Re: log, Manhattan: Sharon C/Steve R
Most of Steve's injuries—if not all of them—were, in a rare stroke of luck, superficial The suit did its job well, and whatever had managed to slice through its protective layers—a katana? a bullet? a car door?—had only just grazed the skin beneath. Small cuts bled, but the regenerative cells powered by a 70 year old serum did their work fast, knitting skin back together, white blood cells piling upon one another like fallen soldiers, clotting and scabbing in equal time. The increasingly familiar pressure of Sharon's hands, now exploring for compromised areas of the spangled suit, helped too. Maybe it didn't heal, but it calmed Steve, and that counted for something.
There was no forethought to the way he lifted his own hands to catch hers in their search. He squeezed her fingers in his, a notion of comfort.
"I don't have another one," Steve admitted. His eyes dropped to the tilt of his shield against the wall, but drew back to Sharon like poles gone arctic. He smiled, easily, enjoying the assertive tone in her voice more than the occasion called for. "I'll be okay. But I'll take the ride."
When Agent Thirteen turned her eyes up at him and speared him with her own smile, Steve was glad for it—glad he'd taken the time to come here, if only to step away from the chaos for a moment.
"I saw them rank and file. What did you tell them? They looked a little spooked to see me." He grinned.