driftfleet | steve's luck with things that fly is nonexistent, really.

[Mortal. That funny little thing he's no longer sure he even is. He has no doubt he can die - and God knows he's been close to it a few times - but at the rate his cells regenerate, he may not ever age. Erskine's greatest gift, and some days he has trouble feeling grateful for it.

The table's already been set, he gestures Robin into a chair.]

No occasion. There's an alarming shortage of bad guys to punch in the jaw, figured I might as well earn my keep some other way.

[Robin - and Atroma - can read into it whatever they like. The truth of the matter is, he learned a long time ago that a little kindness goes a long way. While he may not be looking for a team, these are still people that fall under his sphere of needs protecting. Lacking the opportunity to set himself between them and whatever enemies are out there, well-- he kept his men fed on the front lines just the same.]

[being gestured towards a seat at the table does not sit well with him. it manifests in his eyeing the chair as he's drying off his hands, as if the decision to accept is something that actually requires deliberation.]

Well, I guess I know how that goes. S'not like the ship's broken, or anything.

[he holds up a hand so he can wiggle his now-clean fingers, for context... and the movement prompts him to finally take a seat, whereupon he at least starts putting food on his plate. and that seems to cheer him up, or ease his mood, or whatever was wrong with him at first.]

[It doesn't go unnoticed, but Steve declines to comment or acknowledge it. It's a little detail that gets filed away for later. Instead, he nods to Robin's cleaned hands.]

Little preventative maintenance goes a long way.

[He snags his coffee cup off the counter, takes a drink (it's cold, so he reaches for the pot to add another half-cup to warm the rest) and then sets the mug down on the table where he'd planned to sit. Somewhat predictably, he's chosen the spot with the best vantage point in the room, and has his chair angled so his back's to a solid wall. He's not relaxed, but his posture's about as civilian chic as he can fake on short notice. He's a terrible actor.

He clears his throat after a moment and reaches out to adjust his coffee cup for his left hand.]

If you have any allergies or preferences, let me know. Figured I'd make this a weekly thing.

Edited 2015-12-17 19:39 (UTC)

[what a couple of awkward losers.]

None of either, and I like trying new things, so. You won't hear me complaining.

[he's much better at appearing casual and unreadable at the drop of a hat--his problem is that he can't seem to commit to it right now. there's something on his mind that he can't decide what to do with, and it shows in how he fidgets: one leg crossed over his knee, foot ticking minutely back and forth to some inaudible beat.

what's the worst that could happen? lack of acknowledgement, probably. what's the point of saying it? he doesn't know. he's being stupid and he knows it, so he finally sighs and looks somewhat apologetic about his own lack of perfect composure.]

So, where I'm from, my city and most others have been built in massive tunnels under the ground. It wasn't really by choice--but the surface got hit with a sudden nuclear apocalypse, and the only safe direction was down for a long time.

[he lifts a biscuit to take a bite out of it, which hardly slows down the explanation. he absolutely talks with food in his mouth, even if it's as politely maneuvered as he can manage.]

But we're all just normal humans, mostly. No magic, no super soldiers, no convenient evolution into mole people, etcetera. Keeping a population of people alive down there is exactly as difficult as you'd imagine. Vitamin D's a big problem. Food security is still a luxury. [he swallows his food before going on.] But people are tough as nails when you press them hard enough, so they've scraped by. Things are improving, even if it's slow.

Anyway, there's also this... Religious holiday, sort of, once a month, where you're supposed to take time out of your life to reflect and think about how you can make yourself a better person in accordance with some stuff I'm not going to stop and explain-- [he interrupts himself almost mid-sentence to point a finger in Steve's direction, glancing over.] --And let me know if I'm boring you, I swear this is going somewhere.

[He listens attentively, elbows planted on the table, fingers laced. All his attention is wholly focused on Robin, expression inscrutable. At that self-imposed pause, however, one corner of his mouth upticks faintly.]

Not an easy guy to bore. It's fine.

[and he greatly prefers Steve's attentive listening to his pretending to be casual, which makes his own side of the telling a little bit easier. he nods.]

