Steve Rogers/Captain America One Shots

Everything

The last of the bright summer grass that sat beneath Steve Rogers's bent legs, rustled in the gentle breeze that blew in from the east. The thin but vibrant blades shaking faintly like the leaves in the deep maple tree, that casted a cool shade down upon him, did. The soft breeze was enough to loosen the leaves that had changed early to the ground, and the orange hued leaves fluttered down on top of the green meadow that wasn't ready for the seasons to completely change. There was a faint shift in the way the air felt on Steve's skin, a certain relief from the sweltering summer heat that he had begun to grow used to. And as he took a deep breath of the cool clean air into his lungs, he reveled in the feeling of autumn nearing. 

His feet were bare as they sat grounded against the Earth, the blades tickling between his toes as the wind fluttered over his aged skin that sat vulnerable to the heat of the setting sun. He had long ago abandoned the fear of getting grass stains against the khaki fabric that adorned his legs, and his navy jacket was left open as he enjoyed the feeling of air floating through to the undershirt he wore beneath. His knees were bent together and brought inward towards his chest, just enough so, that a notebook he had opened to a very specific page could balance against them. The hard binding of the journal pressing into the flesh of his thighs, as he ran his timeworn fingers against the pages.

The paper that faintly fluttered beneath the weight of his palm, was nearly as aged as Steve was. It creased like the lines on his face, and the original color had faded over the years just as Steve's had. But the paper itself told the story of a life that was long and eventful. One filled with struggle and pain and sights that the man who lived it could never unsee. But within all of the tribulations, there was love and hope and moments of pure joy woven within the makings of the story. The paper itself spoke volumes as though they were the words, as each page lacked the hand-written story. Instead, filled solely with illustrations. For the pages that had been tightened by long ago dried residue of raindrops or possibly teardrops, told of the moments where the characters faced a time of trouble and sadness. And the pages that were perfectly kept, as though what was printed on the page was something to be protected at all costs, told of the good times. The moments that made the rougher pages worth living. The way the paper of each page presented itself, foreshadowed the emotion that was to encapsulate that sheet. But it was the illustrations upon that page that truly told the story.

Steve Rogers ran his index finger gently over the indentation that the pencil sketched across the sheet had left, his skin absorbing the sensation of the drawing he had sketched long ago. The feeling in which he let flow from his hand when he created the pieces, was still as strong as it was the moment he sat with this very book and pencil way back when. The grey of the lead softly brushed against the now yellowed paper, swept outward as the shading extended itself into a swoop of lace that blew around the body of beaded white. The detailing at the end of the fabric was extensive, as it glinted in the sunlight that beamed through the cracks in the barn ceiling. The edge of the thin and laced fabric touched against the smoother canvas of a sheer white arm that sparkled as though a million tiny diamonds lined her skin. And as the wrists of her sleeves were also wrapped in lace, they extended out to the very beginning of her hand, exposing the soft tan nature of her flesh that hugged a bouquet of perfectly pink peonies to her chest. The petals not touching against the beaded details around her neckline, but almost seeming to whisper against the fabric. 

The side of the thin veil shielded the edge of her face that was towards Steve as he gazed upon his newly wedded wife, and the narrow rays of sunshine made her cheekbone twinkle as though she had lined her flesh with a glinting glitter. And as her eyes looked downward at the train of her gown brushing against the ground, the black swiped lashes fluttering against her skin like that of butterfly wings, wasn't enough to hide the beauty of her eyes from his view. The deep green shade was brought out by the stems of the flowers that were wrapped in a blush pink fabric, shielding her palms from any imperfections on the stems. They were as captivating as the first moment Steve had ever looked into them. And now, as she was adorned in a heavenly white and her soft auburn tendrils were twirled upward, except for a few loose strands that sculpted her face in breathless curls, they seemed stronger. There was an even deeper pull to them as he stood in front of his wife. And when her eyes finally lifted and the smile that toyed at the pink hued edges of her lips met the evergreen shade of her spellbinding orbs, he felt as though he could crumble at her feet. Forever at her mercy for she held a strength over him, that would always be his greatest weakness.