It took half an hour to traverse the strange, congested DC traffic and get to their apartment building. As Steve started to get out, Natasha called after him. "Call, if you need anything," she told him, with more gravitas than he would've expected. She held his eye, and he understood what she wasn't saying. In her own way, Natasha cared about him, and she liked Rogue; Natasha may not be his, not like Rogue, but she thought of him, and Rogue, as hers. She took care of her own, and she didn't want anything to happen, should some unforeseen side-effects crop up.
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.
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branchandroot
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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.