𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 & 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐒, marvel

𝖎𝖎. the avengers initiative

CHAPTER TWO !
( ii. the avengers initiative )
• ── ·𖥸· ── •

DUAL ROTORS FLANK THE REAR of the aircraft, chrome wingtips whir and upturn to hover above ground in its mindful descent–the maneuver deft by a helmeted pilot as their hand lifts politely to gesture to the idle girl through reinforced glass. The mouth of the ship parts, slatting finely into place until Rowan is stood stiffly in its doorway with a pursed lipped, awkward smile. Phil Coulson is a familiar face, warm as he seems to trot down the steady incline and toward her with a curt nod in greeting as he clasps his hands against the small of his back and Rowan feels the need to straighten her posture. He greets her before Coulson gestures his hand politely for the teenager to shuffle nervously inside the aircraft with a grating voice in the back of her head, entirely Boden, insisting she turn around. Once beaten soles of threadbare Converses hit the steel panels, its door rises in an airtight seal behind and Rowan knows she's committed.

Her lips part, surprise and moreover awe latching around her small throat as her jaw falls slack with widely blown eyes finding the Captain America. Steve's face is soft, or rather his baby boy blues are rounded gently at their edges, feigning a sort of puppy-dog gleam with rosy lips and an angular jaw, and Steve's thick eyebrows bunch in a concerned frown as his Brooklyn lilted tone falls stern, "Fury recruited a child?" Coulson spares Rowan another glance, and Rowan is far too busy ogling the Super Soldier in stunned disbelief to take even the slightest bit of offense at his tone. Burnt timber leather wraps tight around Steve's wide shoulders, a plaid shirt buttoned smartly beneath his collar in an old-fashioned nature. A golden curl curves across his smooth forehead and Rowan is amazed by the wonders the ice must have done for Steve's skincare by the way that nobody could possibly guess that he is in fact over 90-years-old.

Snapped from her stupor with the slant of the rising aircraft, Rowan yelps quietly and her hand flies clumsily instinctively outward, buckling around Steve's own as his touch surges to steady her in a gentlemanly manner. He returns her awkward smile with a softer one, and lets the girl lower on the bench beside him as Rowan curls her white-knuckled grip around the edge of it. As if magnetized, her abilities recognize the quantity of metal and its isotopes nearby, calling like a siren-song and so Rowan sits tensely, knees knocking her attempt to ball herself in a huddle. Steve peeks at her in concern, but he's shy nonetheless as he turns to return to conversation with Coulson, chasing the scenes displayed on the tablet in his grasp. Eagerly, Rowan shifts with the file opened on Dr. Banner and her lips pop apart as she leans to peer over his broad shoulder, childishly–like a kid peeking on Christmas despite how Rowan likely has equal right to the knowledge as Captain America.

"Wait, you guys got Dr. Banner?" Gasps Rowan, with wondrous eyes finding Coulson, "As in the Dr. Banner?" The Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. nods his head curtly and with Steve's glance, bewildered by her excitement given his recent ages frozen beneath the Arctic. "He's, uh, a scientist. His work in biochem and nuclear physics is insane, he's just also really known for his–erm, that," Rowan inches her hand shyly, tapping at the tablet onto a scene of a raging Hulk as he shreds apart an innocent pickup truck with a thunderous roar, "He substituted the vita radiation in your Serum for gamma and it, well, didn't agree with him." It feels as if it's the first time that Steve has found himself understanding what is explained to him the very first time, and the coil in his shoulders slightly slacks with a slow nod of his head and an uneasy glance to the screen.

Whilst Coulson makes a fool of himself, Rowan tucks herself with arms looped around her knees and perches her chin atop. For the duration of the flight, she observes until a decline begins with their descent and she inhales somewhat sharply with the thrum of pins and needles prickling her fingertips in a surge of power. Rowan swallows hard and uneasily as the rotors cut and their loud spin is quietened, the mouth of the quinjet prying open again and daylight pouring inside with a squint against the sunshine as Rowan rises behind the pair. Misplaced, Rowan's hands tuck into the pockets of her jeans, the denim cinched by a plaited belt around her waist and an oversized tee tucked into the hem as she ducks her head to exit amongst them.