. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Hey, Sparky. You wanted this?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You take the glass from Bucky, holding it against your chest. Don’t even register the nickname as you watch him grab a mug for himself, then pour coffee in it.

“Sure.”

“You move really silently, you know? If I was cardiac I’d be dead.” He chuckles, so quietly you barely hear it. It only has a little humor in it.

“Learned that at the same place you did.” He’s right, you realize.

You stomp around a lot, but when you’re not thinking about it your steps make so little noise you managed to startle a couple people. It’s useful. “Right…”

“I never thanked you for the record player, by the way.”

You turn to him in the middle of pouring your coke, eyebrows scrunched up in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky tuts. “Come on, Sam spilled the beans as I was opening the box. I know you made him go get another one. So thank you.”

Goddammit, Samuel. “Yeah, it just seemed like something you’d miss. Old people and their vynils.” You sigh, and shrug. “That was not me being nice, so no thanks necessary. I felt bad.”

You scowl at him when he rolls his eyes. “Does that work on everyone else?”

“What?”

“The façade.”

You blink. “I— What. Are you doing?”

“Learned that one in therapy.”

It’s all so surreal, you have to shake your head. This has to be longest - and the weirdest - conversation you’ve had with Bucky Barnes in probably ever. “You’re going to therapy?”

He nods. “It’s mandatory. Part of the pardon.”

You blink again. It’s not part of your pardon, that’s for sure. At least for now. You’re not sure why yours and Bucky’s pardons are different, but it seems that way.

“My condolences, then.”

“I know, right?” He snickers, leaning against the counter. “But I’ll take it. I just wanna leave all that shit behind, and get everyone to leave me alone. ”

“Can relate to that.”

You’re considering leaving the kitchen and not asking the question that’s at the tip of your tongue. “Do you ever…think you can’t outrun The Soldat?”

His eyebrows meet at the center of his face. The little lightness he had on his features are gone, and you wish you hadn’t said anything. “Keep goin’.”

You continue despite the sentence being more warning than encouragement. “I mean, you’re doing your deprogramming and everything. But what if people still think you’re—”

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” He says, stiffly, and your fingers tighten around the glass. “It matters that they don’t have a chokehold on me anymore. It matters that I’m not killing anyone else. And I can start over. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Bucky. At least you know who you were…before. You have a headstart on starting over. Me, I’ve always been this. Sometimes I’m not sure I can be anything beyond that.” You suck in a breath, like you’ve run out of air mid-sentence. “The façade? It might be my actual face.”

His eyes soften a little, looking at you with something between pity and warmth, and then he chuckles. “Shit, you two are exactly the same.”

“Huh?”

Bucky doesn’t offer you an explanation besides sipping on his coffee, too casually for your liking. “Nothin’.”

You frown. All of that, and he’s got nothing to say? “Okay, then.”

“Yep.”

There’s a weird, charged silence after that. It’s the kind you can suffocate in, so you decide that going back to your movie and shelving this conversation as a fever dream is your only option, so you do just that.

Blade Runner is nearly halfway through when Bucky joins you.

He just sits there on the left armchair, not saying anything. It makes you squirm from your spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” You know you shouldn’t ask that, because he also lives here and has the right to sit on any armchair he wants.

“Waitin’ for Steve.”

You groan discreetly. That means he’ll also be here soon, disturbing your peace.

The effort you have to make to focus back on the movie is tremendous. Bucky’s presence is unnerving, and not because he used to be The Soldat. It’s the way he carries himself, the swagger of someone who sees right through people.

You’re lucky Blade Runner is so compelling, even after 30 something years.

The credits are starting to roll when Bucky speaks again. You wonder if he’s going to mention the tear that ran down your cheek during the rain scene.

“What’d you think?”

“About what?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on his knees. “Deckard. Do you think he was a human or a replicant?”

You purse your lips, not quite understanding. “Does it matter?”

“It’s just a question. So?”

Replicants are like any other machine, they’re either a benefit or a hazard.

You think about it for a minute, staring at the names rolling up the screen.

Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

“Are humans and replicants all that different though? Besides all the extra crap the makers put in them?”

“I guess not. Not really,” Bucky flexes his metal fingers.

“So it doesn’t matter. It just matters what they do with it.”

“See? I told you,” Bucky says to someone behind your back.

When you turn to look, Steve Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He then raises his palms defensively, with a small smile on his lips. “Already convinced.”

You must look like a fish out of water, a betrayed one, because Bucky gives you an apologetic look as he stands. Steve glances at you briefly, like your presence there is an afterthought. You don’t spent too long with your back bent, either, going back to staring at your popcorn.

“Gotta go. Good talk, Sparky.” You can hear Bucky’s soft What? as they both leave, and you almost smile as you imagine the confusion on Roger’s face.

You suppose that, if you were to insert yourself into Blade Runner, you could consider yourself a replicant. Made. Shaped into being, fabricated memories and everything. The movie starts with two options for those: benefit or hazard. It ends with the proof of their complexity.

