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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

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Hexes and Honeysuckle (One) (Winteriron)

Welcome to the story! Time for some witchy shenanigans! I think this will be five-ish chapters but me and @livewire28 decided I would just start writing and see where it ends up!

HEXES AND HONEYSUCKLE MASTERLIST HERE

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Just along the highway where the woods are extra thick and the road seems to narrow, where the mountains loom tall in every direction and waterfalls pour into the river basin, where wildlife watch with curious, unafraid eyes and the trees stretch towards an endlessly blue sky, just there where the turns get twisty and the forest creeps closer to the asphalt with every foot traveled, just here when a driver is sure they took a wrong turn and the GPS is absolutely lying when it says the car is within a hundred yards of the destination, just as soon as they are ready to turn around and spend hours driving back to civilization and give up on what was supposed to be a lovely little jaunt in the countryside to find a little shop with the best beeswax candles on the Eastern seaboard--

-- that’s when a sign appears in the shrubbery, half obscured by the flowering vines and painted in faded colors.

“Welcome to Everwinter” the sign says, or perhaps in the warmer months it says, “Welcome to Somerlast” and in the fall when the apples are ripe and ready to eat it might say “Welcome to Autumvale” but no matter the arrangement of letters, the traveler is always grateful and pleasantly surprised to find the name of the town is perfectly set to alleviate their previously dark mood.

At last they’ve found what they are looking for.

A quick turn onto a poorly marked road leads to a few moments of bouncing down dirt paths and rattling across not one but two rocky creek beds, and then quite suddenly there is the most beautiful little town anyone could ever hope to see, a hidden gem that might have been plucked from the English countryside or stolen from the best days of Southern summers, or spirited away from the golden days along the coast.

The store fronts along main street are all vaguely familiar but not quite modern enough to be the shops found in the city, every car cruising along the stretch of fading asphalt is a model of nostalgia, reminding the visitor of that rebuilt Mustang from the summer after high school, or the rag top convertible from the night of prom, the truck that was always a to-do project buried in the garage and the Jeep with mud from a half dozen spring breaks still on the tires.

Nostalgia blooms fragrant alongside pretty, populous flowers anyone and if the person is so inclined to travel a ways down the wide set sidewalks of the little town, if the motorist really has come all this way to find those beeswax candles their sister in law prattled on about for a solid hour over last month’s tedious family dinner?

Well those particular candles can be found in the shop called “Magic and Magnolias”, set on display on the third shelf from the door, right next to an assortment of floral perfumes, cough drops made from golden honey and doilies tatted of astonishingly delicate silk.

“Magic and Magnolias” is owned by a peculiar pair of women, both red heads, both shockingly beautiful, both unorthodox in dress and manner and visitors to the shop were always unfailingly charmed by one of the women, and slightly unsettled by the other. The experience varied from person to person, from meeting to meeting, which redhead was the more charming, which looked like she might gobble you up if given the chance, but everyone agreed the owners were quirky to say the least.

Natasha Romanoff dressed as if she’d just come from a Renaissance fair or stepped from the pages of a book of Regency era fashion. She was particularly, purposefully made up in full gown and bustle, a corset and intricate hairstyle, silk stockings and button hook boots. The women was clearly ancient though her skin was set like porcelain, the ink on her collarbone inscribed with a Black Widow’s mark, the rings on her finger stacked so the inscribed words all read one sentence in a language no one could possibly read.

No one else besides the Dame Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts that is, seeing as how her rings were writ in the same text and script. That was where the similarities ended between the two though-- with their sunset colored hair and odd taste in jewelry.

Where Natasha was tiny, Pepper was taller than most. Where Natasha wore her fashions from an era bygone, Pepper believed in cut off denim shorts and half unbuttoned dress shirts. Natasha’s hair would have taken a mere mortal hours to accomplish, Pepper wore hers loose or gathered into a bejewled clip and together the women presented a beautiful, beguiling mystery to any and all patrons of ‘Magic and Magnolias’, whether the patrons were there for a candle or taffy, or for another service altogether.

It wasn’t only vintage jewelry and curious knick knacks offered in the darling little shop, neither were all patrons that stepped foot through the doors in search of something physical. In a twist of fate that happened only in places like this, only where the forest converged so thick someone could hear the trees breathing, not all visitors to the shop were strictly human, and not all oddities sold from behind the counter were strictly known.

And the not-human visitors seeking not-known items were fully aware the ladies Natasha and Pepper were not mere ladies at all, but instead bore the title and responsibilities of two of the most powerful witches known to the surviving covens.

And what were two near deities to do with lifetimes of knowledge and endless hours when they weren’t selling trinkets to tourists?

Matchmaking, of course.

“We need to do something about Tony, darling.” Natasha mentioned one morning as the sun came refracted and colorful through the myriad of stained glass wind chimes along their porch. “Do you know he’s come back again?”

“I was not aware.” Pepper idly turned a page in her book and reached for one of the raspberry white chocolate scones, pausing for a split second so Natasha could break the other half off for her own plate. “I have to say I’m surprised Tiberius rejected him though. That witch needs a familiar badly and Tony is half desperate to get relieve the hex you’d think they would try everything to make the situation work. If anyone could teach that cat humility it would be someone like Ty.”

“Learning humility is not the same as being humiliated.” Natasha countered and Pepper mm-hmm’d in agreement. “I’d hoped Tony’s sarcasm would bring Ty down a notch or two and in the same motion force Tony to re-evaluate his approach to disagreements but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is this the report of grievance?” Pepper reached for her lover’s notebook and scanned the contents, her pretty mouth dropping open in shock. “Oh no. Ty says ‘the familiar brought me gifts in the form of dead birds, then waited until I was sleeping to drop them on my face’. Anthony Edward Stark--!”

The next scone burned a little around the edges when Pepper’s power flexed in the air. “--I swear, if Peggy hadn’t cursed his obstinate butt, I would have done it myself!”

“For all your power and the way our magic combines, not even you not I are enough to bind a witch to the familiar form.” Natasha replied dryly. “And Peggy’s curse is so beautifully simple-- bound to familiar until Tony learns humility and empathy. It should not take several years and all our best attempts at matchmaking to teach that mangy cat a lesson.”

“He’s not mangy.” Pepper laughed softly. “Peggy was kind enough to at least give him to a Persian form, something with beautiful hair and gorgeous eyes like Tony had been when he was human. She could have bound him as a toad, you know.”

“Well maybe if Peggy had bound the brat as a toad, humility would have been a lesson learned the first time he had to eat a fly.” Natasha adjusted one of the jeweled combs in her hair and sighed over loud. “This is the third broken contract since Spring Solstice, Pepper. I think it’s going to affect our perfect matchmaking streak if it continues.”

“Pairing a witch and familiar isn’t about a perfect match making streak, my love.” Pepper corrected reproachfully. “Besides you know the natural order of these things-- witches and familiars are meant to find each other alone, to soul bond and amplify the others magic naturally. Those who need a matchmaking service are either heartbroken and grieving after a lost bond or have something honestly wrong with them and can’t be matched alone. We can’t be too surprised if even our help doesn’t work.”

“I know, I know.” Natasha broke off another piece of scone and swirled it idly through a cream cheese glaze. “So what are we going to do about Tony, then?”

“Well I was thinking--”

“You know, I came across a witch the other day who could use our help but is infinitely too stubborn to admit it.” Pepper raised her eyebrows in surprise when Natasha interrupted her, but stayed quiet and motioned for her partner to continue. “Bucky Barnes, do you know the name?”

