marvel imagines & one shots

Paths // Steve Rogers

Description: After returning from a mission gone south you realize your relationship has gone south.

Word Count: 1,352

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol abuse.

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Pushing the heavy door open, you are reminded of the wound on you abdomen. You can't suppress the hiss of pain as your fingers fumble against the wall for the light switch; hearing this Steve slips by and reaches the switch easily. The move was in good faith, he wanted to help, but you suddenly loath him. Regardless of how bad a mission went, Steve always escaped unscathed. However, you weren't as lucky, when a mission went south your body always showed it. When your body raged with pain there was no hiding from the tiny voice in your head telling you that you had failed.

Lately your body was always engulfed in pain and your mind engulfed in thoughts of failure. This mission was just another to be added to the long list of defeats. All that mattered was that you got the "bad guys," but at what cost? The bomb still detonated, you ended up in the med wing, and the child you promised to save couldn't be. And as you looked down at your trembling hand you could still picture the small fingers clutching around it.

Your empty promises repeating on an endless loop in your head as you limped towards the liquor cabinet. The cabinet standing just out of reach, and the movement of standing on your tiptoes makes your abdomen feel like it was being ripped apart. Before you could grip the cool bottle neck, Steves hand is on your back again.The ringing in your ears serving as a constant reminder of your failure, a constant reminder that you couldn't stop the bomb. But it isn't enough to drown out Steve's worried whispers.

"Y/N," his left hand rubs small circles on your shoulder and using his other hand he swiftly closes the cabinet.

Your blood shot eyes brim with tears, a weakness that you quickly pull away with the back of a hand.

"Steve," you spit back as you open the cabinet once more.

You look for a glass, but the sink is overfilled with dirty dishes, and you curse your ignorance. You had thought this mission would be different, that it would go smoothly, and that you'd have a moment of normalcy to do the dishes. But it hadn't, so you're forced to throw your head back and let the vodka fall down your throat. Steve continues droning on in the background, something about alcohol not being able to solve your problems. With trembling hands you attempt to slam down the bottle. It's a futile attempt to show your strength, but Steve doesn't buy it, his blue eyes piercing your own with worry.

"It might not solve them but it'll sure make me forget em," you retort picking up the bottle once more emptying its contents, "by the way we need to go to the liquor store."

Steve's sigh enrages you, and when his arms pull you into his chest all you want to do is scream in his face. Why hadn't he noticed the ticking sooner? His shield wasn't large enough to protect the two of you. The rational side of your brain yells at you for blaming him, reminds you that it wasn't his fault everything went wrong. He had done everything right, but your rational side was masked with alcohol and pain, so when his arms tightened around your waist you stiffened.

"Y/N you can talk to me you know." You laugh at his words, they make your stomach lurch. It's Steve Rogers, so there's no doubt in the sincerity of them, and maybe that's why you're so angry.

The vodka hits you almost instantly, you may train with super soldiers, but you sure as hell can't hang with them. It numbs the pain in your body for the most part, but it doesn't stop the ringing in your ears or the screams bouncing through your mind. And the ringing in your ears isn't silencing Steve's scolds.

"I don't like to see you like this, Y/N." Both of his hands are gripping your shoulders and the way he says your name makes you feel like a child.

Your dry eyes sting as tears threaten to fall, but you won't let him see you like this. His eyes search yours for an answer. Anything to reassure him that you are ok. But you aren't ready to admit that you aren't.

"Well then don't look." You snap back, he's undeserving of your snark, but you really could care less.

Steve knows better than to pick a fight with you when you're drunk, tired, or injured; and you were all three. His hands are now cupping your face, his eyes searching once more. You feel the stinging tears escape, and your heart flutters as his thick thumbs stroke them away.

"Please look at me," he urges.

Your eyes flutter and meet his, but only for a second.

"I just can't right now," you stutter.

Millions of knives stab your body as you turn your head out of his hands and force yourself to walk back to the liquor cabinet. This time Steve's hand pulls your shoulder back, its rough and desperate. Your body screams with pain making you forget your anger with Steve for a moment. In that split second you see his pain reflected in his sunken eyes.

"Steve you don't need to save me. I don't need saving." Your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn't respond quick enough, your loathing had returned.

"You can't save everyone." The words spit from your lips too easily and you instantly regret it given the circumstances.

"You think I don't know that." The sound of his voice cracking is enough to destroy you.

"I—I didn't mean—," you stutter.

Steves hands are cupping your face again, but this time no tears fall from your eyes. Instead you notice them brimming in his, but the rest of his face is emotionless.

"We—we can't save everyone." You correct yourself. "Steve it—it doesn't all fall on you."

Steve simply nods his eyes still searching your face. Eventually his hands leave your face and travel down your arms to your hands. His intertwines his fingers with your own all well looking into your eyes. The ringing in your ears has finally stopped, and by now the silence is more deafening. It isn't a comfortable silence, those days are gone. Nowadays your bickering fights are followed by painful sessions of silence. And when he pulls you into his arms you've suddenly sobered up, and you have to force your arms to hug back.

"We can't save this." You force yourself to say.

"Don't speak like that, Y/N. We're both just—stressed—we still work—there's so much love left." Steve's voice shakes, even he knows the words are empty.

"I'm not saying that there isn't love," you whisper searching for the words, "This—this thing we have—it doesn't work anymore."

"Don't—just please don't do this right now." Steve interjects, desperately trying to meet your eyes.

"Steve. I love you, but—I just—Steve this won't ever work. Our paths collided for a reason, and I will always love you and the memories we made—but our paths are going in two different directions. I'm done fighting Steve, I can't—do this anymore," you pause, "fight the good fight." You laugh sarcastically at your final thought.

"You can retire from the team, that doesn't mean we have to end this." Steve's hands desperately cling to your own.

"Steve, you'll never stop fighting. It's one of the reasons I love you. Just look at us, you haven't given up."

"Y/N, please."

"But you need to. I can't live like this anymore. I need to get away."

His eyes search yours once more, in hopes of finding a lie. He pulls you into one last hug, knowing that it is most likely the last. As his forehead rests on the top of your head and his breathing hitches, and you wrap your arms around him one last time, you allow him to process the end.