Okay. Then... After a while, for several reasons, these days also became deeply associated with eating. The idea was that even down in the Underground, if you saved carefully and put a little bit aside on every day leading up to it, you'd have enough for one really good meal on the holiday in question. You got a day to splurge on expensive ingredients, or... eat for hours and not worry about running out.

But since... [he hesitates, but only because he knows most people get incredulous at this part (as if the nuclear apocalypse and underground cities weren't already a big story).] ...Well, there are also these monsters that wander through the lower levels, and they love eating unsuspecting humans. The smell of all that food attracts them more than usual, so people would start gathering together in big, noisy groups to keep them scared off. Neighbors, strangers, whatever, for the day they'd wind up sharing their meals with one another and keeping each other out of trouble.

[with that, he takes another bite out if his food just like before.]

So firstly, it's suddenly occurred to me that I haven't seen anyone else go out of their way to share a mealtime with near-strangers in the entire time I've been away from home, and secondly... I'm pretty sure I won't feel good about eating this until I know my gratitude doesn't just come off as me being casually polite.

[Call it what you will, but it's a vulnerability. Something offered and exposed, and Steve's brow furrows faintly in something like suspicion. He dedicates several seconds to just playing the words over in his head, looking for the trap in them. Some ulterior motive. Could be, Robin's just a man that knows how to play the crowd. Could be exactly what it sounds (looks) like: someone unused to kindness trying to justify their gratitude.

The fact that he doesn't know which it is doesn't bother him as much as it might've a year ago, fresh from Insight. He'll take things as they come.

He curls his left hand around his mug, takes a slow sip. It gets set down precisely. Mildly,]

I grew up in a time when people were boiling wallpaper just to have something to put in their bowls.

[And there were no feral animals in Brooklyn in those lean years. They had Capone to thank for soup kitchens, but he burned with shame standing in that line. Now, his sense of shame is a currency spent on other things. He lifts one shoulder, clears his throat and fiddles with the handle of his mug, rubbing a worn spot in the varnish.]

No monsters to speak of, [Save the human kind, with their plain old human viciousness that's the worst species of the thing he's ever seen.] but plenty of folks at wit's end. I know a little of where you're coming from.

[He lifts his mug in a little cheers-like gesture, takes another drink.]

And for what it's worth, you're welcome.

[and he's right to be suspicious, because Robin never says anything without a reason. he plays everyone, all the time, even if it's subtle and pointless. he rarely does it with malicious intent anymore; it's more that he doesn't know how to not.

but his saving grace in this conversation is that the only person he's trying to manipulate is himself. he has to twist himself into feeling better before he can move forward. kindness bothers him in very visceral, stomach-churning way, so he wanted to make sure Steve understands some of the why--since most people wouldn't find some extra food and an invitation to sit worth even a second thought.

so he listens back, just as attentive... and it feels really good, to be both acknowledged and understood. it kind of surprises him, reflected in the genuinely bright smile that spreads over his face, only for him to smother it back to something tame a second later.]

It's worth plenty. And since I've gone and made this weird enough... [he laughs, but no more fidgeting. he picks up a fork, bright eyes on the task ahead.] What am I eating? What is this? Where's it from?

[Almost despite himself, it gets a tiny huff of amusement at that show of nearly overwhelming enthusiasm. It doesn't lay his suspicions to rest, but it allows him to set them aside for later examination.

Steve hesitates slightly, and then reaches for the (chipped, worn) casserole dish at the centre of the table to scoop some of the food onto his own plate. He'd made enough to allow for a supersoldier's metabolism multiplied by a fair few other portions, so he's not worried about running out.]

Tuna casserole. Tin of tuna, mushroom soup-- couple cans of peas and corn. Biscuits from scratch. Nothin' fancy. Couldn't tell you where I got the recipe. Brooklyn original, I guess.

[It - or something very like it - was one of the things his Ma would throw together sometimes. It kept well in an ice-box and it was dirt cheap to make.]

[give him a moment to finally eat--his personal cultural associations aside, he loves food, and he loves trying new things. he goes about it like a child who's been given a new toy, trying all the parts. tasting everything once before he figures out how he wants to eat it. some of everything on every scoop seems tactically sound.]

S'good. Kinda familiar. [chew chew chew. swap the tuna for blindfish, and the corn for that pond-weed they put in absolutely everything down there, and it's practically something he would have eaten back home. swallow.] What's Brooklyn like--uh, geographically?