“I am not familiar, no. New to town, is he?”

“He’s from the Lehigh Coven.” Natasha explained in a hushed tone, and Pepper’s face first cleared in recognition, then crumpled in understanding. “I was under the impression there were no survivors at Lehigh, but apparently there is at least one. He has taken over the cottage in the far clearing a few miles out of town.”

“Poor dear.” Pepper clicked her tongue sympathetically. “He must be terribly scarred after surviving a tragedy like that.”

“Obviously.”

"And his magic is affected by the trauma?”

“As expected.” The other witch nodded in affirmation. “When I met him I could only sense a faint aura of magic around him, I’d say he’s damn close to human if he doesn’t start nurturing his powers. It’s been known to happen, a witch to fall out of practice and expire towards mortal.”

“That would be a shame, there aren’t many of us left.” Pepper pursed her lips, steepled her fingers as she thought through the new information. “Is he old enough to have learned many of our ways or to have ever had his own familiar?”

“No.” Natasha mirrored Pepper’s posture purely out of habit, decades and decades with each other lending a sense of similarity to every motion they made. “No, no he’s young Pep. Actually young too, not young in the way that you have seen several less centuries than I have. I don’t know how old he was when the Lehigh Coven fell but it hasn’t been all that long, so I doubt he’s celebrated his first centennial yet. He needs a well established familiar that can help his magic grow in the most basic steps before amplifying it like the bond is meant to do.”

“But Tony is not a well established familiar.” Pepper pointed out immediately. “He’s not even technically a familiar. He is a two hundred year old witch who pissed off his auntie, who happens to be the most powerful sorceress our guild has ever known. We should not unleash his level of snark on a survivor of the Lehigh Coven.”

“We should.” Natasha disagreed. “Because someone like Bucky would force Tony to stop being so self centered. And having a familiar with Tony’s amount of knowledge could bring even the most inexperienced witch several decades forward in training in a short amount of time.”

“Natasha, Tony insulted a witch so badly last fall they actually set his tail on fire.”

Natasha hid a smile in the palm of her hand. “Well you know what they say about opposites, Pep.”

“That they never work? Ever?” Pepper’s green eyes flashed like lightning, annoyance wrinkling her perfect brow. “Witches and familiars have to match, not be odd couples. It won’t work and I refuse to subject Bucky to one of Tony’s bad moods. The child lived through Lehigh, he shouldn’t have to live through two hundred years worth of power and spite condensed into a fifteen pound hairball. That’s not fair.”

“Well Bucky needs someone.” Natasha had clearly made up her mind, gold ink already self inscribing across the top of parchment set on their breakfast table. “And we are running out of options for Tony. If he doesn’t find a witch to match with soon, his hex will run its course and he will be trapped to the familiar forever. That isn’t fair either.”

“Tasha--”

“When we took on the mantle of matchmaking, we swore a duty to help everyone, my love.” Natasha interrupted again. “Bucky’s situation is not his fault, and even though Tony’s is certainly his own fault--”

“--he shouldn’t have sassed Peggy so much--”

“-- that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.” Natasha finished. “We will make it a strict contract, set a number on the amount of grievances they may file against each other, set a behavioral constraint on Tony and a time limit so if either simply cannot handle the adjustment or if the bond hasn’t set within a reasonable amount of time, it can be dissolved with no issue.”

“Bucky doesn’t deserve to have Tony hack up hairballs in his milk every day!” Pepper insisted. “You and I know Tony isn’t so much mean as he is mischievous, but we’ve had two hundred years to learn his ways. Someone new would not appreciate his particular brand of high maintenance hijinks.”

Natasha snatched the list of grievances from Ty back and read through them one more time. “My god, Tony really did hack up hairballs in Ty’s milk every day, didn’t he? That is hilarious.”

“Tasha.”

“Hilariously terrible.” the witch amended, and bared her teeth in a teasing smile to her love. “Be honest Pep, you are at least twice as vengeful as me beneath that sweet disposition, you’d curdle that bastard’s milk too if you had the chance.”

“I’d certainly curdle something of his.” Pepper agreed with a little sniff. “I’m not saying I am on board yet, but before any other decisions are made we need to talk about a possible romance between Bucky and Tony, don’t you think? Sharing magic and powers and occasionally one awareness naturally leads to sexual tension and most witch-familiar pairings move between their forms to indulge that urge together. But Tony is bound to the familiar so…”

“...so we don’t have to worry about he and Bucky indulging any sort of urge in that manner.” Natasha made a face. “Don’t even think about it, Pep. Tony can’t return to his human form until the hex is broken, so as far as Bucky is concerned he is simply a cat. Once the curse lifts, Tony will no longer have the familiar spirit, so any bond they have forged will naturally dissipate and they will go separate ways.”

“We have never written a matchmaking contract with out at least a warning about potential romantic entanglements.”

“We’ve also never written a matchmaking contract between two witches where one of them is cursed to be furry and four legged for the entirety of the bond.” Natasha argued back. “It’s a non essential matter in this situation, Pep. If they decide to pursue a romantic entanglement after the curse is broken, that is entirely up to them.”

“And um--” Natasha hesitated, drummed her fingers on the table. “-- I don’t think it will be an issue then, either.”

Natasha cocked a curious eyebrow and the other witch explained, “Bucky survived Lehigh but he didn’t survive... whole.” she made a motion over the left side of her body, and Pepper’s beautiful eyes dimmed in sympathy. “A witch hurt to those extremes usually focuses all their power simply on healing, usually their magic never grows beyond the bounds of simply surviving. And since Tony is Tony--”

“--romance would be very far from Bucky’s mind, and Tony has never stayed with anyone longer than it took for him to get off and get cleaned up.” Pepper finished. “So even if Tony wasn’t bound as a cat, there would be little to no interest on either parties side.”

“Not that Bucky isn’t gorgeous in a brooding, murdery type of way.” Natasha hastened to add. “Despite his injury and scars if I wasn’t so in love with you I’d be tempted to--”

“NATASHA!”

“--set him up with another of our witch friends.” Pepper huffed when Natasha only winked at her. “But no. I think with Tony being stuck feline and Bucky needing every bit of energy and magic to heal... no. No need for a warning about potential romance.”

“Mm-hmm.” Pepper crumbled up another piece of scone between her fingers and idly licked the crumbs off her thumb. “And if Tony projects himself into Bucky’s dreams in human form?”

“Darling, it took me almost three hundred years to learn how to dream walk along someone else’s consciousness.” Natasha waved away the suggestion. “Tony spent two hundred years worth of training crafting aphrodisia potions and making things go boom. He cannot dream walk and even if he could, he’d use it to cause mayhem and you damn well know it.”

“Mm-hmm.” Pepper said again, and Natasha prodded at her love with the tip of her boot, urging, “You know it’s a good idea, Pep. Could even be one of our finest matches.”

“I don’t know about that, I like to think our finest match was done the morning I woke up with you in my bed.” Pepper gave it another moments thought and then nodded. “Fine. Call Bucky in and I’ll get Tony. We’ll draw up a contract and set the two of them together and--” she blew out a deep breath. “--see what happens?”

“That’s my girl.” Natasha leaned over the table to press a long kiss to Pepper’s lips. “So young and still so wise.”

“So young.” Pepper snorted before waving the other witch away. “I’ve practically aged a half millenia by now.”

