No matter how Rogue meant those last two words, they struck a bittersweet chord in Steve's heart. He leaned his head down and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. "Not going anywhere," he murmured back, his secret code phrase for her.
Feeling another story might just keep her awake, Steve decided on something else. He probably would never feel comfortable singing this when she was awake, or when anyone was around to hear him, even if they couldn't tell when he messed up, but it was an intensely private thing, something he'd only attempted when he was alone, and feeling desolate.
He began singing a song he never truly understood; he could pronounce the words, knew the flow of syllables, could recognize a few words here and there as being separate from the other sounds, but for the most part, it was just memorized repetition. It was in Irish, and his mother hadn't wanted to teach him, telling him he was in America, he should speak English like everyone else. But she would sing, to him, to herself, and he had soaked it up.
The sounds flowed easily off his tongue, a high, soft pitch with a rhythm entirely different from English-language songs, but soothing, to him at least, as it symbolized home, and comfort. He tripped over a few of the harder-to-pronounce words here and there, but comforting Rogue had helped lull him into a half-awake state as well, and he just corrected himself and kept going, not fussing over anything.
no subject
Feeling another story might just keep her awake, Steve decided on something else. He probably would never feel comfortable singing this when she was awake, or when anyone was around to hear him, even if they couldn't tell when he messed up, but it was an intensely private thing, something he'd only attempted when he was alone, and feeling desolate.
He began singing a song he never truly understood; he could pronounce the words, knew the flow of syllables, could recognize a few words here and there as being separate from the other sounds, but for the most part, it was just memorized repetition. It was in Irish, and his mother hadn't wanted to teach him, telling him he was in America, he should speak English like everyone else. But she would sing, to him, to herself, and he had soaked it up.
The sounds flowed easily off his tongue, a high, soft pitch with a rhythm entirely different from English-language songs, but soothing, to him at least, as it symbolized home, and comfort. He tripped over a few of the harder-to-pronounce words here and there, but comforting Rogue had helped lull him into a half-awake state as well, and he just corrected himself and kept going, not fussing over anything.