Steve Rogers Imagines

Getaway

PLEASE READ: There are mentions of a panic attack/PTSD in the first few pages of this fic so please beware. I wanted to explore the consequences of the blip because I felt it was very much swept under the rug by the MCU. Also, I don't have a clue about US geography so please don't come for me. There's also a splashy splash of smut in there so beware! Anyways, happy reading and constructive criticism is always welcome!

She makes it to the avenger's office with two seconds to spare.

The muffled thump of the door meeting the casing is like a gunshot, echoing in the quiet room. She stumbles past the table and over to the couch, trying to get out of the direct line of sight. The leather creaks under her weight as she collapses onto the cushion. That constant undercurrent of dread builds into a wave, washing over her. Her hands start to shake and soon, the rest of her body follows suit. The faux-wood grain of the coffee table before her is the only thing in focus; the rest of the world is warped as if she's viewing it through binoculars. Her heart feels as if someone has a fist around it and is trying to pull it free through her throat.

"Stop... fucking... crying," she hisses, wiping furiously at her cheeks. But her lacrimal glands pay no mind to her threats, nor does the rest of her when she begs it to stop panicking.

All this, she bemoans, over dust – one moment she's going about her day and the next she was back in that dark room, shrouded by the thick curtains draped over the walls, sealed in and suffocated by the people around her, turning to dust before her own eyes, waiting and waiting and waiting to die and turning to dust herself.

She doesn't remember what terrible excuse she made to her co-worker, nor does she remember the trip from the upper floor to here, several floors down. None of her friends must have seen her, because none of them have followed her in here, at the ready with their hugs and assurances, suffocating in their own loving way.

"You're the worst... person on earth," she whispers, clenching her jaw in an effort to stave off another round of tears.

"Y/N?"

She glances up to see Steve stepping into the room, his mouth crumpled into that familiar frown of worry – the one he's worn ever since the blip. He says her name like it's a question, as if she has the option to shake her head no and become someone else. It's a tempting idea. Her reply is at the ready, as natural as breathing now. Not that she's doing a very good job of doing the latter.

"I'm fine."

"I see that." Though the words should be harsh, his tone is anything but – weighed down by all the concern in the world, it seems. His gaze roves over her, observing and diagnosing her like the specimen she is, walking through the tower's halls once more. "You're having a panic attack," he says, more to himself than to her.

"Correction: my second. First was in the supply closet. Decided I wanted a change of scenery."

Although it's a struggle to get the words out, her audience doesn't seem to appreciate the joke.

"Do you want me to sit with you?" he asks.

"Please." The plea is whispered into her clasped hands. She tightens her grip, trying in vain to stop the tremors working through her.

Steve crosses the room and takes a seat next to her, giving her the illusion of space by twisting at the waist to look at her. In blocking her view of the hallway, he also blocks them from seeing her. His hand comes to rest on the space between them, a show of support that doesn't make her feel crowded or trapped. She could kiss him right now, if it weren't for the whole world-feeling-like-it's-falling-out-from-underneath-her sensation. Her lungs ache with each choppy, shallow breath she drags in.