“Oh beauty, you are not a day over two hundred.” Natasha promised. “Not a day.”

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“Article six: Witches are not to use their familiar-amplified powers to cause trouble.” Natasha read through the contract quickly, knowing full well that Tony had heard these rules at least a dozen times by now and even if Bucky had never heard them, most of the guidelines were common sense for any educated witch. “The familiar-amplified powers are meant to be used in the pursuit of knowledge, in the guarantee of safety for their family and loved ones and only in the most necessary of times, for defense.”

“Oooh yes, I’d very much like an excuse to throw fireballs at someone again, been a while since I got to make anything go boom.” It was thoroughly disconcerting to hear such a human voice from such a cat...cat and when Tony spoke up from his seat on the most comfortable chair in the room, three witches swiveled to look at him, one gaze curious, the other two scandalized. “Oh stop that, like you haven’t ever set someone’s butt on fire just to hear them scream.”

Tony arched his back in a languorous stretch and then flopped back onto the cushion. “Pep I fully remember that one solstice where Sunset irritated the dickens out of you and you lit the old bag up like--”

“Article Seven!” Pepper interrupted quickly, and Tony gave her the cat version of a snarky grin. “Any complaints or grievances filed must be valid issues and submitted in writing to the match makers.” Pepper pointed to herself, and then to Natasha. “The familiar cannot go out of their way to cause mischief, Tony, and neither can the witch make life exceedingly difficult for their familiar. Frivolous complaints or clearly purposefully malicious acts will be taken as a breach of contract and discipline and/or changes to the arrangement will be meted out as necessary.”

Bucky read through his coordinating contract slowly, mouthing the words along with Pepper and stealing the occasional glance over towards the familiar he was supposed to bond with.

“See something you like?” the cat challenged when he caught Bucky staring, and the witch answered before he caught himself, retorting, “Just thinkin’ you look like someone who gets mice brought to them instead’a doing the hunting yourself.”

Electric blue eyes widened in surprise, Pepper muffled a quiet laugh into her palm and Tony stuttered a few times, then insisted, “I don’t catch mice, I’m not actually a cat! Do you think I’m actually a cat?” and then to Natasha, “He thinks I’m actually a cat! How many cats do you know that talk?!”

“Thankfully, just the one.” Natasha replied calmly and went back to reading, “Article Eight. A familiar’s human form is never a required presence regardless of what the witch might request or demand. The human form is known only to the familiar and those they trust and once shared, the witch must guard the familiar’s identity with their very life.”

“So…” Bucky glanced again at the lovely feline, at the blue grey fur and star tingly intelligent eyes blinking back at him. “So if Tony decides to show me his human form…?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Tony cut in, flicking his tail irritably when Pepper tried to talk over him. “You won’t ever see my human form and if you do, you’ll only catch the briefest glimpse of my finely toned tuchus as I get the hell out of here. Article Eight doesn’t apply to this situation, keep talking please.”

“Article Nine.” Pepper kept reading and Tony quit pretending to listen, choosing instead to take a closer look at this next witch Pepper and Natasha seemed to think would be the one to finally teach him a lesson in humility and empathy.

In another life, in a human life, Tony would have thought the witch was attractive. He had a type or two or dozen when it came to lovers, and while one of those types was deceptively dangerous redheads with astonishing powers, one of the other types was hulking and broody and intense in a way that usually meant murder and mayhem and whoo did this particular witch check all those boxes.

In another, human life Tony would have overlooked the missing arm and most likely been fascinated by the scars peeking out at Bucky’s shirt collar, he would have bought the witch a drink and pushed him into bed for a night of sparks and literal magic because sex was good between witches.

But in this life he was cursed to familiar which meant the witch Bucky mattered only enough to try and break his hex and as Tony looked the big brunette over, his heart sank a little bit more with each passing moment.

How could such an obviously new witch help him with this?

“Article Ten.” Pepper cleared her throat. “If Tony isn’t listening to these rules I’ll add in something that will guarantee he is afflicted with hiccups every day for the entirety of the contract--”

“I’m listening!” the familiar snapped, and in the other chair Bucky snorted a quiet laugh. “I’m listening! Just get on with it, I’m hungry and it’s about time to test ol’ Buckaroo’s cooking skills. Hop to it, ladies.”

“Bucky.” Pepper rolled up the contract and tied it with a twist of golden string. “I apologize for Tony, he’s an asshole but let’s be honest, we’d all be terrible if we were cursed to be a cat, hm?”

“Cursed, huh?” Bucky raised curious eyebrows but Tony just looked away, not sure if he could handle pity from someone he didn’t plan on knowing very long. “Why are you cursed, bud?”

“I sassed my Auntie.” Tony flexed his claws into the antique upholstery. “Can we get going? Seriously, I feel a hairball coming on.”

“You’re the worst.” Natasha informed the bratty familiar. “Do either of you have any questions?”

“Well…” Bucky tapped the contract against his palm a few times and shrugged awkwardly, only his right shoulder moving with the motion. “Truth be told I’m not much of a cat person. You got a dog anywhere around here?”

Tony’s bright eyes went comically wide and he stuck his nose in the air to announce, “Alright, I think I’d like to file my first complaint!”

“Noted and ignored.” Pepper stood up, then turned to help Natasha with all her skirts to stand as well. “You are both free to go, and we look forward to hearing updates as your relationship progresses.”

“Thank you.” Bucky got up stiffly, and Tony peered a little closer at the witch, cataloguing the flicker of pain across Bucky’s face and the way his left shoulder hung so low, his neck stiff. He was clearly hurting and Tony wondered why the hell Bucky didn’t use a simple pain relief charm to fix it. “You uh-- you coming, kitty?”

“Oh, you’re the sorta gent to let me come first?” Tony sassed, watching with no small amount of amusement as the witch blinked at him first in confusion and then in horrified realization.

“Tony!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Say my name.” Tony leapt lightly off the seat and twitched his full tail at the lady witches in succession. “I’m sure I’ll see you both again in a week. Not sure how high my hopes are for this particular endeavor.”

“Behave.” Natasha bent down and scooped Tony up into her arms, looking the cat right in the eyes as she demanded. “I’m serious, Tony. This might be your last chance to break Peggy’s curse so for the love of all that is holy please behave. Please.”

“This corset pushes your bosoms right up to your chin.” A little paw darted out and smacked at Natasha’s chest. “How are you even breathing right now?”

“We will talk later about how weird it is for a feline to be commenting on my breasts.” the witch sighed. “But for right now I need you to listen.”

“Tasha--”

“Tony.” she shook the familiar a little and Tony’s ears went back, his lips curling in annoyance. “My love, I don’t want to see you trapped like this anymore and beyond that, I know you are close to your breaking point, I know you are ready to give up and condemn yourself to this life because it seems impossible to change.”

The cat went quiet and Natasha drew a very careful finger down his nose. “Be nice to this one, Tony. Bucky’s story is not mine to tell, but you need to be nice.”

“I’ll--” Tony forced out a sigh. “I’ll be nice.”

“Promise me you will be a normal version of nice and not your patented ‘I love you so I pranked you’ version of nice.” she insisted and the familiar meowed in reluctant agreement, then promptly decided, “You’re a spoilsport, Tasha.”

“And you are an actual menace.” She set Tony back on the ground and blew a kiss towards Bucky. “Go well with you, darling.”

“Go well.” Pepper repeated. “And if you need anything, do not hesitate to come and visit.”

