Four months after waking up from suspended animation, Steve Rogers was still amazed that people could be so oblivious to the world around them.
As he sidestepped yet another person who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking, tuned into his music blaring audibly through small white earbuds,
Steve couldn't imagine why anyone would want to block out the sights and sounds of Boston.
When he was younger, his family had never had the funds to venture far out of Brooklyn, so when he'd finished an ultra-classified assignment with Coulson's team three days early,
he'd requested the remainder of the week to drink in the sights.
As more of the white-headphoned people passed, blissfully ignoring the architecture, the greenery, and the history, Steve shook his head sadly and pushed his way through the traffic,
his ears unencumbered, taking in the short snippets of conversation he heard around him.
One man must have been on the phone with his wife for he was hastily scribbling a grocery list on his arm,
another was reassuring their boss she was in the elevator and she couldn't believe it had stopped on
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