He presses his face against her neck, realizes after about three seconds that he's going to get a mighty kink in his own, and shifts so he can rest his head in her lap. The couch is too small to fit all of him - his legs hook over and hang off the end - but it's comfortable enough. He sighs, enjoying the feeling of her hands in his hair, trying to remember something else he wanted to tell her.

Steve reaches up to run his thumb down the side of her neck, eyelids fluttering low, then shut. His hand dips and falls against his stomach. One last, fading grasp at consciousness, and Steve is out.

The dream begins innocuously, as they so often do. It constructs an unfamiliar space from memories. A Hydra facility that isn't one he knows, all scalloped industrial halls and a high-rise that could be Avengers Tower or the Triskellion, and is more accurately a little bit of both.

It's empty. It's empty, but he can hear people screaming. The pounding of feet and the hammer of gunfire. He runs, trying to find the source, trying to close in on the disaster, sure at each corner he'll come around the edge and see the massacre he can't stop hearing. Shapes and figures flicker in front of him, gone before they solidify.

Bullets tear across the hallway, throwing chips of cement and plaster into the air. Steve strikes out blindly and feels bones break under his hand as the hallway erupts in flames. Water swirls around his ankles, freezing, black. Sam is dead at his feet. Steve hoists Natasha over his head with one arm, metal fingers locked around their throat. He squeezes, once, and her trachea gives as the world drowns in water and the sound of arctic wind.

Steve throws himself upright with a yell, grasping at the side of the couch for his shield, sweat burning his eyes. He's shaking when he remembers where he is, where his shield is not, and who he-

Oh God, did he hurt Olivia?