You’ll have to catch Bucky later and continue that strange conversation. It sparks something in you, that you don’t dare call hope yet; but maybe there’s a chance your own options aren’t that limited, after all. He’s not letting his be.

“Tell me again why this is a good idea?”

“Because you said it uncaps your powers and I need to know how your electrical impulses behaves when that happens.” Bruce Banner is looking down at you, standing on a platform separated by only a wall of thick blindex.

“But. We’re inside.”

“This glass,” He starts, knocking on it. “can keep The Hulk in check, so it should be fine.”

You’re wearing a weird hybrid of a helmet and MRI scanner, looking like a high-tech jellyfish if you counted all the wiring. You shift on your feet, thinking that he puts way too much faith in you. Always has. At the moment you don’t share the sentiment, since no one who didn’t deserve it has faced the full force of your abilities before. You’re not even sure you have.

How far can you go? What happens when you get there?

You’re jittery from the anxiety, wanting to back out, and then you remember that you might have a little ticking clock inside you.

And you need to figure this shit out before the countdown reaches zero.

There’s one way to get rid of the lingering fear; you can almost see Bucky Barnes and his disapproving face, arms crossed. One human and one metal. You tell yourself and Imaginary Bucky it’s necessary. That it’s different circumstances. You have to face the beast in order to defeat it, and it’s how Banner’s test starts.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

Vernetzt.

Your heart is racing.

Vernetzt.

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

Your eyes open again. The anxiety is gone. Everything else is too. You want to chuckle at Bruce’s crooked glasses as he raises his head and gives you a thumbs up, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Ready?”

Bereit?

You nod.

Bright blue crackles at your fingertips, quickly rising over your palms and swallowing your arms, coating everything in pure, unbridled electricity. It’s probably the most impressive display of power you’ve had in a long while, you could get addicted to the feeling.

The energy oscillates once, and the generator you’re feeding off of dies down. It’s small, to be fair, and not enough if you want to keep going. You focus on the fluorescent lamps above you, watching as they go out one by one and your powers pulse stronger.

Banner is watching the monitors intently, taking notes of whatever he’s seeing up there.

You have to push further.

When the lights go completely out, you consider stopping. But the monitors are still lit up and you can hear the MRI machine on your head whirring, making you doubt if Bruce has even noticed the screens and you are the only light sources in the room.

You try to keep yourself just at the lighting even if you’re not exactly sure how the electrical systems of the building work.

Energy coats your entire body now, and you wonder if you can use it to get the lights back on. With a raised hand you aim, but the blast makes one of the lamps explode. You resort to attacking the concrete instead, a much more sturdy opponent - you manage to make the flow continuous and strong, eyes widening when the concrete cracks a little. The tiniest crack.

You push further.

You don’t see how this time, the screens go out too, all the machines around you also dead.

You only notice you’re bleeding when you taste it.

When you finally stop, the crack is larger. Bruce is yelling at you to stop, banging on the glass.

Hail HYDRA. Noether-Theorem. Change of momentum with change of time. Vernetzt. Vernetzt.

Bruce is running down the stairs as you rapidly mutter the last words.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

The pain on the side of your head makes your knees buckle, and you’re gasping for air as Bruce reaches you, removing the wires and machines that are still attached to you.

“Jesus, kid. That was terrifying. Impressive, but terrifying.” He turns you on your side, which is smart because you feel like throwing up.

And you would, if this had happened after lunch like it was supposed to.

Is it always going to be like this? Failsafe or not, being defeated by your own power? You’ve always wondered where it came from. If it was born with you or something that was put inside you after. If you’ll learn to wield it or if it’s going to swallow you hole.

“Did—y’ get— anything—”

“Yeah. Think so, a few promising things. Don’t worry, we won’t be repeating this.”

It’s even more comforting that the steady hand he has on your shoulder. You think you could repeat it if necessary. As many times necessary.

Even if right now, you feel like you can’t even lift up your head.

Bruce gets up, saying that he’ll get you some adrenaline and then take you to the medbay.

That’s the last place you want to go to. You’d rather he dump you on the grass outside, under the sun.

It’s strange that the doors are all open like this. Must be the emergency protocol, which must mean you caused a blackout on the entire compound.

Which in turn means the security systems are down.

The idea alone is enough to inject you with adrenaline. You have to muster the last strength you have to get up, then summon some more from god knows where to run. But it’s your lucky day, because you don’t have to stumble far to get to the garage. You don’t think Nat would be too mad if you used her car for a little escapade.

There’s no time to lose. You speed through the open gates, driving like a drunkard until you reach the nearest train station. You’ve seen it on your way to Dr. Steiner’s temporary prison.

You could drive the rest of the way, but you’re feeling responsible.

Just not enough to stop you from taking a train to New York City.

You’re not entirely sure what brought you to this place. You’d been roaming around the city when you stumbled into it, too distracted by the lights, the cars and the people bustling around to keep track of where you were going. A coffee cup on your hands, the authentic one from the street carts. And you thought, why not? And went in. Bought a ticket. That was an hour ago.

