Re: [En route: Janus, Steve, Atticus]
Steve was tired. He didn't normally even experienced tiredness. His energy and metabolism moved so fast, he slept a handful of hours a night, if that, and, so long as he ate as much as he was supposed to, he could keep going. After all, what would be the point of a super soldier who needed to sleep twelve hours a day? But, he was—he was tired. Maybe it was because when he did manage to lie down, to close his eyes, he then just dreamt for hours on end, of war, of moving, of loss, so that when he woke up, it was like he'd gone through the gauntlet. Hey, maybe he was finally getting old. He did have that thought. Maybe the serum was wearing off and his years were catching up to him. It didn't really matter, of course, because, he wasn't going to have time to be tired. But, after the last week or so, he had asked himself more than once if, well, if maybe he was sick? He used to get so exhausted just existing. He could remember those days like they still happened. How sick and tired he'd feel. How even sitting up in bed after a bad couple of days would feel like too much. But Steve McRory just pushed on. It was what he did. So he did it now.
He'd driven his bike to the Capital. It was cold, and he felt every lash of every wet, dreary leaf that crossed his path. But, once he was on the tarmac, once his bike was being reeled in by the small, polite crew, he shed his old leather jacket and the shield he had strapped to his back, like he couldn't get them off fast enough. He dumped both on the nearest seat once he boarded the plane, leaving him stripped down to a white t-shirt, jeans, a quiet expression, and windblown hair. He'd shaved a few days prior, for the first time in what seemed like decades, but he already had a gold-burn of shadow along his jaw and above his upper-lip.—He had imagined how it would feel, going back. That was how he thought of picking up his shield again. 'Going back.' Like a horse, plucked from the pasture, to be refitted to a carriage. Like an old gear retrofitted and reused. Like an old dog going back to old tricks. Steve had imagined what it would be like, vibranium familiar against his palm, red, white, and blue splashed over him, and a charge before him. He had imagined the excitement, the iron taste on the tongue, the way the air could even feel colder, harder. He'd imagined invigoration. He'd imagined this old war machine, the weapon that he was tempered to be, waking from sleep, but gladly and bloodthirsty. That wasn't what this felt like. This was the aches and pains of a sleeping limb. It was shambling, slow, almost reticent. It was hard.