“Thank you.” Bucky put a hair to his shoulder length hair when it wafted in a breeze of magic from the other witches. “For trying to help me. Sure do appreciate it.”

“He talks like a good ol’ boy.” Tony whispered up to Natasha, and she gave him a swift light kick in the butt so he’d shut up. “Ow! I didn’t say that was a bad thing! Quit kicking me!”

“Tony darling.” Pepper crouched down and scratched her fingers into the cat’s thick fur, ruffling it up one way and then smoothing it back down carefully. “Listen and listen well. You learn your lesson this time around, or I promise by Medusa I will shave you bald and weave myself a Persian rug from your fur, do you understand?”

Tony turned his back on the witch, kicking out with his back paws like he was throwing dirt at her, then stalked away towards the front door, not pausing to see whether or not Bucky was coming along too.

“Guess I better go after him before he figures out he’s gotta walk the two miles to the house.” Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Thank you, ladies. Ma’ams. Dunno why Tony’s willin’ to get stuck with a know nothin’ witch like me but I’ll try real hard to make it work.”

“You’ll do just fine.” Pepper wound her fingers through Natasha’s and tugged her love in close to her side. “And if you need anything... ?”

“I’ll come by.” Bucky flashed them a shy, charming smile that had both the women hmm’ing in interest, then ducked out the door of Magic and Magnolias and went to find his familiar.

“This was the right decision.” Pepper said quietly, hesitantly. “Right?”

“Too late to back out of it now.” Natasha sounded more confident than she felt. “They will be a good match. There is a depth to Bucky that will surprise Tony as they get to know each other, and despite his sass and general ridiculousness, Tony has too soft a heart to ignore someone so clearly in need. They will be fine.”

“Tony's heart has changed much in the last century.” Pepper whispered doubtfully. “He is no longer the sweet child we watched grow up.”

“His heart is hidden now, yes.” Natasha agreed after a moment. “The loss of Jarvis and then Peggy’s curse hardened him to the world, but it wouldn’t change his heart, not Tony. He is still good and still sweet. They’ll be fine.”

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” the other witch finally relented. “Perhaps we’ll send Bucky some honeysuckle starters, don’t you think? To ward against spirits of doubt and any future hexes?”

“Isn’t Tony allergic to honeysuckle?”

“Only enough to make him sneeze.” Pepper’s smile was nearly devilish. “And who can resist kitten sneezes? I’ll deliver it tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

“You think sneezes will be a good start to the witch-familiar bond?” Natasha laughed at her love and stood on her toes for a kiss. “Is that your devious matchmaking plan?”

“Nothing devious about it.” Pepper protested innocently. “But no one can hear Tony sneeze and not think he’s adorable, and that’s usually a good start to this sort of thing.”

“Sneezing?”

“No, thinking Tony is adorable.”

“Ah, well then yes. I completely agree. Honeysuckle it is.”

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strawwritesfic · 9 months

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I think I'm going to discontinue Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court.

This probably will come as no surprise, seeing as I haven't written a new chapter for it literally years. I'm not sure anyone will even be around still to care that it's being discontinued, actually. It's pretty old, and pretty crusty.

I've just been looking at it lately, and it's just...not good. It's just a very generic hate-to-love rom com. Is there a decent idea in there? I think so. But I also think to do the story justice, I should have a working knowledge of Norse mythology (if not more), of which I know nothing, or at the very least some understanding of Thor comics, of which I have read the first trade of the Jane Foster Thor series, and the entirety of Loki: Agent of Asgard.

And I'm just not terribly interested in doing that kind of research, to be honest.

It's not that I don't think either of those things are worth studying. I just think that this story is really not worthy of that kind of dedication, and I have newer stuff (this was started in between Avengers (2012) and Thor: The Dark World! Yes! I really am that lazy and inconsistent!) that I'd rather do research for than trying to salvage this. If Adventures in a Realm Without Divorce Court had any real personality of its own, then maybe I'd consider it, but it doesn't, so I'd rather return to Blossoms in the Snow and Natasha Romanoff's Matchmaking Service (the latter of which also benefits from only needing one chapter to finish), or heck, even rebooting Tastes a Little Like Freedom, a Little Like Fear.

So if you're a fan of that story, I do apologize! I can't imagine that anybody out there is, but I felt that I owed an explanation in case there was.

Anyway, I only slept for two hours last night, so I'm gonna go try to get some work done before passing out super early.

Bye!

#not fic #update #announcement #adventures in a realm without divorce court #honestly if I wasn't already so far into continuing to update Brightest I would be killing that one too #but gosh it's been my constant companion for like a decade now so i'm gonna see that one through

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strawwritesfic · 2 years

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Steve Rogers x Female!SHIELD Agent!Reader: Natasha Romanoff’s Matchmaking Service [Ch. 3]

Summary: Results not typical.

Fic Trade Prompt: Nighttime bonfire

Ratings/Warnings/Tags: T (foul language; references to sex; set between Avengers (2012) and Captain America: The Winter Soldier; past!Brock Rumlow/Reader; past!Steve/Peggy; Natasha & Reader friendship; referenced Clint & Reader friendship)

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Master List

Chapter 3: The Swing

“Baker,” said Steve. He inclined his head stiffly, never taking his suddenly icy gaze off of the man in front of him.

Baker grinned. “Captain Rogers. I should have figured that Director Fury would send you to retrieve this little sample from me. May I inquire as to the specifics of your pretty little friend here? I don’t believe she was on the guest list.”

You snarled, but said nothing. Brash you might have been, but even you were well aware that attracting a villain’s attention while injured was not a great decision. There was no reason to give this man or any of his lackeys a reason to break a limb, or perhaps shoot you in the gut. Okay, you could think of one reason–that this would make your broken rib feel less painful in comparison–but it was entirely overshadowed by your desire to not bungle things more than you already had.

Steve still had his hand on your elbow. This Baker noticed, or so you assumed by the way his eyes fell upon the contact and a slow smile spread across his face.

“Your girlfriend, perhaps?” he asked.

A faint dusting of pink spread across Steve’s cheeks. You had a feeling your own cheeks weren’t their normal color either, but who the hell cared at a time like this? You were not Natasha. Getting laid was not your MO this time around. It was saving the world from a virus, and then turning your ex into cream of wheat.

“You must be a pretty crappy terrorist if you’re more concerned with Captain Rogers’ love life than you are about getting your sorry ass kicked from here back to D.C.,” you piped up.

Surely you saw Steve smile at that. You felt a tiny rush of pleasure at having managed to do something right that day, even if taunting the enemy wasn’t strictly following SHIELD guidelines. Baker noticed the smiling, too, and his own smile fell off his face immediately.

“I suppose this boast is in regards to Captain America,” he said, “as we both know you are unable of kicking any asses in your present state. A broken rib?” His voice was light, but you felt a shiver climb up your spine. Despite the pain, you stood straight as a ramrod. How much had Baker heard? Too much. That was all you knew. “If you’d just agree to submit, we could get you back to base. I have a medical team, you realize. And I do like my rivals in the best condition when I beat them.”

“Oh, cram it up your–”

“I’ve got this, Agent [L Name],” Steve said, releasing you.

You must have been relying on him to stay upright much more than you had noticed, because just his letting go of your elbow had your rib cage aching and tears pricking at the backs of your eyes as you tried to remain upright.

His gaze remained stonily on Baker as Steve turned completely toward him. “Cram it up your shorts, Baker.”

