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

[enshields]

Who: Crew of the Bloodsport, anyone who'd drop by!
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Anywhere on the ship.
When: 12/13/15 specifically, but you can really pick and choose as much as you would like as far as dates go. Get your mingle on!

ps: as an aside, the bit of media that Steve received was a 'Star-Spangled Man' USO performance so if anyone wants to have seen that so hilarity can ensue, feel free.

Comments

[enshields]

[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.]

[birdsbirdsbirds]

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.]

[enshields]

[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.

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[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?

[enshields]

[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.]

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[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.

[enshields]

[Did you just seriously call him a bird. Don't think that French name is lost on him for a minute, Robin, wow. Steve raises both eyebrows before turning back to his food.]

Well, Christmas is coming. Maybe you can go caroling.

[Excuse his sass. Or don't. Your call.]

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[oh, he has not yet BEGUN to bird.]

I only recently learned what Christmas is, but I'm going to assume that was funny.

[so. that's how that goes.]

[enshields]

[That settles it you are getting presents from your pilot. After a moment's consideration (and yes, the jaw thing) he even decides what it'll be. Then he continues idly without missing a beat,]

I'm hilarious. Now [ahem.] eat your food. [He makes a pointed gesture with his own implement towards Robin's plate.] There's pie for desert. If you don't know what that is, don't ask, you'll break my heart.

[birdsbirdsbirds]

I know what pie is.

[AFFRONTED, he rolls his eyes... but obediently goes back to stabbing at his food. he sounds as comically offended about this as he can:]

And I am delighted.

[enshields]

Good. [An exaggeratedly delicate sniff.] Wouldn't want this hard work to go to waste.

[He smothers a grin as he says it, and cleans up the rest of his plate with a broken-off piece of biscuit. Then, it's a matter of getting up to grab the pie. And it's his Ma's recipe, so you better appreciate.]