Steve Rogers (
on_ur_left) wrote in
rogue_america2016-12-16 09:22 pm
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First Christmas
Glancing back to make sure Rogue was still in the bathroom around the corner, Steve stopped fiddling with his tie, and went over to his closet. Keeping one ear trained on the quiet sounds of Rogue moving around, he ducked down and pulled out his portfolio bag. Along with the shield he always stored in there, underneath the shield was a wide, fairly flat box that he pulled out. He flipped the lid open to make sure nothing was tangled, reaching out with a finger to delicately rearrange a few pieces, before snapping the lid shut.
Taking a deep breath, he repeated to himself that he could do this. Giving a gift had never been so nerve-wracking, honestly; he hoped Rogue liked it. She'd probably accuse him of spoiling her, especially once he explained that this wasn't his actual Christmas gift to her. But he'd seen it in the window of a little indie clothing store a few blocks away, and had immediately known it would look stunning on Rogue.
Right. Okay. Time to do this. Straightening up and shoving the bag back in the closet with one foot, he passed a hand over his suit and slacks to get rid of any wrinkles from crouching, before moving toward the bathroom.
Taking a deep breath, he repeated to himself that he could do this. Giving a gift had never been so nerve-wracking, honestly; he hoped Rogue liked it. She'd probably accuse him of spoiling her, especially once he explained that this wasn't his actual Christmas gift to her. But he'd seen it in the window of a little indie clothing store a few blocks away, and had immediately known it would look stunning on Rogue.
Right. Okay. Time to do this. Straightening up and shoving the bag back in the closet with one foot, he passed a hand over his suit and slacks to get rid of any wrinkles from crouching, before moving toward the bathroom.
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When the canvas was finally free from the paper, she carefully turned it around and felt her breath catch in her throat. The figures he'd painted, the colors he'd used. They were exact depictions of her loved ones, but they were the best he could do without having actually seen those people himself, and they were perfect. Jubilee's coat was just the right color, Logan's claws and sideburns, Charles and Erik in their usual uniforms, and Remy...
She could barely see the painting by the time she finished giving it a good once-over, and the tears spilled over her cheeks before she could stop them. "Steve, I--" She tried and failed to thank him, the words stretched thin and cracked in the middle. Her hands shook slightly as she so very carefully set the canvas against the table, and then she practically threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she did indeed start crying her eyes out. He knew her so well.
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Yep, she was crying. Steve easily caught her up against his chest, wrapping his arms around her, one hand threading into her hair. He thought of and discarded several things he could say, from asking if this was happy-sad crying, or just all-out sad crying; if he'd made any mistakes (he could easily paint over them), if she hated it, please don't cry, Rogue, shh.
He kept silent for the moment, though. Eventually she'd collect herself, and then he would wait what she had to say, and could ask if it was alright.
Well, no. There was one thing he could always say. "I love you, he whispered into her hair. "I got you."
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It took a few minutes, but she did manage to finally pull herself together enough to loosen her hold on Steve and lean back to give him just a little breathing room. She just looked at him for a moment with red-rimmed shining eyes before saying in a completely deadpan tone, "Only you could make me cry on Christmas and get away with it."
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He tried to make it sound teasing, but his uncertainty leaked through under the words. Unable to hold still, he reached up and brushed a stray strand of white hair away from her face, smoothing it down gently, taking the moment just to touch her.
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"I love it," she assured him with a gentle smile. "It's perfect. I don't know how you did it, but everything about it is just... perfect. Thank you, Steve. Thank you so much." She'd never be able to thank him enough for the beautiful gifts he'd given her: the painting and his heart.
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Reaching up, he brushed at her cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away the dampness still on her cheeks. He pressed a kiss to her lips, pulling back before either of them could make it more than just a lingering kiss. "Let's find places to put all these, and then get ready for bed."
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"I like that plan," she murmured, looking forward to curling up in his arms. Using the coffee table for leverage, she hauled herself up before picking up the beautiful painting and taking it over to one of the low bookshelves. She propped it up there so it would be out of harm's way, letting a fingertip drift over one of the visible brushstrokes. "We'll find somewhere to hang you tomorrow," she promised softly, then went back to the coffee table to collect the various dishes. Uneaten cookies were returned to their container and the mugs of hot chocolate were quickly washed out in the sink along with the pot Steve had used earlier.