Baker, far from looking taken aback, simply smirked. His followers around him hooted…hooted, in fact, in a way that sounded all too familiar. You played back the past hour or so of this disaster of an outing, but there was nothing there to clue you into what you were hearing for a second time. What had you been expecting? A parliament of owls out on that dock? No, you were only hearing the echo of every other group of too-big-for-their-britches terrorists that thought they could beat the snot out of you and leave.

“You’re not really in any condition to be tossing insults around, Captain Rogers,” Baker was saying when you returned your attention to the present. “We have you surrounded, and your only hope has already been taken care of. You can hardly get both yourself and Miss [L Name] here to safety. Her odds of getting out alone are negligible at best.”

“Let’s see about that.”

Steve practically dripped confidence. You yourself weren’t so sure. Captain America usually had a team–whether it was the Commandos or STRIKE or the Avengers. He was alone here, unless you counted yourself. Not that you doubted that Steve could take them down if he really put his mind to it, but the two of you were pretty well outnumbered. The last thing you needed to go in your record was “sole witness to Captain America’s actual death.”

The battle started–cliché of clichés–while you were blinking. One second, everyone was standing around and bristling at each other. The next, Steve and the opposing group were racing toward one another. You stood up a little straighter. Just in time. A surprising number of the terrorist goons gunned straight for you, rather than the glory that might have come from taking down Captain America. Then again, if these guys were a pack of wolves, you were the limping deer at the back of the herd. You screwed your eyes shut just in time for the first assault.

Eyes closing? Not the best plan in the entire world. Your fist shot out. When your eyes popped open again, you saw that your swing had missed your closest assailant by a mile. Their face was covered by a thick mask, completely obscuring their face and therefore their reaction, but it couldn’t have been sympathetic. After all, it left you open for them to swing their police baton straight at your head.

“What kind of terrorist uses a police baton?” you asked as you knocked it away with your wrist.

“Apparently the kind that doesn’t leave paperwork,” Steve shouted.

You cracked a smile, even though your injured rib felt like it was going to start poking out of your skin at any minute. Another duck, another missed punch, and your opponent fell after you switched tactics and swept his legs out from underneath him. The man went crashing down onto the ground, helmeted head striking the cement just once before he fell still.

Weird, but just fine with you. It gave you ample opportunity to swing at the next trio coming at you. The pain coming from your chest was nearly blinding, but you could see well enough to continue fighting. The question was just how many goons you could take down before your body gave out.

As it turned out? Eight.

It never got to the point of you using lethal force. You didn’t need to. As soon as one man fell, he fell for good. And then one came upon you quicker than the rest. You scrabbled for your pistol, but too late. You hardly had it out of the holster before he had kicked it clear of your hand, wrenched your arm backward, and against your best intentions, forced a weak cry from your throat as he pressed the heel of his hand to your busted rib. Steve heard. He stopped, eyes flashing in your direction.

“Drop the shield, Captain Rogers,” Baker barked from the front. Apparently he hadn’t decided to take part in the zerg rush with his underlings. “Unless, of course, you want your lady friend to die?”

This wouldn’t work. This was Captain America. He wasn’t going to give in to some terrorist’s demands. He–

The shield hit the cement. You had forgotten: This was Captain America. He wasn’t going to let someone get taken hostage on his watch. At least you had avoided the further embarrassment of begging him either way, but good god, how did the man ever get anything done? The man holding you chuckled, then leaned close to whisper in your ear:

“Not exactly Margaret Carter, are you, Agent [L Name]?”

You stamped on his foot. The grunt that issued from within the helmet sounded almost as familiar as the hooting from earlier. Your eyes widened–but no. Your ex might have been a repugnant asshole, but he was a loyal repugnant asshole. Maybe all of those types sounded the same. You were not granted the time to consider this for long. The man’s head snapped up toward Steve, then back to you, and then–before you could move, before you could even register his intentions–jammed his police baton into the sore spot on your chest. You heard Steve cry out.

The world went dark.

******

A pounding headache returned you to the world of the living. Your first recollection being of having someone whack you in the chest while on a mission, you sat up with every intention of whacking back. The sudden motion made your head spin, and your stomach didn’t take long to follow. Groaning, you rolled over, but there was nothing in your stomach to throw up. As you stared at the shiny white tile below, you realized that quite some time must have passed.

Sure enough, you were no longer standing in an empty warehouse district. You were instead laying in a pristine cell. The blinding lights hitting all the white wasn’t doing anything to help your headache, and your headache wasn’t doing anything to help you see. Otherwise, you might have been able to see that you were not, as you thought upon slowly trying to sit back up, alone. Immediately, a hand landed on your shoulder.

“You awake?”

You groaned, not only because you felt like an Asgardian had thrown an ax into your frontal lobe, but also because even after all you’d been through, some higher power still thought it was funny to let Steve observe you at your absolute worst. At this point, you weren’t surprised. You didn’t so much as try to look at him, knowing your nearly-fried brain was likely to do something stupid, such as decide to connect its inane babbling about Steve’s handsomeness to your mouth. Not that Steve contracting his fingers around said shoulder was going to prevent that.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like cow dung,” you answered, just barely managing to avoid further embarrassment by saying how you really felt.

“Cow dung that can move?”

“Maybe.”

“Good,” said Steve. “Because I need your help.”

He disappeared as quickly as he had materialized next to you. This left you with no other choice but to force yourself into a seated position to follow him with your eyes. The bright, faintly buzzing lights above your head swam in and out of focus. Steve’s figure did, too, but somehow he was easier to follow. Maybe it was just that he was more solid, even as he moved to another wall and pounded on it with one massive fist–because, you saw, he no longer had his shield.

“What do you need my help with?” you asked.

Whether it was your rapidly deteriorating mental state or just your usual Steve-nerves talking, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that you hurt all over, could barely see, and had thus far proved to have all the usefulness of a used q-tip on this mission. If Steve needed some check balancing done, maybe you could help…except that you were pretty sure you’d forgotten a lot of that math since starting up with SHIELD fresh out of college, and–there went your brain again, off on some wild tangent. At least this time it wasn’t about Steve’s shapely rear end, which was quite shapely even this bad lighting.

Oh, goddammit.

“–approximately eight hours. The satellites didn’t show anything capable of copying the virus, but they didn’t show anything like this room either,” Steve was saying. He had started his explanation while you were in la-la-land. You forced yourself to sit up straighter (bad idea) and focus on his words. “If they do have the capability, they could have already reproduced plenty of vials to have on hand. The longer we wait, the more chance they have to distribute it. Which means we need to get out of here, now. We can’t wait for Natasha to break us out.”

Was that what Steve had been doing since you blacked out? Waiting for Natasha? You hated to burst his bubble, but, “Baker said Natasha’s dead,” you said flatly.

"A team equipped with batons couldn’t take Natasha out unless she wanted taken out,” Steve said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t know what her game is, wanting taken out, but when we get back, I intend to find out.”

He had a point, you’d give him that much. At the same time, Natasha was your friend. You could think of only one reason that she’d purposely get herself removed from the mission, and even she wasn’t crazy enough to do that. Fury would kill her, or at least glower at her for a few days whenever they passed in the hall.

“Could be faking. Waiting to swoop in and save the day,” you said half-heartedly, wondering if you were trying to convince Steve or yourself.

He shook his head. “We can’t rely on her. We still need out.”

