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log, Marvel, hospital: Selina K & Steve R
[Time moved slowly behind the hermetically-sealed doors of the hospital waiting room. It ticked by in seconds, but the seconds themselves were syrup, they stuck to one another and held tight. Steve didn't know how long he'd been reclining under the too-bright lights, head nooked over the seat of his uncomfortable chair and his long legs folded at the ankle on speckled tile. All signs of Pepper's presence had been taken with her—her cream jacket, her heels—and the man with the neatly side-swept hair was alone in the room. There were a few books on the chair next to his own, stacked upon pale green cushioning chosen for its anonymity and soothing aspects. His journal was tabbed open to a rough sketch done in graphite, it was a hand, fingers unfinished, grasping something yet to be drawn. All around it were cramped words, some underlined, all rushed together in a sweep of handwriting that was more concerned with catching thought than it was with readability. The pencil, old, sharped to a harsh point, was behind Steve's ear.
Words welled together in his mind, inspiring, just the right size to cut with teeth, and he tried to order them. But it was difficult and he wasn't making very much headway. With everything going on with Pepper, it was too easy to get sidetracked, and eventually, Steve forced himself upright in the chair, then out of it, to pace.
After Pepper had left from the cafeteria, he'd gone home too. He'd cleaned up. He'd talked to Bucky. In a black t-shirt and dark gray slacks (with no belt; he was slowly getting into this 21st century thing), he returned. The bottle of bourbon remained untouched, cap screwed on tight, and half-hidden under last week's paper. Steve glanced at it, but left it as he continued walking the lap of the room. He mumbled to himself.] I don't know why that smacks of jingoism, but it does.
Words welled together in his mind, inspiring, just the right size to cut with teeth, and he tried to order them. But it was difficult and he wasn't making very much headway. With everything going on with Pepper, it was too easy to get sidetracked, and eventually, Steve forced himself upright in the chair, then out of it, to pace.
After Pepper had left from the cafeteria, he'd gone home too. He'd cleaned up. He'd talked to Bucky. In a black t-shirt and dark gray slacks (with no belt; he was slowly getting into this 21st century thing), he returned. The bottle of bourbon remained untouched, cap screwed on tight, and half-hidden under last week's paper. Steve glanced at it, but left it as he continued walking the lap of the room. He mumbled to himself.] I don't know why that smacks of jingoism, but it does.