ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴜs ( ᴏᴘᴇɴ )

[uprightness]

Who: steve rogers circa civil war + you, yes you
Broadcast: nope
Action: various;
When: throughout january



[ new year, new memories and what begins as one monstrous headache.

it takes a couple of hours to sort through everything that's new, to make sense of a kaleidoscope of memories, images and sounds. at first, he starts writing it all down, lagos, the sokovia accords, the UN, black panther.

Only the dry details and nothing of what starts to weight down on his shoulders, faces and names that inspire a heavy, intimate, terrible sort of pain.

And so an avoidance of a sort begins that lasts through the two days the new year. Hours upon hours spend on the library aboard the Iskaulit, reading books and making nothing of them. It's an odd sight, Steve Rogers in one of the corners of the room, staring at a book and randomly picking up a notepad and writing something down ( another detail that comes up, scott lang or spiderman ) and then staring at the notepad only to go back and stare at the book.

He might also be found at odd hours at the gym; evidently, taking out his burdens on a punching bag, seemingly lost in thought even as takes out what seems to be a world of trouble on the thing.

It will take these two days of isolation before those of the fleet start seeing steve rogers off the Iskaulit. He'll make a return to the Starkstruck, though this return, too, will be a reclusive matter one will have to actively seek him to find him in the weaponry or otherwise, in his room. ]

Comments

[uprightness]

[ their love has been the subject of much talk over the years. he imagines how people must have seen it all, a grand war-time romance of two star-crossed lovers. perhaps it is what the atroma wanted too, a silver-screen worthy moment, an over-dramatic reunion and when that did not come, a tearful, emotional talk of partings, of death and of grief.

that does not come, either. instead, grief is banished, washed away by something else, entirely. it's an intimate kind of sweetness, a striking sort of openness; whatever it is the world intended for them, they make it their own. it's not tearful or dramatic but it is overwhelming in a way that sends a shiver up his spine as his fingers curl against her cheek. something comes to a close while another starts, a frustrated uneasiness that lingered in his bones, a feeling that he has settled into a new century as well as he could but yet, with one missing puzzle piece.

it all clicks easily into place at this moment and he breathes a little easier, chases her confessions into a firm kiss, hardly as fleeting as the ones that came before. it's a lingering contact, open and searching, one kiss melting into another and a breath of her name in-between them. ]

[mucked]

[ it's rare, but she manages to talk herself out of doting on the atroma's gaze. the rush of admitted love; the weight of him against her body; the exhaustion of grief and wonder. peggy briefly convinces herself that they are (indeed) alone in this moment. his kiss doesn't catch her by surprise, and she's less guarded in her reciprocation. peggy returns the kiss of the man mourning her. and in the gentle reply of her tongue she assures him that she is very much alive.

and maybe it's not a perfectly altruistic bit of affection. maybe she wants to assure herself, as well, that she is as alive and warm-blooded as ever. her arm drops to the middle of his back, and she wraps it against his musculature so she might pull him upwards by inches -- up, and against her. drawing him deeper into the kiss. her heartbeat hasn't been this quick since the day they reunited. ]