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15: no please?

     "Is this the best you can afford? A tiny townhouse in outer DC? Is the Captain America brand patented? Or do you just like living like you're not the greatest hero alive?" I asked, waddling into Steve's house with my arm wrapped tightly around Bucky's torso.

Steve looked at me like he was eight years beyond done, and pointed to the door we just walked through. "If it's not good enough, you know where to go." He turned and walked into the kitchen.

I looked at Bucky, who was smiling and peeling off his red Henley while I didn't move my arm. "I never liked him. He can't take a joke." I whispered, causing Bucky to chuckle and Steve to point his finger at the door again from inside the kitchen.

His little house was nice. Very, very nice. He had moved there in 2014 after being forced to leave his apartment when Bucky attempted to kill Fury, just before we took him in. It was admittedly even nicer than his fully-furnished apartment. Before this we lived in a big house in the middle of nowhere, and before that a disgusting safe house in the middle of nowhere, and before that Bucky lived in a cell and I lived in a flying suite. We'd been passed around a lot in the past two years, and being anywhere that wasn't public was good enough, but I had to speak into the silence, and joking was how I handled it.

Bucky asked Steve for a change of clothes and Steve told him to take anything he could find. Buck placed a kiss on my head and went upstairs in search of clothes that weren't bloody and wet. I sat on a couch and squirmed into a comfortable position, peeling off my sweat-soaked boots.

Steve came out of the kitchen with a bottle of water and wordlessly pointed out the remote. I took the water and waved off the silent suggestion. Neither of us really knew how to interact with each other. Steve just sat down and folded his hands, looking at a wall.

Before Bucky was in the picture, our work relationship with just that: work and only work. I never did combat, even though I ached to, because I wasn't an Avenger. He never worked with the prisoners, he had bigger things to take care of. When Bucky came, Steve became a nagging child, only talking to me when he needed updates or when he was standing behind Fury with his arms crossed, basically sneering and three seconds from sticking his tongue out at me. We never formed a relationship outside of work, then never formed a relationship that didn't revolve around Bucky. Why? I don't know. Two war-torn soldiers should have a lot in common, and we did, but that made things boring.

Steve cleared his throat, uncrossing his ankles and crossing his legs. I looked at him weirdly. What a girl. I then quickly changed my position, because my knees were probably a yard apart.

"So," He sniffed, looking down at his hands. "How has everything gone? . . . Since he . . ." He waved his hand around as if to gesture. "Since he rescued you."

I nodded, looking at the coffee table and sitting up straight. The awkward tension was palpable. "Um," I cleared my throat. "Not great, if we're being honest. I was out for a few months, apparently only waking when I was hellbent on chewing his face off, but whatever. When I did wake up, I thought he kidnapped me because he looked like a lumberjack and there was pee on the floor . . ." Steve kind of chuckled. "Uh . . . Neither of us knew what to do for a while there so we kind of just padded around a lot. We were irritable four-year olds for a while there too."

"Tell me," He started, voice low and intentionally calming. "how does ignoring the problem make you feel?"

I laughed halfheartedly and glanced at him fleetingly. "What are you, some kind of shrink?"

"Then we grew up a bit and he forced me to gain control of my powers." I inhaled deeply. "Which is silly to think of now because the old man has no control over his." We both chuckled over this.