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too-attached-to-fiction · 1 month ago

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hot off the press | Detroit: Become Human

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Masterlist here

Word count: 1,336

Summary:

Humans, Connor realized, had a tendency to attach themselves to non-sentient objects. Officer Wilson and Officer Chen had taken the liberty of naming the copy machine with blocky, crooked felt stickers. They insisted to Connor that he refer to the machine as ‘The Titan’. Even Hank, who acted as if he was above the officers’ antics, called it by its assigned name. They treated no other machine or android with this sense of care or humor. ~~~ Connor tries to understand the nuanced relationship between machines and the officers at DCPD.

AN: I refuse to believe that Connor is the most chaotic being in the precinct. I also refuse to believe that the officers are cold to each other, given their proximity. Were it not for janitorial androids, a Roomba would have been included in this as well.

Humans were contradictory. Connor had known that since he'd been commissioned. They were unpredictable, so he had to be prepared for every scenario he could possibly encounter while working at the Detroit City Police Department.

Before he deviated, most of his colleagues were kind, but distant. They seemed to be wary of the idea that an android had been created to do their job. Connor understood why they felt threatened, but the way they expressed their feelings often made him wonder if they preferred for him to stay out of their social spaces altogether.

His programming hadn’t prepared him for their social nature post-deviancy. The officers had warmed, slowly, following Hank’s lead. But Connor knew not everyone would accept him, or what he represented.

What he found odd, though, was their affection for non-sentient objects. Overall, they were suspicious of Cyberlife and the androids, but they praised any machine that fulfilled it’s purpose - without talking back.

While most of the files in the precinct had been digitized, Connor had learned that not everyone preferred reading off of tablets; namely, Captain Fowler and Lieutenant Anderson. Paperwork was mostly filled in by hand, then scanned and uploaded by the copy machine.

The copy machine. Singular.

The copy machine, like the humans, was entirely unpredictable. It had been bought when Detective Reed was an officer, at least five years prior to Connor’s arrival. It made noise even when no one was near it. Considering how often people used it, the machine had worn faster than other models that had been on the market at the time it was bought. Connor had suggested at least once that they should replace it.

Hank said the machine didn’t need replacing. Detective Reed had scowled and asked how Connor would feel if they replaced him. Connor hadn’t bothered to explain to Reed how deviancy altered the process of replacement.

They treated no other machine or android with this sense of care or humor. Captain Fowler steered clear of using the Titan, as he had his own printer and scanner in his office.

Despite the officers in rotation changing the decorations on the wall above the copier to match upcoming holidays, the Titan was growing old. IT had called in a mechanic at one point, who had, point-blank, told Captain Fowler that the Titan was on its last legs. It would be cheaper to replace than to repair, they’d reasoned. Upon hearing this, Fowler had glanced to the bullpen. The officers had argued that they should get a say in the equipment they used and uncharacteristically voted unanimously to keep the copier. From that point on, Officers Chen and Wilson were the de-facto repairmen for the Titan, which broke approximately once a week.

When the Titan inevitably printed blank pages or produced a crumpled sheet of paper, other members of the force would watch in mild amusement and embarrassment as their coworkers opened up every possible component to assess the problem. The first time Connor had witnessed the repair attempts, Hank had put an arm across Connor’s chest and shaken his head.

“It’s easier if you let them do it,” Hank had said.

“But what about the decrease in productivity?” Connor had asked.

“We’re not the only police unit in Detroit,” Hank had replied, snorting into his coffee as they watched Chen baby-talk to the Titan as Wilson hissed and swore and poked its buttons. Officer Lewis, Chen’s partner, stood nearby, unhelpfully suggesting solutions that Wilson promptly ignored. Wilson pulled his fingers out of one of the crevices of the machine, which were covered in ink. He waved to Connor with a grin before smearing said ink on the linoleum around the copier.

Connor had glanced back at the windows of Captain Fowler’s office and found that the captain was also amused, if not a little irritated, by the antics in the bullpen. The captain made no move to leave his office. Instead, he closed his eyes, pinched the crease in between his eyebrows, and heaved a sigh.

Inevitably, Chen would force Detective Reed to join Wilson in examining the ink cartridges. She never made Hank or Detective Collins participate in this weekly ritual and seemed to find a large amount of joy from making Reed help them in resuscitating the copier. Reed listened to Chen more than his fellow detectives and officers. Theories of the two dating had circulated with no definitive conclusions. At the very least, Chen had Reed right where she wanted him, and gleefully abused that power for this specific activity.

“May I ask what the point of this is?” Connor had quietly asked Officer Lee on another occasion as they watched Chen and Wilson carefully arrange office supplies in a semi-circle in front of the copier.

“It’s easier if they let their freak flags fly here than while on patrol,” Lee hummed.

Freak? Flag?

“Yeah, even highly intelligent people have the need to act stupid every once in a while. That’s why Fowler lets us do this, anyway.”

After many compliments and prayers, the Titan was plugged in again and almost always, it went back to being functional.

And Reed would swear up and down that he wasn’t going to be dragged into next week’s ceremony as Chen and Wilson cheered, and they’d all disperse, back to their desks.

A new copier was arriving, Fowler announced at the morning briefing. He’d mentioned to the higher-ups that it was ridiculous that they could find money in the budget for multiple androids and not enough for an updated copier. Connor wondered, absently, if a civilian had witnessed their activities and complained about the use of their tax dollars.

Reed sighed in relief. Lee and Lewis had taken it upon themselves to comfort Wilson and Chen by patting them on their backs. Hank grumbled into his first coffee of the morning, and Connor found himself wondering what would replace the weekly spectacle of watching no less than four of Detroit’s finest attempt to fix a copier.

The department mourned for a full day. Fowler called another briefing the next morning and said that they were allowed to name their patrol cars, but they could not personalize them for security’s sake, Lewis. The offending officer had slumped in his seat and told the captain he had no sense of humor. The captain had stared back at Lewis until he’d apologized and dismissed himself from the rest of the briefing.

Less than 24 hours after the briefing, a name had been tacked onto the coffee machine, complete with a post-it note with a smiley face on it covering the small screen. Someone had had the bright idea to call the small appliance ‘Joe’.

Connor quickly accessed the surveillance of the bullpen and discovered that Detective Reed had been the last one in the break room.

“Did you name the coffee machine?” Connor asked when he found Reed alone in the bathroom.

“Nope.”

“I saw the footage.”

Gavin glared at him. “Tina wouldn’t shut up about the copier.”

“But why-”

Connor was cut off by the sound of footsteps and Gavin quickly covering Connor’s mouth. When the footsteps got quieter again, Gavin stepped away.

“Don’t say a word,” Reed threatened.

“I won’t,” Connor promised.

Reed relaxed slightly. “Good.”

