sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: September 17th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Will add if necessary.
STATUS: Closed

Even if Wakanda weren't as historically reclusive as it's been until more immediately recent memory, Steve wouldn't pretend he knows enough about it to say whether the fountain belongs there. He's hardly even been outdoors, for all that he's had quite a view from inside; as a guy who draws things in a notebook on occasion he doesn't really think it comes from the same school as the giant panther carved out of the side of a mountain, but what does he know? He and Bucky arrived bloody and exhausted, in no mood for sightseeing, no matter how much the hospitality of Wakanda might be considered a rare privilege. Hard to see it that way, after sleeping it off for a day or so only to wake up to Bucky having already made up his mind.

He's had a lot on his own mind.

Still, the fountain seems out of place with what he's managed to glimpse of a ferocious sort of beauty, in the midst of buildings that Tony would be more comfortable calling home. This is— well, this looks more like something from his time. And he'll just as surely end up calling the bottom of this fountain his home, if he can't get out of here, since he apparently has enough clothes to get him through a cold winter. At least mulling over architecture is as good a way as any to keep from thinking too hard on how much trouble it's giving him.

He hadn't made the first jump. He puts the sides at about fifteen feet, too high for a straight jump for the edge, but manageable with the help of one of the more horizontal cracks in the wall and a running start. He'd taken a few steps backward, used the momentum to jam the toe of one of his new boots into the crevice and launch himself upward. It'd been no good, the tips of his fingers reaching far below the edge. He'd felt it in his body before that, though, the unexpected effort of the maneuver, when it ought to be so much going through the motions. The second try hadn't gone any better, after trying it from farther back, and he'd looked around at the scattered debris in here with him, determining that the leaves and sticks and dirt weren't exactly enough to make anything of. Gives him an idea though.

Climbing up the centerpiece is easier, even if he can still feel the strain in his calves, his arms and shoulders. Steve ignores it as best he can for now, figures he'll get the answer to why his heart's beating harder in his chest to keep up with his exertion when he finds whoever brought him here. Pretty effective, whatever they gave him, to keep him unconscious long enough to move him, and to weaken him even longer — though he can't help but wonder why, then, he doesn't feel the least bit groggy. He reaches the top of the centerpiece and braces himself there, somewhat unsteadily — which he also ignores — and grabs for a branch hanging from the tree overhead. He's just able to reach the nearest one, though it's by no means the strongest, and it bows toward him. He sighs, mutters, "This part would've been a lot easier seventy years ago," and takes a look at his surroundings.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If she's expecting the information about Ross to come as a revelation, she's going to be disappointed. It's not the first time a man like Ross has wanted him dead, and if he's being honest and self-aware — and he supposes Natasha's got him dead to rights here — it's unlikely to be the last. He says, "All the more reason not to sign, if those were the terms." He's not sure he buys her reasoning anyway, his own skepticism plain on his face after he says it. The threat would've come after she'd already agreed to the Accords, and if she didn't think he could survive Ross, she really doesn't believe in him. He doesn't want to accept that just yet.

He's dropped his hand from her arm, though, because of the rest of it. Not because he isn't in the mood for the fight — he is. If nothing else, it's a real problem that he can wrap his head and his heart around, and he can admit at least to himself that it's not entirely unwelcome right now. And he doesn't like having his own words thrown back at him, like she didn't know perfectly well he'd been using it as a shorthand. For what they do, despite the cost, because it needs to be done, and they can and will. It's gotten him out of bed on more mornings than Steve cares to count — if not with joy then at least with purpose.

But it's still, he thinks, the heart of the matter, because if it's all of those things, it's also not enough. Grief teaches nothing of value except to hold on to what you've got. He knows Natasha gets it, but he doesn't think she gets this, where it hurts the most to be misunderstood: that he'd known exactly what he was doing and would do it all over again. He'll always find a way to save people, but there's only so many ways he can keep the people he loves by his side, and he'll fight tooth and nail for it every time. Or he really won't have a reason to wake up anymore.

So it's what he says, looking down at her shirt on the ground without really seeing it.

"I'd do the same thing for you."

Whether that's something she'd be grateful for, he doesn't know. Maybe not, if it's only a half-cocked sentiment to her.

Edited (typo) 2016-10-29 22:23 (UTC)

She wants to retort that the reason she signed had nothing to do with threats from the US Government, because she's dealt with threats from men far more dangerous than any suit sitting on Capitol Hill. Ross doesn't frighten her, he never has; what does frighten her is the loss of the people she cares about. What does frighten her enough to sign the Accords was the dissolution of the team she had started to call home, the idea that what she'd learned in the Red Room ('You have no place in the world') was true. That everything, once again, was a lie. The safest hands are there own, and she knows that, lives it and breathes it, but when your hands are cut off — well, the optimal option there is to at least have one hand left, right?

