1964-06-30 - Bacon, coffee, and toast
Summary: Sharon returns from a CIA trip
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
sharon steve-rogers 

Sharon dropped Bug.

Midnight? 1 am? Sharon's not sure. She didn't have someone to wait for her at the airport this time. No one even knew she was going. Well, except for Steve. He got a single note well over a week ago 'Work calls. Be back when I can. Be safe.' and she was gone like a ghost in the night. She returns much the same way, quiet as can be but far more sore and not wanting to turn on lights, so still picking her way through the big, old mansion that she doesn't know all that well. She's toting a single duffle over her shoulder and limping slightly as she makes her way to her room. Put bag down. Shower. Maybe sleep. All in that order.

Hers is not so far from his and when he hears footsteps in the hallway he sits up in bed. Call it a leftover from his time in the military. Either way he's opening his door. Once he does, he smiles at her. "Hey," he says quietly. "You're back."

The woman certainly didn't expect him to be up and she had hoped she was quiet enough, but after a week and change of being nothing but a shadow, just being able to take solid footsteps felt too good. And she was so tired. Sharon looks up at him, blinking exhaustedly, but seeing him is enough to actually bring a tired smile to her battered features. Someone was in an all out brawl. She doesn't bother to hide it with make up. "Hey, handsome…" She murmurs softly, "Didn't mean to wake you."

Steve chuckles and shakes his head, "Light sleeper." He gives an upwards nod as he takes a look at how beat up she is, "You've looked better. You get in a fight with a bear or something?"

A little groan escapes her lips as she just tosses her duffle into the room, eager to simply get it down. She then rubs one hand drowsily over her face, only now considering just how bad it might look. She knows how bad it feels. "…Russians. Three of them. They don't fight pretty and don't care if you have tits or not. I handled it."

Steve recoils a bit at her words. Not the violence, but the crass way she refers to her breasts. Give it long enough and she'll say something he finds untoward. He does find a chuckle, however, and he shakes his head. "How do the Russians look?"

His recoil makes her smirk a bit. "…Sorry. I keep forgetting you actually might be the last half innocent man left in the world." Sharon breathes out slowly, sinking tired shoulders against the wall and just leaning there. Home. It felt like she was home, and that was weird. "They don't look at all any more." Sharon murmurs simply, no regret in her voice. Just the quiet, calm deadness of someone who has put too many people in their grave. Personally.

"Not much to see in that country anyhow," Steve says, trying to crack a joke to lighten the mood. "The world is a better place now, I take it?"

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips as he asks that, "…Yeah. Safer. It needed to be done." She watches his face, looking for the suspicion, the distrust or disgust she expects to see there. Sharon braced herself for his judgment, but maybe she was wrong in that…

Steve Rogers has killed a shit ton of people.

"Sometimes that's the case. For better or for worse," he replies as he leans against the door jam. "How long are you back for?"

A quiet, respectful nod comes in response to that. He's not wrong. But there is something that releases in Sharon's shoulders to hear him say it. She lets out a breath that is just a little bit easier. "…Dunno. A while, probably. Did the whole clean up job. They just want me for my… specialties, now. So, depends the next time something comes up. No long assignments." She murmurs softly, her rasping voice a bit conflicted about that.

Steve nods, "That can be rough." The words are somewhat sad, if reflective. "Hopefully you'll have a little downtime. I'm trying to get Stark to put in a pool and a gym."

"That'd be nice. I… might lay off the bag for a few days." Sharon looks down to her hands. It's her knuckles, the only place that she actually bled. The backs of her palms are raw and ripped open. There's a few fingernail marks down her arms too, but otherwise it just seems a lot of bruising.

"Yeah, looks like your hands could use the rest," Steve says with a chuckle as he folds his arms over his chest. "What are you havin' for breakfast?" he asks. "If I'm feeling nice, I might offer to make you something."

Breakfast. It's breakfast that breaks her. Sharon Carter has been through every torture in the book, nearly died more than once, knows every flavor of pain and can resist it all. But breakfast, offered by that tender, warm tone. The last hints of distrust, the last bit of barrier she'd built up, it finally just comes rushing down. Before she even entirely knows what she's doing, she's in front of him, leaning up to kiss him. A kiss that is meant to be deep, sweet, desperate… a kiss from someone who isn't sure she remembers how to do it for real, but wants to try. Needs to try.

Steve is taken by surprise and at first he hesitates. This woman is definitely alluring, and in many ways she's a soldier like him. But the way she throws around words, and by her own suggestion, her body, is something that gives him great pause. Nevertheless he kisses her back before eventually pulling away. "So coffee and toast."

There is a slight glimmer in her eyes, unspent tears, tears she probably won't let herself cry. But the first kiss — real kiss — in god knows how long is enough to overwhelm almost anyone. Her bloodied fingertips linger on the side of his face, staring up into those baby blues. "…sorry. I just… I wanted to remember what it was like… when it's real…" She whispers. Though the question gets a weak laugh. "…maybe bacon."

Steve lets out a laugh, "Oh, now you're getting picky." He grins and nods and folds his arms over his chest, "I guess I can do bacon as well."

The laugh makes her smile. It's a real smile and, for a moment, it goes all the way to her tired eyes. Even beaten to hell, she's pretty when she smiles. And it's a smile that looks just a bit like Peggy. "Hey! You ASKED. You know what kind of bacon they have in Russian? NONE! It's just vodka and misery."

Steve chuckles, "I did, ask. That's fair. Bacon it is." He tilts his head and nods, "It matches their winters." He lets out a weary sigh. "It's late. I should probably let you rest."

A weak chuckle crosses her lips, "I… don't think I could sleep if I tried. I need to shower but the thought of moving enough to get out of these clothes is… Maybe I'll just shower like this. It'll get enough…" It's the sort of sore which raising one's arms over one's head is nearly impossible. Bone deep. Everything hurts to shift.

"If this is a way to try and get me to strip your clothing off you," Steve begins, unsure of how to properly end the comment. Then, growing more serious, he raises his eyebrow, "Do you want me to call a doctor?"

"…a gal has to try." Sharon murmurs, tossing him a little wink and a half smile, though it probably wasn't entirely a joke. She waves off the question of a doctor, "No, no…I've certainly been through worse. Shower. I.. will try sleeping. Bacon in the morning. You promised." She then begins the slow limp down the hall towards the bathrooms.

"I promised," Steve says with a chuckle as he looks to the floor and then up to watch her go. "Good night," he calls after her and shuts the door.

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