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rogue_americaWith growing agitation, Steve sat through the biochemist's explanation of the properties and potential side-effects of the liquid that had gotten sprayed on him during their last SHIELD mission. Natasha sat beside him, an empty chair between them at the small conference table. Fury sat at the head, naturally, and it grated at something inside Steve, that this man presumed to try to hold authority over him. He wasn't sure why it bothered him now, but he didn't try very hard to figure it out. It didn't really matter why, just that it was.
He listened dispassionately, remote, as the scientist spoke of lowered inhibitions, heightened senses, primal instincts being brought to the fore. She started talking about different parts of the brain that were affected, how it would affect his psyche - something about his id, which Steve had no idea what that meant, but didn't think he wanted anyone discussing and analyzing it, anyway.
The hum of the air conditioner kicking on was loud in his ears. He could smell the chemicals they used in the system to sanitize the air of pollutants. An eddy of current wafted Natasha's scent toward him; leather and gun oil and, intriguingly, tea leaves, something chai, maybe. Glancing over, his eyes were drawn to the slow, steady thump - thump of her pulse in the side of her neck. Looking over at Fury, he could see, even at this distance, every scar around his eye socket that weren't quite covered by the eyepatch.
He didn't want to be here, Steve thought. It had been a vague niggling at the back of his head for a while now, but the feeling had been growing steadily worse over the last few hours; during decontamination, waiting while the scientists frantically analyzed the liquid chemical as he sat in quarantine, finally being deemed safe enough to leave, only to be brought to a conference room and made to sit through information he didn't understand, and didn't care about.
He should care, Steve mused, though even that thought was rather detached. He noted that he should care, that normally he enjoyed listening to scientific talk, even if he had no hope of understanding it, just so he could learn and marvel at what the world understood now. But now he didn't, and he noticed it, but there was no emotion behind it, no worry or fear at the realization that he didn't.
"I want to go home." His words interrupted the scientist, and all three of them turned almost as one to look at him, nobody speaking for a moment. Steve met Fury's eyes first, before turning to meet Natasha's. The scientist wasn't important; she had no authority over him.
But it was in fact the scientist who spoke first. "C-Captain Rogers," she started, obviously still a little dazzled by his identity, "I think it would be best if you stayed the night, for observation, so we can, can ascertain the exact nature of--"
Without conscious thought, his hand slammed down on the table, the smack of his open palm against metal loud in the otherwise still room. NO. He could not stay here, he wouldn't. That niggling had grown into an itch, and it was spreading through him, crawling under his skin. "No," he said calmly, but forcefully. "I need to go home." Only after he said it did he realize it was true. He had to get home - not want, had to. He had to get back to where everything was his, the smells were familiar and comforting, where Rogue was waiting for him.
Rogue. Her name was a catalyst, and it was only through sheer force of will, and understanding that if he tried to leave now they might try to detain him forcefully, that kept Steve in his seat. They couldn't actually stop him, he was sure, but he would waste precious time fighting his way out. The swiftest course of action was to convince them to let him go.
Fury sat, frankly assessing him. Steve took a long, slow breath. "Your scientist just said that I'm not a danger to myself or anyone else," yet, he didn't add, but the glint in Fury's eye told him the Director understood all the same, "and I need to go home."
"Need?" Fury's voice was casual, but Steve wasn't fooled.
"Captain Rogers," now the scientist was all business, studying him with her head cocked to the side, as if watching an insect through a glass jar, "are you feeling an overwhelming urge to return home?"
Lady, you got no idea. "I'm feeling an overwhelming urge that you've hit the end of your research, and anything else can be gleaned once the effects have completely worn off."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Rogers--" Fury started; Steve wasn't quite successful in hiding his snarl of rage at that, and Fury, of course, caught it.
"No, no," the scientist spoke in a reconciliatory voice. "I think the Captain is right." Wait, what? Steve turned to look at her in puzzlement. She was nodding in an over-exaggerated way - although he got the impression that was just how she was when she was enthusiastic about something - glancing over at Fury. "He should be surrounded by things that make him comfortable, and, well," she gestured at the walls and table of the sterile conference room. "Nobody enjoys being cooped up in the Triskelion. Erm, sir. Director." She also seemed to be trying to convey something to Fury with her eyes; Steve didn't know, and at this point, he didn't care what, so long as it meant he was allowed to go home.
