#simpletonwithashield

Touch on / Kiss to the Ribs: I regard you reverently. 

Riley’s Louisiana attitude aside, Steve reminds him too much of Riley sometimes and it makes his head spin and he has to remind himself that he’s not in Iraq anymore--hasn’t been for years. Steve likes pushing himself and seems to somehow like throwing himself into dangerous situations with how often he fucking does it. Steve and Riley and Icarus, flying too close to the sun always. 

It’s late now and Sam’s arms sting a little from a fire--an AIM base their leads for Bucky turned them to turned out to be rigged with explosives, resulting in fire everywhere. Sam doesn’t remember too much after the explosions started--maybe they weren’t just explosions after all?--but he remembers Steve pulling him out and feeling too hot all over. He has the burn marks to prove it, splotches on his upper arms and legs too--but they’re nothing. They add to the story of his life, told in scars all over his body. 

They’re back at the Avengers base now--they spend so many nights alone here, looking over files about Bucky and HYDRA and all the shit Sam read in comic books probably--but Sam still feels a little dizzy despite being changed and dressed. It’s probably his light-headedness that makes Riley’s face bleed into Steve’s. 

Palm going out to the other’s chest, flat and splayed against his ribs (Steve is solid and real, Riley is dust now--he reminds himself--but none of this feels real anyways and he’s not sure he even knows who he is), Sam smiles. 

He knows this.

       And she remains as such for several hours -- until the creaking of aging floorboards alerts her to the presence of another entering the room. Suddenly Ophelia is upright, eyes opened wide, with a gun aimed towards the source of the sound.

                ❛  -- Hmph. It’s only you.  ❜  

       Her words are dismissive, but a moment passes before she lowers the gun, returning the weapon to its rightful place upon the bedside table. 

               ❛  I thought you were called in for duty.  ❜  

sounds like a cat to me!!

            The hour is late. Far past the time she intended to rendezvous with her former lover at their supposedly safe house. Her entire body aches with each step forward, muscles screaming out in protest, begging for a moment’s rest, but Ophelia does not listen. She does not, cannot waste the time. Not even a few minutes to tend to the wound in her side that had steadily been growing more and more painful -- as if to remind her . . . 

           But the thought is dragged back to the darker corners of her mind, buried, and overshadowed by a singular focus as she finally reaches her destination. A few more steps close the distance to the door. Pale fingers curling around the worn metal handle, she half expects to meet the resistance of a lock -- a not so subtle hint that she was not wanted in the peace and quiet between father and his long-lost daughters -- but with a simple twist of her wrist, the door opens. The Captain had kept his promise, after all -- and she could not help but be curious on how long that good nature of his would last. A few days. A few minutes.

           The door is promptly closed behind her and the lock securely fastened before she continues into the unfamiliar room, shedding her coat and bag upon a nearby table.

                It might not be something she’s comfortable admitting out loud, but                sometimes even with her introverted tendencies, Natasha can get                LONELY. Now that she’s been party to actual positive, sustained--if                frustrating--friendships, it’s something she’s developed an urge for.                Even if she never says a word, some days she just wants to bask in                the company of one of the very few people she can truly TRUST. 

Today, that finds her sitting on the arm of Steve’s living room sofa in yoga pants and a soft green sweater, bare toes wedged into the space between cushions to keep them warm. She’s brought along Indian food as a peace offering, and is currently eyeing the bags as though she’s unsure if she wants to wait for him to return home or not. She doesn’t move though, aside from flipping the channels on the television when each station fails to hold her interest.

steve’s death was so gruesome. it physically hurt me.

    ‘  c’mon, steve. you ain’t gonna break me. 

he’s positively BOUNCING now, sweat shining on his brow from previous exertion. only thirty-one, sam still can’t move like he used to--his pj training feels like it happened a lifetime ago (and maybe it had--riley at his side, smiling wide and happy even though it was all fucking hell)--but he makes the most of it, savoring the soreness that makes him heavy and tired and forcing himself to go on when he thinks he can’t. being a superhero is nothing like being a soldier in the killing fields of iraq (perhaps it’s easier), but he still keeps in shape.

even if he feels completely dwarfed beside his captain, who seems incapable of losing energy and runs twelve miles like it’s nothing. it’s actually best to spar with steve rogers--his enemies are more than saddam’s people with ak’s now. they’re more. 

sam tosses steve the gauze after wrapping his knuckles tight, nudging him with his shoulder.