The storm of the century was just that, even bigger than anyone had anticipated, requiring the assistance of every man and woman who was willing to help. That call for help had not gone unanswered by those whose power superseded that of ordinary humans. Steve Rogers was only one of a handful of those deemed to be superheroes who had felt the call of duty and volunteered to help. Days had been spent tirelessly preparing for the storm, evacuating those who were unable to leave their homes or had no place to go. Everything that could be done had been done, and still it had not been enough. The storm itself had hit hard and fast, and in the wake of that storm, Captain Rogers had been among the first responders, those who had been called upon to rescue those who were unfortunate enough to have been trapped in the storms' path and whose lives were at risk.

He'd quickly lost all track of time, too busy to rest or grab more than a quick mouthful of food, pushing himself to his own physical limitations. He couldn't afford to rest when he was needed so badly. Rest would come later. He'd lost count of how many he'd helped, each rescue, no matter how different, blending with the next until they seemed to run together in an endless series of struggles, one after another after another. The nights were the worst, quiet and dark and cold, much of the city without power, and though few dared brave the night, he knew that people didn't stop needing his help just because the sky had grown dark. When he wasn't in the field, he was helping where he could in the hospitals, or gathering and delivering supplies to whoever needed them.

It was endless, tireless work, but he could tell, despite the frustration of those he was trying to help, it was appreciated and necessary. It was the little things that made it all worthwhile. The quiet thank yous, the tearful gratitude of those whose lives were made just a little bit better. Even serving a hot meal to those in need made it all worthwhile, rescuing someone's dog, or reuniting a family.

After a while, they'd come to recognize the man in the star spangled uniform as one who was ready and willing to help, even as the uniform started to look as worn out as the man who wore it, and every now and then, a cheer would go up from the crowd whenever they caught sight of the red, white, and blue. Though he wasn't in it for the glory or the praise, it didn't hurt knowing his efforts didn't go unnoticed.

The storm passed, but the work continued. It was estimated that it would take weeks, maybe months, before things got back to normal again, little by little, day by day. Several days after the storm had ravaged the city, Captain Rogers stumbled into a schoolhouse that had been commandeered and turned into a makeshift medical facility, a little girl in his arms whose left leg was twisted at an wholly unnatural angle.

It wasn't just any commandeered building he had stumbled into. This one was being operated entirely by S.H.I.E.L.D., their medical agents working quickly and efficiently to get each new patient triaged, diagnosed, and at least partially treated before the decision was made to discharge them or send them on their way to a better equipped facility. As the Star-Spangled Man stumbled in through the doors, he was noted by a pair of agents who approached him and his unhappy passenger with brisk, weary efficiency. The elder, a man in his fifties, gently took the child from Steve's arms, calling for assistance. The other, a girl who couldn't be more than twenty years old, stayed with the hero. "Captain, do you have any notion of her identification?"

"Molly, she said her name was Molly," Steve replied, wincing imperceptibely as the girl was taken from his arms. He'd found her crying in the rubble of a half-collapsed building - the foundations compromised by the storm - cold, hungry, injured, and alone. "That's all she said. Just Molly." He seemed to be favoring one side, injured at some point or another, he couldn't remember when exactly. Too much had happened.

"Molly, okay." The young nurse looked at Steve sideways. "How long have you been favoring your side, sir?" she asked him sharply, in a tone that suggested lying to her would be a very bad idea. "Reports indicate that you have been working near constantly for a period of almost three days. You should have clocked off for rest and refreshment at least once during that time." And under her breath was added, "You're worse than the new doctor."

Three days" It had been closer to ten, but who was counting" When had he been hurt' He couldn't remember exactly. Maybe it had been when the water had come rushing in, sending tree limbs and debris every which way. Or maybe it was when one of several buildings had collapsed, walls and roofs giving way, sending an avalanche of wood and plaster raining down on rescue teams and victims alike. Maybe it was the vehicles that had bobbed along the flooded roads like toy cars in a kid's pool. He wasn't sure. He no longer remembered. "I'm fine, Miss..." His voice lifted sharply in the form of a question, not recognizing the young woman who seemed concerned about his well-being. "I don't have time for rest right now. Not while I'm still needed." But then, an exhausted, injured superhero wasn't much more good than those he was trying to help.