It was only then that it dawned on you that your companion was somewhat different than before. You’d never had the impression that Steve was all that thrilled about you tagging along, injured and all–and clearly, given the time you’d just wasted passing out while a mysterious group had access to a deadly virus, he’d been right–but now he was downright tense. Every muscle in his body looked pulled tight; one kept pulsing in his jaw. You’d seen him annoyed before from afar, but never blatantly angry, and never up close.

“Captain Rogers,” you started.

Steve began to press his huge hands against the bare, blank walls.

“Captain Rogers?”

Without so much as acknowledging your growing anxiety, he pulled one arm back and thrust his fist forward into the wall. This resulted in absolutely nothing. Steve grunted, and punched again. Again. Again. The whole room shook, but nothing else happened to indicate he was doing anything at all except asking for a broken knuckle.

“Captain Rogers!” No answer. You heaved yourself forward toward him, reaching his side just as he readied another blow. “Steve.”

He stopped. It was so sudden that for one wild moment, you thought something awful had happened, like maybe he had been shot. Then you realized that Steve had frozen because he was staring at you–or, more accurately, at your hand that now had a gentle grip on his bicep. You flushed as soon as you laid eyes on that yourself, and stepped back. Still he said nothing at all, his blue eyes moving to rest on your face.

Feeling self-conscious, you looked away with a deep breath. Okay, sure, every single molecule of your being hurt, but you’d had worse before. Probably. Time to knuckle down–no pun intended–and get this mission done. Then you could go to sleep and let your brain dream whatever it wanted to about Steve and his ass. Until then: Focus.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked.

Steve blinked, and seemed to come back to himself. He looked from your face to the unmarked place in the wall that he had recently been pounding on, then back again. “We need to get out of here.”

“I realize that,” you said with forced calm. “Obviously, beating the wall isn’t getting us anywhere. I’m asking why you keep trying that. Definition of insanity, and all.”

“They must have been prepared for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Normally I just burst through the doors. There aren’t any doors.”

That sounded like it was supposed to be a joke. Steve wasn’t the most joke-y person in the world, but how could anyone say something like that in all seriousness? If he was trying to be funny, however, the effect was ruined by his continuing to look unnaturally grim. He seemed far angrier than before. He was still too much a gentleman to show you that, but you could tell anyway, through the subtle stiffness of his massive shoulders and the way his mouth never once shifted from its thin line. If he was difficult to approach normally, he was practically impossible when he looked fit to kill the next person that crossed him. Still, you had to try.

“Come on, Captain Rogers. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit.” Embarrassing, of course, but at least it got Steve to look at you. You crossed your arms over your chest and lifted a single eyebrow. “What happened while I was out on the floor? You’re pissed. Cough it up.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Captain.”

“Steve,” he said after a pause.

“Huh?”

Steve inhaled deeply and turned all of his attention to you. The effect was disconcerting, but you forced yourself to keep looking him. “You called me Steve, earlier. Just call me Steve. You don’t have to…” He shook his head, then plowed on, “What’s wrong is that you’re hurt. I let you come along and get more hurt. Now I can’t even get us out of this damn–” He slammed his fist once more on the wall to make his point, then fell silent.

You would not have believed that it was possible, but somehow Steve’s silence was worse than nearly anything else. Worse than his judgement, worse than his pep talk, worse than his belief that you and Rumlow were somehow involved. If the only thing to end this silence was using his name, then that was what you would have to do, no matter how awkward it felt. And boy howdy, did it feel awkward.

“St-Steve,” you said. Heaven knew how you’d managed to say it normally before. Probably just panic over Steve’s behavior. Nothing else could have driven you to try to sound familiar with Captain America. You swallowed and tried again: “Steve. Okay. Look.” He did. “I’m a SHIELD agent, you know? I’ve had worse than some banged up ribs and a headache. Like I said, Clint and Natasha ask me to go with them on things, and I’m usually the one that gets hurt on those, since Clint stays at a distance and–well, Natasha’s good at seducing people. I’m not. So don’t go getting it in your head that you need to baby me. You don’t.”

“But–”

“And,” you interrupted, “if you could just stop hitting things, my head might stop hurting long enough to figure out a way out–because, in case you have forgotten, the other skill I don’t have is super strength. I have experience getting out of cells the hard way.”

You stared at him. Steve stared back. Ready as you were for any argument, none came. He simply slid his hand off the wall with a sigh and took another deep breath. After a moment, he nodded, which was all the agreement you needed. You almost smiled with relief.

“So how do we get out?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know.” Funny, you hadn’t thought about having an actual plan when you’d been trying to calm Steve down. Now the entire mission rested on shoulders that could hardly remain squared without that sort of pressure upon them. “But I’ll figure it out,” you added when you saw something in his expression flicker.

If nothing else, his no longer smashing the walls was keeping your headache under control. No reason to get him started up on that again. You straightened your back (ow, shit, why) and copied him, walking up to the wall and running your fingers along it for a few feet.

Then you stopped and turned back to him. “In times like this, I always ask myself one question.”

“How the hell do you get out of a building without doors?”

“No. ‘What would Agent Carter do?'”

Nothing else you’d said that evening seemed to have shocked Steve as much as that question. You almost regretted asking it, regardless of how many times you’d asked yourself the same question before. Having no idea what to apologize for, all you could was wilt slightly under the weight of his gaping. Well, if he wanted to continue making absolutely no progress on this mission, he was free to ignore you.

“Why do you need to know that?” he asked.

You let out a breath. It wasn’t a cease and desist order, so you had permission to carry on with your train of thought. “It’ll help. First off, she didn’t have super strength either, so she, too, had to deal with doors like the rest of us mortals. Agent Carter couldn’t break down a wall on her own.”

“Well, she could,” Steve broke in, “if she had something heavy on her.”

Even though doing so thus far hadn’t had any effect whatsoever on him, you threw Steve a look. “The only thing we have that’s heavy is you, and we’ve already tried that process enough, thanks. Besides, that’s not the only reason to think about her. The Zodiac virus was her first gig, you know. Got her on the radar. Basically set up the whole of SHIELD.”

While you spoke, your voice turned reverent. You hardly noticed, too preoccupied with continuing to walk in a loop against the wall. Every inch of the cell fit the description of nondescript. Outside of white and featureless, there was little to be said of it. But there had to be a door somewhere. How else could your captors have gotten you in?

“Steve?”

“What?”

“Were you unconscious when they brought us in here?”

“No. I–They made me carry you.”

Fantastic. Now was not the time to fret over that detail, though. You could wrestle with the thought when you were safe in your own bed later tonight. Either that, or you’d be dead, which might be the preferable course of action. Hard to tell from here.

“So did you see how they opened the place?”

He shook his head. “I was blindfolded.”

“Didn’t get to take it off until they left?”

“Right.”

“Damn.”

Perhaps it was a tribute to your growing relationship that you didn’t blush over your swearing, nor did you even stop to see how Steve reacted. You just kept up your work, brushing your fingers against the slick white walls, squinting against the glare from the overhead lights, until–

“Ah.”

“Did you find anything?” Steve asked.

Only then did you realize he was right behind you, both hands carefully positioned to catch you if you fell. He didn’t even try to explain himself, and so you rolled your eyes and gestured (painfully) with your head for him to step up beside you.

“Feel that?” you asked.

“What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“Air.”

Frowning, Steve crouched closer, closer, closer. Then: “Ah.”