Finally, it was agreed that he could go home, and Natasha offered him a ride. She didn't say anything as they headed for the garage, nor when he climbed into the back seat of the SUV, though she did quirk an eyebrow at him in the rear-view mirror. He just couldn't stand to be that close to her scent, the warmth he could feel radiating from her body if he sat that close to her. She wasn't Rogue, she wasn't his, and he didn't want to be near her.
Pulling out his phone, he hesitated, for the first time since coming out of quarantine, as he tried to compose his text to Rogue.
Back from mission. On way home. I'm fine, but there was an incident.
He listened dispassionately, remote, as the scientist spoke of lowered inhibitions, heightened senses, primal instincts being brought to the fore. She started talking about different parts of the brain that were affected, how it would affect his psyche - something about his id, which Steve had no idea what that meant, but didn't think he wanted anyone discussing and analyzing it, anyway.
The hum of the air conditioner kicking on was loud in his ears. He could smell the chemicals they used in the system to sanitize the air of pollutants. An eddy of current wafted Natasha's scent toward him; leather and gun oil and, intriguingly, tea leaves, something chai, maybe. Glancing over, his eyes were drawn to the slow, steady thump - thump of her pulse in the side of her neck. Looking over at Fury, he could see, even at this distance, every scar around his eye socket that weren't quite covered by the eyepatch.
He didn't want to be here, Steve thought. It had been a vague niggling at the back of his head for a while now, but the feeling had been growing steadily worse over the last few hours; during decontamination, waiting while the scientists frantically analyzed the liquid chemical as he sat in quarantine, finally being deemed safe enough to leave, only to be brought to a conference room and made to sit through information he didn't understand, and didn't care about.
He should care, Steve mused, though even that thought was rather detached. He noted that he should care, that normally he enjoyed listening to scientific talk, even if he had no hope of understanding it, just so he could learn and marvel at what the world understood now. But now he didn't, and he noticed it, but there was no emotion behind it, no worry or fear at the realization that he didn't.
"I want to go home." His words interrupted the scientist, and all three of them turned almost as one to look at him, nobody speaking for a moment. Steve met Fury's eyes first, before turning to meet Natasha's. The scientist wasn't important; she had no authority over him.
But it was in fact the scientist who spoke first. "C-Captain Rogers," she started, obviously still a little dazzled by his identity, "I think it would be best if you stayed the night, for observation, so we can, can ascertain the exact nature of--"
Without conscious thought, his hand slammed down on the table, the smack of his open palm against metal loud in the otherwise still room. NO. He could not stay here, he wouldn't. That niggling had grown into an itch, and it was spreading through him, crawling under his skin. "No," he said calmly, but forcefully. "I need to go home." Only after he said it did he realize it was true. He had to get home - not want, had to. He had to get back to where everything was his, the smells were familiar and comforting, where Rogue was waiting for him.
Rogue. Her name was a catalyst, and it was only through sheer force of will, and understanding that if he tried to leave now they might try to detain him forcefully, that kept Steve in his seat. They couldn't actually stop him, he was sure, but he would waste precious time fighting his way out. The swiftest course of action was to convince them to let him go.
Fury sat, frankly assessing him. Steve took a long, slow breath. "Your scientist just said that I'm not a danger to myself or anyone else," yet, he didn't add, but the glint in Fury's eye told him the Director understood all the same, "and I need to go home."
"Need?" Fury's voice was casual, but Steve wasn't fooled.
"Captain Rogers," now the scientist was all business, studying him with her head cocked to the side, as if watching an insect through a glass jar, "are you feeling an overwhelming urge to return home?"
Lady, you got no idea. "I'm feeling an overwhelming urge that you've hit the end of your research, and anything else can be gleaned once the effects have completely worn off."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Rogers--" Fury started; Steve wasn't quite successful in hiding his snarl of rage at that, and Fury, of course, caught it.
"No, no," the scientist spoke in a reconciliatory voice. "I think the Captain is right." Wait, what? Steve turned to look at her in puzzlement. She was nodding in an over-exaggerated way - although he got the impression that was just how she was when she was enthusiastic about something - glancing over at Fury. "He should be surrounded by things that make him comfortable, and, well," she gestured at the walls and table of the sterile conference room. "Nobody enjoys being cooped up in the Triskelion. Erm, sir. Director." She also seemed to be trying to convey something to Fury with her eyes; Steve didn't know, and at this point, he didn't care what, so long as it meant he was allowed to go home.