The nurse rolled her eyes, glancing about for help. That help came in the rather weary form of Agent Croft, who had been volunteered as security and unskilled labor for the time being. "Agent, would you escort the Captain into one of the triage rooms, please?" she asked, in a manner that was worlds away from a simple request. "Do not take no for an answer. Captain, a doctor will be with you shortly. You're no good to anyone exhausted and injured." Steve knew better than to argue when given a direct order, even if it was an order from a subordinate, especially when he knew she was right. All he needed was a little rest and he'd be as good as new, or so he figured. "Make sure they take care of Molly. That leg needs to be set, and she's dehydrated and in a state of shock. I tried to get more out of her, but she was too weak to tell me more than her name." He glanced in the direction where they'd taken the little girl, as Agent Croft arrived to escort him to triage.

The nurse offered him a wan smile. "I'm sure we'll manage to set her right, Captain," she assured him, carefully not giving into the urge to ask if he would like to help her find her own arse with an atlas in the process. Giving a nod to Agent Croft, she moved away.

She paused, the professional gliding aside to show him soft eyes and a smile that was ever so slightly tearful with relief on finding him in one piece and with relative ease. Her fingers turned in his grasp, caressing against his palm tenderly. "You didn't really think I was going to wait a full two weeks, did you?" she asked him gently. "I love you, Steve. I'm too selfish to let go of that, even for a little while."

"I told you I'd come for you, Luce. I meant to keep my promise." It hadn't been two weeks yet, and so they'd never know if he'd have kept it or not, but from the looks of things the last few days, it would have been a while yet before he'd have allowed himself to forgo his duty and think about his private life. "I thought you might have changed your mind," he quietly admitted his own fears, which were not so very different from hers, and he leaned closer, his heart racing in his chest, feeling as though it might sprout wings and fly at her declaration of love. "I love you, Lucy. I won't ever let you go." It was his turn to kiss her, a kiss as fervid as hers had been, just as full of love and longing.

"I know you did," she assured him. "But I was afraid ..." She trailed off as his fears, so similar to hers, came to light, foregoing her assessment of him to rest her forehead against his. "After Johnny told me about Captain America, I got scared that maybe I wasn't enough for you," she admitted herself, perching on the arm of the chair he sat in. "I came as soon as I could." His kiss silenced her, tendrils of her hair fallen free to tickle at his cheeks as his mouth claimed hers, as her fingers stroked lovingly against his jaw, offering him just the barest suggestion of tender sound to stifle with his affection. But she didn't linger too long, drawing back with a vaguely embarrassed look in her eyes. "But I need to assess you. Broken ribs are dangerous, baby - I need to get to skin to listen to your chest."

So, she at least knew who he was now, but it didn't seem to matter. She was here, nonetheless, and had said she loved him, even so. There were questions in his eyes, wondering what had happened after he'd left, just as she probably wondered the same about him, but there would be time for answers later, except for one question that couldn't wait, a question she'd asked him to save until she saw him again. The most important question a man could ever ask a woman.

His ribs could wait. They weren't going anywhere, though he knew he couldn't ignore them forever. Every breath was painful, every movement agonizing, but there was something more important at stake here, and he needed to know now. He reached for her hands, taking them between his own. "You told me to ask you again in New York. Will you marry me, Lucy' Would you be my wife" Please say yes," he pleaded, barely above a whisper, holding his breath while he awaited her answer.

She was in the midst of protesting against his delaying her diagnosis when the question sank into her overtired mind. Overtired and deeply relieved, her initial reaction probably wasn't quite what he was hoping for. She burst into tears. Not the delicate, pretty tears of your typical romantic heroine, oh no. These were hearty, blubbering sniffles that expressed her weariness and upset, relief and joy, all at once. She couldn't quite believe that, despite the pain he had to be in, he'd remembered that promise so quickly. "Of course I will, you stupid man," she heard herself sniff through the gale of weepy happiness, pulling one hand free to snatch up a tissue and at least try to dry her face a little. "But please let me look at you before you book the church."

