"You read my mind," James said, as if this wasn't a daily occurrence by now: trudging back to the apartment, then automatically scouring off all the sticky sweat of the day.
So, just like usual, he went to the shower. Cold water sluicing between his shoulderblades, through the hair he'd cut short to look less like the Winter Soldier of old. Cold water dripping on tile. He showered quickly, briskly, just enough to cool off, with the kind of automatic habitual speed which came from timed showers in the army, metered seconds in a Soviet washroom. After hopping back out, he paused in front of the mirror, which had fogged up his blurry silhouette in the condensation, his unrecognisable face blurred into a haze. James ran his right hand across the mirror, smearing it until he could see himself again: blue eyes blinking back at him.
The cold water cleared his brain, helped scour it loose of distractions (at least, for now). Compared to their stint in the mountains, they were no longer bundled up in blankets and sweaters and layered fuzzy socks, sweatpants and hoodies zipped to his throat. By sheer necessity, now James was in boxer shorts and that perpetual white undershirt. He felt temporarily less stifled by the heat as he stepped back out into the living room to rejoin Natasha, but just as he opened his mouth, the wind raised to a howl and the lights flickered again, and—
And they went out completely, plunging them into darkness, the air conditioner's low growl clinking into silence.
James was a silhouette standing motionless behind the couch; the angles of his head and shoulders painted in the shadows, gone still and quiet. That paranoia ticking over as he instantly envisioned the worst: HYDRA agents cutting the power to their building; SHIELD agents surrounding the apartment.
His voice came came out of the darkness: "You think it's natural?"
no subject
So, just like usual, he went to the shower. Cold water sluicing between his shoulderblades, through the hair he'd cut short to look less like the Winter Soldier of old. Cold water dripping on tile. He showered quickly, briskly, just enough to cool off, with the kind of automatic habitual speed which came from timed showers in the army, metered seconds in a Soviet washroom. After hopping back out, he paused in front of the mirror, which had fogged up his blurry silhouette in the condensation, his unrecognisable face blurred into a haze. James ran his right hand across the mirror, smearing it until he could see himself again: blue eyes blinking back at him.
The cold water cleared his brain, helped scour it loose of distractions (at least, for now). Compared to their stint in the mountains, they were no longer bundled up in blankets and sweaters and layered fuzzy socks, sweatpants and hoodies zipped to his throat. By sheer necessity, now James was in boxer shorts and that perpetual white undershirt. He felt temporarily less stifled by the heat as he stepped back out into the living room to rejoin Natasha, but just as he opened his mouth, the wind raised to a howl and the lights flickered again, and—
And they went out completely, plunging them into darkness, the air conditioner's low growl clinking into silence.
James was a silhouette standing motionless behind the couch; the angles of his head and shoulders painted in the shadows, gone still and quiet. That paranoia ticking over as he instantly envisioned the worst: HYDRA agents cutting the power to their building; SHIELD agents surrounding the apartment.
His voice came came out of the darkness: "You think it's natural?"