Now you’re staring up at a compilation of Word War II films, inside the Brooklyn Museum. At the people that are long gone, made eternal inside the moving pictures. You were raised under the ruins of the losing side of this war, the wrong side, and you didn’t know it most of your life.

Two years ago Bucky Barnes’ name would be on the Missing In Action Memorial. Now his name is erased and there’s an addendum talking about his capture by HYDRA. His years as The Winter Soldier. His rocky journey back to the right side. You wonder how he’d feel about it.

You allow yourself one full minute to look at a photograph of Steve Rogers, the soldier, one of the only ones you’ve seen of him in the actual military garb and not the Captain suit. History seems to prefer the red, white and blue over the tan one.

There’s a crowd in front of the uniforms so you skip that entirely, walking quickly to the exit. You know Captain America’s is a replica, because Rogers currently has the original inside his closet.

One of the last sections inside the exhibition is a small one right after V-day. Of the parties and the reunions. You linger on that one, listening to Orson Welles’ voice on a radio broadcast.

…The men who tilted guns of battleships and stoked them in epic battle will ride the level ferries of bay and river and tank men will drive a powered lawnmower while their fathers watch. The pilot with many missions will do errands for some civilian company.

You can’t help but think of the two veterans back home. How they never actually got that moment. No V-day. No reunion.

You wonder if someone gave Steve Rogers the news that the war has ended.

That the fight is over. That he can go drive a lawnmower and Bucky can do errands for some company. You wonder if they’d go back in time just to experience those moments. Their hard-earned reunions.

Suddenly the air is too thick inside.

You’re startled by the chilly evening air when you step out of the museum. You hadn’t realized it was so late, meaning you should take the train back to Compound if you don’t want a search-and-rescue team at your heel. You might have to walk back, if Natasha has found her car already. Best case scenario.

You decide to extend your freedom a little longer and sit down on the steps, watching the cars go by. Your chest feels heavy and your eyes are misty. You tell yourself it’s because of the cold air and how little prepared you are for it. Should’ve probably stayed in Times Square, with all the pretty lights and creepy guys in costumes. Although you don’t get time to wallow in your self-pity, because the noise of a motorcycle has you looking up.

Steve Rogers drives a very obnoxious Harley-Davidson. Black and chrome and noisy. He never bothers with a helmet, which you think is stupid of him, but today he has one slung over one of the handles.

You know he’s spotted you, because he’s staring right at you; but he just leans on the bike and waits.

Sighing in resignation, you push yourself up the steps and make your way to him. He’s wearing civilian clothes and a leather jacket, and people are beggining to stare anyway.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He nods at the coffee cart down the street. “You used your credit card over there. And then bought a museum ticket.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance. Not even 6 months of not being on the run and you’ve already lost your way with it. Steve gives you a foreign, sympathetic smile.

“That’s why I always use cash.”

“So it’s not because you don’t trust credit cards?”

He purses his lips, eyebrows pinched. “Definitely not because of that.” It’s not convincing.

It makes you laugh at little, and he looks away. “We should get back. Put the helmet on,” He says, stiffening his shoulders. It’s an order.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t have left the Compound. You’re lucky you’re not in too much trouble.”

You flick your eyes up at him briefly.“Yes, Captain.”

His gaze hardens under the thick eyelashes. “Being irresponsible right now can cost you your privileges. And your pardon.”

You shrug, staring at the Harley’s chrome exhaust pipe. “I just wanted to see the city. At least once.”

I panicked. I had a bad day. I’m scared that it’s just a matter of time until I get locked up for good and then all I see is four blank walls forever.

As if he could read your mind, he reaches down and takes the helmet, placing it on your head. It makes you look up.

Steve Rogers. Made of marble and gold. The golden light of the old photograph cast a halo around his frame, like a warrior angel, an Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The one in front of you is all stone, under the yellow street lights.

Even more weight above him than ever.

“I suppose it’s on me for not keeping an eye on you like I should.”

You frown, fumbling with the straps under your chin. “And coming to get me was your punishment?”

“I was in town.”

“Ah.”

You had wondered, still inside the Museum, what it would be like to know him back then. Back when he was all hope and not all duty. His eyes were gentle, and you could swear you saw a sparkle of that in this Captain that came to drag you back to the Compound.

It’s gone now. Besides, you don’t want to keep looking.

“I’m ready. We can go.” You say, tugging at the secured helmet straps.

Steve removes his jacket, fully revealing his white t-shirt, and you freeze. He puts it around your shoulders and you stop breathing. “S’ getting cold.”

It takes you a little to answer. The jacket is still hung awkwardly around your shoulders, and he’s looking at you as if he expects you to put your arms in it properly.

“I’m fine.” You say. He’s already sat on the motorcycle, and you’re just standing there. You don’t know if you should focus on his bare arms or how the jacket smells more like him than he does. Both options seem pretty terrible. “I’m not cold.”