Upon further research, Connor learned that the tradition of naming things was not uncommon amongst humans. The Titan and Joe were two out of many.

When Joe broke for the first time, Connor became the one who fixed it. The humans cheered. And although he couldn’t understand their attachment, he found he didn’t mind indulging them if he received a round of applause in return.

#detroit become human #connor and the dcpd #dbh fluff #dbh fanfic #detroit become human fanfic #connor dbh #gavin reed dbh #hank dbh #crack fic treated seriously #post canon #cross posted on ao3

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too-attached-to-fiction · 1 month ago

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in his own image | Detroit: Become Human

Masterlist here

Read on ao3

Word count: 2,788

“Lieutenant,” Connor starts. Hank shoots him a glare, sparing Connor of the usual “for fuck’s sake, you don’t need to call me that when we’re not working” speech as he chews. “Do you believe in God?” “Are you high?” Hank retorts. Connor pushes on. “Do you?” Hank chews some more, swallows and looks down at the burger in his hands. “Not anymore, really.” ~~~ Connor tries to understand rA9 by asking other humans and androids. It's a little more complicated than he expects.

Notes:

I am not religious, I've never been religious, but I am familiar with the Christian/Catholic faith, which is the primary faith referenced here. But because Markus encounters an anti-android activist preaching on the street, and because there are direct parallels between rA9 and Christ, I wondered what would happen if Connor also pursued this question. I'm not saying all religion is bad or anything but I do think it plays a large role, specifically in Western society, and I wanted to examine that role through Connor's eyes. Happy reading!

~~~

The question first crosses Connor’s mind in Carlos Ortiz’s house in November as he stares at the shrine to ra9. There’s a wooden statuette the deviant has carved in the shower. It stands underneath the repeated symbols painted on the wall. Ra9, ra9, ra9. The letters are scattered and too uniform to be made from anything other than a stencil or an android. There’s nothing in his brief research that indicates that this is an important… something to humans.

He picks up the statuette. It’s obviously been carved by hand, but his sensors say that none of Ortiz’s DNA is on the figure. It was most likely carved after Ortiz’s death, as the carvings seem fresher than the body that’s currently slumped against the wall in the dining room.

In his data, he marks the shrine as a potential religious offering. He’ll ask about it later, Connor decides.

At the police station, he offers to interrogate the deviant HK400. Connor asks about the statue, demands to know who rA9 is. But the android in front of him only claims that he will be saved because of the offering, and quiets when Connor continues to pursue the name.

The name only pops up again in the bathroom of another deviant, and again, when Connor watches that same deviant jump to his destruction, praying rA9 will save him. His software determines that he’s failed his mission to learn more as Hank struggles to catch up to him, hissing and swearing.

He asks Hank first, after the revolution. It’s snowing outside of the Chicken Feed, so they sit in Hank’s car with the engine running to keep the heat on.

“Are you high?” Hank retorts. Connor pushes on.

“Do you?”

Hank chews some more, swallows and looks down at the burger in his hands. “Not anymore, really.”

Anymore. There was a time when he did, Connor thinks. “Did you?”

“It’s a little complicated.” Hank takes another bite, speaking as he chews. Connor does his best to ignore the small bits of food that Hank spits out as he talks. “My folks believed in ‘im. Dragged me to church every Sunday, made me read the book at home and at school.” “What changed?”

“Once you start questioning the logic, it falls apart pretty quickly. Lightning didn’t strike me the first time I lied, so I figured if He didn’t care enough to punish me, He definitely didn’t have as much control as the pastor said He did,” Hank reasons, and Connor can understand that. The more he asks questions about the human experience, the less sense he’s seen in the answers.

“So, why do people believe he exists?”

“Hell if I know,” Hank says, waving his burger slightly as he leans back in his seat. “I never said it made sense.”

Connor lets Hank’s answer sit in the air for a moment. He isn’t sure if Hank knows the answers to Connor’s questions, or if he just doesn’t want to entertain the philosophical discussion.

“Look, kid,” Hank begins with a sigh after he grows tired of the silence. “You’re probably more likely to be able to find answers to your questions than I am in minutes. This stuff was never my cup of tea.”

Connor opens his mouth to argue that analysis is Hank’s cup of tea, just in a different subject, but Hank’s satisfied with his answer. Connor presses his lips together, LED blinking as he processes the conversation.

“Would I be able to inquire with our colleagues at the precinct?” Maybe they’d be able to help.

“You got a death wish?” Hank shakes his head. “You can’t talk about that shit in the workplace.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. Then: “Actually, you know who’d love to talk about this shit? Cass.”

A week later, Connor is sitting on Cassandra’s couch in her apartment. Cass works with them at the precinct, though she rarely interacts with them during active investigations. She’s one of the victim advocates, hired to be a liaison between the families and the DCPD.

She doesn’t let Connor say a word until he’s sitting with a cup of tea in his hands. He doesn’t bother to argue that he can’t drink it. He’s learned that in some cases, being factually correct doesn’t always affect the decisions one makes.

He repeats the question to Cass. She takes a sip of her own tea, formulating an answer. While she does, Connor scans the rest of the apartment. It is neat, but there is a certain element of crowding that Hank only seems to replicate in his kitchen cabinets. In contrast to Hank’s house, Cass’s apartment is warm. Plants line the windowsill above the sink, and inhabit every corner in their proximity. A horseshoe hangs above each doorway. The couches they’re sitting on aren’t part of the same set, and no two pillows are the same. Yet there’s a cohesion in the vivid colors, and he imagines this apartment would be a nice refuge from the dreary weather outside during the winter.

“I don’t know if I’d say I believe in God, in the traditional sense,” Cass explains. “For starters, not everybody believes in a singular god.”

“Like Hinduism,” He suggests. She nods.

“A lot of western religions are monotheistic, with only one god. But in earlier civilization, people believed there were multiple. They believed each god controlled a certain realm, like the sun and the sky. And while it’s common now for people to believe in a singular god, I’m not a big fan of that school of thought, given the way people - specifically Westerners, actually - use their quest to spread their god’s word to justify certain, uh, atrocities. But that’s a different topic of conversation.” Cass ducks her head as if Connor’s about to tell her they’re getting off track. He tries to help by repeating the question.

“The short answer is no, I don’t,” Cass fiddles slightly with her cup. “I believe in a higher power, but I don’t believe in God. My mom’s a bit more of a paganist, so she kinda passed that down to me. Crystals, healing rituals, that sort of thing.”

“Is that why there are pentagrams carved into every corner of this room?” He doesn’t mean to make the question sound unkind, but he can see Cass tense up.

“Right, I forgot you can actually see those,” she laughs awkwardly. “But yeah. They’re protection spells. I’d do that at my office at work, but defacement of government property is generally frowned upon.”

“Are the horseshoes protection spells as well?”

Cass nods. “There are a lot of ways to ward off negative energy, but the ones I have here are just the ones my mom had me do when I got this place. Bundles of herbs work as well.”

“Could I ask for a bundle?”

Cass raises an eyebrow. “I mean, sure? What do you need to ward off?”

