It was late the next night when Steve came through the door, bloodied and bruised. He didn't say anything, just locked the door and peered out the windows before he sat down to take a breath. It all happened so fast, you were at a loss for words, but when he did take a breather, you came over to stand between his knees and cup his face.

"I'm so sorry," You whispered softly, running your thumbs gently over his cheeks and he turned his face to kiss your palm, "I didn't mean-"

"Doll, you have nothing to apologize for." His voice was firm, and he reached for your waist, pulling you closer, but that's when you noticed his knuckles.

"Steve," You pulled back when you felt something damp on your shirt, "Steve, are you bleeding?"

You searched him with frantic eyes, seeing the dark spot on the middle of his suit, your eyes widening.

"I'm fine, sweetheart, I promise."

You rushed into the bathroom and came back with first aid supplies, gesturing for him to stand while you got them ready.

"Were you shot?" You asked in a slight panic, "Why didn't you go to Bruce?"

He didn't answer right away, just stripped himself of his top, letting the material pool at his waist. You eyed the deep gash with worry and fear before pressing the cloth to it. You cringed when he did and he held your hand against him, keeping the pressure there.

"I didn't want to involve him."

"Steve what's going on?" You met his eyes, "Sam said you were on a mission with Nat and Clint."

"That's what I told him."

You took your hand away to ready the needle for the stitches, too pissed with him now for keeping whatever this was from you to bother with numbing cream.

"So, you lied." You took the cloth away and started, but you didn't want to put him through more pain, so you used the cream last second.

"Yes." He sighed and you pursed your lips.

"It wasn't a mission."

"No, it wasn't."

"Who did this to you?" You whispered and he frowned deeply.

You continued stitching him up, waiting for an answer, but you were halfway through by the time you realized he wasn't going to give you one and you glanced back up at him again. You were wearing his old tee shirt and not much else, your hair mussed up from sleep, but he still saw you as the most beautiful person in the world. He got lost in your eyes, forgetting that you were expecting an answer, and took a moment to appreciate how the moonlight captured your features through the window.

"I found them." He finally mustered out and you furrowed your eyebrows.

"Who?"

He looked away, ashamed of what he had done, but still not regretting it for a second and he knew he'd do it all over again if given the chance. But he also knew this wasn't what you would've wanted, he did this for himself and it only hurt you to see him this way.

"The agents who sent you to Russia in the first place."

You finished up the stitching, keeping your expression neutral, and your silence was deafening to him.

You went to the sink to wash your hands as he took his suit off, staying in his boxers because he was planning on taking a shower before changing.

He had bruising littered throughout his body, there were more than a dozen trained agents and they saw him coming from a mile away. They had new weapons, ones he didn't even know could exist, and they put up a hell of a fight, but they were still no match.

He looked down at himself, examining the damage, and noticed how his serum was already working because the bruises were starting to fade slowly. When he peered back over to you, you were leaning on the sink, staring down at the running faucet before shutting it off and turning to face him. You leaned against the counter, crossed your arms, and finally met his eyes again.

"What did you do?" You asked carefully and he knew you wouldn't like the answer.

"Isn't it obvious?" He smirked, trying to lighten the mood, and gestured to his middle, "Thanks for the stitches, you were always the best at those."
"Years of practice," You had a ghost of a smile and he looked over at you through his lashes, "So," You stepped away from the sink, "Do we need to run?"

"No," He assured immediately, "I just gave them a piece of my mind."

"You didn't kill anyone?"

"They all would've deserved it," He shook his head, going to sit at the end of the bed, "But no, just beat the crap outta'm."

You walked over to stand nearby, and he pulled you into his lap, making you smile. You ran your hands through his messy hair, and he hummed at the feeling.

"That's my job, I'm the fighter." You teased, kissing his forehead.

"I've boxed most my life," He argued with a grin, "And I've been in plenty of back alley fights."

"How many of those have you won?" You ventured with raised eyebrows and he huffed before you added, "And I said I'm a fighter, not a boxer."

"What's the difference?"

"Rules," You smirked, tilting his chin up with your finger to kiss him, and then adding, "Don't do that to me again though, okay?"

"I should've told you," He agreed, leaning forward slightly so you could rest your forehead on his, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Yeah, you should be," You smiled, kissing his nose, "And next time, I'd be more than happy to kick ass with you."

"The second I find more asses to kick," He chuckled, "I'll call you first."

"I wish I could carry your injured butt to the shower, but alas," You sighed, and he smiled warmly, "You will have to walk yourself, soldier."

"Will you join me?" He raised his eyebrows, his eyes swimming with hope.

"We're never gonna make those six weeks, are we?" You laughed and he shook his head before capturing your lips with his.

"The cruelest form of torture." He groaned against your neck as he started to kiss it.

"I will help you in the shower," You started when you pushed him back, only to see a pout form on his face when you added, "But no funny business, okay? Strictly professional."

"Like the old days, before we started dating." He nodded, but the glint in his eye told you this wasn't a good idea.

"You're so frustratingly pretty." You grumbled and he laughed, getting up.