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

[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.]

[thankfully, his reaction is a quiet one. he carefully tenses up against a sudden threat, instinct telling him that he's got to run or he's got to fight. he doesn't move while his thoughts scramble between "I'm sorry" and "well aren't you fucking lucky" and the realization that he's drastically miscalculated something about Steve Rogers.

again.

four years ago, he would have already snarled back, bared all his teeth. today, he just... starts picking at his food with his fork, a couple of short movements to get back into the present and remember how to have a physical body.

nothing about this is subtle, but he has a soft twin set of voices at the back of his head telling him that it's okay and it's not his fault. he postures with the best of them, but his avoiding eye contact betrays him in a second.

he's nervous.]

I am just... Hitting all the heavy notes, aren't I?

[there, a quirk of his lips in the vague shape of a smile or a smirk or... something. it doesn't matter, because neither of them would be even remotely genuine, and it doesn't last long before he softly exhales his pent-up anxiety down at the table.]

I know. It's not good. I forget that it's... One of those things that people get surprised about, that's all.

[And he forgets, in turn, that he presents the threat he does now. His anger isn't some small and impotent thing. He can (has) ripped concrete apart with his bare hands, bent metal, broken stone. He lets go of the emotion abruptly, like something hot held too long, and his shoulders sag. He forgets.

Steve doesn't apologize much. It's not part of who he is. He does what he does and says what he says because he means it, and that's always (usually) the end of it. Now he glances up, brows drawn down, and clears his throat. His tone is gentled when he speaks again,]

I'm sorry. That-- wasn't directed at you.

[It's not often he despises the gift Erskine's given him. Now, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and what food he's eaten is leaden in his gut. He hates that he can scare people, that his very existence is intimidating to them, and that one moment of misconstrued anger can shatter tenuous camaraderie. He breathes, and studies his hands. Too broad across the knuckles. Re-learning how to hold a pencil was perhaps the most challenging adjustment after Rebirth. He feels awkward and outsized and entombed in the serum's perfect resultant husk. He continues quietly,]

I've got a hard time seeing anyone in war. Kid's've always been the worse, and fourteen is still a child to me. I disagree on principle with any institution that would allow it. Not your fault.

[he feels weak, but he's not being hurt for it. there's no knife, there's no blame. the better part of him is encouraged to keep trusting that it's okay, despite many, many lifetimes of experiencing otherwise.

the other man didn't have to apologize, after all. he didn't have to soften his voice or explain, and his words aren't even weighted with pity. he glances up and sees that Steve's withdrawn into his own space, leaving plenty of room for Robin to slink out of his own proverbial armor.

for a second, he looks almost as inhuman as he feels--perched and still and unblinkingly observant. layers of it shed away as he slides over, reaching with his arm, practically melting against the surface of the table. it's slow enough to be obvious, maybe even a little comical, because his next move is to lightly tap the back of Steve's hand, twice, with one of his own gloved fingers.

Robin always wears gloves, even while he's eating. funny little detail.]

Don't worry about it. [he looks up at him from his low vantage point. he doesn't look nervous anymore, nor is he pretending to smile.] Not your fault for feeling strongly about it, either.

[he really means "don't worry about me" and "not your fault for caring deeply about something enough to make a mistake", and maybe even a hidden "sorry for overreacting myself", but those are all things you don't say in front of someone who wants to keep themselves hidden in as many ways as possible.

which is why he puts on some of his normal face again, almost laughing even though he's still leaning all over the table.]

Fuck, now that I think about it, I think I'd be more worried if you didn't have a reaction. Shit's awful.

[It's neither the first nor the last time that he draws a breath and thinks about how much he hates the war. Not one in particular - his is a specific one, a series of memories in foxholes and aid tents across Europe, but when it comes right down to it they're all the same. Young men and women and innocents dying for what old men believe. War never ends, it just changes hands. Korea followed his. Vietnam. The Soviets invaded Afghanistan, people died in droves in Cambodia and Ghana and Rwanda. Resources, money, religion, and he is so tired of the fight. He woke in a world where nothing had changed. Zola's words corrode his ideals in the dark. A zero sum.

Robin touches the back of his hand, and he stares at the point of contact hyperfocused, like an anchor. The gloves are something else that's put on a shelf for later examination. With a humourless quirk to his mouth,]

Awful's one word for it.

[Again, his voice is soft. 'Awful'. One of many. He could dip into the resources of every language he knows and still not have a colourful enough vocabulary to describe his hatred of the war machine. He flexes the fingers of the hand Robin had touched as if brushing aside the cobwebs of a bad memory, and picks up his fork.]

How long were you in?

[at the question, he slides sluggishly back in the direction he'd come, returns to sitting like a normal person. his answer, however, is a conflicted quiet groan. how does he even start with something like this?]

That gets... pretty complicated. And mine's barely formal, or anything. [he waves a hand a little before picking up his own fork again, attempting to return to the idea of food.] I had a good friend back home who served a while, and knew a lot of others in or out of terms, but I can't pretend to be them.

[he's been a lot of things. he's fought in a lot of battles, on lots of sides. he's genuinely held several ranks, several times, just like he's also genuinely been a doctor and a priest and a dance instructor and a mercenary-for-hire. but he's never considered himself a soldier, not once, not really.]

That's fair.

[And he knows when to drop a topic. He gives Robin a thoughtful look, not bothering to hide it. Curious more than dissecting. Then he lets himself slouch just slightly in his chair. Enough to indicate a certain level of casual intent.]

So what did you do before Atroma decided to extend their hospitality?

[do u hear the unbridled irritation in the way he says the word 'Atroma'?]

If you don't mind my asking.

