On some logical level, he gets it. He does. What Steve is saying makes sense, and really, he understands it.
The problem is that right now, he's not being logical. He hates it, because he absolutely hates how his emotions are taking over all over again, but apparently Steve has a knack for that. After all, hadn't that been what had caused such a clusterfuck in Siberia?
And it certainly doesn't help that he feels just how he did after that day. Overexposed. Overly vulnerable. It feels like he's in quicksand, and he's slipping all over again.
"If I had been pretending," he echoes with a hollow sound that is supposed to be a dry chuckle under his breath. It feels like it gets caught in his throat, and for a moment he can hardly breathe around it. "Right. Because me coming in the way I did, yeah, I was pretending. I mean, I could hardly string words together because I had just shot Natasha and I was covered in her blood and I was as far as okay from possible - but yeah, that's how a deadly killer acts, right? I mean, what the fuck do I know."
He's running out of air. His voice had been rising, but it feels like his lungs are suddenly two sizes too small and he has to pause as he paces for a moment. It doesn't last long, though, before he turns around. "What do I have to do for you to take me into consideration? At all? I didn't need or want to be above your concern for Natasha. I still don't, but some consideration would be nice. How many times do I have to carve myself open for you to do that? What do I have to do, Steve? Be your friend? Give you a home? Kiss you? Let you in and trust you even if you already proved to me once that I shouldn't?"
Love you?, he almost spits out, but he manages to refrain even if it feels like the words are causing the arc reactor to fall right out of his chest, especially because he's not ready to expose himself even more. He feels vulnerable enough as it is, has been feeling raw enough as it is, and he forces his voice down. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty fucking sure I've done all of the above at this point. And I'm tired, Rogers. I'm. so. damn. tired. of feeling like I'm chasing after you only to end up feeling like this. I'm tired of feeling like we're on the same side, only to be looked by you in a way that flat out tells me otherwise all over again."
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The problem is that right now, he's not being logical. He hates it, because he absolutely hates how his emotions are taking over all over again, but apparently Steve has a knack for that. After all, hadn't that been what had caused such a clusterfuck in Siberia?
And it certainly doesn't help that he feels just how he did after that day. Overexposed. Overly vulnerable. It feels like he's in quicksand, and he's slipping all over again.
"If I had been pretending," he echoes with a hollow sound that is supposed to be a dry chuckle under his breath. It feels like it gets caught in his throat, and for a moment he can hardly breathe around it. "Right. Because me coming in the way I did, yeah, I was pretending. I mean, I could hardly string words together because I had just shot Natasha and I was covered in her blood and I was as far as okay from possible - but yeah, that's how a deadly killer acts, right? I mean, what the fuck do I know."
He's running out of air. His voice had been rising, but it feels like his lungs are suddenly two sizes too small and he has to pause as he paces for a moment. It doesn't last long, though, before he turns around. "What do I have to do for you to take me into consideration? At all? I didn't need or want to be above your concern for Natasha. I still don't, but some consideration would be nice. How many times do I have to carve myself open for you to do that? What do I have to do, Steve? Be your friend? Give you a home? Kiss you? Let you in and trust you even if you already proved to me once that I shouldn't?"
Love you?, he almost spits out, but he manages to refrain even if it feels like the words are causing the arc reactor to fall right out of his chest, especially because he's not ready to expose himself even more. He feels vulnerable enough as it is, has been feeling raw enough as it is, and he forces his voice down. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty fucking sure I've done all of the above at this point. And I'm tired, Rogers. I'm. so. damn. tired. of feeling like I'm chasing after you only to end up feeling like this. I'm tired of feeling like we're on the same side, only to be looked by you in a way that flat out tells me otherwise all over again."