There is no doubt in her mind that Steve would do it all over again if given half the chance. He'd make the same choices, move on the same paths, and hold his head just as high as he was now, because he's right. But so was Tony. And that's the rub.

But she doesn't get to say any of that, the words dying in her throat as he follows up, and he won't even look at her as he says it. She's not sure if that makes it better or worse. Part of her wants to ask him what gives him the right to even say something like that, another part of her wants to walk away, but what she does is stare at him, mouth slightly open in shock, brow furrowed in almost horrified confusion. It takes her a moment to find the words (and she doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's floundering for them; it'd be disrespectful to be anything other than entirely herself around him, even if they weren't in the middle of an argument), and when she does, she's quiet.

"I know."

The spot where his hand was on her skin burns.

Edited (typo) 2016-10-30 19:54 (UTC)

Maybe he's got no right to say it at all, and that's part of the problem. From the look on her face it's about as welcome as he expected, and that she didn't need him to say it but still seems plenty appalled that he has— he's at a loss. He doesn't know what to make of it. He hadn't looked away from her for any reason but to gather the thought to mind, but now that he's spoken he holds her confused gaze, his own deeply furrowed. Part of him wants to say that if she knows so damn much about him, then he's got nothing left to tell her. A better part of him knows that he's been grateful for it before — in very recent memory, in fact — and if he can put aside that he's also feeling petty and confused, he's grateful for it now, too. He doesn't take being known for granted anymore.

(He doesn't think— being here— That doesn't make it any less true.)

"Okay," he says, also quiet, and after a couple seconds looks away again, this time to take half a step back and bend down to pick up her shirt and needle and thread, holding them out to her as he straightens. His other hand still hangs awkwardly at his side, and if her skin burns where he held on to her, his feels cold.

An olive branch. Perhaps not literal, but it is what it is. There's also no hesitation as she accepts it with both hands, gathering the pile of cloth and thread to her. She checks briefly for the needle, and satisfied that it's still tucked into the fabric where she'd stuck it before vacating the inn, she drops her hands to rest in front of her, looking up at him. Then there's hesitation, wondering if she should even be asking at all.

"Come sit with me?"

She assumes it will be a no, and he's well within his right. The hurt he feels now started when she said Tony was right, and he clearly hasn't stopped feeling that way, despite her best efforts and intentions to rectify it. They've been like this before, she thinks, tentative and wary of one another. Trust, she thinks, is fragile and easily broken, and she knows this. She's still surprised by it.

Steve nods, waits for her to lead the way. It'd never be a no, to hell with the hurt: he has, at every juncture, always tried his damnedest to have Natasha in his corner. He's not too stupid or stubborn to see that she was, in her own way, trying to do just that, and he'd meant it when he told her he was sorry he couldn't take the same path. The point — maybe not the entire point, but enough if it — is that he can't afford not to hold on to what he's got. He's not willing to sacrifice his own path for it, to stave off the loss, but that's always been his choice and his cross to bear.

"What happened to it?" he asks, subdued after taking a fortifying breath into his lungs, an unconscious digging in for the long haul, whether it's for Natasha or this place.

Edited 2016-11-18 08:21 (UTC)

It takes her a second to realize what he's talking about, mostly because of her surprise that he said yes. Natasha watches him for a moment, studying his face but whatever she's thinking, it's gone by the time she turns to head towards her tree.

“I was out in the woods looking for mushrooms, nuts… anything edible I could get my hands on. I saw some berries in a thicket, but apparently the thorns didn't like me, and ripped a hole in my shirt.” She settles onto the ground as she says it, unfolding the cloth and sticking her finger through the rip in the sleeve.

“It's an easy fix,” she continues, shrugging one shoulder. “It's probably won't take me longer than a minute but I like to sit outside. At least while it's nice out.”

While she speaks, she grabs the already threaded needle and starts the process. Her stitches are simple and nothing to write home about but they'll hold, and that's what matters. There is (what feels like) a long moment of silence, and she wants to thank him for sitting with her but they're beyond that, even if it doesn't feel like it. For one of the few times in her life, Natasha doesn't know what to say, and that, too, is a testament to everything that's happened to them. What is there to say? The ice under her feet feels thin and she's afraid to step on it.