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The photo got set up on the coffee table as well, right in the middle, facing the couch. He remembered half a year ago, on his birthday, when he'd smoked a cigarette with a sketch he'd done of Bucky, in bittersweet celebration of another year lived. It ached, still, not having his friends around anymore, but it was something he could live with, now. He wanted to see this reminder of the good times, every time he passed through the room.
That taken care of, he started gathering up the wrapping paper and tossing it in the box. He'd sort out the recycling later, but for now it was enough to just get it cleared away.
"I liked the wrapping on my presents, by the way. Very creative," he teased lightly.
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With the last scraps in the box, she looped her arm through Steve's, leaning into him with a tired, happy smile. "Let's go to bed, Steve. I've got a pair of pajamas calling my name." They were light green and had pies on them.
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Tonight had been great, and he hoped as he fell into a dreamless sleep, that tomorrow would be even better. It was Christmas, after all.
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This wasn't a night for those dreams.
Perhaps it was a subconscious reaction to the windows being covered, or some other subtle trigger from the day that had gone unnoticed. Whatever caused it, the nightmare latched onto her suddenly and abstractly, more feeling than memory. She shifted only once before jerking awake close to dawn, gasping and shaking as the dream slipped away.
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"What time is it?" He muttered to himself, glancing at the digital clock. Just after 7 am. They'd gotten to bed about five hours ago. It was a holiday, so there was really no reason for Rogue to voluntarily be waking up so early. If anything, it was usually Steve who was up first, especially if there was no coffee to entice his girl out of bed, unless...
Groaning a little, Steve rolled over and aggressively rubbed at his face, trying to force himself awake. He was not, contrary to what people seemed to believe, a natural morning person. He just didn't need a lot of sleep, and thanks to the war, he could usually be up and alert in a matter of seconds. But apparently his body and mind knew that there was no reason for it, so it was taking longer this time. Except there was a reason: Rogue probably had a nightmare. It was becoming less common, but between the two of them, they were lucky to go a few weeks without one of them having an episode. So far, the first nightmare for both of them had been the most... dramatic compared to subsequent episodes, but he still wanted to go check on her, just in case.
Getting out of bed, he padded on light feet out into the apartment, across the living area and into the kitchen. He stopped at the island, bracing his forearms on the counter. "Alright?" he asked, his voice husky with leftover sleep.
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"I'm okay, sugar," she assured him, though her hand was still trembling. "It was just a bad dream, nothing out of the norm." She wanted to brush the whole thing off, claim that she didn't even remember the dream -- but she couldn't lie to him. She did remember what little of it there had been, and he had been front and center.
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Glancing over, he could see she was still upset. He averted his eyes, not wanting her to feel pinned to the spot, but kept his head turned toward her as he murmured, "Rogue. Marie." He tried not to use her given name too often; she preferred Rogue, and it held more impact if he saved it for certain occasions. In this instance, when he wanted her to be honest with him. She didn't have to tell him what the nightmare - because really, 'bad dream' surely didn't cover it - was about, but he didn't want her to lie to him and say she was okay, when clearly she wasn't.
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"I'm alright," she insisted with an ounce more of firmness and a shake of her head. "Let's go back to bed."
The glass was supposed to rest on the counter. She wasn't supposed to lose her focus and fumble her grip as she let go, the bottom of the glass only half on the counter so that it teetered over the edge, water spilling as the star-speckled glass hit the floor and shattered, pieces skittering across the kitchen floor. It was an old, automatic instinct for her to immediately crouch down and begin gathering up the shards.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll replace it." The words ran together in a steady murmured stream. She'd been the one to buy the glasses, one of the many special holiday additions to his apartment, but all that was registering in her mind was that old familiar terror at the prospect of being cast aside for something she'd done wrong.
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If he'd had his eyes open, if he'd been more alert, he would've realized what was happening, been able to react faster. He might even have been able to catch the glass before it hit the floor. As it was, the sound shot a much-needed adrenaline rush through his system, and he was suddenly on high-alert.