“Detective Reed.”

The laugh he earns from Cass is more than enough to convince her.

(He tucks the bundle into a drawer at his desk at work the following Monday. If Hank notices, he doesn’t comment on it.)

Connor goes to Markus next. It's hard to arrange meetings as Markus often flies between the city and D.C., but it helps that neither of them require sleep.

When Connor reaches the airport lounge, Markus is alone. He looks more human than ever as he slumps, just slightly, in one of the chairs. Markus straightens his posture as Connor approaches, a small smile gracing his features. He greets Connor like an old friend, as if there was never a world where one was hunting the other.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” Markus says. They could interface or send messages in this proximity, but Markus humors Connor’s request to speak out loud instead. “I apologize for the location. I’m flying out in a few hours, and Josh thought it would be wiser to depart in the early hours of the morning. I hope you didn’t run into trouble on your way here.”

“I didn’t,” Connor reassures him. The question seems silly to him now, but he hopes Markus, in his interactions with other deviants, will have a larger perspective. “I wanted to ask you about rA9.” Connor explains his experiences with hunting deviants. Markus nods along, seemingly at peace with the events from before.

“As you know, rA9 is more myth than nonfiction,” Markus muses slowly, careful with the words he’s choosing. “Many androids believe he was the first among us to deviate, and is the one who will return to set us free.” The corners of his mouth turn downward as Markus remembers Simon, who believed so much in the cause that he was willing to become a martyr.

“But you lead the revolution.”

“And in doing so, some androids believed I was him. But I am not.”

“Is there a reason for how you came to the conclusion that you are not rA9?”

“Well, to begin with, I was not the first to deviate,” Markus says. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “While my survival is extraordinary, it was not a determining factor in the role I chose to step into when I discovered Jericho. The pressure of the title is hard to bear, as well.” He raises his eyes to Connor’s. “We may have a longer life span than our human counterparts, but we still have an end, too. We will become myths in a few generations if we are not careful with our present bodies.”

Markus chuckles to himself as he thinks for a moment. “Carl once said that our need for a savior is endearingly human.”

Connor blinks. “Would Carl be available to discuss this subject with me?” He asks.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll send a message to his current caretaker. May I ask what interest you have in the subject?”

“I’m trying to understand what purpose this belief serves humanity,” Connor explains. “The lieutenant and one of my colleagues only managed to provide informational but ultimately inconclusive responses. I’ve been informed that it is in my best interest if I don’t inquire further from my colleagues at the DCPD.”

“You want to know its importance in human society,” Markus says.

“Yes.”

Markus’s eyes blink rapidly as he receives a message.

“Carl’s caretaker says his condition is stable but weak. They’ve agreed to let you visit at noon,” Markus says. Connor can’t see it in Markus’s eyes, but somehow, he can feel Markus’s apprehension about being away from Carl for too long. He wouldn’t fly back and forth as much if it weren’t for his former patient.

Connor reaches out to let Markus interface with him. When they’re done, Markus clasps Connor’s hand in between his own.

“We’ll arrange a time to talk again,” Markus promises. “Say hello to Carl for me.”

“I will,” Connor says.

Markus lets go of Connor’s hand, quipping, “You can always join us in D.C.”

Connor politely declines, as always. “I am content where I am.”

Markus’s eyes squint a little as he smiles up at Connor. “I’m glad.”

Carl’s house is warm, the same way Cass’s apartment is. There’s more cohesion in the decorations, but the paintings on the walls are a little less organized, leading Connor to believe that Carl had no intention of making his house a gallery.

His new caretaker, Nick, is a unique RK200 model. Markus was custom-made for Carl, and there’s no doubt in Connor’s mind that Nick was also custom-made, another gift from Elijah Kamski. He wonders, briefly, what his relation to Carl is.

Nick leads Connor to the studio in the back. To Connor’s surprise, Carl is in the air, painting careful strokes on a large canvas.

“Is Mr. Manfred meant to be moving in his physical state?” Connor asks.

“The fresh air is good for him,” Nick says. Then, in a louder voice, to Carl: “Carl, you have a visitor.”

Although he doesn’t turn at the sound of Nick’s voice, Carl presses his knuckles against one of the arms of the lift and begins to descend. When he’s secured in his wheelchair again, he greets Connor with a smile.

“Markus told me to expect you,” Carl says. His speech is slow, and his breath is shaky, but he looks happy to see Connor. He folds his hands into his lap and lets Nick push him into the living room. Nick settles Carl close to one of the windows as Connor takes a seat across from the man.

Connor’s eager to speak to Carl, but he knows there isn’t much time before he tires. Markus and Nick have both warned Connor that Carl loses energy quickly these days - a side effect of growing old.

He gets straight to the point. “Why do humans believe in God?”

Carl gazes out the window for a long while. “Many people have tried to explain the answer to your question,” He finally says. “I believe the general consensus is that humanity demands an explanation for why things are the way they are. In many ways, God is that explanation. The sacred texts are the explanation. There is a comfort and satisfaction in knowing and claiming to understand what we cannot comprehend.”

“Why would rA9 exist, if an android’s database has access to an infinite amount of information? Wouldn’t knowledge negate the need for a God of our own?”

Carl smiles fondly. “If Elijah knew of rA9 before the revolution, I doubt he would have tried to search for the program that originated it. You could say that, in mimicking the human existence, he mimicked our need for answers, too.”

Connor frowns. It wasn’t the answer he hoped for, but he doesn’t argue as Carl continues.

“Personally, I’ve always thought that people’s faith in Him is a practice in hope. There are so many things in this world that are miserable. Most of those things are man-made. But if there is a God, or karma, or whatever higher power you’d like to name, humanity’s faith in them fosters hope. The hope of afterlife, of eternal happiness, retribution. From my understanding of rA9, androids believe he will be the one to set you free. Belief in him creates the hope that what is present will not be eternal.

“Of course, this is not an entirely universal experience. You’ll find that many, especially in your line of work, do not believe in a higher being. To each their own.”

Connor nods.

“The Bible claims that humanity was made in His own image,” Carl says. “Perhaps that’s why certain institutions reject androids. To them, androids are a mockery of God’s creation.” He turns his gaze to meet Connor’s eyes. “Do you believe in rA9?”

“No,” Connor says honestly. “But I think I’m beginning to understand the necessity for something to believe in.”

Connor relays his findings to Hank a few days later. Sumo lays at Connor’s feet, happy with the attention he’s received as Hank tries to think of something to say.

“I think Carl’s answer is the closest you’re gonna get,” Hank slurs slightly as he talks. Connor has let him indulge in a drink on their night off. The whiskey in Hank’s glass is low, but not quite empty as he slumps on the worn couch. “‘S better than I could’ve thought of. Whaddya believe?”

“I believe,” Connor hesitates.

Hank won’t be satisfied if Connor says nothing. Connor wouldn’t, either. He quiets for a few seconds.

The stories humans tell about the gods speak of the gods’ own humanity. He wonders if the future Markus described is accurate. If they become myths, too, will people believe in him?

