AMERICA'S POV

I wake with a strangled gasp and fear in my heart. Darkness cloaks the room, making it seem unfamiliar. Nothing makes sense until strong arms wrap around me.

"Breathe," he whispers, and I nod, even though the simple command feels impossible. "It wasn't real. You're here, I promise. You're here and so am I. Just breathe."

Steve's gotten better at dealing with my nightmares over the years. I just lay there in his embrace, shaking but not sobbing, for the longest time. It's been a few months since we took a step back from the Avengers, and even though the dangerous situations have subsided, my bad dreams haven't. I don't think they ever fully will. He strokes my hair and mutters soothing nothings into my ear until the panic fades into the background.

"Please tell me who I am," I whisper, swallowing back a bit of my fear. It's something we've come up with that brings me out of the nightmare mindset. Too many of the things that haunt me at night are Hydra, even though this particular one wasn't.

"You're America Rogers," he whispers back, rubbing comforting circles on my back as I try to control my breathing. "Your birth name is Valeria Noelle Maximoff. I'm Steve Rogers, your husband. You met me in New York. We had a Christmas wedding. Your favorite musical is Phantom. You're a loyal friend. You have a younger brother and sister and you insist on watching Friends reruns even when there are new shows on."

It might be tedious, making this list of who I am, but the repetition really does ground me. "Thank you," I say with relief. "What time is it?"

"A little after three in the morning," he answers softly. "Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?"

I shrug, my entire body still trembling. I feel sick to my stomach. I think I might throw up. I really hope not. "I don't really know."

"It might help if you tell me what it was about," he suggests. I snuggle closer to him and inhale the familiar scent of his shirt, fighting to keep the nausea at bay.

Sometimes when I'm afraid, my mind goes into overdrive. Too many thoughts swirl around too quickly, which only confuses me more. I manage to find one word, the one word that was the subject of my night terrors. "Tony," I mumble into his chest. "It was about Tony."

Steve's normally bright blue eyes darken. For a moment, he doesn't know what to say. "Talk to me," he finally says. Pushing away his own pain to alleviate mine. He reaches out to take my hand. The metal one, not my real hand. I understand the meaning behind it. I trust you. Trust me.

"Germany, and then Siberia," I whisper hollowly. "That was the last time I saw him, except for maybe three minutes on the battlefield before he died."

"Mer-"

"All I could see was the hate in his eyes. He was so angry at me. I just kept reliving that fight over and over. I couldn't get out."

His grip on my hand tightens. I know losing Tony hit him just as hard as it hit me, probably more so. "He didn't hate you, Mer. He never could have done that. He liked you from the start. He forgave you over the Accords, I promise. You don't need to worry about that anymore."

"At his funeral, Morgan said that Tony told her to be like me. He blasted off my hand and still told his own daughter that."

"Rightly so." He kisses me on the top of my head. "Little girls should look up to you. You're so strong and loving."

"And you're too flattering," I tease, still not over my paranoia. "I don't think I deserve that praise."

He lays back down on the pillows and pulls me toward him. "I keep praying that you're going to realize your own worth sooner or later, doll, but until you do, I'll love you the way you should love yourself, because you, America Rogers, are the most wonderful woman I have ever met."

"Steve, you're too good for me."

"No, we're perfect for each other." When he says this, I lean in and give him a lingering kiss. His thumb wipes the tears from my cheeks. "Now dry your tears and go back to sleep. A pretty girl like you shouldn't have red-rimmed eyes."

"A nice gent like you shouldn't be in bed with a girl who's seventy years younger than him."

"I swear, do you have a book full of old man jokes or something?" He smacks me playfully on the shoulder and I flick him in the head. "You and Sam have to have a group chat that I'm not a part of."

"You know what a group chat is?"

"All right, I'm going to give you two options," Steve says with the dead-serious voice of a lawyer sentencing someone to death. "You can take that back or you can give me another kiss."

"Is there one that you'd prefer?" I whisper innocently into his ear. 

Even in the dark, I can see him smiling. "Well, I don't think you have it in you to take it back, Mer."

"You know me too well." 

We end up kissing for who knows how long until I can't hide my yawning anymore. Even then, it's with immense regret that I pull away from him and lay back down, but I can't wipe the smile off of my face. I fall asleep on top of Steve within minutes, safe from my nightmares as long as he's there.

When I wake up, I dive farther under the covers, exhausted. The sunlight streams through the windows of our bedroom as I lean over to kiss Steve good morning, but there's no one there. Just pillows and empty space.

My eyes snap open and I sit up, alarmed. "Steve?" I call nervously, tossing the blankets off. I instantly regret the decision because now I'm scared and cold, but a note on the nightstand catches my attention. I pick up the Post-it and read. 

I'm going to meet Sam for breakfast and a run. I'll be back this afternoon. You looked too comfy and tired for me to wake up. There are leftover pancakes in the fridge yesterday, so please don't burn the new place down trying to cook breakfast. Don't worry, doll. Get some rest. -Steve

How he managed to get out without me waking up is one of the great mysteries of the world, especially because I usually end up sleeping on top of him, but he obviously managed to do it. He's either sneakier than I gave him credit for or I was asleep like a dead woman last night. My money's on both.

Once I'm sure that my husband isn't in mortal danger, I hop out of bed and feel an immediate head rush, gripping the nightstand until the world figures out where it's supposed to be again. The clock reads eleven, which also surprises me. I never really sleep past seven. Any longer than that feels like a day wasted. I braid my hair back, smiling at the return of my red curls, and walk down the hall to find breakfast just as Steve promised. He's also left a cup of tea out, but it's cold now, not to mention it smells distinctly unappetizing. I leave it on the counter.

Instead of trying to make myself productive or presentable, I end up eating on the porch in leggings and a sweatshirt. It's so nice to not have to be constantly on guard. Living in New York City, the cameras were everywhere. Half of the time I couldn't separate Mer Rogers from Miss Momentum. It's different here for Steve and me. We're not the Avengers. We're the Rogers. 

I like that.

Hi! Sorry it's been a while. I've been working on updating my other works, too. Happy Easter, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!