In Your Eyes // Steve Rogers

10

No matter how hard I tried to distract my thoughts away from him, it wasn't possible. My thoughts were unable to stray from what could have been between us. They wouldn't stop replaying memories of what was between us.

I could have laid there on the lake side, drowning in my grief and my pity, all night, if not for the distant screaming of injured civilians. It was our mess that harmed people. We were supposed to be the ones to fix it. Or, at the least, attempt to help mend the damage we caused saving the world.

I stood. I walked along the coastline, my head spinning between the wreckage in the Potomac and the grubby sand under my shoes. Pieces of wreckage had been washing up along the lake side. I continuously looked to avoid tripping. It didn't work.

I fell flat on my face. Several seconds passed before I regained the energy to crane my neck around and discover what I had tripped over; the most important piece of washed up wreckage in the Potomac: Steve Rogers himself.

Inhaling heavy breaths to calm my desperately pounding heart, I crawled through the sand to reach him. Traces of water dribbled from his mouth and nose. I hovered my hand over his mouth. Faint puffs of air warmed my palm.

I hit my earpiece. "Sam? Maria, Natasha, anyone who can hear my voice: I found Steve. I have him here, we're together."

"Is he alive?" asked Sam cautiously.

I chuckled through my sniffles. "Yeah, Sam, yeah he is," I assured.

"Is he in need of medical attention?" asked Natasha.

"Dire," I said. I brushed my fingers through his blonde hair. "I'll get him there. I'll watch over him. Don't worry."

Worry wasn't an emotion that was felt easily, at least, in Natasha's case. The same couldn't be said for me.

For three days, I sat in an uncomfortable chair at Steve's bedside, scrunching my forehead at him all day every day. They, the Doctor's, said he was going to be fine with time. It didn't stifle my panic. He hadn't moved for seventy two hours. I was terrified of the chance that he wouldn't wake, that those beautiful eyes would never again meet my own.

As a distraction from my clear panic, Sam visited often. He broke the visiting hours rule. The Doctor's never said a word, due to the two stone cold faced guards who stood outside of the door. Perhaps they came off entirely too intimidating.

On the third night, from out of nowhere, a knock on the door startled me awake. Sam, hands holding styrofoam boxes, entered.

"Sam. Good morn-- err, uh, good afternoon," I corrected.

"Oh, how I've missed hearing that accent," said Sam, laughing at the redness in my cheeks he caused, "How are you two doing?"

"Not dead, so I'd say we're doing well," I smiled.

"I understand that," agreed Sam.

He sat in the chair beside me. We didn't speak while we ate our food. Sam graciously bought a burrito for Steve, on the chance he came back to consciousness during the visit. He hadn't. Sam and I split the burrito.

"To Steve," joked Sam, holding his end in the air.

I bumped it with mine. "May he come back to us soon."

Soon took forever. Three days turned into two weeks. Part of me minded, as I eagerly awaited Steve's return. Somewhere else, a bigger part of my head, insisted on staying secluded. A return into society was not something I wanted to face. Not alone, or unprepared, at least.

I thought my fear of abrupt attacks would have ceased after the destruction of HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. I thought since I was exposed to it, I would be broken into the type of mindset. I was incredibly wrong.