The silver glow of moonlight slinks in through the bedroom window, drowned out when I turn on the harsh, clinical lamp. The room is modern, everything sleek and streamlined, but it feels a little lifeless. The navy bedsheets are Egyptian cotton, better quality than I've seen in your life. A state of the art computer rests on the minimal desk in the corner, and there's doors leading to a walk-in closet and en-suite. Everything is clean, impeccable. But it isn't home.
I bite my lip, suddenly missing my apartment, my home office crammed with books. There's no art here. No homely touches, candles or vases of flowers. It feels like sleeping and eating at a workplace. Which, I suppose it is.
I can't prolong it any longer. I slip into my suit, terrified it won't fit, or worse, will leave me looking like a bulging sack of potatoes. But I couldn't have been more mistaken.
My mouth drops open as I take in my reflection in the mirror. With the eye-mask on, it doesn't even look like me. Who is this ethereal creature, with long, billowing hair and a tiny waist? I am mesmerised. Lost in the trance, growing bolder, I call forth a flame from my palm. It's such a release, craving to be set free, begging that I call forth even more. I guide a stream of fire to encircle my forearm and dance there, completing the image. It's entirely transfixing. I stare at myself like this, and consider the person staring back at me. Apolla. The name is whispered in my ears, with phantom breath tickling at my neck. The flame wants to grow, wants to be released, wants to be seen…
NO. The mental walls slam down, crashing me back to reality. I extinguish the fire as quickly as I brought it forth. A small part of me pouts as I peel off the suit as fast as I can, shoving it into a bundle in the corner. No amount of magic-spandex is worth breaking my vow, and the last thing I need is to set the entire compound on fire. Half of the Avengers would probably relish the excuse to kill me for it.
I keep busy and distracted, unpacking the few clothes I had time to bring. My yoga pants and sweater don't quite feel the same after experiencing the suit — too bad. I assess the room, and make a mental note to ask if there's a library anywhere on site. When I've finally run out of odd jobs, my stomach lets out a small groan, and I realise I'll need to brave the communal kitchen.
This is your home now, too, I remind myself, a lame attempt at a pep talk as I muster up the courage. You have just as much right to be here, to head out for a pb&j, as anybody else. Despite my words, my only real comfort comes in the fact it's so late I can't imagine anybody else will disturb me.
I head up the stairs, anxious for a creaking floorboard or other giveaway that would send somebody else along. What if Thor comes bounding out, or Bruce decides on a nightcap? But nobody comes, and I relax as I come out on a large landing, the open-plan kitchen straight ahead. It's far enough from the bedrooms I can breathe easy again. The wall to the right is made entirely of glass, with the most breathtaking view of the grounds and forest I've ever seen. And just before it, snapping my attention entirely, is a grand piano.
I walk slowly to the instrument, all thoughts of hunger suddenly gone. Ten years of lessons with my grandpa flip through my head, lending me a sadness and a nostalgia. It's the greatest comfort I could hope for in a place like this. All thoughts of the Avengers and Thanos and fire-bending leave my mind, completely swept away, as I sit at the velvet stool and tap out a soft melody. The keys give way to my fingers as though on instinct rather than force. I grow bolder, letting the music fill the room, and a wide smile spreads across my face. It's not loud enough to wake anybody, but enough that I am completely absorbed. I find myself wishing for sheet music, but have enough favourites that I know by heart. Some pieces from my grandpa, dating back to his childhood even. I cycle through these and then move into the more contemporary pieces, humming along at first, finally growing brave enough to sing softly. I'm halfway through an Elton John number when movement at the edge of the room catches my eye.
My fingers freeze above the keys, my head flicking around sharply. The last notes fade away and I sit, like a deer caught in headlights. Steve Rogers is standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall a little. How long has he been there?
"Please, don't stop," he says kindly. "Not on my account."
But how on earth can I keep going, lost in my own little world, knowing his eyes are still on me? I shake my head.
"I was just finishing up," I say, heat flushing my cheeks a deep shade of crimson.
"That's too bad," he replies. "You play beautifully."
"Thank you." I glance at the clock on the wall, to see it's almost one in the morning. "Can't sleep?"
"Apparently not," he sighs, walking to the kitchen. I stand tentatively. "I was on my way to get a glass of warm milk. You want one?"
"Warm milk?" I ask hesitantly.
"What can I say? I'm an old fashioned guy." He tilts his head towards me and holds up a glass.
"Sure."
I bite my lip, fully distracted as he busies himself in the kitchen. I can't help admiring the way he moves, so stoic and sure, as though nothing in the world could ever faze him. The way his blue shirt stretches across his chest, the curve of his biceps taut against skin. I avert my eyes quickly as he turns to face me again, handing over a glass of warm milk. His fingertips brush against my own, leaving the strangest sensation, not unlike when the flames flicker at my palms.
"Thanks," I breathe, taking a small sip and closing my eyes.
Snap out of it. I steel myself, remind myself that it's stupid. The very last thing I need is a distraction, a crush on the captain himself. As if he would ever be interested in me. The police have a warrant out for my freaking arrest, as Stark so kindly reminded me as leverage to get me to join. And if I ever lost control in jealousy or anger, for even a second, countless more lives would be lost at my hand. Even if Steve was interested in dating at all — which he solidly was not — I'd be last on the list. There's no point in hurting my own feelings by entertaining a possibility that doesn't exist.
I need to get out of here. With the two of us in the same room, alone, my resolve weakens. His scent doesn't help — like fresh linen, with a hint of sandalwood and something deeper, muskier. Surprising. I'm unaware of my own racing pulse until he raises an eyebrow. Shit. He has heightened senses — can he hear my pounding heart from three feet away?
"You okay?" he asks, forehead creasing in concern.
"I'm gonna go finish this in my room," I say quickly.
His eyes become kind, searching. "If it's about earlier today…"
Dear God. No. I cannot have him taking pity on me — could there be anything more mortifying?
I cut him off. "Goodnight, Steve. I hope you can get some sleep."
He inclines his head. "You too."