The Silence Between Us (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Part Two

           

The medical team... they never came back for you. They left you in the rubble of your own making, with the walls cracked and leaning, threatening to fall in on you. Your life has returned to the endless thread of panic.

Then someone comes in.

Footsteps creep across the floor, almost silent. You squeeze your eyes more tightly shut and wait for the prick of a needle. You have no doubt that whoever has come to collect you will pump you full of drugs and lock you somewhere, bound and gagged, where you can't hurt anyone else. At this point, that seems like a mercy.

"Hey." The voice brushes over your skin like a caress. It's soft, like someone trying to soothe a stray cat.

You look up. The light in the room is dim, but he is unmistakable. You would recognize him even without the uniform, hell, even if he weren't carrying that shield.

He crouches so his gaze is level with yours. "I'm Steve."

It's funny, the way he says it—as if you don't already know who he is, like he isn't Captain Freaking America. He waits for you to respond, to give your own name, but, of course, you can't. Not without bringing the whole room down. Killing Captain America: that would be the ultimate cherry on top of the shit sundae that your life has become. So you watch him, letting his presence ground you. You ignore the destruction that you've caused and focus on the way he looks at you completely without fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. You believe him. He can, if he wants, but he would have done it already. "Can I come closer?" He takes a half step forward, his eyes locked with yours, as if waiting for any sign of dissent. When you don't protest, he continues, still crouched with his shield guarding in front of him. He stops just out of reach, close enough that you can make out every detail of his face. The concern there is real.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

Hurt? Good question. Are you hurt? You've been in pain for so long that you wouldn't know even if you were. How would you separate the aches of old injuries from new?

He's closer—somehow moving without you noticing—so that he's almost at your side. He smells like soap and detergent. Clean, but not the burning, sterile smell of a hospital. It's a soft sort of clean, like sheets out of the dryer. Something you can wrap around yourself. He surveys the room, taking stock of the situation. Without his eyes to focus on, your panic reemerges, fraying the edges of your already overwrought emotions. You grab at the material that covers his arm, needing to feel something solid. He notices, his eyes snapping back to yours, but he doesn't stop you. "It's going to be okay."

Your therapist at the hospital had taught you to tell yourself those words, said they would soothe you. They had never worked, but coming from Captain America, they put you at ease. It is going to be okay. Because he says so.

"I want you to come with me." He straightens to his full height, towering over you. You're struck by just how big he is. "It isn't safe in here."

He's right, of course. It isn't safe in here. But where could he take you that would be safe from you?

He must see the reluctance in your face because his eyebrows knit together. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

You stand, leaving your hand on the ground to steady yourself. Your muscles protest after huddling in the same position for so long. Captain America watches you, hands held out to catch you as you waver. You manage without him and a spark of pride lights under your heart. You're black and blue and sore all over, but at least you can walk unassisted.