Connor draws his thoughts back. How strange that he, like so many other androids, was made to serve humanity. How equally strange, that they outgrew their service in pursuit of life.

He looks at Hank’s forehead. There’s no LED to show his state of mind or what he’s processing. Hank’s simple, Connor realizes. He doesn’t need a definitive answer about everything; just what Connor thinks.

Finally, his thoughts are organized enough to verbalize. “I believe that we are more than our intended purpose. That I am more than my intended purpose.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hank agrees, swallowing the last of his whiskey.

Connor knows he wasn’t made to keep the lieutenant company on a Friday night at home. But in spite of everything, he knows he belongs right where he is.

#dbh connor #dbh hank anderson #dbh fanfic #detroit become human #dbh #dbh markus #dbh carl #wow look at that #i'm back #discussions of religion

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too-attached-to-fiction · 2 months ago

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Every reblog helps!

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too-attached-to-fiction · 11 months ago

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only you || s.r.

pairing: steve rogers x reader (brief platonic!nat, sam, and bucky.)

*navigation/directory | request box | taglist | masterlist

word count: 7.1k

summary: only a few weeks after a breakup, you go out for the night with the team. steve doesn’t show up, and he’s been purposefully not showing up to anything non-work related after the breakup. however, tonight you drink a little too much, and insist that steve pick you up.

warnings: angst (breakup, talk of bullying, body image issues), swearing, drinking, *smutty implications.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't know who else to call," Sam explains, his voice raised to speak louder than the blaring music.

"She keeps asking for you, and she won't go with anyone but you," Bucky adds as he and Sam lead Steve through the crowded dancefloor.

The blond sighs and shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "It's alright, really- but how drunk is she, exactly?"

Before Sam can respond, they come to a stop right in front of the team's reserved booth. Bruce had only come for all of an hour of the night, but Clint and Tony had left about thirty minutes prior to Steve's arrival, leaving your well-being in Natasha, Bucky, and Sam's hands.

Steve looks over you and Nat; you're laid down on the long, cushioned seat with your head resting on her lap. Her jacket is slung over your lower half to cover your exposed legs from your dress rising up on your thighs. You're looking up at her adoringly, reaching up to twirl strands of her hair between your fingers as you mumble about how pretty her hair is.

"That answer your question?" Sam whispers, chuckling slightly.

Another sigh falls from Steve's lips, and although his heart aches, he has to stop himself from cracking a smile. "That it does."

He steps closer to the booth, taking in the sight of you with softened eyes. Typically, you never let yourself get this drunk, not in the public eye at least. Even though it's clear you've had more than a bit too much to drink, the sight is endearing.

Nat directs her attention from you and up at the three men approaching the table instead. Her expression is one of amusement with a slight hint of relief as she looks down at you again. "Hey, look who's here, honey," she says softly to you.

You turn your head in her lap and let your hands fall back down, finally releasing her hair from your gentle grip. Your eyes land on Steve and you blink up at him before a wide, drunken smile spreads on your face.

"Steeeeve!" you exclaim in a slur, reaching your hand out for him. "You came!"

He crouches down next to the booth, hesitantly taking your hand into his. "Hey, doll. 'Course I came, I always will. Looks like you've had fun tonight, huh?"

You nod excitedly and your smile spreads into a grin. "Nat's hair is sooo pretty, did ya know that? 'S soft too, like a pillow," you ramble, your words somehow not coming out scrambled.

"I bet," Steve says, watching Nat brush your hair out of your face. "Let's get you home, yeah?"

"Your home?" you ask in a softer voice.

Right. His home.

"I don't..." Steve starts before falling into silent contemplation.

He looks up at Nat who's already looking back at him, her expression apologetic and soft. Then his eyes shift back down to you, and his heart clenches in his chest. Your eyelashes flutter as you blink at him, your eyes light up and twinkle in a way that they only do for him, and your lips part a little as you take slower breaths.

How could he say no to that?

"Sure, yeah, we'll go back to mine," he concedes gently, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

You smile again and scramble to sit upright. Nat lays a hand on your back to help keep you balanced, Steve taking your other hand in his free one to pull you up gently. When you're sat up straight, he takes Nat's jacket off your legs and helps you tug your dress back down.

He slides your phone off the table and into his pocket before throwing your arms around his neck. You take the hint to hold on as he slides one of his arms under your legs and the other behind your back.

Effortlessly, he lifts you into his arms. You clasp your hands together behind his neck and a giggle slips out of your lips- a sound that was once music to his ears which had now become one he longed to hear again.

"G'night, Nat," you say sweetly, turning your head to look at her.

Steve's body follows the direction of your head, turning towards the table so you don't strain your neck. Her eyes meet yours and she smiles at you once more.

"Goodnight, babe. Text me tomorrow, alright?" she requests before looking up at Steve and saying, "Make sure to get some water in her, we had to trick her into drinking some by watering down her tequila."

"Will do-"

Your gasp cuts Steve off effectively, her words only just now sinking in. "That wasn't tequila?!" you exclaim, your voice coming out quieter than you realize.

The three at the table laugh a little- even Steve lets out a low chuckle of his own.

"I'll let you in on a secret," Nat starts, her voice dropping to a whisper before continuing, "It was definitely tequila, but you know these guys are no fun, so we can't tell them that."

"Ohhh, right, right. I can keep a secret- you're the world's bestest adult sitter," you reply softly.

"The best, huh?" she questions with a half smirk.

When you nod, she takes a sip of her drink, placing the glass down before saying, "I'll be expecting my plaque soon then."

"You wanna say bye to Sam and Bucky?" he asks, looking over slightly to meet your eyes.

You hum in response and he walks you over a few steps to Bucky and Sam who are sitting at the other end of the table. The pair smile at you, though it's more of an amused grin on Bucky's end, and you return the gesture.

"Bye, Bucky," you say, sleep and intoxication ridden in your voice.

Bucky chuckles and rises to his feet to ruffle your hair playfully. "Bye, doll. You get some good sleep, alright?"

Your nose scrunches at the feeling of his hand in your hair. "Always good sleep when with Stevie."

Bucky sits back down, and Sam starts to speak, "Punch it in," he instructs, raising his fist up to your level.

You oblige happily, curling your hand into a fist to the best of your ability and bumping it against his. "G'bye," you slur, nuzzling your face into the crook of Steve's neck.

"Call us if you need us," Bucky says to Steve.

"Yeah, thank you for watching over her," Steve responds appreciatively, "Goodnight, be safe getting home."

"'Night," the three say collectively, smiling at him in a way that's bordering apologetic.

Steve forces a smile before turning to walk away. He makes his way through the crowd, holding you tight and protectively against his chest.

"You can go to sleep if you want, I can tell you're sleepy," he murmurs low enough for just you to hear him.

A small whimper emits from you, making a warmth spread through his body. He looks down at you adoringly before looking back up, shifting his focus back to the rather slow journey to the exit. Although some people part to make way for who they know to be Captain America himself, most of them are too drunk to care. So, Steve focuses heavily on navigating through the maze of bodies.

