The Ghost [Marvel | Steve Rogers]

Chapter 62

Upstate New York, USA

Late Spring 2015

He still couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

Nina had saved him.

She had saved him. If it weren't for her, he would've died that day in Sokovia.

That day, when he'd seen her and Hawkeye and that boy in the path of the Quinjet? He hadn't thought, he'd just reacted. He'd been run nearly off his feet, his body aching from the strain of racing through the streets of Novi Grad, from fighting against Ultron's sentries. His lungs had been burning, his muscles either feeling nearly numb or cramping with intense jolts of pain. By the time he'd seen the Quinjet barrelling toward them, he'd been utterly exhausted. He'd barely been able to reach anything close to a superhuman speed, and nothing close to his highest speed.

But he'd pushed himself to run as fast as he could, and he'd reached Nina in time. He'd pulled her away—barely a dozen feet away, but still far enough that she had been out of the line of fire. Then he'd gone back for the archer and the kid. Part of him still wasn't quite sure why, but he'd known he had to. They wouldn't have had a chance. But he might have. He had been able to give them that; maybe push them out of the way, or topple them back into the stairwell...

...shield them with his own body...

...he still wasn't quite sure what he'd been thinking...

Really, if he was being truly honest with himself, he hadn't thought, he'd just acted.

If he hadn't been so tired. So slow. If he hadn't been, it wouldn't have mattered if he'd been thinking straight or not. But as his exhaustion had set in, he'd gotten slower, and fighting that day had taken too much out of him.

He had been tired and he had been slower. Almost fatally so.

Wanda had been right. Bullets could catch him when he wasn't going fast.

And even worse, it hadn't only been his body that his exhaustion had slowed.

He hadn't been exaggerating to his twin; just as he could move physically faster than anyone, his thoughts could move just as fast, particularly when he was going at speed. It was only logical, really. He wouldn't be able to process where he was going or what he was doing while at speed, otherwise.

Well, his mind had been going just as slowly as the rest of him, and as he'd been racing toward the archer, before he'd placed himself between Hawkeye and the Quinjet, he hadn't even been able to think about anything but getting to them. To shield them.

He hadn't even considered simply pushing them out of the way or pulling them back into the stairwell behind them.

In that split-second as he had turned to go back, he'd lept after the first option that popped into his head and he had committed to it. To use what speed he could still muster, and shield them as best he could.

Deflecting the bullets away with his own body, if need be.

He'd decided that almost the instant he'd torn himself from Nina's side to go back. And even though he'd known the move would likely kill him, he'd had to try.

He couldn't watch the Avenger or the boy die. Not when he could try to help them.

After all, what good were powers if you didn't step up with them?

And a quiet sort of resignation had come over him then as he'd raced toward the archer where he'd been curled around the boy. An acceptance that he was out of time. That his speed wasn't going to be enough to get him out of trouble this time. That the only option left was to use his own flesh to catch the bullets and redirect them with a final burst of his speed. And as his remaining strength had faltered as he reached Hawkeye, knowing his time was up, he'd glanced back to Nina...