“You will be on the ride back.” He urges you to move with his chin, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Sparky. Don’t make this harder than it should be.”

You roll your eyes, trying to tell yourself you’re only not putting on a bigger fight because the World War II exhibition messed with your head, and not because his jacket feels warm and nice against your skin.

“That’s what she said, Rogers.” You mutter to his broad back.

Under the loud rumble of the Harley’s engine, you can swear he laughs.

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 6.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: Oh boy. Sorry about the long wait! Writing smut really stumps me, so I hope this isn't so bad. The smut is marked by red dividers - MDNI. (warnings: SMUT!!! (full on p in v, slight edging, fingering), mentions of human experimentation, brainwashing, blood, WWII) (5,351 words)

6: ENTHALPY

Rogers tenses as your lips touches his. For a moment you think he’s gonna push you away and start lecturing you.

Then, his hand is at the back of your neck, keeping you in place as his tongue brushes yours and deepening the kiss that you started.

Your heart hammers inside your chest, torn between nerves and exhilaration. He tastes like you imagined he would. Fresh, minty, with something sweet that lingers just like in the way he smells. You don’t allow your mind to register that you had been wondering about it and that you were right, swatting the thought away like a fly.

What you do like thinking about is that Steve seems just as frustrated as you, with his urgent hands, not allowing either of you to breathe.

He doesn’t stop to say anything. You don’t, either. It’s an ungraceful dance you’re doing, fighting with each other’s lips until your back hits a wall and you’re hoisted up, putting your legs around his waist to keep from falling.

You doubt he’d let you though, from the grip he has on your ass cheeks.

But it’s the look in his eyes that has your breath stuttering. You nearly metaphorically hit the mat three times and say fold, from the way he’s looking down at your barely covered body. Like you’re a prey he’s been dying to catch.

And you walked right into it.

Started it, even.

The rhythm changes when he leans in, slowly capturing your lips with his. Steve sighs when your nails scrape the hairs at the back of his neck, then groans when you roll your hips into his. He’s hard. You smirk against his mouth.

You’re having it your way, no matter if he thinks he’s setting the pace.

With shaky but eager fingers, you start to pull his T-shirt up his torso. He has to let go of you to shrug if off, but you stay put, glued to the wall.

Your robe is next to drop to the floor, the loose knot now completely undone by Steve. He uses the opportunity to trace a path from your belly button all the way down to your core, so painfully slow you have to hold back to knocking your head back onto concrete. His fingers are hooked on the sides of your underwear when he pauses, looking into your eyes. “You sure?”

You let out an exasperated breath, grasping his wrist and moving it to the spot you actually need his hand to be. Such a time to be a goody-two-shoes. Both of you make a satisfied noise when his fingers enter your heat.“Don’t forget I started this, Rogers.”

“Drop the attitude or I won’t let you finish.”

There’s a part of you that wants to snap back at him with double the strength. I’ll give you attitude, you extremely hot-sweaty-infuriating-super-soldier. But there’s a bigger part of you with more urgent wants, needs, so you snap your mouth shut instead. Well, until he rubs circles on your clitoris and you let out a loud moan.

He chuckles, and you’re pressed so close to each other that you feel the rumble of it in his chest. Your eyebrows pinch together at how cocky he is, and not at how your stomach flutters at the feeling.

It has to be the way he works you up, circling your nipple with his thumb. He does it like he’s done it a million times. And maybe he has.

But he does it like it has been you, in all of them.

Your mouth feels dry, so you brings his lips to yours again.

You don’t know how this man can know exactly the spots that get your toes curling.

Maybe he’s a mind reader. “You’re dripping.”

Maybe it just has been a while for you. That’s definitely it.

You throw your head back when your cunt flutters, pleasure coiling at your lower stomach. “Oh, god,”

You’re not religious. All you can see when you look up in search of deliverance is Steve Rogers and his halo made of fluorescent light.

The smile that he gives at your noises is an even brighter flash of luminance, and you start wondering if this might be too far to come back from.

It’s no use thinking about it now.

You bite your lip when he pulls his cock out of his pants, not even whining too much when he pulls his fingers out of you. You’re too distracted.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You huff. “Want me to insult you or something?” There’s a pause while he shakes his head, lifting your leg and pressing against you. You balk when you realize it. “You like when I do it!”

“Think you got me all figured out, huh?” He teases your entrance with his tip, making the rest of your bragging die out on your throat. “I just like getting you to shut up.”

His hand comes to rest on the side of your neck, squeezing so lightly you almost don’t feel it. It’s like when he tells you to focus during missions. It works.

You both make unholy noises when Steve enters you. The fill is exquisite, easily the biggest you’ve ever had, and it has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head.

The pace he sets is unforgiving, nearly knocking the wind out of you. You’re almost glad he’s been beating you into shape the past few months.

He’s got his head tucked at the crook of your neck, giving you the perfect opening to make some damage of your own. His movements stutter when you latch your lips to his neck, alternating between kissing and biting the salted, sweat-slicked flesh.

It’s a filthy act.

