Maybe that's all any human being can do, in the end: to know they're flawed and try to be better. It's fucking exhausting, but then Steve's never been the type to take the path of least resistance. More the opposite, much to his friends' amusement and annoyance.
He's read some mythology by this point, in a possibly-misguided attempt to catch up on this brave new world he's found himself in, which is apparently one of nine other brave old worlds full of beings he never ever wants to meet (he likes a challenge, but there are limits). The Loki and Thor he keeps reading about do not seem to quite match with the men he's met, and on some level he finds that hilarious, because he knows how legends work. Captain America is purported to have done things that Steve Rogers, for all his crazy recklessness, would have considered foolhardy and/or impossible. Still, maybe there's a grain of truth in all of these stories. He wonders about Loki when he looks out the window at a bright sliver of moon, and now he wonders if there's some sort of healing herb he should have been keeping around just in case of a crisis.
"I have some witch hazel," he offers. "Extract, I mean. Probably suspended in rubbing alcohol. My mother used to use it for bruises."
It works better than ibuprofen, he finds, for after-training aches. That says something about it's efficacy, maybe. Or maybe pain is mostly psychosomatic for Steve up until it comes from an injury as serious as a gunshot wound.
He keeps close to Loki in the elevator, and guides him gently, quietly, down the hall until they reach his own suite of rooms. He's likely at least seen this by now. It's very, very tidy; the bed always seems to be made, the clothes always put away. Tonight is no exception, and he guides Loki to the sofa and tugs an extra cushion off the windowseat for his upper back.
no subject
He's read some mythology by this point, in a possibly-misguided attempt to catch up on this brave new world he's found himself in, which is apparently one of nine other brave old worlds full of beings he never ever wants to meet (he likes a challenge, but there are limits). The Loki and Thor he keeps reading about do not seem to quite match with the men he's met, and on some level he finds that hilarious, because he knows how legends work. Captain America is purported to have done things that Steve Rogers, for all his crazy recklessness, would have considered foolhardy and/or impossible. Still, maybe there's a grain of truth in all of these stories. He wonders about Loki when he looks out the window at a bright sliver of moon, and now he wonders if there's some sort of healing herb he should have been keeping around just in case of a crisis.
"I have some witch hazel," he offers. "Extract, I mean. Probably suspended in rubbing alcohol. My mother used to use it for bruises."
It works better than ibuprofen, he finds, for after-training aches. That says something about it's efficacy, maybe. Or maybe pain is mostly psychosomatic for Steve up until it comes from an injury as serious as a gunshot wound.
He keeps close to Loki in the elevator, and guides him gently, quietly, down the hall until they reach his own suite of rooms. He's likely at least seen this by now. It's very, very tidy; the bed always seems to be made, the clothes always put away. Tonight is no exception, and he guides Loki to the sofa and tugs an extra cushion off the windowseat for his upper back.