rogue_america | Finding You

Entry tags:

verse } soulmates

Finding You

I know forever don't exist
But after this life, I'll find you in the next
So when I say "forever," it's the goddamn truth
I'll keep finding you...

Aliens. Of all the things that could have gone wrong on her first solo business trip for the school, somehow aliens hadn't really made the list of possibilities. Breaking a shoe on the way to the donor's office, her car breaking down on the way into the city, getting food poisoning from bad sushi — the list went on and on, but aliens had never really occurred to her. Staring up at the giant armored worm thing flying above the street a few blocks down, she realizes that apparently it should have.

It takes time for her to fight the crowds fleeing the epicenter of the attack, each second feeling like an hour, and then she's faced with one of those creatures, its weapon pointing straight at her—

Reflexes honed by years of training sessions in the Danger Room have her dropping just in time, the car behind her taking the brunt of the impact with a metallic screech, and then she's back on her feet, a short metal stick in her hand expanding to a full-length staff. She wastes no time in swinging it at her enemy with practiced force, focused on damaging that armor enough to get hold of its weapon. Once she has it, she should be able to take them out much more efficiently.

It's a good thing everyone is more focused on the alien invasion than the woman with the weird hair trying to play ninja in a business suit.

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A large part of Steve's mind is focused on the battle; angles and trajectory, strategies both small-scale and large, positions and movements of his teammates, civilians, and the enemy.

But a small part of his brain has been sectioned off so that he can quietly continue to freak out, just slightly, about the fact that aliens are invading Earth. And apparently, H.G. Wells was wrong, and they aren't dying from microscopic organisms that humans are immune to.

Just one more way the future has disappointed him.

The police seem to finally be doing their job, herding civilians away from the attacks - although that's kind of hard, when the enemy has flying bikes that can attack from anywhere, as well as laser weapons that that same small part of his brain is comparing to all the old sci-fi movies. That small part of his brain has to grudgingly admit that the real thing is much cooler than the bulky laser blasters from the movies. Is that a good thing, since it's not a disappointment, or a bad thing, because the reality is so much more deadly and accurate than the portrayal?

Something to think about later, when he has more time to process those kinds of thoughts; right now he's moving so fast, throwing his shield, jumping and jabbing, kicking and spinning towards and away from the enemy almost before he consciously registers what he needs to do.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notes an alien facing off with a body that's neither alien nor wearing one of his team's outfits; his shield is hurled with pinpoint accuracy to crack at the base of the alien's skull, which he's discovered is a weak point if you hit just the right spot. The alien goes down, and Steve gets his first look at the civilian, dressed professionally and looking like maybe she can handle herself.

Time seems to stop for a second. For just a second, everything blurs, all the shrieks and alarms and cries from battle turn strangely muffled, as Steve stares at the woman.

"...Marie?"

Another thing she hadn't been expecting: Some guy dressed in red, white, and blue throwing a shield at the alien she'd been about to pummel. The round disc arcs back through the air to him almost like a boomerang and her target goes down hard.

Huh. Well, that's effective.

Turning to shout out a quick thanks, she notices that he's... staring at her, like he's never seen a woman before. She is pretty unusual looking, but this is New York City and there are aliens out here, he should really—

In a split second, she raises a stolen energy gun and sends a bolt not even a foot away from his side, knocking down a creature who'd been raising his own weapon at her companion. "Get your head back in the game, sugar!"

Steve doesn't flinch when she swings the weapon around and fires; he can see where she's aiming, and it's not at him - but it's damn close. Her shouted words are right (and he did flinch at those, not at the rebuke itself, but the inherent Southerness, and the use of the word 'sugar', because wasn't that Marie's special word for everybody?), but he's been thrown for a goddamned loop, his world's been shook like a cheap tourist snowglobe - the second time that's happened in less than six months - and this is precisely the worst time for it.

There's chatter on his communicator from his teammates, and Steve turns to scan the streets while he's listening. He quickly turns back to Marie - or the woman who's a fucking spitting image of her, at any rate, since she doesn't seem to recognize anything about him - and points a warning finger at her. "Don't even think about going anywhere. We need to have a chat. Once the insanity dies down."

Turning again, he starts calling out positions and tactics as he scans the street, the skies, watching for the enemy. Slinging his shield and pummeling aliens like his life depends on it. Trying to keep her safe, even though it seems like she can take care of herself, especially with one of the enemy's own weapons.

The small part of his mind relegated to miscellaneous thoughts notes that her hair's dark, now. White streaks in the front, he thinks, but with all the dust it could be any color. It's not Marie's color, he tries to tell himself, and she'd never dyed it. But her face... her voice, the accent, even the cadence and emphasis on certain syllables... It was all Marie.