For the first time in forever, he let someone else see his own tears brimming in his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks, laughing with happiness even as his tears mirrored hers. He felt flooded with relief and happiness, mingled with pain and exhaustion, an emotional release after over a week of almost constantly driving himself nearly to the end of his mental and physical limits. "Is that a yes?" he continued, with a silly smile on his face, tears leaving streaks in the dirt and mud. If he wasn't in pain, he might have swept her off her feet and swung her around in circles, but that, too, would have to wait.

Lucy almost whimpered at his silly inability to understand plain English, cradling his jaw in her hands as she nuzzled to him. "Yes, it's a yes," she whispered to him through her calming tears, touching one kiss, two, against his lips. But abruptly, and not taking no for an answer this time, she snapped back into doctor-mode and slipped from the arm of the chair, reaching to unbuckle his belt and unfasten the clips holding the top part of his uniform to the bottom. "This is going to be painful to get off," she warned him, beginning the process of peeling the cloth upward over his bruised torso.

Almost distracted by the kiss, not to mention the bliss he was feeling at the answer to his question, he nonetheless couldn't help but wince as she started the process of peeling away the suit that S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided and had seemed to think was an improvement on the original he'd worn so many years before. He held his breath, but that only made the pain worse, and he wondered if he should stop trying to breathe at all. "I can't....remember when..." He trailed off, giving up on the attempt to explain, until the torture was over.

Wincing sympathetically, Lucy worked the skin-tight armored cloth up and over Steve's head, tossing it onto the bed like so much dirty rag as she unlooped her stethoscope from about her neck, breathing on the metal to warm it up. "Just breathe steadily for me," she told him, crouching once again to set the metal against his chest, listening carefully for any sign that his lungs had been damaged by the breaking of his ribs. She was fairly sure she wasn't supposed to feel this relieved when she didn't pick up anything but normal, healthy lung sounds, looping the stethoscope at her neck once again to lay her hands directly over the offending ribs. "What I wouldn't give for an X-ray right about now," she muttered to herself.

The uniform was pretty much a dirty rag by now anyway and needed a good cleaning as much as he did. What he wouldn't give for a hot bath right about now, but first things first, and his job wasn't through yet. Breathe steadily, he thought. You've gotta be kidding me. He breathed as steadily as he could, breaths catching painfully, but it didn't sound like there was any serious internal damage done. "I'll be fine, Luce. Just wrap me up and let me get back out there. I've got work to do." His shoulders tensed when he felt her fingers touch his side, steeling himself for the pain that was an inevitable response to her poking and prodding.

"If you go out and carry on with broken ribs, you'll end up puncturing your lungs and other vital organs, and then how much use do you think you'll be?" she informed him sternly. "I'm not going to tape those up, that'll do more harm than good. I am going to try and give you some pain medication, but God knows if it'll work. Whatever happens, you are resting for the remainder of the night, and I will check you again in the morning, Captain, are we clear?"

His eyes followed her, though his head stayed in one place, too tired to move. "You expect me to eat when you're wearing that?" he asked, incredulously, his eyes moving over her admiringly. "God, I've missed you," he whispered, his voice quietly betraying the emotions behind the mere words.

"I know. I missed you, too." It was a soft acknowledgement of the pain that had haunted her during their separation, a pain she'd barely touched on for her sister's peace of mind but that now had lifted almost entirely. Curling an arm about his shoulders, she touched a fond kiss to his hairline, reaching across for one of his sandwiches. "If you don't eat these, I will," she threatened, taking a bite and grinning down at him. "Food, then sleep. If you can stretch your arms up without wincing in the morning, then you can think about renewing your newest skillset."

"My newest skillset?" he asked curiously, as he watched her snag one of his sandwiches, not afraid to share, before it occurred to him what she meant, and he flushed a little, despite his pale and weary complexion. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a one track mind?" he asked, wincing just a little as he reached for the last sandwich.

