On The Edge. | Steve Rogers.

twelve.

Issac hadn't realized how sore his body had grown from sitting still for so long until they were climbing onto the roof of a domestic house. Steve had led him and Natasha, now awake walking sluggishly at his side, into a more domestic part of D.C, away from bustling streets and highways connecting into the busier city. It was nice, quiet, and almost peaceful. Yet here they were, a trio of fugitives walking the streets covered in ash and small pieces of debris, looking as if they'd just walked away from an explosion. Steve had a nasty bruise healing on his cheek and Issac could feel dried blood crusting above his brow. Natasha was more or less visibly unscathed, save for a nasty bump on her head.

Steve knocked, looking over his shoulder as they waited patiently. The shutters on the window suddenly disappeared as a dark skinned man slid the frame open. His hair was buzzed short army regulation style and his brows were furrowed deeply in confusion. He had a goatee, similar to Tony's but not as bushy and cut far neater than the other man's.

"Hey man." He mumbled, recognizing Steve but still very confused by his state and the presence of the other two.

"I'm sorry about this." Steve sighed, genuine and tired sounding. "We need a place to lie low."

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us." Natasha mumbled, voice still hoarse from lack of use.

The man's dark eyes darted back and forth between them, taking note of their disheveled appearances and broken spirits. They were exhausted, having been on the run for the better part of thirty hours now. They were in desperate need of somewhere where they could lie safe and lick their wounds without worrying about who was after them, even just for a little while.

"Not everyone." he mumbled, stepping aside to let them through. Once they were all in his small dining room, he shut the window and locked it, dropping the shades to make sure nobody could see inside.

Sam, as Issac soon came to learn his name, gave them spare clothes to change into and allowed them to use the bathroom to wash up a bit. He took the first turn, shutting the door and leaning his forehead against it with a deep sigh. He felt almost guilty for being so torn up about this, knowing his world wasn't the only one that was being turned on its axis. He peeled off his jacket, suppressing a groan at the protest his sore and aching limbs put up before glancing at himself in the mirror. He was visibly beyond tired, dark circles taking their place under his equally dark eyes. His normally healthy bronzed skin looked paler, more sallow than usual.

Shaking his head slightly, he turned the tap on the sink, letting the water run cold before splashing his face, cleaning off the remaining soot and dried blood that had built up. He'd love to take a full shower and scrub every inch of his body clean, but that would have to wait for now. He ran his wet hands through his curls, brushing them out of his face as he glanced at his reflection again. He didn't look as awful as he did before, now a little cleaned up, but he still didn't look fantastic either.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt, making an attempt to pull it over his head before wincing. Lowering his arms slightly, he took a step black to get a better view of himself in the mirror. Just above his hip bone, there was a gash, not too deep, but about five inches long. It was just below the familiar scar he remembered all too well, circular and similar to a gunshot but with a much less aggressive exit wound. How he'd gone the entire car ride without noticing this was a mystery to him.

He dropped the hem of his shirt, not wanting to change into something that wasn't his only to dirty it with blood and other fluids later on. He cleaned up whatever else he could before shaking his head, grabbing his jacket and stepping out a few minutes later.

"Bathroom's all yours." He mumbled to Natasha, who had been patiently leaning against the wall beside the door. He brushed past her, leaving what he assumed was Sam's bedroom to find the man sitting at the table in his kitchen, sipping a glass of orange juice.