Which scared him a hell of a lot more than an alien invasion.

Edited (misplaces carat) 2018-02-25 23:04 (UTC)

Did he just... point a finger at her and tell her to stay put? She spares a full three seconds to gape at him once he's turned away, then immediately shakes herself and puts the entire encounter out of her mind. With no idea who that guy was other than someone who clearly knows how to handle these things, she doesn't give a damn that he wants her to stick around for a chat. There are people to save, aliens to take down, and a city to keep from crumbling — whatever bone he's got to pick with her can damn well wait.

So she gets to work. Any of the creatures she can reach on the ground are beaten down (though she takes a bit of a beating herself in the process), and she does everything she can to get any straggling civilians to safety. Basements and subway tunnels seem the safest spots, and she stops to confer with a cluster of police officers about making sure any trains still able to run were being used to evacuate the civilians to other parts of the city. Time was of the essence when they could lose power in the underground stations at any time.

During the chaos, she can't help but notice that the guy from earlier didn't seem to be alone. A flying man in a bright red cape, a big green guy she remembered hearing about a few years ago, even Iron Man was out there. The only ones missing were the X-Men, but she doesn't have time to get hold of Scott and make sure someone is on the way. The battle hasn't even been going on very long, they might not make it in time before—

They stop. All of them, every alien and flying creature just falls down like their strings have been cut and suddenly it's all over. A million people stop with them and try to cope with what happens, emergency services doing their best to get everyone away from the rubble, somewhere safe to deal with injuries and contact loved ones. She waves away any attempts at getting her to go as well, ignoring that her once-black suit is now grey with dust and grime, that there's a rip in her pant leg from a cut that's causing her to limp slightly. Her adrenaline is still running high and she's focused on doing all she can to help; it's just who she is.

Even trying to keep an eye on Marie, Steve's focus has to be on the battle. And it's a hell of one. The team needs him, his focus, and he has to shut her out of all but his periphery while he fights, coordinates, engages.

Black Widow makes it to the roof, communicates she can shut the portal these things keep endlessly pouring out of. Iron Man says no, and Steve lets him call the play - they've somehow seamlessly fallen into roles of leader and second-in-command - flying the nuclear device through the portal.

It hurts. It hurts more than he expected, would have imagined, to watch Iron-- to watch Tony, disappear through the portal. One-way trip. It hits close to home; it's like watching Bucky fall, only in reverse, and it makes him regret all the sniping and arguing. For all their fundamental differences, for all Tony's brashness and loud proclamations of not being a team player, they'd slid into fighting side by side as if they'd been doing it for years. He's not going to get a chance now to see how that dynamic might carry over to downtime, when they're not in the middle of government conspiracies and alien invasions.

He never gets a chance at anything. A glimpse, a taste, before it's snatched away. His whole damn life, he can't even find the energy now to be mad. Later. Later he'll rail about it, wail on a heavy bag until it's spilling sand, raining down like an hourglass until all that's left his him. Again. Bucky. Marie. His life. He keeps losing everything.

But then there's a shout, drawing his attention up, and suddenly it feels like his heart's about to pound up through his throat, because that's IRON MAN--

not slowing down, and Steve can see through the quick tumble of the armor that it's not lit up, it's dead, and he finds he's still got a drop of hope left in him, because he's hoping inside the suit, the same can't be said for its pilot.

It's the Hulk who saves the day, and Iron Man, in more ways than one, and it's Tony's half-conscious quip about 'nobody kissed me, right?' that has the knot in Steve's chest easing, making him huff an exhausted laugh and glance away, looking out over the carnage, but the battle itself is over.

And there, somehow, his eyes immediately lock on to a figure in a dusty black pants suit, alien weapon abandoned now that it's no longer needed. Party's not over, he thinks; still have to secure Loki, get him the hell off this planet, this dimension, back to wherever-it-is that he and Thor are from. But for now...

"Get up to the Tower to secure Loki. I'll catch up." And then he's off, moving through the wreckage and debris toward Marie-or-whoever-the-hell-she-is, face set with determination.

He's going to get some answers.

"You're gonna be okay, sugar." The words are offered to perhaps the hundredth person she's handed off to paramedics after helping to go through the crowd and identify the people who needed care the most. This one is a teenager, a young man whose entire world has been shaken and it just about breaks her heart. He reminds her so much of the kids she's worked with for years now, the ones without a sense of stability who wake up screaming in the night. She hopes he doesn't join those ranks, but even she'll probably have nightmares about this day.