[though confident, he says "Brook-lin" like he's never had to pronounce that before in his life. which he hasn't.]

[He has two answers to that question. As much as they're the same, they also couldn't be more different.

Idly, he reaches for the pepper shaker he'd set out in the middle of the table and shakes some over his food. Not a lot - he's still not a fan of excessive seasoning - but enough to taste.]

Brooklyn's [It's not corrective, but he does enunciate it very faintly for ease of later pronunciation.] one of five boroughs in New York City. It's a harbour trade port. For a long time it was the first place the immigrants saw when they came to America. Couldn't see the ocean from where I lived, but you could smell it. Climate's a variable. Cold in the winters, summers are warm. Rains in the spring and fall. Got a couple nice beaches, a few of the tallest skyscrapers in the country.

[He describes it without colour and form, a cautious man's cut-and-dry recollection. New York to him is a city of immigrants, of suffering. The Eugenics movement of the early 1900s hit it hard, his Ma made him promise never to take a glass of milk in any hospital that didn't come direct from her hands for fear someone would lace it with TB. The East River smelled like open sewage, even looking at it could get you typhoid back in his day. Couldn't eat anything you caught in it, either. Mostly the roads were still cobblestone, horses and carts and cars mingled in the roadways, drivers yelled at each other. Black smoke supplanted the sky, the buildings were stained with it. It's a city of gang warfare and bleak violence and tough people and too much hope. Hooverville is a fresh memory, more firmly entrenched than Central Park could ever be.

But that's what she means to him as a city, as a home. And Robin had asked for geography.]

[he copies the name again, silent and subtle. he'll get it soon; the only other place in the States he's heard of is "Minnesota", so he's not holding himself to very high standards. he continues to eat while he listens to this neat, rounded description of a city, looking more at his food than at Steve.

his initial commentary is just as simple as the answer, after a thoughtful sound:] Sounds busy.

[he doesn't expect his pilot to unpack why he says "busy" and not "nice" or "interesting", but there is a reason. he asked for geography because it's impersonal, easy to talk about--but just as the shape of a tree is dependent on the earth it's rooted in, cities are shaped by their surroundings, and people are shaped by their cities.

he hears "harbor trade port" and imagines a complex population of mingling cultures and ideals. lots of arguments. "immigrants" are important enough to get second detail; that implies a large influx, which no city is ever prepared for. segregation, mixed opinions, miserable jobs with miserable pay. overcrowding. economical strain. the rich build expensive skyscrapers to appeal to the global community, boost the trade and imports that the city is dependent on. the poor are dependent on the structures put in place by the rich, because the ocean's natural resources can't be enough to support anything more populated than a sea-side village.

so, busy. crowded, dirty, angry, conflicted. thick-skinned people, hard knocks turned to armor, badges of pride. he knows he'll never have the full picture, but this is a good start.

maybe he'll voice all of this, someday, but for now he only follows himself with a stupid little laugh and half a smirk.] And no spaceships, right?

[In a blasé deadpan,]

Got attacked by aliens a few years back. That count?

[If he knew of the inferences, he'd approve of their candor. Instead: sass.]

[the answer is just surprising enough that he opens his mouth to reply... before he can actually think of something to say. whatever train of thought he was following derails from the tracks entirely.]

I... Guess that counts. Like, the science fiction kind of alien?

[Rule number one: don't talk to Steve Rogers about trainwrecks. It always badly.

To the query, though, he nods and with his mouth currently full of biscuit, he instead makes a little mmhm of assent. He chases the mouthful with a swig of coffee, sets it down and more seriously,]

Lead by the Norse god of lies. Loki, if you've met him.

[Steve knows he's here, but they haven't spoken. With good reason, he supposes. These ships aren't built to survive a fight between a god and a supersoldier, and Steve has nothing but contempt for Loki. If he'd only ever attacked the Avengers, he might be willing to let bygones be bygones. But he'd gone after New York, and cost thousands of innocent lives. That, he can't forgive.]

[he was already looking skeptical (no one else from Earth has bothered mentioning aliens...), but now he narrows his eyes in outright wariness.]