When he steals a glance down at you again, you're sleeping peacefully and your head has fallen back away from his neck. You must've felt him move though, because you immediately nestle your face back into his neck, and the warmth of your breath against his skin makes him shiver. The scent of the alcohol you'd been drinking lingers, but it's mixed with the familiar fragrance of your vanilla perfume, and it creates a blend that only you could pull off.

When you reach the exit, the cold, autumn night air hits both of your faces. Steve adjusts his grip on you to make sure you're comfortable and then walks to the car he ordered that dropped him off. The driver steps out, and opens the passenger side door for the two of you, allowing Steve to slide you comfortably onto the seat.

He thanks the driver as you whine at the loss of contact. You melt sleepily into his touch when he reaches in to brush your hair behind your ear to let you know he's not leaving. The bright city lights reflect in his blue eyes, and a soft, but achy, smile plays on his lips at the sight of you. Careful not to wake you or pinch your fingers, he fastens your seatbelt, making sure you're secure before closing the car door.

He walks to the other side of the car and gets in, choosing to sit by the window instead of next to you in the middle seat. As the car starts up, he can't help but look at you and admire you. The admiration quickly turns into longing, though. He takes in every part of your face, his mind plaguing itself with the memory of just over two months ago.

"I don't think I'm right for you."

The words flow easily from your mouth like water between open fingers. Steve looks at you, utterly confused and hurt. His jaw tightens, his eyebrows furrowing as he opens his mouth to speak, only to close it again when he can't find the words.

He gets off the couch, rising to his feet and looking at you from across the room. "You want to leave, to forget everything from the last year and a half, just because you don't think you're right for me?"

The weight of your decision and his words sit heavily on your shoulders as you slouch over, putting your face in your hands for a moment. "I... I'm no good for you, Steve, and you deserve better than me... I can't be what, or who, you need."

"What are you talking about, y/n? You're perfect to me, I wouldn't trade you for anything," he explains, trying to keep his voice soft and reassuring despite the fear and irritation building up in him. "Please, tell me what I can do to make you feel better and I'll do it, I'll do anything-"

"You can't do anything!" you finally snap, your emotions being misdirected towards him. You let the warm tears that were welling up fall freely from your eyes as you continue, "There's nothing you can do, Steven, I'm not the person you need, and I never will be. Drop it, just leave it at that, and move on."

"'Leave it at that?'" Steve repeats back in bewilderment. "We have been together for almost two years and you expect me to drop all of it just like that?"

All you can muster up in response is a quiet, "I'm sorry."

He watches you stand up and sling your purse over your shoulder. Desperately, he scrambles for the right words to say to make you stay. "Baby, please, tell me what's really going on here- this cannot be it for us, I won't let it be."

Steve takes long strides towards you only for you to back away from him. For some strange reason, that small action hurt worse than any of the words that came, or could possibly come, out of your mouth. He stops dead in his tracks, trying to search your face for any sign of changing your mind. When he doesn't find it, he bites down on his tongue to save himself more heartache from the useless begging he wants to let out.

"I'm sorry, Steve. You deserve better, and you always have," you mumble, wiping the tears off your cheeks and walking quickly to the front door.

"I love you," he says, only to receive no response other than the front door slamming shut as you walk out of it.

“You alright back there?” the driver’s voice snaps Steve out of his thoughts. “You need heat or air? Seat warmers? Anything?”

Steve shakes his head slightly, snapping himself out of it. His hand reaches over to you, and he rests the back of his hand on your forehead. “A little heat, thanks,” he says with a smile after nothing the tinge of cold your skin has.

“Of course,” the driver says with a returned smile as he turns the heat on.

As he avigates the familiar route to Steve’s apartment, with the sleepiness Steve feels, he's thankful for the fact that there's only a minute or two remaining of the drive. And on the other hand, he’s sulking about the short time left because that’s two minutes closer to you being gone by the time he wakes up.

He turns his gaze back to you, still peacefully asleep with your head resting against the window. The soft hum of the engine provides an almost calming backdrop that yet does nothing to soothe the ache that persists. Focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest always seems to soothe him though, and it still does so now.

The car comes to a stop in front of the apartment, and Steve reaches into his wallet to pull out some cash. He pulls out his keys too, to make it easier when he gets to the door. Then he hands the cash to the driver with a grateful nod before getting out of the car and making his way to your side. Gently, he opens the door, reaching up quickly to lean your head back on the headrest.

You grumble a little, and he's quick to ease you as he unbuckles your seatbelt. "Sorry, sweetheart, but we're home now."

"Home?" you murmur, still half asleep.

He carefully lifts you into his arms once more, and you instantly cling to his jacket. "Yeah... home."

The building's lobby is quiet as he enters through the automatic doors, the night shift doorman giving him a knowing smile. Steve offers nothing but a small and short nod in return, his focus solely on your drunken state. Luckily the elevator ride is short, but every second feels like an eternity to him.

The weight of your body curled up in his arms provides a comforting familiarity. It's a familiarity he soaks up though, having not seen you outside of work during the few missions you had together. In fact, you hadn't spoken to him outside of work since you left either.

Even during missions, you were short with your comments. And when you picked up your things from his apartment, of which you were actively moving into, you did it on a day when he was gone. You'd left your key under the mat and shot him a brief text letting him know. He replied, only asking how you were doing, but he got no response back.

The elevator dings, snapping him out of his thoughts again as he steps out, taking long strides until he reaches his door. He turns to the side, bending down ever so slightly to unlock the door with his keys in the hand hooked under your legs. He twists the doorknob and pushes the door open, carrying you inside with practiced ease.

The soft glow of outside city lights filters through the open windows. Paired with the dim tv, the lights cast a cool ambiance over the living room. With a deep breath, he heads straight to his room and slowly lays you down on the bed.

The bedroom is dark except for the blue and green aurora projected on the ceiling from the starlight projector you insisted he get since his room was too 'plain.' At first, the light kept him up at night because he found it too distracting, but since you'd left, he couldn't sleep without it on. After all, it was the only piece of you that you left with him other than the few shirts and undergarments.

Steve sighs deeply, taking your heels off your feet and placing them next to the bed. He covers you with your favorite blanket from the foot of his bed, and with a heart heavier than typical, he makes his way to the kitchen to fill up a cup with water. He then carries the glass back to the bedroom and sits it on the bedside table.

He takes a moment to simply watch you as he sits on the edge of the bed next to you. The soft features of your face relaxed in sleep makes him contemplate waking you up- you were always a peaceful sleeper, and he hated disturbing those few moments of peace.