Something tickles her forehead and she reaches up to brush the back of her hand against it but winces at the sting the gesture causes. The grimy black glove comes away with a streak of dark wetness that can only be blood and she sighs heavily before tugging the glove off. It's easier to press her clean bare fingers along the edges of the cut, though it certainly doesn't hurt any less.

Another sigh follows seconds later when she spots the man from earlier, and suddenly she's feeling her exhaustion pretty keenly.

There's a ripple of exhaustion that runs through Steve as he gets closer to the woman, seeing all the little pieces of evidence that show she was also fighting; dust covering her clothes, tears in the fabric, bruises on her face - and blood, trickling from a head wound, he sees as she shifts, then turns and spots him.

Seeing the blood makes the anger rush to the forefront. Now that he doesn't have to keep a clear head, all the emotions he was too numb to feel during battle come out with a vengeance. Who is she, and why the fuck does she look like his Marie? Grief tangles briefly with the anger, but he just uses the former to fuel the latter. Why can't he just grieve, without being surrounded by ghosts and shadows, echoes of his life Before reverberating into this After?

He's not unaware of what she was doing, though, and glances toward the survivors, the civilians who are wounded, or just lost and confused; devastated. But there are police, medics, and even a few other good Samaritans helping out. She can be spared, and he's not going to wait.

"We need to talk. Now," he tells her, in clipped tones, as he draws up, slightly into her personal space. It's an intimidation tactic, and one he's tried to avoid since taking the serum, because it's so much more effective now that he's larger - even when he doesn't mean to do it.

Oh, but he means to do it now. He wants answers, he wants to know what the hell is going on, and if she doesn't know, his next stop is going to be to Fury.

With anyone else in the world, that tactic might have worked like a charm, but all it does is make Rogue angry in turn. She's faced down an angry Wolverine, battled Sabretooth and Magneto and faced death head-on — no way is she being intimidated by some stranger who had no business speaking to her this way.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she demands, her southern drawl thickening with irritation as she rests her hands on her hips and straightens up, ignoring the twinge in her wounded leg. "I haven't done a damn thing except help in this fight, and that sure doesn't deserve this kind of treatment."

Steve pursed his lips, which added to his scowl while also holding any quick-tempered words in check for a moment. Because dammit, she had a point. And it hurt, hearing her talk; more, to hear her speak to him, with that voice, in that accent, as if he were a complete stranger. Because to her, he was. Because no matter that she was the spitting image... This wasn't his Marie. It couldn't be.

He'd known she wasn't, intellectually, because Marie had been completely human, completely normal, and normal humans didn't live for near-seventy years and not age a day.

Hope springs eternal. There'd been a small spark of hope left in him, one he hadn't acknowledged, hadn't even known was there, that withered into ash as he took a deep breath, and accepted what he should have realized after that first jolt of shock at seeing her. She wasn't his.

Grief swam through him, seeming even heavier than when he'd first woken up, and realized what he'd lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching up to press finger and thumb over them, taking another slow, deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he finally uttered, in a low, guttural voice. "I-- you-- You're right. I apologize. I thought... You look like a woman I kno-- knew." He didn't say my soulmate. He didn't say the only person I had left. He didn't need pity from a stranger, but especially one with Marie's face.

"I'm--" he glanced down at the outfit, still colorful despite the dust and blood coating it, the numerous rips. "Captain America. Steve. Sorry. Again."

Something in Rogue deflates at the sight of him standing there like that, very clearly going through something emotionally difficult, something taking more out of him than this entire battle. It's not hard to put together that this woman he was talking about was someone he'd cared about deeply, perhaps even loved, was someone he'd lost.

In a split-second decision, she reaches out with a hand, too distracted to realize that it's her bare one, and applies a gentle pressure to his upper arm. A gesture of sympathy, not pity. "I'm sorry that I'm not her." And then she starts to pull her hand away, intending to return it safely to her side.

Foggy with grief, his mind doesn't register right away what she's doing, and the touch on his arm, the sympathy and compassion he sees in her face, throw him right back to that first night he met Marie. He'd been grieving over a woman he was about to lose then, too; his mother, ill, dying. He'd stopped in to a shop to buy her flowers for her hospital room, and had met Marie. Had touched her hand, and discovered his soulmate - his second, in fact.

Too much, too fast, too hard; he can't handle this. Not now. "Please, don't--" Reaching up, he gently grips her hand with his, thankful his gloves are still intact, and he won't have to feel her skin against his. He shifts the arm she's touching back, drawing away from her touch. Her grip shifts, sliding down slightly, over a rip in his uniform.