I haven't met him. [and he really hasn't. he thinks back, frowning down at the table.] And he can't be much of a god if he's stuck here.

[Oh, Steve can spin a good line of bullshit if the mood and circumstances suit (his dad, after all, was in the 107^th) but he doesn't seem put-off by the skepticism. Instead, one corner of his mouth quirks.]

Guess that depends on your definition of 'god'.

[Jim asked him, a few short weeks ago, to say grace over a meal. It was the first time he'd done it in half a decade. Reaching for the belief in a higher power's gotten harder, the longer he's alive, the more he's seen, the more he's done. Trying to be a good man and being one immutably are two different things, in his mind. Faith in something you can't touch seems less important now than faith in the people next to you, but maybe that's it's own religion. The battlefield sort, one that's born in foxholes and baptized in bars.

He shakes his head a little, and drains off the last of his coffee.]

Want anything else to drink?

[his own definition of 'god' is specific and fragile and, unfortunately, something he can't afford to have challenged. back home, Vincent used to comment on how how funny it was: for all of Robin's bitter denunciations of the priests, the teachings, the rituals, and the stories, church was about the only place he'd ever shut up.

he knows he's overreacting (like an auto-immune disorder) as he bites down on his tongue and looks down at what's left of his food. at the easy chance out, he slides his only-half-empty mug over without a fight.]

Please. [his tone is flat and tellingly self-deprecating.] Before I can start in on philosophical theology.

[And so, he fills it.]

Don't think we've got enough liquor for that.

[His mouth quirks up at one corner, he matches that self-deprecation wryly.]

[hey, he likes that kind of humor. it loosens him back into laughing, kind of a snort as he pulls his mug back.]

Jy'b idyua, you're not wrong. Backing up, here...

[he's fine not getting stuck here. he gestures against the table, light chops to divide his thoughts up into easy steps.]

Okay, attacked by aliens... Led by a... Mythological figure...? [he hopes he got those context clues right.] Please tell me that wasn't just something that happens twice a week on good old planet Earth.

Tuesdays and Saturdays, like clockwork.

[That's a bit of a deadpan for you, Robin. He spears a piece of carrot and chews on it thoughtfully before he answers for real.]

Aliens attacking-- just the once in two years. [Well. The Dark Elves happened, but he was in South America and well out of radio contact while Thor dealt with that, so he doesn't really count it.] Most've the threats I deal with are human. Some enhanced, most not.

Jeez. [said into his mug, as he lifts it to drain some of that half-new coffee.

Earth seems like a very confusing place. he's gotten very used to asking stupid, basic questions about it. if he had the chance to talk about Gratia at length, he'd sound like a scholar--but he'll play the role of tourist out of necessity.

two years. tick tick tick. his eyebrows furrow, just a little.] What's the legal minimum age for enlistment? For your branch, I mean.

[The question is just uncanny enough that Steve raises an eyebrow rather than reply immediately. He turns his coffee cup for his left hand, instead, and takes a drink.]

Eighteen. Seventeen with parental consent.

[The why do you ask? goes unspoken, but it hangs in the air.]

[apparently this answers his question. his eyebrows go back up again with the metaphorical lightbulb of sudden understanding--and he picks up his fork again.]

That's why. Mine's fourteen. It's stupid, but I kept thinking you look about five years too old to have only served seven.

[and then there's eating again. like "fourteen" doesn't drag around a bunch of horrible implications, and like he didn't just assume Steve joined the military right out the door.]

[There's a sort of wintry resolve that shuts down his expression entirely, and all traces of amicability vanish, replaced by a rigidity to his shoulders and jaw that give away his anger all too readily.

There were plenty of kids in the resistance movements. The Maquisards couldn't afford to turn away any helping hands, and in Belgium-- well. Kids were overlooked. More likely to be let go by the Germans if detained. Most German soldiers weren't monsters. But he knows at least one boy was shot for smuggling pork in France.]

I didn't enlist until I was twenty-two.

[It's the only thing he can say that isn't snarling disapproval for Robin's concession. It's not like it would've been his fault anyway, and all Steve's frostburnt anger is for the people in charge that could let that happen. There are always folks willing to send children to die, and it never stops galling him less.]

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