It makes you giddy with delight, how low you’ve gotten him to stoop. Steve Rogers, the picture of decency. You’ve either corrupted him enough or peeled enough of his layers to reveal that as a side of him. You’re not sure what you like more.

Your other leg is hoisted up, making him go even deeper inside of you. “You look so pretty like this,” He pants. You now have to hold on for dear life as he pumps his cock into you, crossing your ankles at his lower back. You’re looking up at him, eyes glazed and mouth parted in a silent moan. “You were so much trouble, and all I had to do— was fuck you into submission.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, in a desperate attempt for leverage and for fighting back. To show him you’re not submitting in the slightest.

“I hate you.”

“I know, darlin’.”

The feel of him dragging up and down against the walls of your cunt has your brain going foggy. If it was important, you wouldn’t be able to tell where you are. Right now, you don’t even know your name.

“M’gonna cum.” You breathe, hiding on his collarbone. A chill runs down your spine as the words leave you and you realize what you’ve just done. And Steve slows down.

He thrusts so slow you almost tear up.

A cruel move from someone always so benevolent.

“Shhh. ” Steve coos, his warm breath tickling the hairs behind your ear. “You’ll get everything you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Each promise is marked by his cock reaching that sweet spot, and you have ire and bliss swimming inside you, both ready to burst.

You cry out when he removes himself completely, still holding on to you. It’s torture. The overstimulation from your inner conflict and pleasure has you trembling.

He walks over to the elevated fighting rink, lowering you onto the steps and filling you up again. You gasp, your hands finding his shoulders again.

“See?” He says, starting to move faster. “Just keep being a good girl, yeah?”

He kisses your neck when you nod. Maybe only a little submitting, temporarily.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You manage in between breaths. “I’m not gonna start…taking orders…after this.”

“Would never expect that,” Steve chuckles. Another deep thrust. “Shit, I’m close too.”

You let your head fall back now that reprieve is near, your nails raking against his scalp as he takes one of your breasts into his mouth. His movements are erratic now, and neither of you have it in you to talk. Heavy breathing and the contact of skin echoes around the large, subterranean gym.

You’re nearly chanting his name when you come, and nothing but cries of pleasure leave your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, just like the last time, but so, so much better. It tips him over the edge too, and he buries himself in with a grunt. His thoughts must be as fuzzy as yours, with not one question as to where his cum belonged.

Perhaps it’s to prove how much he owns you, in this moment.

He gathers himself quicker than you do. “I— I didn’t think… Are you—?” The red on his cheeks makes you giggle. It’s a sound as foreign to you than it probably is to him.

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t… you know.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I can, either.”

You tilt your head, suddenly curious to know what he means by that. But he’s already tying his pants back on, handing you your robe.

Time to get back into the real world.

“You need to know that I don’t do… casual.”

You turn back to him, now as covered as you can be. One eyebrow raised. “You fall in love after one fuck?”

He winces. Probably at the crude choice of word, but you feel like you need it to be this way right now. “I mean that we won’t be doing this again.”

Ah.

Of course. “No worries here, Cap. First and last time.”

He nods.

So that is that. You both need a shower and personally, you want a good amount of distance. You feel like you’ve left something on this gym, like a weight that was keeping you from moving on. Perhaps it’s just your dignity.

Either way, you’ve probably gotten your fill of Steve Rogers for this and the next decade, and you’re ready to not think about him ever again.

You don’t get it.

You just don’t understand why, in this highly technological building, all of the glasses and cups are stored so high up. Surely Stark could have invented moving cabinets by now. It’s not like you’re the shortest of them, but you’re definitely not tall enough to reach the glass you want. The rest is in the dishwasher and F.R.I.D.A.Y. has warned you twice not to open it.

You just want some coke to go with your popcorn.

The smell of it still fills the kitchen, rich buttery goodness waiting for you along with your paused movie. It’s another slow day today, where most of your housemates are out and about, with granted exit and a very detailed brief of where they’d be (you’re sure Natasha faked hers). You’re not allowed that privilege yet, at least not unchaperoned. And you’re positive Rogers would be the one chosen for the task, so you don’t bother. If you were to just leave, the security system would alert everyone who can stop you right away. And to the Raft you’d go. At least on that, you and the others are on the same boat. As far as you know, only Stark and Rhodes can come and go as they want. Regardless, today the Compound was left empty for you to enjoy and watch whatever you want.

You grunt, reaching as high as you can. You’re at risk of pulling a muscle like this, but it’s less absurd than the fact that this kitchen doesn’t have a single step stool.

You almost scream when a metal hand joins yours inside the cabinet, grabbing the glass you want with ease. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Hey, Sparky. You wanted this?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You take the glass from Bucky, holding it against your chest. Don’t even register the nickname as you watch him grab a mug for himself, then pour coffee in it.

“Sure.”

“You move really silently, you know? If I was cardiac I’d be dead.” He chuckles, so quietly you barely hear it. It only has a little humor in it.

“Learned that at the same place you did.” He’s right, you realize.

