There's always a moment when Steve wakes up, a second or two where it's all a little blurry, when he doesn't know what he'll see when he opens his eyes: the blood and screams of re-gaining consciousness in the middle of battle; the gray of a winter in the French countryside, with the sound of bullets in the distance; a room full of falsehoods to hide that he's lost his entire century; an apartment with blank white walls and an end table with one ticking clock.
This morning, he looks around, and he sees her: concentrating on her tablet, clearly having gotten up early to go over the strategic plan once again.
She notices that his eyes are open, and she smiles and says, gently, "It's only 4AM, Steve, you can go back to sleep"; he thinks about that first moment waking up, the sheer confused terror of it, and he's not sure he wants to endure it twice in one morning, but her hand is stroking his hair now, and his eyelids feel heavy, and he thinks that maybe he can.
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This morning, he looks around, and he sees her: concentrating on her tablet, clearly having gotten up early to go over the strategic plan once again.
She notices that his eyes are open, and she smiles and says, gently, "It's only 4AM, Steve, you can go back to sleep"; he thinks about that first moment waking up, the sheer confused terror of it, and he's not sure he wants to endure it twice in one morning, but her hand is stroking his hair now, and his eyelids feel heavy, and he thinks that maybe he can.
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