Finally, it was agreed that he could go home, and Natasha offered him a ride. She didn't say anything as they headed for the garage, nor when he climbed into the back seat of the SUV, though she did quirk an eyebrow at him in the rear-view mirror. He just couldn't stand to be that close to her scent, the warmth he could feel radiating from her body if he sat that close to her. She wasn't Rogue, she wasn't his, and he didn't want to be near her.
Pulling out his phone, he hesitated, for the first time since coming out of quarantine, as he tried to compose his text to Rogue.
Back from mission. On way home. I'm fine, but there was an incident.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 02:22 am (UTC)So, she was just a little bit panicked.
Okay. I'll be here.
What else was she supposed to say? She couldn't badger him for an explanation via text. Well, she could, but she'd get a lot more information when she could see his expression, hear his voice, wrap her arms around him... No, no panicking. Stop it.
It was instinct that had her moving around the apartment, making sure all the windows were open to let in fresh air, the fall breeze drifting through the apartment to spread the scent of the apple pie she'd just pulled from the oven. A need to comfort that had her putting on one of Steve's favorite records, hoping it would help soothe over whatever had happened that day. And then all she could do was wait, nerves eating her up inside while she played with the sleeves of her sweater and fidgeted on the couch.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 03:23 am (UTC)Steve tilted his head in solemn agreement. "Will do."
He entered the building and bypassed the elevator, taking the three flights of stairs two steps at a time. With every passing second, he felt both more settled, being back in his own territory, and more keyed up, though he couldn't pinpoint why. There was anticipation building in his gut.
He could hear music as he neared the door, and smell apples and cinnamon - Rogue and her ubiquitous cooking. The music was slow jazz, one of the records he'd found in a hipster shop a while ago. Soulful and haunting. He shouldn't be able to hear it so clearly through the soundproofing of the apartment, but a part of his mind recognized that all of his senses were even more enhanced than normal.
Entering the apartment, he drew in a deep breath. Apple pie, a fresh breeze through the open windows, Rogue's detergent and cleaning products, his own scent, a thousand little things that if he focused he could pinpoint - and Rogue herself. His eyes zeroed in on her, and his body stilled. Seeing her brought something clawing to the surface inside him. The grip he'd kept on himself ever since he'd gotten hit was starting to fray, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep his mind clear, keep himself from letting go and just following his instincts.
So he just held still, just inside the closed door to the apartment, and watched her. She was his sole focus now. His lifeline and his eventual undoing.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 03:43 am (UTC)Patience went right out that window when he stepped inside. He walked in, closed the door, and then just... stood there. There was something in the way he held himself, in the way he didn't move, that had her worrying even more than she already had been. She felt like her stomach was folding in on itself while she watched him just stand there and finally she had to make the first move.
"Steve?" It was hesitant, small, very clearly concerned as she carefully stood and slowly made her way over to him. "Sugar, what is it? What happened?"
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 03:56 am (UTC)The words were becoming sticky and elusive. Steve drew in a deep breath - it didn't help that much, since now he was surrounded by her scent. "I got hit with-- this chemical. It-- it lowers inhibitions, enhances the senses, a bunch of other gibberish I didn't really get. Christ, you smell good." The last came more as a forceful sigh, and Steve closed his eyes, hoping if he couldn't see her, she wouldn't overwhelm him quite as much. "I'm not contagious, or dangerous. They wanted to keep me for observation, but I had to get home. Needed to." The strain, the desperation was evident in that word.
Need. That's all he was feeling right now. His entire body now felt like one huge live wire, and she was the only thing that could ground him.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 04:10 am (UTC)"Okay," she breathed, crossing the last distance between them and reaching out to rest one hand on his chest while the other went up to frame his jaw. "Everything's okay, sugar, you're home now. You're with me. I'll do whatever I can to help you through this." Because she knew it had to be overwhelming for him in some ways.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-29 04:53 am (UTC)He had to close his eyes again for a moment as she touched first his chest, then his jaw, a shudder moving through him. He'd had to change out of his uniform during decontamination, so there was no hard armor as a barrier, and he could feel the warmth of her hand soaking into his shirt, his chest. He turned his head and pressed his nose against her wrist, inhaling deeply. Reaching out with one hand, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her gently but firmly against him. Each motion was slow and deliberate, a part of his mind hyper-aware of just how strong he was, and how physically fragile she was.
His other hand came up to cup hers, keeping it pressed to his jaw as he moved his head - he could feel his nigh invisible stubble rasping against her palm - and pressed his lips to her wrist, opening his mouth to taste her skin.