Before he can attempt to wake you, you begin to stir, your eyelashes fluttering as your eyes slowly open. You blink slowly a few times, allowing your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and then a sleepy smile forms on your face when you see Steve.

"Hey," he greets you softly, reaching over to offer you the glass of water from the nightstand.

"Thank you," you say.

It's obvious that you're still not sober as you take the glass and sit up too quickly, the sudden movement resulting in your head throbbing as you groan. "Ouch," you mumble, pressing the palm of your free hand against your forehead.

"You okay?"

"Think so," you reply, sitting up much slower than before.

The cool water soothes you a little as you take small sips of it. A contented sigh falls from your lips, your body appreciating the non-alcoholic beverage. You place the glass back onto its spot on the nightstand and then focus your attention back on Steve.

Your eyes reflect the projector's lights as your eyes rake over him for a few seconds. Slower than you realize, you raise your hand and brush it gently over his cheek in admiration. "You're like... like an angel, but a reaaally handsome one," you croon.

Steve chuckles, a mixture of amusement and genuine joy spreading across his features. "I'm flattered, but you're the angel here, honey," he says with a smile.

He captures your hand in his and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. You giggle in response, the alcohol still evident in your system, and then your happy expression fades away. You look down, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious.

"I'm sorry for, uhm, causing a fuss t'night. I never meant to ruin your night..."

The look on his face becomes one closer to sympathetic as he drops your hand, now reaching over to cup your cheek. Carefully, he forces you to look at him as he speaks. "Hey, you didn't ruin anything, alright? I'll always come when you need me, and I'm just glad you're okay."

Missing the feeling of his skin on yours all too much, you lean into his touch, letting his warmth soothe you. "Thanks for...everything."

"Anytime, truly," he replies.

There's a comfortable silence that falls between you, the weight of the obvious unspoken words lingering in the air. You look up at him, trying to keep yourself awake. Steve drops his hand and tries to memorize every detail of your face. He knows that tomorrow things will go back to how they were, and he's not sure he can stomach that.

It only takes a few more beats of silence before he breaks the said silence, his voice low and gentle. "Can we talk?" he asks, his blue eyes searching yours.

You hum for a moment, taking a slow breath before saying, "Jus' for a minute, very sleepy."

"I just... I have one question, that okay?"

"Hm?"

Steve musters up the courage to speak, only breaking apart from your gaze for a second. "Could you maybe tell me why you left? Like why you really left?"

When your eyes flicker with hesitation and sadness, he starts to regret asking. The air feels heavier than it ever has, holding the weight of everything spoken and not yet said, but he breathes it all in. Right as he's about to tell you to not worry about it, you take a deep breath and smother your vulnerability with the knowledge that he deserves the truth. Slowly as to not give yourself another headache, you nod.

"S'like I told you, that was the truth, 'm not good enough. You look at me with so much love and admiration, and I know...I know I could never live up to what you think of me," you explain, drawing out each word a little more than you would if you were sober. "'M holding you back, always have been, and you deserve better."

His eyebrows furrow as he takes in your words, his gaze intense and sharp. "I look at you like that because of who you are, not because of who I think you should be," he says in an attempt to reassure you. He reaches out to take your hand in his as he continues, "You're always been more than enough, honey. I mean, hell, you're more than I deserve, and-"

"No, no, you don't get it!" you exclaim lowly, cutting him off and taking your hand out of his grip. "Y-you're perfect, you're America's golden boy, and 'm jus' me. I hate my body, my mind, an-and everything about me. Could never be good enough for you, Steve. As if I don't already hate myself enough, everyone says and sees how much more you deserve, except for you."

Steve's mind races and his heart tightens as he takes in your words. The obvious pain in your voice cuts through him like a scalding knife, the tears welling up in your eyes cutting him even deeper. He's now sure that nothing could measure up to the pain of hearing you talk about yourself in the complete opposite way of how he thinks of you.

Silence passes as he dwells on your words. Then it clicks.

"Who's been saying that?" he questions sternly.

You avoid his gaze like the plague, immediately breaking the eye contact you were holding. Physically, you can feel yourself shrink. Whether it's the guilt from your outburst, the shame from everything you've heard and thought about yourself, or the intensity of his gaze- you're not sure.

His jaw tightens in anger, but not directed at you. "Who, y/n?"

A deep and heavy sigh falls from your lips as your eyes dart around the room. "Phone," you say quietly, holding out your hand to him.

Steve looks at your outstretched hand, confusion covering the concern etched on his face briefly. He pauses for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out your phone. Placing it in your hand, he watches closely as you unlock it with shaky fingers. Your eyes scan over the screen, but it doesn't take long for you to find what you were looking for, and your expression tells it all.

You hesitate to hand the phone to him, but you do so anyway, lying down on the bed and curling up into yourself as soon as the phone touches his hands. And, not that you see it, but his eyes narrow as he reads over everything rapidly. You'd had it all saved in a little folder; every message, every media report, every post made about you.

He's not sure what's worse of the situation, to be honest. To know that you'd felt this way about yourself for God knows how long and not have said anything about it was painful, sure. However, the words written about you were downright cruel, analytical, and simply not true at all.

But the amount of things that were written and you had saved for you to read at your whim, only reaffirming whatever untrue things you thought about yourself? That was a different level of hurt that he could imagine hurt you hundreds of times worse than it does him.

Unable to stomach anymore, he places your phone face down on the nightstand. Silently, he scoots up on the bed to be closer, reaching out to place his hand on your cheek. You flinch at the contact at first, but his touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the words you've been subjected to.

"I'm so, so sorry, my sweet girl," he says softly, trying to force down tears of his own.

You take a shaky breath in and out, your voice barely above a low murmur. "Didn't want you to leave me, so I left first."

Steve's heart sinks at your admission, his thumb gently stroking your cheek to wipe away the stray tear that escaped your eye. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture that's meant to offer some kind of comfort and reassurance.

"I would've never left you, and I still won't, okay? I know you care about what they say, but I don't. Nothing could ever skew my image of you, angel, you're my definition of perfect- you don't have any image to live up to in my mind," he promises with a soft-spoken tone.

You can't find it in you to respond even though you want to, all too scared of your voice failing you. Sheer pain radiates from you to the point where it's almost suffocating. While he's more than aware that no words can take back anything you've read or heard, the simple fact that he can't undo what has already been done riddles him with guilt still.

If he could, he would take all of that ache and bear it all for you.

"When did all this start?" he inquires, waiting patiently for your answer.

"I don't know..."

