“Exactly.” Steve’s smile widened a little more for her then, and while not quite surprised that he was not alone in the thoughts that had driven him to the road, glad all the same that he had found someone, if only for a little while, that understood.
“Really?” The words half burst out of him, despite the fact that it had been proven to him several times over that the world was stranger than he had known. He had come from a world of gods and monsters with gentle men inside them, of magic and technology that blazed well beyond their wildest dreams in the years he had grown up in. If anything had been proven to him in the weeks before he had stepped into the hotel, it had been that his determination that nothing could have surprised him any longer was anything but correct. The hotel had driven him further from that unshakeable stance with Bucky’s presence and Martha’s words then that there were demons among their number (a concept he found vaguely uncomfortable with his childhood as an Irish Catholic), but he found the prospect of more strangeness thrilling rather than oppressive.
He leant back in his seat to watch her as she spoke, caught a moment by the impression that this Doctor Martha Jones was a woman who should not be crossed. His lips quirked at that realization, not out of a humor meant to belittle but out of an admiration he did nothing to hide. “You’re a hell of a dame, Martha,” he told her, “Thank you.” His fingers caught the edge of his notebook before he told he said, gaze even and meaning every word, “The same goes on my end. I don’t doubt that you could handle it on your own, but if you ever need help all you need to do is ask.”
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“Really?” The words half burst out of him, despite the fact that it had been proven to him several times over that the world was stranger than he had known. He had come from a world of gods and monsters with gentle men inside them, of magic and technology that blazed well beyond their wildest dreams in the years he had grown up in. If anything had been proven to him in the weeks before he had stepped into the hotel, it had been that his determination that nothing could have surprised him any longer was anything but correct. The hotel had driven him further from that unshakeable stance with Bucky’s presence and Martha’s words then that there were demons among their number (a concept he found vaguely uncomfortable with his childhood as an Irish Catholic), but he found the prospect of more strangeness thrilling rather than oppressive.
He leant back in his seat to watch her as she spoke, caught a moment by the impression that this Doctor Martha Jones was a woman who should not be crossed. His lips quirked at that realization, not out of a humor meant to belittle but out of an admiration he did nothing to hide. “You’re a hell of a dame, Martha,” he told her, “Thank you.” His fingers caught the edge of his notebook before he told he said, gaze even and meaning every word, “The same goes on my end. I don’t doubt that you could handle it on your own, but if you ever need help all you need to do is ask.”