You stomp around a lot, but when you’re not thinking about it your steps make so little noise you managed to startle a couple people. It’s useful. “Right…”

“I never thanked you for the record player, by the way.”

You turn to him in the middle of pouring your coke, eyebrows scrunched up in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky tuts. “Come on, Sam spilled the beans as I was opening the box. I know you made him go get another one. So thank you.”

Goddammit, Samuel. “Yeah, it just seemed like something you’d miss. Old people and their vynils.” You sigh, and shrug. “That was not me being nice, so no thanks necessary. I felt bad.”

You scowl at him when he rolls his eyes. “Does that work on everyone else?”

“What?”

“The façade.”

You blink. “I— What. Are you doing?”

“Learned that one in therapy.”

It’s all so surreal, you have to shake your head. This has to be longest - and the weirdest - conversation you’ve had with Bucky Barnes in probably ever. “You’re going to therapy?”

He nods. “It’s mandatory. Part of the pardon.”

You blink again. It’s not part of your pardon, that’s for sure. At least for now. You’re not sure why yours and Bucky’s pardons are different, but it seems that way.

“My condolences, then.”

“I know, right?” He snickers, leaning against the counter. “But I’ll take it. I just wanna leave all that shit behind, and get everyone to leave me alone. ”

“Can relate to that.”

You’re considering leaving the kitchen and not asking the question that’s at the tip of your tongue. “Do you ever…think you can’t outrun The Soldat?”

His eyebrows meet at the center of his face. The little lightness he had on his features are gone, and you wish you hadn’t said anything. “Keep goin’.”

You continue despite the sentence being more warning than encouragement. “I mean, you’re doing your deprogramming and everything. But what if people still think you’re—”

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” He says, stiffly, and your fingers tighten around the glass. “It matters that they don’t have a chokehold on me anymore. It matters that I’m not killing anyone else. And I can start over. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Bucky. At least you know who you were…before. You have a headstart on starting over. Me, I’ve always been this. Sometimes I’m not sure I can be anything beyond that.” You suck in a breath, like you’ve run out of air mid-sentence. “The façade? It might be my actual face.”

His eyes soften a little, looking at you with something between pity and warmth, and then he chuckles. “Shit, you two are exactly the same.”

“Huh?”

Bucky doesn’t offer you an explanation besides sipping on his coffee, too casually for your liking. “Nothin’.”

You frown. All of that, and he’s got nothing to say? “Okay, then.”

“Yep.”

There’s a weird, charged silence after that. It’s the kind you can suffocate in, so you decide that going back to your movie and shelving this conversation as a fever dream is your only option, so you do just that.

Blade Runner is nearly halfway through when Bucky joins you.

He just sits there on the left armchair, not saying anything. It makes you squirm from your spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” You know you shouldn’t ask that, because he also lives here and has the right to sit on any armchair he wants.

“Waitin’ for Steve.”

You groan discreetly. That means he’ll also be here soon, disturbing your peace.

The effort you have to make to focus back on the movie is tremendous. Bucky’s presence is unnerving, and not because he used to be The Soldat. It’s the way he carries himself, the swagger of someone who sees right through people.

You’re lucky Blade Runner is so compelling, even after 30 something years.

The credits are starting to roll when Bucky speaks again. You wonder if he’s going to mention the tear that ran down your cheek during the rain scene.

“What’d you think?”

“About what?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on his knees. “Deckard. Do you think he was a human or a replicant?”

You purse your lips, not quite understanding. “Does it matter?”

“It’s just a question. So?”

Replicants are like any other machine, they’re either a benefit or a hazard.

You think about it for a minute, staring at the names rolling up the screen.

Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

“Are humans and replicants all that different though? Besides all the extra crap the makers put in them?”

“I guess not. Not really,” Bucky flexes his metal fingers.

“So it doesn’t matter. It just matters what they do with it.”

“See? I told you,” Bucky says to someone behind your back.

When you turn to look, Steve Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He then raises his palms defensively, with a small smile on his lips. “Already convinced.”

You must look like a fish out of water, a betrayed one, because Bucky gives you an apologetic look as he stands. Steve glances at you briefly, like your presence there is an afterthought. You don’t spent too long with your back bent, either, going back to staring at your popcorn.

“Gotta go. Good talk, Sparky.” You can hear Bucky’s soft What? as they both leave, and you almost smile as you imagine the confusion on Roger’s face.

You suppose that, if you were to insert yourself into Blade Runner, you could consider yourself a replicant. Made. Shaped into being, fabricated memories and everything. The movie starts with two options for those: benefit or hazard. It ends with the proof of their complexity.

You’ll have to catch Bucky later and continue that strange conversation. It sparks something in you, that you don’t dare call hope yet; but maybe there’s a chance your own options aren’t that limited, after all. He’s not letting his be.

“Tell me again why this is a good idea?”

“Because you said it uncaps your powers and I need to know how your electrical impulses behaves when that happens.” Bruce Banner is looking down at you, standing on a platform separated by only a wall of thick blindex.