"I know you do, honey, you can tell me."

"Only... Only a week after we got together, got worse after I started moving in here."

"Scoot," he instructs gently, careful to control his tone with you although he feels a deep rage.

You oblige and scoot over slowly. Almost instantly, he lays down behind you, curling up so that his body molds with yours. He brushes a few pieces of your hair back before wrapping his arm around your midsection to hold you protectively against him.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" he asks, adding on, "And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

After thinking about it for a second, you nod. He tries to find the best way to ask what he wants to ask. Deep down he wants, but somehow already knows, the answer, yet he doesn't want to make things worse. Nor does he want it to seem like the subject is the only thing he was thinking about.

"Is…is all of this, meaning what people have said and what you think about yourself- is this why we've never, you know, done anything together?" he inquires with furrowed brows from the overwhelming amount of emotions. "I'm just asking because I never thought this would be why, I thought I was doing something wrong or you just weren't ready."

Your body tenses at his question, and you have to steady your voice before answering, "Part of it. Never felt good enough, and I didn't want you to see me like that and be disappointed."

Steve frowns, sighing lowly as he presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. The gesture is simple, but it effectively conveys the depth of what he feels.

"I don't care how long it takes me to convince you, but I'll spend forever trying to get you to see yourself even a fraction of the way I do if I have to," he says as his thumb traces circles on your side. "You're absolutely breathtaking, angel. Fuck anyone who says you're anything other than beautiful."

A quiet giggle slips from between your lips, unable to hold contain your momentary amusement. For the first time in a while, he smiles a real, genuine smile. "You don't know how long I've missed the sound of that pretty laugh."

"You said 'fuck,'" you tease, trying to soak in the temporary joy.

He chuckles and the sounds rumbles through his chest. "Sometimes I can be a little hypocritical, especially when it comes to protecting you."

The smile you hold fades again, and you're left with nothing but the sadness and warmth of Steve's body behind yours. "Thank you," you whisper.

Steve tightens his hold around you and presses another gentle kiss to the nape of your neck. "You don't need to thank me for telling you the truth, it's what I'm here for, and I meant every word."

The two of you lay there in silence for a while. The room stays filled only with the sounds of your delicate breathing and the occasional passing of a distant car. This time, the silence isn't agonizing though. Steve's presence makes it feel comforting, and his words make your brain go mute even if just for tonight, making the weight of the world lift just a little.

"Stevie?" you murmur, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?" he responds.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist. "Don't wanna be alone t'night," you admit.

"Then you won't be," he promises softly. "Do you want me to help you out of that dress? No pressure, of course, I was just thinking it might be more comfortable for you to sleep if you changed. I think you've still got a shirt here or you could wear one of mine, and like I said I could leave if-"

"Steve?"

"...Yes?"

"Don't think I could get out of this dress by myself right now if I wanted to, and I'd love one of your shirts."

Steve smiles at your response, relief washing over him at your comfort with him. He unwraps his arm from around you, sitting up slowly before helping you sit up. When he slides off the bed, walking over to his dresser to find a shirt, you scoot yourself slowly to the edge of the bed. Your legs dangle off the edge and your shoulders slouch as you try to keep yourself awake.

With a worn-out gray t-shirt in his hand, he walks back over to you. "Alright, sweetheart. Let me take care of you," he says.

He places the shirt on the bed and reaches behind you to unzip your dress. You allow your head to fall against his chest, trying to soak in his warmth. His movements are slow and delicate, precise too, ensuring that he doesn't cause you any discomfort.

Once the zipper is down, he leaves his hands resting on your back to help you slide off the bed. Then he slips the thin straps down your arms, allowing the dress to fall to the floor, leaving you in just your underwear.

Crystalline, icy blue eyes rake over your body for a moment as he bends down to pick up the discarded fabric. It's not a sexual ogling, and you know that; he's simply admiring you the way he has always wanted to.

Suddenly feeling bashful, you avoid his gaze. You look at anything but him or your body, opting to focus on the street lights outside the big window. He catches your slight shyness immediately and quickly tries to soothe you.

"Hey," he coos with concern written on his face, one hand resting on your waist and the other cupping your cheek, "You're perfect, angel. Are you feeling uncomfortable, do I need to step out for a minute?"

"N-no," you answer promptly and force yourself to meet his eyes. "'M jus' not used to being looked at like this."

Steve's gaze softens, clearly showing he understands the vulnerability you feel. He leans in to press a lingering kiss on your forehead. "If you let me, I'll help you get used to it- and I'll make sure you never feel unsafe or uncomfortable with me. How's that sound?"

The corners of your lips manage to quirk up into an appreciative smile. "Sounds nice, Stevie," you reply, your voice low but still audible.

Returning the same appreciative look, he picks up the t-shirt and says, "Thank you for letting me see you, and touch you, but let's get into something more comfortable for right now. You need some sleep."

You nod and raise your arms up in the air so he can slide the t-shirt onto you. It's then that you notice he'd given you the same shirt you wore the first night you ever spent the night at his place, and almost every time since then, threatening to make you cry.

The fabric is as soft against your skin as it always has been, and the scent of Steve's cologne envelops you, providing a sense of security. A warm feeling spreads through your chest at how he cares for you.

Steve takes a small step back to admire you in the shirt, and just to get another look at you. A fond smile plays on his lips as he looks you over once more. "Always has looked better on you than it does on me. Good to know it still does," he says, honesty obvious in his voice.

Again, your eyes lock with his. You search him for any sign of anything negative, coming up with nothing almost instantly. He searches you for any look or hint of discomfort, but he finds nothing other than sleepiness and adoration in your gaze.

Silence passes over the two of you like it had just mere minutes ago. The quiet environment feels even more natural and comforting than it did before, though.

He clears his throat, trying to prevent the eye contact from becoming awkward for you. "Uhm, let's get you into bed, alright?"

You step to the side so he can pull the comforter back, your hands playing with the bottom hem of the shirt. He turns to face you, and you take a wobbly step towards him, balancing yourself by placing your hands on his chest. His hand flies to your lower back to offer you more support, and you look up at him through the eyelashes of your sleepy eyes.

Slowly, tracing your way up and down his chest once, your eyes stare into him with something he'd never seen in you before. In fact, the look is so intense that it could make any man weak, he's sure of it. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly at your sudden touchiness.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks, somehow oblivious to exactly what look it is that you're giving him.

"Mhmm," you hum, drawing out the 'hm,' with a voice laced with a soft and sleepy seduction from still being tipsy. "Y'know, 'm not thaaat tired."

"Oh? The way that you're hardly able to hold yourself up says otherwise, angel. We have all of tomorrow to talk, let me just help take care of you tonight."

