Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

48. STEVE: Home

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"Stand behind me."

Normally a command like this, especially from one of the cocky men on your team, would make you scoff and roll your eyes in annoyance. But as the mission quickly spirals out of control and the number of foes starts doubling by the moment you find it much easier to nod to Steve's request and comply. You don't hesitate in stepping behind his broad back and welcoming the feeling of his arm reaching back to hold your hand. He keeps you in place while his shied is brought up to stop gunfire and shrapnel from reaching either of you.

"Where the hell are you, Stark? Y/N and I are trapped on the roof," Steve speaks into your ear. He lost his communication piece about ten minutes ago. Now he's got to put his lips right up to the side of your head in order to be heard—not that you're really complaining. The closeness of him and his gorgeousness is nothing you'd ever complain about, even while being shot at by robots.

"Coming your way." Tony's voice is unheard to Steve so you fill him in. "Oh, and tell Cap that if anything happens to you up there it's his fault, but he needs to stop holding your hand. It's gross."

You grit your teeth at your older brother's obnoxious chatter. You glance up and sure enough he's already arrived in that red and gold suit.

"What else did he say, Y/N?" Steve asks—hand still clutching yours.

"Nothing important," you reply. Tony scoffs from up above in his suit.

"I see you blushing, sis."

"Shut the hell up and get us out of here!" you yell.

"I can't come down that low. The ledge is too small, anyway." Tony's right. The little corner behind the radiator that Steve has you hidden on is hardly big enough for the super soldier and you together. "You're gonna have to jump."

Wide eyed you stare down the side of the glass skyscraper. "No fucking way."

"What? What did he say?" Steve questions. He grunts as he steadies his arm with the shield against the constant gunfire.

"He wants us to jump." You can already feel your heart picking up speed.

Steve swallows. He does the same thing you just did, glance down the side of the fifty story building, before sighing. "Okay."

"You're both mad!" you screech.

"You're not staying up here! You're coming with me, one way or another." Steve tightens his grip on your hand. "Tell that asshole brother of yours that we're going down."

"I heard that," is Tony's reply.

You sigh—staring down at the dark cement and whizzing cars below. Everyone looks like ants. "I hate both of you."

Steve's smirk is enough to make your knees weak. "You should've told me that before you agreed to marry me, sweetie."

Then, without giving you ANY WARNING, Steve pulls you off the side of the building. He's got his hand latched onto yours as you scream and head straight down. But the fall only lasts a few brief moments before your brother is grabbing onto Steve's shoulders—sub-sequentially stopping your fall, too. Steve's hold doesn't break or weaken on you as you hang midair above the New York City traffic below.

"Like I said," you breathe out heavily with heartbeat erratic and head still spinning. You look up at the men with a glare. "I hate you."

Back down on the ground and nearly five hours later you're sitting at a diner's corner booth with the rest of your team. Everyone's covered in sweat and grime but at this late hour when no one else is around no one cares. Across you Sam has his head laying on his arms in a post-mission nap. Bucky chuckles to himself while using one of his rusty metal fingers to smear whipped cream in a smiley shape on the top of Sam's bald head. Wanda bites her lip and helps the Winter Soldier in decorating the creamy eyes with blue sprinkles from atop her kid's meal pancake stack. Vision is watching them with amusement in his eyes. Weird 80s songs play on the radio while the janitor mops the floor of the otherwise abandoned ma and pop restaurant. Clint plays with his straw that's halfway drenched in strawberry milkshake as he listens to Nat tell a story. Between them is Bruce, who isn't paying attention to anything at all. He just eats his soggy French fries and taps his toes to the music on the radio. Your annoying, sweat-drenched brother is on one side of you trying to school a young Peter Parker on the proper way to order a hamburger (medium well, apparently) while his elbow keeps jutting into your side between every word. You grunt and scoot closer to Steve, who has one arm around the back of the booth and his hand resting on your shoulder. He feeds himself bites of jelly-smothered toast with the other hand and still has some blood high up on his hairline. You refrain from wiping it off because then you'd prompt him to want to do the same to you, and you know it's probably not good manners to be cleaning war wounds at the dinner table.