Mister Rogers ⍟ || Steve Rogers

11

It was hard to stray my mind from thoughts of him. The realness of it all hadn't hit me yet and I was in no shape ready for it to.

After every mission, I find it hard not to think about what could have happened. To me, there is always a better way things could have gone. Steve was the one to usually keep me in check with these things, he always kept everything real: what happened, happened.

At the sound of distant screaming from frightened civilians, I stood. It was our mess that harmed people. Even if we had saved the world, it was up to us to mend the chaos we caused.

I walked along the coastline tiredly, my head spinning from the overuse of my abilities and the wreckage along the shore. I had to look carefully at the ground to prevent myself from tripping over debris. It didn't work.

I fell flat on my face. I was tempted to just lay there until curiosity gave me the energy to pull myself up and discover what I had tripped over; the most important piece of washed up wreckage in the Potomac: Steve Rogers himself.

Immediately I kneeled at his side, bringing two of my fingers to the side of his neck and lowering my ear to his mouth. A slow, steady beat was felt under my fingers.

Using my thumb, I gently pushed on his chin, opening his mouth for an airway. I listened again and heard a faint puffing of air. I brought my hand up to my earpiece, "Sam? Maria? Natasha? Whoever's listening: I found Steve. I have him right here with me."

"Is he alive?" Came Sam's cautious voice.

Tears brimmed my eyes as I smiled, "Yeah. Yeah, Sam, he is."

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

"Dire," I responded, running my fingers through his blonde hair.

"We've got your coordinates, coming to you now, don't worry," said Natasha.

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 had sat in an uncomfortable chair at Steve's bedside, watching him silently every day. The doctors said he would be perfectly fine in time. It didn't help my panic. With no movement in seventy two hours, the chance that he would never wake lingered in the back of my mind.

On the fourth morning, I sat in the chair, staring at the floor, brushing my teeth mindlessly. Living in the hospital wasn't a good look on me. I hadn't changed my clothes since I had arrived, and I wore my hair in a loose braid most of the time, taking it out and braiding it again to pass the time. Cold showers under the dim hospital light didn't make things any less miserable either.

I snapped my head towards the door as it opened. Sam entered the room, holding a Taco Bell bag in his hands. He took a seat in the chair beside me.

I snatched the Taco Bell bag from his hands, reaching in and pulling out a napkin. I tossed my toothbrush on the table beside Steve's bed and used the napkin to wipe the toothpaste from around my mouth. I let the smell fill the room and closed my eyes, "Sam, you are a saint."

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

"Still alive, so pretty good I think," I smiled.

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."