[he's not bothered by Steve's curiosity at all. he's used to being a mystery to everyone around him, regardless of whether or not he spins the web intentionally. this feels normal, in a way that things rarely are anymore.

and it's so satisfying to hear his irritation turn towards Atroma. his smirk is wide, this time, carries into what he says.]

I don't, but... Are you looking for the informative answer, or the one that gives your alien bit a run for its money?

[Don't think he doesn't see that smirk, young ('old') man. Steve rolls his right shoulder back and leans his elbows on the table. It's all very un-Catholic of him, his Ma would've swatted him for the offense once upon a time.]

Surprise me.

[oh good. a challenge.]

Well, technically I haven't been on my own world for a little over four years. Before this nonsense-- [waving vaguely with a fork, indicating the whole of the Drift Fleet.] --I'd been dropped in three other, I don't know, dimensions for no apparent reason.

[he puts some of the last dregs of his food in his mouth, does that thing where he explains carefully around a mouthful again.] Maybe three and a half, depending on whether you count jumping a good hundred years into the future.

[because he could say a lot about what he used to do back home, but... he has't been doing any of it for a while. some people change their whole lives in four years, and he's not necessarily an exception.]

One of those was six months trapped in an underground network of dragon dens. Their king was paranoid and crazy and my being there was a huge threat to everything. It was fun.

[not that he's. bitter. about that, still. (he totally is.)]

[What has his life become, that 'dropped in other dimensions' is enough in his wheelhouse he doesn't think to question it? Steve just nods, willing - for now - to take it as fact. 'Jumping a hundred years into the future is the only thing that gives him a faint moment of pause, forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He seems to think better of the bite, and sets it down instead.]

Sounds hard.

[Which is definitely a synonym for what he assumes Robin meant by 'fun'. Still no pity - he's hardly the sort - but there's some element of understanding there.]

It... was.

[said almost as if it's a tiny revelation--like it hasn't occurred to him to call it that until just now. the ugly truth is that those six months were some of the worst of his life, and the things he saw still visit him in his dreams, and he can't let people touch him without remembering all these bizarre little awful shards of things he thought he'd buried a year ago.

once, he'd told Rin about this. he tried to explain that he saw the decaying future of someone he'd loved, that he watched them turned bitter and empty a thousand years in the future. he'd asked her how he could explain to that person, in the present, that they turn into a tyrannical madman. how could he tell them that their own world was rotting from the inside, that their soul was unraveling into nothingness?

she didn't take it very well. she got kind of upset on his behalf, so.

he doesn't talk to anyone about it anymore, except for just now. and it's strange (comforting) to be acknowledged, even just a little, hence his pause. he continues on easily enough, doesn't want to give the good moment any time to go wrong.]

But my point is, I'm happy to talk about what I used to do, I just haven't done it in a while. Been too busy trying to wrap my head around... anything.

[they don't even have dragons where he's from. or dimensional travel. or spaceships. or rampant magic. or super-soldiers. the list goes on.]

[Far be it from him not to recognize a wounded soldier when he sees one. He's been on the fence about Robin all this time, nowhere near to trusting him (and if he's being honest, he still doesn't) but there are many, endless ways to wind up in the trenches, and not all foxholes are literal. Trauma is an ouroboros, eating its own tail. It can come from something small, and cascade. It can come from something shattering, and sunder you. There is no allowable 'threshold' at which it becomes permissible to bleed, and Sam's spent long nights explaining the concepts to him. The thing about it: most everyone has some form of it, nearly no one talks about it, and so it festers.

At least when a physical infection crawls through your body, it has the good grace to leave red streaks in the wake of its poison.

Steve works his jaw off to one side, the muscle flexes there. His gaze on Robin is-- attentive. Used to be, when confronted with other people's suffering his first thought was for his Ma or Buck or Peg and later, for Sam. The four of them together always seemed to know what to do, what to say, but Steve's never had a healer's hands, and isn't a gentle touch besides. It's not that he doesn't care - God help him, he cares too deeply and too well - but words are never how he's shown it.

It was, Robin says, like it's the first time he's ever allowed himself to think it ever might have been, and Steve takes a slow sip of his coffee.]

I'm not going to presume you need help figuring that out. [Pointed-- wrapping your head around your anythings. He nods at Robin, regardless.] But if you ever think it might help to have somebody listen-- I've heard I'm pretty good at it. Better than my falsetto, at least.

[well, at least he doesn't freeze up this time.

the offer does take him by some kind of surprise, and a quiet settles over him while he looks at Steve and tries to figure out a way to answer that. his mouth opens a little, like he's got something to say, but he ends up closing it again.

he doesn't know what to do with kindness. people have offered to listen before, but they always regret it. his burdens are too heavy. he sinks even the highest of spirits, and then they get upset when he resists advice and common sense. he hates that lens of pity infinitely more than he hates pretending everything is okay.

but. he's said plenty of revealing things already, and he's gotten nothing but patient understanding. he considers it, which is further thought than the offer ever deserves.]

Did you know, [he eventually asks, very casually,] That you do this thing with your jaw whenever you're thinking hard about something?

[The observation gets an amused huff of amusement - near a laugh - out of him, but he doesn't even begin to deny it. Instead, he lifts one hand and makes a dismissive little c'est la vie flutter of his fingers before he curls them back down against his palm.]

One of the many reasons I've always been a terrible spy.

[His poker face is only suitable for one thing: poker. And that only because he's always counted cards.]

[that's all he wanted. a break in the mood, something to loosen up his own awkward thinking. he catches the smile like it's contagious.]

I'll think about it, Grosbeak. Talking happens to be a talent of mine.

[a quiet dig at himself, but with less of the self-loathing than usual. he stabs the air in Steve's direction with his fork, to punctuate.]

And for the record? My falsetto is beautiful.

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

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