“But. We’re inside.”

“This glass,” He starts, knocking on it. “can keep The Hulk in check, so it should be fine.”

You’re wearing a weird hybrid of a helmet and MRI scanner, looking like a high-tech jellyfish if you counted all the wiring. You shift on your feet, thinking that he puts way too much faith in you. Always has. At the moment you don’t share the sentiment, since no one who didn’t deserve it has faced the full force of your abilities before. You’re not even sure you have.

How far can you go? What happens when you get there?

You’re jittery from the anxiety, wanting to back out, and then you remember that you might have a little ticking clock inside you.

And you need to figure this shit out before the countdown reaches zero.

There’s one way to get rid of the lingering fear; you can almost see Bucky Barnes and his disapproving face, arms crossed. One human and one metal. You tell yourself and Imaginary Bucky it’s necessary. That it’s different circumstances. You have to face the beast in order to defeat it, and it’s how Banner’s test starts.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

Vernetzt.

Your heart is racing.

Vernetzt.

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

Your eyes open again. The anxiety is gone. Everything else is too. You want to chuckle at Bruce’s crooked glasses as he raises his head and gives you a thumbs up, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Ready?”

Bereit?

You nod.

Bright blue crackles at your fingertips, quickly rising over your palms and swallowing your arms, coating everything in pure, unbridled electricity. It’s probably the most impressive display of power you’ve had in a long while, you could get addicted to the feeling.

The energy oscillates once, and the generator you’re feeding off of dies down. It’s small, to be fair, and not enough if you want to keep going. You focus on the fluorescent lamps above you, watching as they go out one by one and your powers pulse stronger.

Banner is watching the monitors intently, taking notes of whatever he’s seeing up there.

You have to push further.

When the lights go completely out, you consider stopping. But the monitors are still lit up and you can hear the MRI machine on your head whirring, making you doubt if Bruce has even noticed the screens and you are the only light sources in the room.

You try to keep yourself just at the lighting even if you’re not exactly sure how the electrical systems of the building work.

Energy coats your entire body now, and you wonder if you can use it to get the lights back on. With a raised hand you aim, but the blast makes one of the lamps explode. You resort to attacking the concrete instead, a much more sturdy opponent - you manage to make the flow continuous and strong, eyes widening when the concrete cracks a little. The tiniest crack.

You push further.

You don’t see how this time, the screens go out too, all the machines around you also dead.

You only notice you’re bleeding when you taste it.

When you finally stop, the crack is larger. Bruce is yelling at you to stop, banging on the glass.

Hail HYDRA. Noether-Theorem. Change of momentum with change of time. Vernetzt. Vernetzt.

Bruce is running down the stairs as you rapidly mutter the last words.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

The pain on the side of your head makes your knees buckle, and you’re gasping for air as Bruce reaches you, removing the wires and machines that are still attached to you.

“Jesus, kid. That was terrifying. Impressive, but terrifying.” He turns you on your side, which is smart because you feel like throwing up.

And you would, if this had happened after lunch like it was supposed to.

Is it always going to be like this? Failsafe or not, being defeated by your own power? You’ve always wondered where it came from. If it was born with you or something that was put inside you after. If you’ll learn to wield it or if it’s going to swallow you hole.

“Did—y’ get— anything—”

“Yeah. Think so, a few promising things. Don’t worry, we won’t be repeating this.”

It’s even more comforting that the steady hand he has on your shoulder. You think you could repeat it if necessary. As many times necessary.

Even if right now, you feel like you can’t even lift up your head.

Bruce gets up, saying that he’ll get you some adrenaline and then take you to the medbay.

That’s the last place you want to go to. You’d rather he dump you on the grass outside, under the sun.

It’s strange that the doors are all open like this. Must be the emergency protocol, which must mean you caused a blackout on the entire compound.

Which in turn means the security systems are down.

The idea alone is enough to inject you with adrenaline. You have to muster the last strength you have to get up, then summon some more from god knows where to run. But it’s your lucky day, because you don’t have to stumble far to get to the garage. You don’t think Nat would be too mad if you used her car for a little escapade.

There’s no time to lose. You speed through the open gates, driving like a drunkard until you reach the nearest train station. You’ve seen it on your way to Dr. Steiner’s temporary prison.

You could drive the rest of the way, but you’re feeling responsible.

Just not enough to stop you from taking a train to New York City.

You’re not entirely sure what brought you to this place. You’d been roaming around the city when you stumbled into it, too distracted by the lights, the cars and the people bustling around to keep track of where you were going. A coffee cup on your hands, the authentic one from the street carts. And you thought, why not? And went in. Bought a ticket. That was an hour ago.

Now you’re staring up at a compilation of Word War II films, inside the Brooklyn Museum. At the people that are long gone, made eternal inside the moving pictures. You were raised under the ruins of the losing side of this war, the wrong side, and you didn’t know it most of your life.

