Steve got back from his run that morning a little earlier than usual; he hadn't slept well the night before, chased by strange dreams - not nightmares, not precisely, but unsettling. He knew they were from his ongoing thoughts and worries about moving, and asking Rogue to marry him. He usually ran from five to six am, before the sun was really up, just as the city that never sleeps was about to catch her second wind; today he'd finally gotten out of bed, after laying awake for some time, just after four, but only returning less than half an hour early.
He would've been back sooner, but he'd gotten a text from Natasha (who knew his routine, probably had his normal routes memorized as well as he did, and so knew when she'd catch him awake and otherwise unoccupied), asking if he'd given any more thought to moving to D.C. and working more officially for SHIELD. She wanted a partner, and if she couldn't have Clint (the WSC were dragging their heels on clearing him post-Chitauri/brainwashing-by-Loki), she'd "settle for the pinnacle of human perfection, I suppose. You're not bad to have for partner in a fight."
Sass. He got nothing but sass everywhere he turned, he needed a better class of friends, honestly. But her message had brought up all the thoughts and feelings he had just been--well, not getting a handle on, but had just about bottled and corked back up after his dreams, and now they were in a maelstrom inside his head again, so he lengthened his run to push them back down. Again.
One reason he ran in the mornings was because the heat hadn't had a chance to soak into the streets and get reflected back; there was still a cool brisk feeling to the air, and his body ate up the miles and hardly broke a sweat. This morning, that wasn't the case. He'd pushed himself more, and run for longer than usual, so by the time he returned to the apartment, his shirt was damp in spots, and he was panting a little. It was good, it felt good to actually tire himself out, even if he knew it wouldn't last, but he also really needed a shower now.
He hoped Rogue wasn't up yet. Sometimes she was, despite not being a morning person, just because he wasn't around. She never said that, of course, but he'd grown so accustomed to sleeping with her that it felt too foreign to try and sleep alone, and he could only assume it was the same, or at least similar, for her.
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He would've been back sooner, but he'd gotten a text from Natasha (who knew his routine, probably had his normal routes memorized as well as he did, and so knew when she'd catch him awake and otherwise unoccupied), asking if he'd given any more thought to moving to D.C. and working more officially for SHIELD. She wanted a partner, and if she couldn't have Clint (the WSC were dragging their heels on clearing him post-Chitauri/brainwashing-by-Loki), she'd "settle for the pinnacle of human perfection, I suppose. You're not bad to have for partner in a fight."
Sass. He got nothing but sass everywhere he turned, he needed a better class of friends, honestly. But her message had brought up all the thoughts and feelings he had just been--well, not getting a handle on, but had just about bottled and corked back up after his dreams, and now they were in a maelstrom inside his head again, so he lengthened his run to push them back down. Again.
One reason he ran in the mornings was because the heat hadn't had a chance to soak into the streets and get reflected back; there was still a cool brisk feeling to the air, and his body ate up the miles and hardly broke a sweat. This morning, that wasn't the case. He'd pushed himself more, and run for longer than usual, so by the time he returned to the apartment, his shirt was damp in spots, and he was panting a little. It was good, it felt good to actually tire himself out, even if he knew it wouldn't last, but he also really needed a shower now.
He hoped Rogue wasn't up yet. Sometimes she was, despite not being a morning person, just because he wasn't around. She never said that, of course, but he'd grown so accustomed to sleeping with her that it felt too foreign to try and sleep alone, and he could only assume it was the same, or at least similar, for her.