ArchivedLogs:Those Nights

Those Nights
Dramatis Personae Shane, Steve
In Absentia	2016-05-04 "{Not going to add 'terrorist' to that list? Or does that fall under 'scrappy'?}"
Location <NYC> Steve's Room - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
At present there's not much in the way of furniture in this room: just a single, smallish bookshelf already mostly full, an old drafting table with an equally ancient chair, and a large beanbag strikingly patterned just like Steve's shield except when its cover has been removed to unfold it into a mattress. The curtain, upon closer examination, is just a sarong in dark, watery blues draped over a tension rod. In contrast, there's quite a good deal of /decoration/. A sturdy hook holds a beautiful life-sized glass replica of the Rose Quartz shield from Steven Universe (and another one beside it holds Steve's own shield when he's there). Framed artwork (both his own and other people's) adorn the walls, and the windowsill is lined with an eclectic mix of pretty little trinkets. It's almost 3AM, but there's still a light on in Steve's window. Occasionally his shadow can be seen crossing the thin blue makeshift curtain on the window. Inside, he's wearing a white ribbed tank and torn, much-mended blue jeans, barefoot, his hair all askew. He leaves several half-finished sketches scattered across the drafting table, and wanders out into the kitchen, fetching a bottle of Redbreast Irish whiskey and a heavy glass tumbler before wandering back into his room. It's almost 3AM, but though it's considerably past the hour for Polite Social Calls there is a knock at the Firehaus door. Quiet, but insistent. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Outside, Shane is dressed far more dapper than Steve -- neat vest in a very deep and faintly shimmery red paisley, black slacks, button down, tie knotted with an impeccable trinity knot. Tap, tap, tap. Steve has just set the whiskey down when the knock comes -- just barely audible from in his room -- and he goes right back out, picking up his Captain America shield from where it hangs on the wall beside the glass Rose Quartz shield. Though armed, he does not look tense when he opens the door, does not have the shield raised or even strapped down properly to his arm. "Shane," he says, blinking down at the sharkpup. "{Welcome,}" in his easy, country French, "{come in, please.}" He steps back to wave his guest in. "{Is something wrong? Something -- new wrong?} Shane tips a wide-eyed glance up-up-up towards Steve -- a little wide-eyed as if he didn't fully /expect/ the door to open. But then he meanders in, stopping by the entrance to slip off his black-and-white Oxfords and peer around the apartment. "{Your light was on,}" he answers Steve. "{I thought -- maybe you were. Up.}" Steve runs his hand through his hair as he closes the door behind Shane. "{Yeah...I -- couldn't sleep,}" he says quietly, waving his guest toward the still-open door to his room. "{There's no furniture that can hold me out here, yet. I was about to pour myself a drink, care to join me?}" Shane wanders into Steve's room -- his fingertips trail lightly against the glass shield on the wall. His eyes skate around the room, steps slowing before he continues on towards the window. "{Kind of Spartan, aren't you?}" He stops at the windowsill, a crease forming between his brows as he looks down at it. "{You know that's illegal, right?}" is anyway followed immediately by: "{I'd love a drink.}" Steve just grabs another tumbler and joins Shane, snagging up the bottle of whiskey and uncorking it to pour a rather /generous/ helping into each glass. Hands one to his guest. "{It's enough. Though I've asked Flicker to make me some furniture.}" He settles (gently!) down onto the singular chair in the room, picking up his own glass and raising it toward Shane. "Slainte. {What's illegal, now?}" Doesn't sound /too/ concerned. Shane has plucked up an ornate chopstick -- turning it over in his hand, thumbclaw tracing lightly against the inlaid mother-of-pearl design. He sets it down when Steve approaches, though, gills fluttering rapidly as he takes the glass. He lifts the glass to Steve, moves to take a seat on the edge of the drafting table. "{Have to be 21 to drink in this state. You're supposed to be a. Beacon of. Law and morality and.}" He shakes his head, takes a swallow. Steve's eyes fix on the chopstick in Shane's hand briefly. "{When my mother gave me my first taste of whiskey, I was 9 years old and alcohol was illegal no matter your age.}" He takes a long sip from his glass. "{I learned at a pretty early age that law and morality aren't the same thing. Took me a lot longer to learn the difference between who I am and who I'm...supposed to be.}" He studies Shane. "{How are you doing? And -- you can sit on the beanbag if you like, it's more comfortable than the table, I'm sure.}" "{When my mother...}" Shane trails off, though, clear inner eyelids sliding shut. He glances at the beanbag for a moment, but doesn't move. Tips his head down to stare down into the glass, claws clicking against its side. "{Who are you, then?}" "{Ma...gave it to me for medicinal purposes. She had to stitch me up sometimes. I don't think I've ever heard you or B mention your mother.}" Steve settles back a little more comfortably into the hard chair. "{Steve Rogers. Scrappy kid from Brooklyn. A son, a brother, a friend, a lover.