If he hadn't seen the same look before, Steve almost wouldn't recognize his own face. He looked... haunted. Which was how he felt, how he was. As soon as he thought he had a handle on things, as soon as he started moving forward, he'd get thrown back into it all, and have to relive the worst moments of his life.
He heard the quiet movements of Rogue, and used them as a way to center himself. He closed his eyes, visualizing everything: the rustle of the sheets meant she was getting out of bed. The soft padding of her footsteps ─ pausing briefly outside the bathroom door, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be left alone, or wanted her to come in and ask if everything was alright. But she kept moving; through the living room; the soft *click* of a light-switch, and then the soft but unmistakable sound of drawers and cabinets being opened and closed.
He still felt a little like his skin was going to jitter and fall right off him, but he was calmer, now, and could at least pretend, for a little while, that he was alright. He'd have to do something with his excess energy in a while, but for now, he turned off the bathroom light and wandered out, through the living room, to the edge of the kitchen. He leaned against the fridge, instinctively crossing his arms, before realizing that probably looked more aggressive than he meant it to. He wasn't really sure what to do with his hands, as his sleep pants didn't have pockets, so he finally just grabbed the fabric where the pockets should be, letting the tactile feeling of the fabric continue to ground him.
"What're you looking for?" he asked softly, trying to put as much apology as he could into his voice, and his expression, if she happened to look at him. It was still a little difficult, seeing her in that shirt so closely after the dream, but he made himself pick out the differences. She wasn't wearing a uniform skirt; the shirt wasn't torn or ripped or stained, and seeing as how it had been made for him and not her, it didn't fit her the same as it had in the dream.
It wasn't the same. It hadn't been real. (Except somewhere, it had been.) She was here now, with him, as okay as she could be.
no subject
He heard the quiet movements of Rogue, and used them as a way to center himself. He closed his eyes, visualizing everything: the rustle of the sheets meant she was getting out of bed. The soft padding of her footsteps ─ pausing briefly outside the bathroom door, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be left alone, or wanted her to come in and ask if everything was alright. But she kept moving; through the living room; the soft *click* of a light-switch, and then the soft but unmistakable sound of drawers and cabinets being opened and closed.
He still felt a little like his skin was going to jitter and fall right off him, but he was calmer, now, and could at least pretend, for a little while, that he was alright. He'd have to do something with his excess energy in a while, but for now, he turned off the bathroom light and wandered out, through the living room, to the edge of the kitchen. He leaned against the fridge, instinctively crossing his arms, before realizing that probably looked more aggressive than he meant it to. He wasn't really sure what to do with his hands, as his sleep pants didn't have pockets, so he finally just grabbed the fabric where the pockets should be, letting the tactile feeling of the fabric continue to ground him.
"What're you looking for?" he asked softly, trying to put as much apology as he could into his voice, and his expression, if she happened to look at him. It was still a little difficult, seeing her in that shirt so closely after the dream, but he made himself pick out the differences. She wasn't wearing a uniform skirt; the shirt wasn't torn or ripped or stained, and seeing as how it had been made for him and not her, it didn't fit her the same as it had in the dream.
It wasn't the same. It hadn't been real. (Except somewhere, it had been.) She was here now, with him, as okay as she could be.