Steve crouched down almost before Rogue had even started speaking. He took in her words, as well as the overall scene, in an instant. Neither of them was wearing shoes, and she was picking up glass with her bare hands. He reached out on instinct to grab her hands and stop her, but pulled back at the last second; in her current state of mind, she might flinch away from him, and he didn't want her cutting herself.
"Rogue - Rogue, it's okay!" He shifted a little to try and get her to meet his eye. "Honey, they're your glasses. I mean, if you'd just move in already they'd be our glasses, but it's not a big deal."
It took a couple seconds for him to realize that he'd said that out loud, when he'd meant to just think it. Clearly he wasn't as awake as he'd thought.
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Rogue froze at those words, her heart skipping a beat at what he was saying without saying it. Did he want her to move in with him? Yes, she spent a lot of time there, but didn't he realize that if she moved in, there wouldn't be anywhere for her to go when he decided he didn't want her anymore? That thought had her shaking her head again and continuing to try to clean up the mess she'd made. It was always her mess that ruined things, her own damn fault that people abandoned her. It had to be her fault, it had happened so many times.
"I can't do that," she informed him, tears in her voice even as it cracked on every word.
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He watched her shake her head, and his shoulders slumped. He didn't need to hear her words confirm it, but he made himself listen anyway. "No. Yeah, sure," he heard himself say in a dull voice. "It was stupid - I didn't mean to say it now, anyway, it just, slipped out..."
Angry at himself and his stupid mistake, Steve's brow furrowed and he didn't check himself before reaching out automatically for Rogue's wrists, to halt her movements. "Stop picking it up, yer gonna cut yerself!"
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No no no nO NO NO NO. "NO!"
One. Two. It took until the third second before she had the sense to pull away, twisting her wrists out of his grasp so she could throw herself backward and out of reach. Glass pieces scattered as she dropped them, a few bloody from cuts on her palms that were already beginning to itch with healing. Her breathing was labored at she stared at him with wide eyes, waiting hoping praying that he was okay.
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Blinking in bewilderment, Steve got his bearings, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "You're bleeding. Let me see. Please." But he didn't move, still a little stunned by what had just happened. Still trying to figure out what exactly had happened.
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"I'm not bleeding anymore," she murmured, holding up her hands that just had the leftover streaks of blood in a far from substantial amount. Her voice was distant, though, her mind too busy processing everything to really be present at the moment. Sorting through the memories.
One time (one of many) when Steve's mother had held him through an asthma attack. When Bucky had made him ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. When Bucky had fallen from the train. When Steve had first seen her at that party. When he'd watched her from across the room at the Christmas party. When she'd said she couldn't live with him and his heart had broken.
It was overwhelming, painful and beautiful, but she couldn't look away.
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Still, he didn't have to touch her or remove the blood to see that her skin was unbroken, fresh and pink and new. He could practically see the small scars disappear as her skin continued to heal rapidly, just like--
Just like his did, when he got injured. He glanced down at his hand, still suspended slightly in the air, before looking back at her. "Was that your power?" he wondered quietly, more to himself than asking her for confirmation. "I'm glad you're okay. I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"
He paused, remembering what she'd explained about her power, how it absorbed the memories and thoughts of people she touched. If she'd absorbed even a fraction of him, then she knew... She knew what kind of person he really was. What he'd gone through, what he'd learned at a very early age. No one was ever supposed to find out about that.
Steve's face took on a look of panic. "I'm so sorry, Rogue. Please, I don't care if you don't move in, it was just-- Just-- stay, okay? Don't leave."
Don't leave me. Please, his mind whispered. I can do better, I promise.
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The memories weren't enough to explain to her what was happening, but the Steve now nestled in her mind did a pretty good job of giving her the Reader's Digest version. A brief glimpse of a brutal man, fear of Steve's own temper, a promise that he would never hurt her-- She moved forward then, careful of the glass but needing to circle her arms around his neck so she could be close to him.
"I'm not going anywhere," she assured him softly, making sure to keep her hands closed so she didn't get blood on him. "You didn't hurt me, sugar. I know you'd never hurt me."
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