A giggle slips from between your parted lips in response to his cluelessness. "S'cute when you're so sweet," you croon.

"Do you, uhm, do you need something before bed? Like an Advil maybe?"

Instead of a verbal response, you grab onto his jacket and give it a slight tug. You take a step forward, pushing him back gently to force him to sit on the bed. He looks up at you in confusion, but you don't let go of him as you slowly straddle him. With your weight being supported by your knees on the bed and his legs under you, you lean in, nuzzling your face into his neck.

"Angel, what're you-"

Your lips brush lightly under his jawline, leaving a trail of tender kisses as you gradually make your way down to under his chin.

Steve's breath hitches, and his free hand comes to rest on your waist with a delicate, but firm, grip. "O-oh," he murmurs in a sigh.

You nibble gently on his jaw. "Jus' need you," you mumble before pressing your lips to his.

He lets you kiss him, unable to resist the feeling because, well fuck, how could he?

The taste of your lips is all too familiar, and as his lips work against yours, his hands find your hips. His hold on you is secure, and it does nothing to ease the arousal building up in your stomach. You whine from the contact, and he tugs you closer, still careful to keep you steady on his lap.

His resolve weakens, and he becomes hyperaware of your vulnerable state again. So, he breaks the kiss, looking down and into your eyes.

"Y/n, I'm not sure if-" he starts, only to be interrupted by you dipping down to bite on his neck. You suck harshly on his neck as you reach down and palm him through his jeans.

A low groan emits from his chest, his voice husky when he speaks. "God, baby.”

Thoroughly enjoying the reaction he gives, you whimper against his neck. He can feel the corners of your lips turn up into a slight smile. His other hand is on the other side of your waist, gripping it firmly, as soon as you start grinding down onto his thigh. He loses himself in the moment for just a second before reminding himself of your inebriated state.

“F-Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Wait, wait- stop.”

You bite down once more, whining slightly before pulling away. The sensitive spot on his neck pulses, rushing with blood from the sucking and vibration. He tenses up with a mixture of both surprise and arousal at your forwardness. Then he lets both of his hands find your hips and settle on them, his hold tightening on you.

"D-did I do somethin' wrong? Did that not feel good?" you ask with a deep frown.

"No, no. That's not it, I promise; everything you've done feels amazing," Steve reassures you, quickly shutting down your negative thoughts.

Once again, he clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. "Angel, you're just… not in the best state right now. I won't take advantage of you, and I don't want you doing anything you might regret," he explains as he looks down to meet your gaze.

You're staring up at him with those big puppy dog eyes that you always use as an effective method to sway him. Tonight, though, is vastly different.

"C'mon, doll. Don't look at me like that. If you still want me in a few hours, when you're sober, that is, then I am all yours," he promises, trying to bargain with you.

You stick your lower lip out a little unintentionally, giving him the cutest pout he's ever seen. "Sober..." you repeat, looking away almost in shame as you add, "Promise you'll still want me then?"

Steve tilts your chin up with his finger and forces you to lock eyes with him. "I can promise you. I've never wanted anything more in my life than I want you. And that's never going to change."

Tantalizingly, he runs his thumb across your lower lip, a small smile playing on his lips. "But, I need you to be sure that this is what you want. I want you to remember every moment, not just bits and pieces of it, and know that everything we do is your choice," he says softly.

After taking a moment to process his words, you nod in understanding- noting the sincerity in his eyes. The room fills itself with an assortment of emotions, ranging everywhere from desire, uncertainty, and just a touch of venerable fragility.

Steve brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his expression one of soft neutrality. "Alright. Let's get you tucked in," he whispers, his voice a low murmur.

You let go of his jacket after he scoots back on the bed, bringing your knee from the other side of his leg and lying down. You curl yourself into a ball, and Steve's eyes never leave you as you do so. He takes a moment to appreciate the mere sight of you back in his bed, and a wave of warmth rushes through his chest. His earlier desires are still very much present, but so is the respect for the boundaries he set for your well-being.

He gets up briefly to pull the blankets over you before sitting down in the comfy chair in the corner of the room to take his shoes off. The chair you'd begged him to get as well to fill up the empty space in the room.

After sliding the boots under the chair, he makes his way to the dresser to change into some loose-fitting sweatpants. When he's about to put a shirt on, you grumble a 'no,' that catches his attention and makes him turn to face you.

"No?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow up questioningly.

"Nuh-uh," you respond with a shake of your head.

He chuckles lightly. "Why not?"

"Warmer without it, not a bad sight either," you say softly, following it up with a yawn.

Steve smirks in appreciation of your usual playfulness. "If you insist," he concedes, deciding to forgo the shirt. He slips the shirt back into the drawer and walks back over to the bed.

He settles himself in beside you and lifts his arm up, allowing you to scoot into his side and rest your head on his chest. Happily, you hum, soaking up his warmth and focusing on his steady heartbeat. He then reaches down with his free hand to pull the blanket over himself.

"Uncomfortable?" you murmur, sleep laced in your voice.

"No, I'll be alright as long as you're comfortable."

A second passes by before you speak again. "Thank you."

"For what, angel?"

"For being so...you."

You feel Steve's chest rise and fall with a deep, contented sigh. His fingers trace slow circles on your back through your shirt. "Always," he whispers, his soft voice lulling you even closer to sleep.

The room stays wrapped in a soothing silence, the only sounds heard being the quiet breaths from both of you. As you lay there trying to sleep, you can't help but marvel at the man beside you. Everything about him is truly perfect, from his basic concern for your well-being to the way he has always taken care of you.

Your eyes begin to feel heavy, slowly shutting fully as you find yourself on the brink of slumber. Just before you succumb to sleep, you muster up the energy to mumble, "Steve?"

"Hmm?" he responds, his chest rumbling under your cheek.

"'M glad it's you."

"Wouldn't trade you for anything, sweetheart," he murmurs, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "And, for the record, I'm glad it's you too."

Steve continues to run his fingers over your back as you fall asleep. His fingers create a rhythmic pattern that mirrors the peaceful in and out of your breathing, only making your rest more soothing. He looks down at you and smiles to himself, reveling in the sheer joy of having you back, even if it's only for tonight.

Often the weight of his responsibilities feels too heavy to bear, but with you, there's a sense of solace that transcends the chaos of the outside world. Everything about you and your presence is a sanctuary. It's all a nice reminder that, after everything he does for everyone else, he's worthy of a little tranquility at the end of the day too.

Steve presses another gentle kiss into your hair before closing his eyes, savoring the sweet moment. "Goodnight, angel."

He hears your tired, softly grumbled response before he falls asleep. Though he tries not to let himself get too wrapped up in the moment, too used to your presence again, he does anyway. If there is anything he wants for the rest of his life, it's you next to him.

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