Her Second Soulmate | Steve Rogers

Chapter Three

"What are you thinking about?" Sam sidled up to me, with a mug of strong sugary coffee in his hand.

I glanced up momentarily from the television, "Nothing." I looked back down, focusing on the family on screen that were currently getting ready to go out for a dinner.

"Are you sure? You've been weird ever since the Hero Day at the school. What's wrong?" I frowned, pausing the episode just as the youngest daughter appeared wearing a brightly coloured sundress.

"Sam, I don't... I don't know, I feel - different, I guess." I ran my hands over my face, feeling frustrated with myself, "I don't know what it is, but ever since that day I've just been feeling..." I trailed off, not knowing how to describe the feeling.

"Are you ill?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.

"No. No, I don't think so; I can't really get sick." I bit my lip, then pushed myself to my feet. "I'm going for a run, I need to get out of here for a bit."

"Steve-"

"Please Sam?" I pressed my hands together, waiting for him to let me leave the room.

"I'll be here when you get back." He sighed.

I nodded, and jogged back upstairs, deciding against using the lift. Nothing had actually changed in my life for definite, but over the past few days I began to feel a longing; an urging; a feeling like I was missing something big.

I felt like I was growing crazy, as if I had forgotten a big aspect of my life. I was sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and I'd even had a dinner at Bucky's house so I could confirm what had happened before the war. I could feel myself growing paranoid at the itching of wanting to know why I'd changed, for no reason at all.

I changed into a pair of shorts, and searched through the small wardrobe for my running shoes. I always kept them stacked in their boxes, so I would be able to find them quickly. My whole floor was pretty uniform; my years in the army had trained me to keep all of my belongings in an orderly fashion.

But I couldn't seem to find my shoes anywhere.

I began running through my mind at where they could be. I went on a run a couple of days ago, and used the lift to go to the living floors. I met Sam in the kitchen for a bite to eat, before he left to go the VA meetings. I'd left them there.

I trudged back to the lift, making sure I didn't slide across the floor in my thick socks. As it travelled down, so did my hopes that a run would help my spirits.

As soon as the doors slid open I shouted over to Sam who was still sat on the sofa with his precious coffee. "Sam, have you seen my shoes?"

"That was a quick run." He leant over the back of the chair, a wide smile on his face, as he pointed to the table between the kitchen and sofas.

As I bent down to pick them up, I heard a smooth whistle, "Damn Rogers, you didn't tell me you got a tattoo. Nice!"

I slowly stood back up, turning to frown at him, confused. "I don't have a tattoo."

"Yes, you do." He pointed to the back of my right calf, looking as confused as I felt. "That is a tattoo."

"I don't have a - what the fuck?" I twisted around, catching sight of it. I rubbed hard at the skin, but it didn't fade.

There was a faint outline of a tree. It was almost skeletal, single lines forming a tiny, thin, leafless tree.

"Dude, how drunk were you? Did Thor give you more of that Asgardian mead again?" Sam climbed over the seat. "It looks like a tree when all the leaves have fallen off it." He looked up, brows furrowed, "if you were getting a tattoo of a tree why wouldn't you get like... a really green leafy tree, or an autumnal one with all the orange leaves?"