Two years ago Bucky Barnes’ name would be on the Missing In Action Memorial. Now his name is erased and there’s an addendum talking about his capture by HYDRA. His years as The Winter Soldier. His rocky journey back to the right side. You wonder how he’d feel about it.

You allow yourself one full minute to look at a photograph of Steve Rogers, the soldier, one of the only ones you’ve seen of him in the actual military garb and not the Captain suit. History seems to prefer the red, white and blue over the tan one.

There’s a crowd in front of the uniforms so you skip that entirely, walking quickly to the exit. You know Captain America’s is a replica, because Rogers currently has the original inside his closet.

One of the last sections inside the exhibition is a small one right after V-day. Of the parties and the reunions. You linger on that one, listening to Orson Welles’ voice on a radio broadcast.

…The men who tilted guns of battleships and stoked them in epic battle will ride the level ferries of bay and river and tank men will drive a powered lawnmower while their fathers watch. The pilot with many missions will do errands for some civilian company.

You can’t help but think of the two veterans back home. How they never actually got that moment. No V-day. No reunion.

You wonder if someone gave Steve Rogers the news that the war has ended.

That the fight is over. That he can go drive a lawnmower and Bucky can do errands for some company. You wonder if they’d go back in time just to experience those moments. Their hard-earned reunions.

Suddenly the air is too thick inside.

You’re startled by the chilly evening air when you step out of the museum. You hadn’t realized it was so late, meaning you should take the train back to Compound if you don’t want a search-and-rescue team at your heel. You might have to walk back, if Natasha has found her car already. Best case scenario.

You decide to extend your freedom a little longer and sit down on the steps, watching the cars go by. Your chest feels heavy and your eyes are misty. You tell yourself it’s because of the cold air and how little prepared you are for it. Should’ve probably stayed in Times Square, with all the pretty lights and creepy guys in costumes. Although you don’t get time to wallow in your self-pity, because the noise of a motorcycle has you looking up.

Steve Rogers drives a very obnoxious Harley-Davidson. Black and chrome and noisy. He never bothers with a helmet, which you think is stupid of him, but today he has one slung over one of the handles.

You know he’s spotted you, because he’s staring right at you; but he just leans on the bike and waits.

Sighing in resignation, you push yourself up the steps and make your way to him. He’s wearing civilian clothes and a leather jacket, and people are beggining to stare anyway.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He nods at the coffee cart down the street. “You used your credit card over there. And then bought a museum ticket.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance. Not even 6 months of not being on the run and you’ve already lost your way with it. Steve gives you a foreign, sympathetic smile.

“That’s why I always use cash.”

“So it’s not because you don’t trust credit cards?”

He purses his lips, eyebrows pinched. “Definitely not because of that.” It’s not convincing.

It makes you laugh at little, and he looks away. “We should get back. Put the helmet on,” He says, stiffening his shoulders. It’s an order.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t have left the Compound. You’re lucky you’re not in too much trouble.”

You flick your eyes up at him briefly.“Yes, Captain.”

His gaze hardens under the thick eyelashes. “Being irresponsible right now can cost you your privileges. And your pardon.”

You shrug, staring at the Harley’s chrome exhaust pipe. “I just wanted to see the city. At least once.”

I panicked. I had a bad day. I’m scared that it’s just a matter of time until I get locked up for good and then all I see is four blank walls forever.

As if he could read your mind, he reaches down and takes the helmet, placing it on your head. It makes you look up.

Steve Rogers. Made of marble and gold. The golden light of the old photograph cast a halo around his frame, like a warrior angel, an Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The one in front of you is all stone, under the yellow street lights.

Even more weight above him than ever.

“I suppose it’s on me for not keeping an eye on you like I should.”

You frown, fumbling with the straps under your chin. “And coming to get me was your punishment?”

“I was in town.”

“Ah.”

You had wondered, still inside the Museum, what it would be like to know him back then. Back when he was all hope and not all duty. His eyes were gentle, and you could swear you saw a sparkle of that in this Captain that came to drag you back to the Compound.

It’s gone now. Besides, you don’t want to keep looking.

“I’m ready. We can go.” You say, tugging at the secured helmet straps.

Steve removes his jacket, fully revealing his white t-shirt, and you freeze. He puts it around your shoulders and you stop breathing. “S’ getting cold.”

It takes you a little to answer. The jacket is still hung awkwardly around your shoulders, and he’s looking at you as if he expects you to put your arms in it properly.

“I’m fine.” You say. He’s already sat on the motorcycle, and you’re just standing there. You don’t know if you should focus on his bare arms or how the jacket smells more like him than he does. Both options seem pretty terrible. “I’m not cold.”

“You will be on the ride back.” He urges you to move with his chin, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Sparky. Don’t make this harder than it should be.”

You roll your eyes, trying to tell yourself you’re only not putting on a bigger fight because the World War II exhibition messed with your head, and not because his jacket feels warm and nice against your skin.

“That’s what she said, Rogers.” You mutter to his broad back.

Under the loud rumble of the Harley’s engine, you can swear he laughs.