He's wearing gloves, a simple touch of his hand should have been just fine, it's why she doesn't pull back right away, but then— The rip goes unnoticed until her skin is brushing against his, barely an inch of her finger coming into contact with his arm, but it's enough. Not to jumpstart her mutation, that would have taken a second longer than she gives it before jerking her hand out from under his, but enough to bring on a flood of sensation that she's only heard about secondhand.

The soulmate bond might be rarer now than it had been in the early twentieth century, but it's not unheard of. She'd just never thought... How could she find that person when she couldn't touch anyone? But here he is and—

She can't help but stare at him with something like fear in her eyes.

Steve's eyes are caught staring somewhere between where his hand is still hovering over his own arm, and where the woman has yanked her hand away.

Warm, is his first thought. He knows that warmth, that feeling of contentment and belonging. He may be the only person alive - possibly the only person in history - who's ever felt it three times in their life. His entire body shudders, subtly, at the wash of feeling and emotion that comes over him.

The anger is back, but it's not really directed at her this time, and underneath it, under it but still visible, is grief flooding through him again, and his own fear. He can't. He can't do this again. He can't bear it.

When his voice comes, it's barely above a whisper, and it's agonized.

"Who are you?"

The first times she's thought about this moment, it had been nothing like this. It had been magical, finding someone who would understand her and be a perfect fit, someone to spend her days with who wouldn't leave her. But now that she's older, now that she's seen the world and faced the worst sides of it, she knows that's not how things really work. Not for her.

"I'm no one," she replies softly, that agony in this voice crushing her spirit in a way little else could. He doesn't want this, doesn't want her, so she'll make this easy for him. "Let's just forget this ever happened, okay?"

She doesn't wait for an answer before turning away, hurriedly tugging on that dirty glove. He can't leave her later if they never have anything to start with.

This time, Steve is watching her, and reads her intention before she finishes speaking.

It's not her. He knows it's not her. But it feels like her, in his gut, in his very bones. So when Steve lunges after her, wraps a firm hand around her arm, he calls her name. "Marie, wait!"

Instantly, he's mortified. And underneath it, disgusted with himself. He wants to know who this woman is, but even not knowing anything about her, he knows calling her his dead soulmate's name isn't the way to make her stay.

Everything freezes within her at the sound of that name, one that she's tried so hard to leave behind. There's only one person still allowed to call her that, and even though he only does it on very rare occasions, knowing how she feels about it. So to have this stranger call her by it-

"I don't know how you know me, but just leave me alone," she nearly growls out between clenched teeth, anger back in full force. His grip on her will have to be iron tight to keep her from pulling away, and if it is...

Well, he's gonna have a fight on his hands.

"That's your--" The shock on his face, in his voice, quickly turns to anger as well. "That's not your name-- That's her name!" Not only does his grip tighten, but he gives her a quick shake. Not enough to hurt, but enough to jar her. "Tell me who you are! Why you have her name, her face, her fucking voice with that accent - who are you!?" His accent has thickened slightly, Brooklyn blending with the older, buried Irish he'd learned from his mother first. Rage and grief clog his throat, heat his eyes, but he'll be damned if he sheds a tear in front of this-- this imposter.

All he does it make her angrier, those insane accusations stirring up with her panicked anxiety over being held like this until she's absolutely had it. He wants to act like a bully? Fine, she'll treat him like one.

She might be nearly a foot shorter than him, but she's used to grappling with men who tower over her. Instinct has her rebalancing her weight, shifting position just slightly before letting her fist fly right for his face, throwing all she's got behind it. And if that doesn't do it, she'll add a kick in for good measure, right to the groin. The bastard deserves it.

He probably should see it coming, but he's not expecting the punch at all, even though she telegraphs it; not much, it's obvious she's had training, but the shift should have warned him, if he'd been watching for it.

Of course, he isn't, because Marie had a temper, but she'd never have dreamed of punching him. His head snaps back, but mostly out of sheer surprise. He can take a hell of a lot harder hits than she can possibly dish out. Flexing his jaw, he says in an even tone, "Yer gonna break yer hand, doin' that. I got a lot harder head than yer bones."

Watching her more warily now, he says softly, "Don't run away from me. Please." There's more desperation in the last word than he wants her to hear, and flinches slightly at it.

It's like punching Logan, a numbness spreading through her fingers for a moment because of the impact. Shit. She can't fight her way out of this, but with her mutation... No, no, she doesn't want him in her head.

"You don't want me and I sure as hell don't want you, so just let go of me." She's still angry, but the amount of desperation in those last words surpasses his own. Panic is knocking at her door and she's trying so hard not to let it through.