“That’s what I said,” you said with a grin. “So there’s your door.”

Steve looked from you, to the minuscule crack, then to you again. Then, his hand bunched into a fist once more, and he smiled himself. A little too eagerly, in your opinion. Sure enough, you blinked, and in the middle of the darkness heard a tremendous crash. In the split second it had taken you to open your eyes, Steve had disappeared, and where there had been what appeared to be a solid white wall was now a gigantic hole.

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strawwritesfic · 2 years

Text

Steve Rogers x Female!SHIELD Agent!Reader: Natasha Romanoff’s Matchmaking Service [Ch. 2]

Summary: Results not typical.

Fic Trade Prompt: Nighttime bonfire

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Master List

Chapter 2: The Windup

The wind whistled in your ears as you fell, fell, fell from the rapidly disappearing quinjet. The STRIKE team’s voices faded entirely, leaving you with nothing but the sound of the grinding engine as the flaming body of the plane soared further and further away. An accountant. Why hadn’t you become an accountant? Your aunt had asked you time and time again. You were good with numbers, and at least then you wouldn’t have died in such a mortifying fashion: falling unprepared out of the back of a jet, with coffee stains down your front and your hair a mass of tangles. In the end, nothing about your life had been glamorous, least of all yourself.

And poor Natasha still up there. You’d have felt sorry for her, if you didn’t already know full well she’d get out because there was no way her last act in life had been to try to get Steve Rogers to ask you on a date. Your last act was going to be that awkward conversation, though. If she thought you weren’t going to spend your afterlife haunting her, she was sorely mistaken.

Just when you had come to grips with this underwhelming end to your life, something dark burst out of the distant quinjet, black against the slowly yellowing sky. The shape was above you in a matter of seconds, wrapping thick arms around you and steadying you against its chest. You expected next a yank upward, some sign of a pulled parachute–but there was none. The muscular body in front of you had no straps on its torso. Were they crazy? To come out here only to die with you?

You screwed up your eyes, anticipating that final hard smack. There were worse ways to go, you were sure-not that you could think of any at the present moment. As you tried to come up with one or two, you felt the arms around you shift slightly, pulling something forward, just in time for you–CLANG!–to hit the ground. Your back slammed into something hard and a crack followed almost immediately. Black spots bloomed across your vision too quickly for you to worry much about the pain in your side. Your lungs heaved, but no oxygen entered them. So this was death. So this was the end. So this was your so-called rescuer rolling off you to reveal a sky spinning with grey clouds.

“Are you alright?” asked a deep voice.

You gasped, which served the dual purpose of getting you breathing and forcing you to sit up. Forget the pain you felt all over; that was nothing compared to what you felt at the sound of that voice. Sure enough, kneeling beside you, concern written all over his face, was Steve.

“You!” you gasped.

He blinked and looked around. Seeing no one else in the near vicinity, he looked back at you and pointed at his face. “Me?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You were being irrational. You knew you were being irrational. Steve’s expression changing to one of mild exasperation wasn’t necessary to tell you just how irrational you were being. But, oh God, his pep talk from the plane was fresh in your mind. Peggy Carter had never had to be rescued in such embarrassing fashion, you were pretty sure–or ever at all.

“I thought you might want some help after you fell out of the plane,” Steve answered, like he thought that your question hadn’t been rhetorical. Well, if he was going to make it non-rhetorical:

“Why didn’t Natasha come after me? She had a parachute!” Natasha always had a parachute. She was a good agent, unlike you.

“I don’t know. She said you’d fallen out and pushed me toward the exit. Was I supposed to have done something else? Did you want to die?”

The accusation in his tone stung, but you weren’t about to give Steve the satisfaction of seeing that. Still breathing raggedly and throbbing with every breath in, you forced yourself off his shield and into a seated position on the broken cement. Moving only made the pain in your side sharpen; you couldn’t entirely avoid wincing as you settled in. Of course, that Steve had to notice that.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a somewhat softer tone.

You shot him a look of pure venom. “Fine.”

He frowned at your answer, but didn’t press. Instead, he just stood up to his full height to look at you. His silhouette against the sunrise was just as impressive as you had imagined, and–oh, god, were you going loopy? That fall really must have done a number on your head. Time to shut this one down.

Clamping down on your lower lip, you managed to struggle to your feet, only to ruin the effect by gasping again and instinctively pressing your hand to the stabbing pain where you had hit Steve’s shield. “Shi–”

Warmth flooded your cheeks as you realized you had just been about to swear in front of Steve. Apparently Natasha had only asked you along on this mission to make sure you embarrassed yourself irreparably. Rumlow wouldn’t have cared if you’d cussed. He’d have laughed. Rumlow wasn’t Steve. That was kind of the point. Freezing in your tracks, you cast your gaze back at your companion to find him watching with that same stern expression he’d worn earlier. You would have to ignore the pain, because you couldn’t stand to be in that spot a moment longer.

“Where are you going?”

You glanced once behind yourself, then kept going.

“Where are you going?” Steve called a second time.

“To find the rest of the team,” you snapped.

Your whirling on the spot to face him was less than impressive, what with the death grip you still had on your side. Steve regarded you for a long minute, then sighed and scooped his shield off the pavement. It left a crater just its size behind. He ignored this damage to what was likely private property, simply sliding the shield into place before following briskly after you.

“Which way?” he asked when he arrived at your side.

You blinked at him, still slightly hunched over your injury. “Huh?”

“Which way are we headed? I assume you got a comset. Mine broke on reentry.” Steve gestured with his chin back toward the crater. Sure enough, there it was: a crumpled mess of shattered black plastic and twisted metal.

You lifted a finger to your ear. “Natasha, do you have a ground position?” you said.

A cold chill crept up your spine at the lack of answer. Either she was in trouble, or already dead. “Natasha. Natasha, come i–goddammit!” You realized, just then, that no, you had not picked up a comset. It was back on the burning remains of the jet along with your damn parachute and dignity.

“Didn’t get one of those either?” Steve asked.

Oh, that was it. You spun back to him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I tried. I was going to get one and a parachute, but I ran into you instead. There wasn’t any time for me to grab one before we were hit.”

“So you’re saying that all of this is my fault?”

“N–You know what, yes!” The pounding pain in your side was so great that you couldn’t think straight. That was your only excuse for this sort of behavior–but use it you would, because you wouldn’t be hurt like this if Steve hadn’t decided to come crashing to your rescue. If he’d just stayed behind, you would have been dead, and hoo boy wouldn’t that have been preferable to what you were suffering now. “I can actually do my job most of the time, you know? If you hadn’t been here to distract me and get Natasha all riled up, I would have had the parachute and a comset, and have been halfway toward Baker’s hideout by now.”

Steve lifted his chin. You didn’t back down. It was all true, wasn’t it? He’d had to stop for that stupid excuse for a pep talk, and it wasn’t like Natasha had been encouraging you to focus on the mission before that. Unfortunately, his next words cracked your stony façade:

“How on earth did I get Natasha riled up?”

Too late, you realized you had given up her game. The heat rose again all the way to your hairline. If there was ever a SHIELD agent incapable of keeping her cool, it was you just then.

“Nothing. She’s just Natasha. I–dammit!” You doubled over with a surge of pain in your side. For a moment, the world around you spun again and your breath caught in your chest. Things stayed that way for just a few seconds before you felt a warm pair of hands steadying you once more. You sucked in some air and tremulously looked up at him.

