Re: log, Harlem: Selina K/Steve R
[She looked like hell. Steve wicked sweat, stinging, day-old, from his eyes, and squinted from across the clatter of gravel at the woman struggling to lift herself over the ledge of the roof. She looked like hell, purgatory and its attendants, and the man wrapped in the patriotism of a country currently eating its own fucking foot (excuse the language) was careful. He'd had enough encounters now to know the look she was giving him—he caught the sharp needle of fear that laced pupils wide and black, even behind goggles, and the rigid openness of a jaw sprung. Steve lifted hands in padded red, he curled forward some, making himself appear smaller even.]
Selina. [He spoke firmly, without hesitation. Maybe training didn't prepare one for this specificity, but Steve had mastered remaining calm in a crisis a long time ago.] It's me.
[He didn't bother trying to advance on her, not even to help her when it looked like she was going to collapse. His eyes didn't move to where her hand hovered over weaponry, but he saw it. The shield wasn't hitched, but he was just as ready as she was.] What do you think? Can I have some of that blood?
[Very carefully, slowly, he reached into his own makeshift satchel, a thing slung around his waist, and withdrew from the cushion of cotton balls, a vacutainer. He held it high enough for her to see clearly.]