so they're connected to one another? idk.

...

day three; us against the world by coldplay.

All and all, the weather's pretty pleasant today.

It's hard deciding to focus solely on that, but that's what she does in the end. The heat is nearly unbearable, but Maria's felt worse - back pressed against the harsh ground, a sharp rock digging at her left shoulder and hip roughly, and her lip's busted. That's for sure. She could taste the blood.

Damn. It'll bruise. Everything will.

But her hand stays. Hurts like a bitch to move, to keep it steady. But it extends anyway, away from how it should've been kept close to her body, up to where his heart lied within his ribcage. And it's beating. Hard and quick, and sometimes, soft and slow (so dangerously, suddenly slow) - but it's there. He's alive.

"Steve." She hisses. "Wake up."

He doesn't.

They're soaked from the tip of their hair and up to their toes and she's shivering. (He's not. It's expected. He's superhuman, she's just, well, human.) And she can't estimate exactly where they are - too far deep from the town, deeper than they should've been - but if they (she) don't see it to their injuries soon, things definitely won't get better. That, she can confirm.

"Steve," she tries pushing herself up, hissing as the rocks under them digs deeper into her skin, stabbing her right at her back and grunts. It's supposed to be a business trip. (With a side kind of vacation-trip as well, as soon as the Avengers decided to hop on when Tony declared that Thailand's a pretty secluded place to get away from, for a while, until of course, some bastard decided it's fun to blow stuff up and put a distance between the team. How freaking fantastic.)

She honestly doesn't know what happened. (Not in details, she doesn't. Like she said: it's supposed to be a business trip. For her and Pepper, that was. That's all.)

"Your lips are blue," he mumbles when she gets him to open his eyes, but he's still a little out of it due to the split at the side of his skull, gushing blood over yellowy-blond hair, painting over his lashes. He does not look good.

She smiles, a little, mounting her face near as she topples herself atop of him, pressing her palm harder against his chest - keep it beating, Captain - and squints, "You're going to be fine, Cap. Just- hold on, okay?"

"Your lips are blue," he brushes his thumb over her lips, pressing his nail by the edge and she doesn't push the contact away. Can't. Not important. Whatever.

She's got more pressing matter to settle with.

A group of villagers find them thirty-six minutes later, half-dragging his body up to their little run-down, wooden house where the existence of electricity is minimum at best. They patch her up with a cloth to which she wraps her broken arm with and holds it, but she doesn't leave his side. Never. Can't Couldn't. Won't.

She speaks Thai about three hours later, picking up the basics at the very least, while an older woman tends to her wound and a few men leave Steve's body to sweat under the heat. (The only fan that's available are being used by a woman breastfeeding her child while a toddler snugs up on her, and Maria might be harsh, but she's not cruel.) So she sticks herself to his feet, just stays there, and watches.

The medic they have is not the best, but they keep Steve's head from bleeding further and Maria learns to say her thanks properly. She smiles, a little, when the same woman gives them the water they need, and helps her chug it down Rogers' throat. He's resistant, but he's also half-conscious; so Maria doesn't stop when he chocks (only pauses to help him swallow) and knows how they both need to rehydrate.

"Husband," another woman points out repeatedly, as though fear she wouldn't understand it. "Rest. He, rest. Husband, sleep."

"Yes," Maria returns, smiles to reassure. "Yes." She adds in Thai, never bothers to correct them.

He wakes up in a daze when the sun goes down (the mosquitoes were a bitch), searching for a familiar figure when she ducks her own face lower, runs her hand over his bandaged scalp in an attempt to soothe him from doing anything drastic. "Hey. Rogers, you're fine. You're fine."

"Maria," he throatily calls out, blue eyes flicking nearly maniacally on her dirtied face. "We're - there was -"

"I know," she says, nods. "I know."

"We're-"

"Far away. Washed up. You got hurt." She's got him from stop moving then, but she doesn't pull herself away, even when she could feel his breath on her chin, his heated eyes staring her down. "We're okay. We're on good hands."

Well, better than dead anyway.

"Your arm-"

"It'll heal. I checked the wound. I checked yours too. We're gonna get that check up when we rendezvous with the others, okay? You still need some rest."

"I-" He winces then, releasing a loud hiss, attracting a few women to come by and hush about, in chatters of panic and words toppling over the others, and Maria explains that there's nothing to worry about. "My head-"

"Yeah. It's not good." She gazes at them, cups the injured area softly with her hand to let it land softly back against the ground, and unconsciously shushes him as she does. "There's a radio, I think. I'll release a signal. Tony'll pick it up, or whoever's left. I just need to make sure you're-" She pauses, looks back at him and swallows. "That you're looked after."

He doesn't scoff, but she knows he wants to. "It's just us?"

She nods, considers and exhales out, "Just us."

And then he smiles, a small smile, through the daze and mosquitoes' bites and dry blood smearing one side of his face, and breathes out, "Well, that's not the worst thing I've heard."

She offers him a half-smirk, just because. "Just get some rest, Rogers."

"Thank you, Maria."

"Rest." She orders, brushes off the thanks. She doesn't need them, not even from him. (It's her job, she likes to think. Always has been. Always will be, somehow.)

"Your lips are... they're-"

"I know," she says, pushes her palm against his chest (his heart) and squints when he lies his neck against the ground, eyes closing on the dazzling blue.

"Maria."

"I'll be here when you wake up." She tells, watches when he gives out one last genuine smile, toothy grin and all. "I'm not going anywhere."

"S'just us?" He slurs out, smiles a little bit more, like he's actually glad that it's just the two of them. Weird.

"Rest, Steve." She tells, finally, and sees him nods off, before lolling his head back and taking an easy rhythm of breathing to doze off. She stares on ahead, sighs and leans back against the creaky, wooden wall, looks at the stars from the window they have and gazes back on him.

"Yeah." She says to nobody, relieved to see his chest rising steadily up and down. "I guess it's just us against the world tonight."

He never hears it.