She chuckled, stroking her fingertips through his hair. "Not recently," was her gently teasing admission through a small mouthful. "Besides, I've had all those lovely detailed memories of what you can do in a single night preying on my mind for the last ten days or so. You can't blame a girl for wondering what you can do if you don't have a time limit." She grinned down at him, nuzzling a second kiss to his forehead before returning her attention to her filched sandwich. "I love you." Strange how it had been so hard to say that night, and yet today she'd said it over and over and each time it meant more than the last.

He eyed her in amazement, wondering if she remembered he'd been very inexperienced in the ways of love when she'd met him, and he wasn't much more experienced now. "I had a good teacher, I guess," he replied, a little embarrassed. The truth was he'd just let instinct take over and had hoped he didn't make a fool of himself. Though a quick learner, making love was not a skill he felt very confident about just yet. He did have the advantage of not wearing out easily, however. He'd proven that much already.

"You're a natural," she promised him, tender in her praise. It wasn't just about the physicality between them, or getting her hands all over him once again. Right now, they had limited time together, both of them required to keep working until their services were no longer needed, and that one track mind he'd accused her of having knew that the best way to reaffirm the claim they had on one another was to enjoy that intimacy once again. Finishing the last bite of her sandwich, she moved to rise once again, bending to begin the task of unlacing her boots. "But I need to sleep, and as your doctor, I'm telling you to get some sleep, too," she told him, watching him carefully for the signs that he was in pain.

He took a bite of his sandwich, scarfing it up quickly, hungrier than he thought once he got started. It wasn't enough to fill his stomach, but it was enough to satisfy his hunger for now. "You won't leave me, will you?" he asked, blue eyes tracking her movement, the question betraying his feelings of loneliness, having missed her as much as, if not more, than she'd missed him. He wasn't quite sure what their sleeping arrangements were going to be, and he'd purposely remained as still as possible while he sat in that chair, every movement, no matter how slight, agonizing.

She looked up sharply as she toed out of her boots, dark eyes boring into his as she took note of the loneliness in him that still lingered, afraid to accept that she was here for good. Pausing, she took a moment to send a thought into the void for her sister's lover. Thank you for warning me, Johnny. "No, I'm not going anywhere," she promised Steve. "I'm getting ready to sleep, in this bed, with you." Her lips quirked a little as she noted how still he was sitting. "Which is also why I'm going to overdose you on morphine once you're in the bed, so me lying down next to you doesn't make you pass out."

He couldn't help but smirk at the way she phrased that warning. "You think you have that kind of effect on me, Doctor Broderick" That I'll just swoon in your presence?" It was heartening to know he had a sense of humor lurking inside him somewhere. "I've thought of you every day since I left. I can't get you out of my head." Or my heart, he thought to himself, wishing she'd have come with him, but it no longer mattered. She was here now, and he wasn't losing her again. He took another gulp of the coffee to wash the sandwich down and set the cup down, frowning at the way his hand was shaking.

"Well, I am naturally devastatingly stunning up close," she drawled back at him with a smile, sliding the rest of her jumpsuit off and laying it to one side with the rest of her uniform. It was going to take a while to get used to that thing, but she had a nasty feeling she was going to have plenty of time to do that in. Seeing his hand shaking, she moved over to him, curling her fingers about his. "We're going to undress you as gently as we can," she told him, "but it's still going to hurt." Her lips brushed his as she moved to kneel between his thighs once again, her hands lowering to his boots. "You know, these have completely changed my personal opinion of what makes a good F*ck Me boot."

He arched a brow as he watched her fumble with his boots, unable to help her, knowing that bending over was out of the question. He would have been happy to just sleep with them on, if she hadn't insisted that they had to come off. It made little difference to him. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, never having heard that particular turn of phrase before and unsure just what it meant.

She glanced up at him, in the process of easing his boots off one at a time with surprisingly little pressure put on his legs or the muscles holding him upright about his ribs. "Oh, it's a phrase that's sort of popular," she chuckled softly. "I'm not sure where it came from - I came across it in the 1990's, when it was fashionable for girls who were going out specifically to hook up with someone at random for the night would wear mini skirts and knee high boots. It was sort of a calling card; if you were wearing the boots, you were looking for someone to f*ck. It's sort of mutated into a random descriptive phrase for boots in general, now."