}" Shane's gills flutter faster, but then settle down. He takes another mouthful of whiskey, eyes closing as he swallows it. "{So even back then you were trouble.}" There's amusement, warmer in his tone. He swishes the whiskey in his glass, crossing one leg underneath himself. "{Not going to add 'terrorist' to that list? Or does that fall under 'scrappy'?}" "{Been trouble since before that -- since as long as I can remember, really.}" Steve tucks the glass under his chin and just inhales for a moment. "{This is so much better than anything we ever had back home. I don't think I ever had really /good/ whiskey until after...}" His free hand gestures down his body. "{...all this.}" He looks back up at Shane, considering. "{'Terrorist' is a label that someone else puts on you to make people think of you a certain way. Just like 'hero'.}" Takes a long swallow of whiskey. "{I've been called the second one a lot more than I've been called the first, fair or not, but neither is...how I think of myself. I guess 'scrappy' basically cover the part of 'terrorist' that I really identify with.}" Shane's eyes sweep down, following the path of Steve's hand. "{Shame. Only after you couldn't get all the benefits.}" He sets the glass on the table beside him, eyes turning toward the wall. Skipping over the various portraits there. "Sort of works for your brand of hero, too. {Guess that's why you've fit in so well here.}" Sort of a quiet murmur. "That, and the chronic insomnia. Feel kind of bad for Hive. Between all the late-night stressing and everyone's nightmares I don't know if /he/ ever..." He shakes his head, hard. "{Sorry. I don't know why I. Came. Here. Spence is asleep and B's gone and I.}" Shrug. "{I can taste it just fine.}" Steve lifts the glass and turns it in his hand, looking at the amber liquor with the lamp shining from behind it. "{But there's definitely nights when I wish it worked on me other ways, still.}" This doesn't stop him from sipping at the drink again and nodding appreciately. His gaze follows Shane's, lingering on the drawings of his friends up on the walls. "{Maybe.} Hive. Yeah..." But he just shakes his head. "{You don't need to know, and you don't need a reason anyhow. If I wasn't up to receiving you, I'd have told you.} He drains his glass and picks up the bottle to refill it, offering it to Shane with upraised eyebrows. "{Sometimes it's good to just. Have a drink and talk.}" Shane tips back the rest of his drink, holding the empty glass out toward Steve. "{Pa never sleeps, either. He'd always make me snacks at three in the morning when I couldn't...}" His brows furrow. "{Maybe he sleeps, now. I guess it's his powers that keep him up. Well. Not -- not /just/ -- but.}" Steve refills Shane's glass, too. "{I probably shouldn't make assumptions about your alcohol tolerance -- but you know how much you can take, yeah?}" As always, his French is rougher and more jocular than his English. "{Maybe. But some of the other things that keep him up...may keep him up more now. Cancel out the sun-related stuff.}" His jaw tightens. He sucks in a deep breath. Lets it out shakily. "{Shit.}" Shane just lifts his brows at the question, lets out a quiet huff. He takes another swallow of whiskey, shoulders tightening up. "{I'm sorry. I shouldn't -- bring up --}" His gills flutter again. "{I should just let you get back to. Not sleeping.}" Steve is shaking his head before Shane finishes speaking. "{No, no it's...I'm fine.}" His mouth twists to one side. "{I'm furious and scared, but. That wouldn't be any different if you hadn't come. So. If you want to talk about that -- whatever you want to talk about. We can.}" "{I don't want to talk.}" Shane's hand tightens against his glass. "I mean maybe I do. I don't. I don't know what I want. I want him back. I want a lot of people back." Steve closes his eyes. "{Yeah. I --}" He cuts off and does not speak again for several long seconds, breathing deliberately even. His eyes are bright, but he sheds no tears. "{I do, too.}" Then, after another long pause and a deep draught of his whiskey. "{Are there plans to get them out? It'd have to be a last resort, but if it came to that. Better to have some preparation.}" "{Got about a million different plans. But he'd have no kind of life --}" Though here a low growl rumbles in Shane's chest. "{Not that he'll have any life if they let him die before they even /get/ to trial.}" He lifts a hand, reaching towards the side of Steve's face before he just curls his fingers slightly inward instead. "... now I've made you -- {I'm sorry.} That you can't get drunk." "{That's what I meant by last resort.}" Steve's voice is quiet, even -- kind of distant. "{But, if it comes to it -- you know you have me, too. And Captain America, for what that's worth.}" His tone suggests he doesn't think that's very /much./ He leans toward Shane's hand when it reaches for him, but not quite far enough to touch. He looks down. Blinks away unshed tears. "{Yeah. It's one of those nights.}" "{It's worth a lot.}" /Shane's/ tone, in contrast, has a genuine warmth to it. "{The both of you, maybe.}" He closes the rest of the gap, hand cool when it presses lightly to Steve's cheek. Then drops, a heavier sag to his shoulders. He gulps down the rest of this whiskey far more quickly than the first, not particularly taking time to /taste/ it. "Been a lot of those nights. Lately."