Re: log, Harlem: Selina K/Steve R
[Steve had died. Or he thought he'd died. He'd been on his knees enough times, head bowed to the scythe of Fate, but that final swing had never come, not even when the tooth of blade cut, flashed, and his eyes closed. No. Because then he'd woken up decades later. But he'd lost, deeply, repeatedly, and he understood that facet of life as well as anyone. How many had he helped usher to death's door? How many hands had he held?—But this wasn't their time, not now. This wasn't it. He knew it and he had to make himself believe it. Not for his sake, but for everyone else's.
The city would recover.
They all would. There would be scars, wounds, trauma deeper than tissue and bone, but it would heal, scab over. Steve believed that. And he hung onto that belief like a man did the edge of a cliff. Letting go was just not an option.
The tremor of Selina's hand didn't go unnoticed, but it calmed, just a little, at the sound of Steve's voice.] I sing. [He smiled back at her. The vial grew darker. He didn't know if they ought try for another, so he ignored the choice for the moment.] Tony feels useless. Dr. Banner is busy in the lab, worrying about everyone but himself. Sharon I'll be seeing soon. She's organizing with S.H.I.E.L.D.
[Given how tired and ill-fed, still sick, Selina was, Steve made up his mind. This would be enough. She couldn't give more. She'd collapse. The man removed the needle, tucked it, along with the tube into the cotton safety of his pack. After pressing on the small puncture wound for a moment, then taping it off with a bandage over cotton, he fished something out of the small satchel—a power bar swiped from Sharon's.] I'll tell Bruce that, if you eat this.