“[Name]–Agent [L Name],” Steve hastily corrected himself.

“What?”

“You’re injured.”

Forcing yourself to straighten up took much longer than you would have liked. “I’m fine,” you said once that was done, though both of you knew that wasn’t true. For a second time, the look on Steve’s face hardened. He had not, you noticed with some trepidation, taken his hands off of you.

“Let me see,” he commanded.

The order, combined with his countenance, made it impossible for you to refuse. Wincing, you nodded. His hands moved with surprising care up your abdomen. You hissed when his fingers pressed into the exact spot it hurt. Steve lessened the pressure, but focused his attention on that area. He only grew graver as he did.

“I think your rib is broken,” he said.

You stared at Steve, dumbstruck. Then: “No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That can’t be what happened.”

It sure as hell felt like that was what happened, but you weren’t about to allow yourself to suffer the indignity of that failure on top of all the rest. You made a brave stab at another step–and had to stop immediately due to how much doing so hurt. Again, Steve was there in a flash.

“You should sit down,” he said firmly with a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll see if I can’t get ahold of anyone to come pick you up. You need medical evacuation, stat.”

You drew in a very deep breath. Now was not the time to yell at Steve. Clearly yelling at Steve had very little effect on him anyway. “Your comset is broken,” you reminded him.

This did not deter him from marching past you, though he did turn back to answer: “I know.”

“Then how exactly do you plan to get someone here to pick me up?”

“I’ll head to the target point. I saw it on the map, and I know where to go. The rest of the team should be headed in that direction. If not, I’ll retrieve Zodiac, then inform SHIELD of your whereabouts when–”

“Excuse me?” Steve wasn’t used to being interrupted, that much was clear. Had your head been equally clear, you probably wouldn’t have been so aghast at what he was saying that you had to interrupt. “You’re leaving me here?”

“You’re in no condition to–”

“What if you get taken out? What if the rest of the team is dead or unable to get to the target? What then, Captain Rogers?”

Either Steve had to take a few minutes to make sure he didn’t snap at you for all your insubordination, or he had about as much of a clue about what to do from this point as you did: not very much. Finally, he inhaled and settled his hands on his belt buckle. “Agent [L Name], your dedication to Rumlow is admirable, but in this sort of situation, your presence would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

There was a lot to be offended at in that sentence. So much that normally you wouldn’t have had any idea where to begin. At that exact moment, however, you could only gape at Steve while one point tried to get through your head. “My dedication to who?” you demanded.

“Agent Rumlow,” Steve repeated. “Your boyfriend.”

“I wouldn’t mind making sure Nat is okay.” Heaven knew no one else at work would sit with you at lunch, especially given Clint’s propensity to simply not show up for weeks at time because he was too busy falling in love or rescuing dogs from the Russian mob. Take Natasha out of the equation, and you’d be eating at the unpopular kids table for the rest of your short life. Not that that was really the important thing here. “Agent Rumlow is not my boyfriend.”

Steve blinked at you. “Are the two of you engaged?”

“No!” you burst out, loud enough that Steve actually backed away from you. Yes, he backed away and actually relaxed a little. That made no sense at all; you must have been imagining things. “Brock Rumlow isn’t my anything.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I, uh…accidentally walked in a room the two of you had at the party last year. After what I saw, I just assumed…” he trailed off into embarrassed silence. His embarrassment, however, could be nothing in comparison to your own.

“That was a mistake. I had too much to drink, and–I don’t know, it just happened.”

“Really?” Now he was smiling. What on earth he had to smile about, you didn’t know. Regardless of whether or not Rumlow regularly had his tongue down your throat these days, both of you were still stranded at an abandoned docking station in the middle of nowhere. “Because last week he said he was taking you out to dinner.”

“Huh?”

“I take it he did not take you out to dinner,” Steve observed.

What tipped him off? Probably the rising color in your cheeks. You tried, however, to breathe and speak normally when you asked:

“What else has Agent Rumlow been saying about me?”

For whatever reason–and you had a pretty good idea of what reason it could be–Steve blushed at this question. “I don’t really…not polite to repeat…” he trailed away.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re leaving,” you said flatly, forcing yourself to walk upright in a straight line the way Steve had been headed.

“Wait. You’re still not well enough to–”

“I don’t care. We’re getting there and getting this done, and then I am going to find Rumlow and murder him with my own two hands.”

“The two hands connected to your broken rib?”

He had you there. Rumlow was a major figure not just in SHIELD, but the STRIKE team as well. But you were no slouch, and you were well aware of that.

“It might take me awhile to warm up,” you told Steve, “but I can be just as good as Natasha and Clint. There’s a reason they let me hang around them so much.”

“I know.” There was not a hint of sarcasm in Steve’s voice. “Still might be hard with the broken rib. You might need some help. I hold him down, you do the punching.”

There was a curve to Steve’s lips, you’d swear it. He didn’t sound like he was making fun of you though. Had you actually died back there and found yourself in some bizarre version of hell?

“I don’t think that’d be within company regulations,” you said.

“Probably not,” Steve agreed. “But if he’d said what he said about you in front of me back when I weighed ninety pounds, I would have taken him outside for sure. I’m not sure if even Bucky would have been able to pry me off.”

You allowed Steve a tiny smile, then it was back to business. “First we gotta find him, though.”

“Right.”

Even he didn’t sound too hopeful now. Why should he? He was the only one who knew for sure where the exact location was; all you had was a general direction. You were injured and a hot mess, and now really wasn’t the time to be just the slightest bit thrilled over Steve’s concern over your rib, or that he wanted to help you grind Rumlow into a pulp. For goodness sake, the two of you were all alone and after what was a neigh invisible terrorist group. You had to pull yourself together, and you did, literally pulling yourself up straight and managing to take several strides forward without folding over once.

“You coming?” he asked, practically grinning

That was odd, but you were starting to think Steve himself was odd. Handsome and brave and smart and strong, but odd. He fell into easy step beside you, not in front of. This was probably just to be on hand if you collapsed. Was it so wrong to hope it was just because he wanted to talk to you, though? Probably. What would Captain America want with you?

“So what’s the plan when we get there, anyway?” you asked conversationally as the abandoned docks disappeared behind you.

Even if he was walking beside you as an equal, you were well aware that Steve outranked you on several counts. If there was any lead to follow, it was his. He was quiet for a few steps before he answered:

“We can’t assume Natasha and the others will be there. I didn’t see Natasha get out of the plane, and even though STRIKE did, we can’t just figure that they weren’t picked off by Baker’s men, or that they’ll be within easy walking distance.”

You agreed with that. Hell, it made sense. Natasha had to be alive, though. Who else was going to spend the rest of the mission making up cockamamie reasons to shove you and Steve into janitorial closets when you got back to work? Being well aware of how agents weren’t technically supposed to have feelings–especially when still on a mission–you felt your throat clog up with the thought of Natasha being dead in the flaming wreckage of a quinjet somewhere. Steve noticed; he touched your elbow gently.

“Natasha will be okay,” he said firmly. “She’s tough.”

“Aye,” came an unfamiliar voice from behind.

The hand on your elbow stiffened, as did your spine. Looking around, you saw that from every decrepit building around you came some figure dressed in all black. The way you had come was already closed up by numerous people in similar clothes.

Standing in front of them was the only familiar one of the bunch: a bald man with a bright red beard–and he was grinning. “The red-head woman was pretty tough. How do you think the two of you will fare?”

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