There's still so much anger, but hearing her words, and the emotions underneath them, turns it all toward himself. Steve jerks back again; this time he feels the slap, even if it's only verbal. His fingers loosen, and let go of her arm. "You don't know me," he tells her lowly, "so don't tell me what I want. But since it's crystal clear you don't give a damn anyway..."

He takes a step back, and then another, his eyes not leaving her face until he suddenly spins around. Yanking off his gloves and shoving them in his waistband, he scrubs his hands through his hair, making dust and grit poof out like an unholy halo. The tears that have been clogging his throat for the last several minutes, that he's been ignoring, finally start leaking, but he dashes a quick, careless hand over his cheeks, smearing them into the grime and blood already coating his face.

On the off-chance the woman - not-his-Marie - is still there, he says without turning around, "Sorry for inconveniencing you by trying to find one solid thing in this godforsaken world I could hold on to. Won't happen again."

There's a car tipped on its side a few strides over, and Steve decides fuck it. After the day he's had, nobody's going to judge him for sitting down for a few minutes and wallowing in grief, so that's exactly what he does. He hunkers down where the car's hood curves into the windshield, drawing his legs up and resting his head back against metal. And if a few more tears leak from beneath his closed lids... Well. Hard to see it with everything else dirtying his face. And he just doesn't have the energy to care, anymore.

For not the first time in her life, Rogue finds that she's let her temper get the best of her. Unable to see anything beyond her own confusion and distress, she hadn't cared if her words might hurt the other man, though if she'd taken the time to think about it, she still might have assumed that he would be just fine with neither of them being in the others life. His every action toward her has been hostile or defensive, so how the hell was she supposed to know...

But she should have, she tells herself as she watches him walk away, the anger rushing out of her like air from a balloon. And while the temptation is there to turn away herself, to leave him and this whole mess behind— she can't. That isn't who she is; it's physically impossible for her to leave someone behind who needs help. So, after a moment of cursing at the entire universe with such colorful turns of phrase that even Logan's brows might raise, she walks over to this Steve she's never seen before in her life and slides down to sit on the ground beside him.

"I'm sorry."

Steve keeps his eyes closed, but heaves a sigh at her words. "I'm sorry, too." The amount of weariness in his words is telling; here is a man who doesn't have it in him to fight anymore. Not at the moment, anyway.

"Have you ever met someone and just known, right away, that they were going to be in your life forever? That no matter what you did, no matter what happened, they'd stay by your side? Nothin' and nobody could tear you apart."

Reaching up to scrub at his hair again in a restless gesture, he finishes with swiping over his cheeks again. He's not ashamed of crying, but knows that he's not a pretty or graceful cryer. Lord knows what she thinks of him right now. But he wants her to understand, at least a part of it. Even if she gets up and walks away after this, she needs to know.

Maybe the idea of soulmates has changed over the many years, but Steve still wholeheartedly believes that, with your soulmate at least, there's nothing you can't share.

"I had that. Since I was barely a kid, I had that. And then... I had two soulmates. I met Marie when I wasn't quite 20. And everything was..." he huffs out a laugh. "Well, not amazing, actually. My life was pretty shitty at the time-- pardon my language. But it was getting better. Even when we went to war, I figured...

"I was gonna ask her to marry me," he murmurs, staring into the distance. "One'a those things you think, ya know? 'When this is over...' But I was. And I know she would'a said yes. But then Bucky d--died... and a month later, I might as well've died, and... I don't know what happened to her." He starts to turn his head toward her, but then squeezes his eyes shut in a grimace.

Because it's pretty damn obvious what happened to her, isn't it? With the spitting image of Marie sitting beside him, he knows. Maybe not the when or how, but he knows she's dead, now. Grief washes over him again.

It breaks her heart to hear him speak, each syllable driving that pain further into her chest. Her compassion for others is as much her downfall now as ever, rendering her completely unable to even think about leaving this man behind as she'd so desperately wanted to do just moments earlier. Especially because she's never had anything like what he's describing; she can't even imagine what that would be like. And then to lose it, to lose two people...

She reaches out to set a gloved hand on his arm, tentatively, ready to pull away if he doesn't want her there. Even if she doesn't understand everything about his situation, she can't just sit there and not do something.

"I'm so sorry," she says again, not knowing what else she can say. Is there anything anyone could say in the face of all this?

There's a long, slightly shaky inhale at the touch of her hand, but Steve doesn't shake her off. "Not y'r fault. Sorry I was..." A humorless smirk crosses his face for a second. "Well, sorry I was such an ass, earlier. You... you threw me for a loop. A big-damn loop."

His eyes cut toward her, though they didn't quite reach her face, and he reached up to gingerly cover her hand with his. "Thanks."

Finding You

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