[ It passes so slowly and so subtly it's hard to tell at first that he isn't just trying to convince himself. When he was younger, his mother used to tell him to count the seconds between lightning and thunder to see if the storm was getting closer or moving away. It's the same premise here, he thinks, and tick by tick the seconds stretch out farther until they seem to stop entirely.
Helps that relief starts to spread a little more deeply than the pain. Some of his own starts to mirror it.
It wouldn't be remotely true to say he feels as exhausted as Steve does afterward, but he feels a portion of it. Feels a little stripped out, too long under water and finally able to breathe again. Parts of him slump, too — from standing on his knees to lowering down and sitting on his calves, shoulders dropping, his head rolling back and face pointed toward the sky for a few long seconds.
Concern dies down, but doesn't leave entirely. Horror fades out, flickers, dies when a glance at Steve's body reveals all parts human and no swishing tails. Borrowed pain lowers to an ache, and he doesn't really know if that's coming from him or Steve anymore. There's a kind of fierce protectiveness in the background that would probably surprise not a single soul who knew them. Overshadowing it all, though, is that heavy, oppressive relief. He's not rushing it. Not a bit. He'll sit here with his arm around Steve's chest propping him up for as long is it takes, because...
God, he's never him scream like that before. Not even when he took a couple bullets and had Bucky on his chest beating the literal life out of him.
(If he'd been in the room when they stuffed him in that vita-ray coffin, hard telling who he might've clocked back then.) ]
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Helps that relief starts to spread a little more deeply than the pain. Some of his own starts to mirror it.
It wouldn't be remotely true to say he feels as exhausted as Steve does afterward, but he feels a portion of it. Feels a little stripped out, too long under water and finally able to breathe again. Parts of him slump, too — from standing on his knees to lowering down and sitting on his calves, shoulders dropping, his head rolling back and face pointed toward the sky for a few long seconds.
Concern dies down, but doesn't leave entirely.
Horror fades out, flickers, dies when a glance at Steve's body reveals all parts human and no swishing tails.
Borrowed pain lowers to an ache, and he doesn't really know if that's coming from him or Steve anymore.
There's a kind of fierce protectiveness in the background that would probably surprise not a single soul who knew them.
Overshadowing it all, though, is that heavy, oppressive relief.
He's not rushing it. Not a bit. He'll sit here with his arm around Steve's chest propping him up for as long is it takes, because...
God, he's never him scream like that before. Not even when he took a couple bullets and had Bucky on his chest beating the literal life out of him.
(If he'd been in the room when they stuffed him in that vita-ray coffin, hard telling who he might've clocked back then.) ]