ArchivedLogs:Better Than Therapy

Better Than Therapy
Dramatis Personae Hive, Ryan, Steve
In Absentia	2016-01-10 "{Got a lot of /that/ to spare. Love -- /and/ trouble, for that matter.}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Rooftop - Lower East Side
An open-air escape especially popular with smokers and fliers, the Common House rooftop makes good use of its limited space. The railing that circles it has child-resistant gates where walkways can be extended to connect to the other buildings in the development. A colorful and ever-changing table with sometimes-matching benches provides an ideal spot for an urban picnic. There are two garden boxes on the south-facing side, one for vegetables and the other for herbs and flowers, a tool shed and small patio table with chairs between them. It's mild up here, overcast, threatening rain though it isn't currently there yet. There's a curl of smoke coming from the patio table, Hive slouched in one of the chairs in faded old black and white plaid flannel, fleece-lined, unbuttoned over a plain black shirt. Thick workboots, heavy jeans. Calloused hand resting against the edge of the table, eyes fixed on a holographic computer display in front of him. Blueprints -- or they will be, if he'd get around to working on them some more. He doesn't look particularly motivated to do so. Eyes half-closed, his thumb is tapping at his cigarette, letting ash fall into a heavy glass ashtray on the table. Listening. Quiet music, quiet singing -- -- not a recording, right now, but the tall and wiry young man perched /on/ the table across from him, guitar in hand, tan skin and messy dark hair and black skinny jeans and chunky boots and a ragged teal sweatshirt reading COMPASSION IS INVINCIBLE around a heart with a lightning bolt shot through it. His quiet tenor is /good/, that is certain, though even past any particular skill in his singing or playing there's a faint wash of something else, on the roof -- a light empathic touch carried in the music. Pleasantly happy. Warm. Hive takes another long drag from his smoke, his eyes closing the rest of the way. Steve emerges from the stairwell with his sketchbook tucked under one arm and a thermos clutched in the other hand. He's changed out of church clothes and into a light green jacket open over a blue t-shirt with an ornate bronze hourglass (the sand inside is rainbowy glitter) above the words 'Old Fashioned Time Traveler', brown corduroy pants, and scuffed black combat boots. His shield is slung across his back, returned to its traditional colors for the time being. He's tired and lonely and full of unexpectedly raw emotional edges, but pleased with the music, at least. Tilts his head to listen as he closes the door behind him. He recognizes the song -- and the voice, maybe? He approaches the patio table, waving to Hive and his companion, though he's reluctant to speak just yet. Hive's head rolls to one side, his eyes cracking open to peer towards Steve. Briefly. One foot nudges a chair out from the table in invitation, before he tips his head back again, eyes closing. Takes another puff from his cigarette, blowing smoke up towards the sky. The other man looks up, his smile quick and warm. The song continues, the thread of warmth growing. Slow-burn, a growing swell of happy buzz that rises through the chorus, fiercer, fades back into mellow pleasant calm with the final verse until it's trickled off into just -- peace. Hive's lips curl. "{Fuck therapy.}" His Spanish is rougher than his French, gruff and amused. Steve unslings the shield from his back and sinks into the offered chair, pushing the thermos (coffee, black, quite strong -- from Ecuador?) toward Hive. He opens his sketch book to a blank page, but doesn't immediately go to work, twirling the pencil slowly in his right hand. His eyes slip shut as he listens, a thin smile spreading across his face. Opens his eyes again when the song ends, arches an eyebrow at Hive's comment, and though he doesn't necessarily disagree he has, also, never had therapy. "{Hello. You must be Ryan,}" /his/ Spanish is even rougher than Hive's, and carries a peculiarly strong Italian accent. He stands back up to offer his hand. "{I'm Steve Rogers.}" Ryan sets his guitar back in its case on his empty chair, leaning forward where he sits to clasp Steve's hand firmly. His grin is still bright, eyes dipping for a moment to the shield before lifting back to Steve. "{Yeah, I got that.}" /His/ Spanish, at least, comes quick and easy. "{Nice to finally meet you, man, half feel like I already know you all the gossip I been hearing.}" Hive's lips twitch. He taps at his cigarette again, eyes opening to fix on the sky. Reaches for the coffee, mind fluttering up against Steve's with a strong wash of gratitude as he takes a sip. "{How was church? Feeling holier?}" "{Nice to meet you!}" Steve's grasp is firm but careful, his hand rough and calloused. He blushes when Ryan looks at the shield, lowering his gaze slightly. He realizes it cannot be hard for people to put together who he is, especially with the recent news, and especially with the shield. But it would be rude to just /assume/. "{I've heard a lot about you, too. Heard /you/, even. Your...}records." << Oh, gosh, are they still called 'records'? Shane just played it off of the Clouds... >> His vaguely embarrassed musing turns significantly more embarrassed when he recalls that Hive can hear him, and he blushes even harder. Hastily, "Oh! {Church. Was...holy. I don't think it made /me/ very much holier. How are you, gentlemen?}" "{/Have/ you?}" Ryan's laughter is light and easy and comes with a shared flutter of amusement that can be /felt/ as much as heard. He leans forward to steal the cigarette out of Hive's fingers, drawing a puff for himself. "{Can't believe everything the tabloids say, though, you know, they'll print /any/ fucking thing.}" "{Yeah he /definitely/ hasn't secretly died an been replaced by a lizard-person that one's a lie,}" Hive interjects helpfully. "{As far as I know,}" Ryan adds, a little more contemplative. "{And if I'm mind-controlling the President to sway him to /the cause/ I'm doing a shit job.}" "{Get on that one, dude.}" Hive leans forward, snagging his cigarette /back/. "{Seriously slacking.}" "{And Jax, not my secret love slave who I keep at home to murder determined paparazzi -- though if I wanted to keep a secret writing songs about him would be a shitty way to go about it, too.}" Ryan narrows his eyes on the shortened stub of Hive's cigarette. /Appraisingly/. But doesn't steal it again. He leans back, bracing a hand against the table, and flicks his eyes down over Steve. "{So what about you. Tell the truth. All this time, been off partying in space with a race of aliens who bear suspicious resemblance to Norse Gods?}" "{Tabloids?}" Steve blinks rapidly, looking from Ryan to Hive and back as they bat around various celebrity conspiracy theories. The knit of his brows grows deeper and his jaw slacker as they speak. He makes a brief but conscious effort to /not/ think about Jax when he's brought up -- which is both foiled and in some ways made easier by his horror at the prospect of him being a love slave /or/ murdering paparazzi. As such, Ryan's question catches him utterly flat-footed. "Wh-what? {Aliens? I think I would have remembered that.}" Instead, Steve remembers the thundering crash of water through the glass -- then, abruptly, a faded tattoo of a wolf with wings, crushing a chain in its jaws. Then he's thinking about /Jax's/ tattoos and... "{No, definitely not,}" he says, smiling and /sounding/ very confident, at least. "{I would have had a duty to /escape/ Valhalla anyway, if I'd ended up there. I was just sleeping off the war, you know.}" << Sleeping /through/ the rest of the war... >> "{I hadn't actually read any tabloids, mostly just heard a lot of glowing praise of you from B and Shane. And well-deserved!}" He's sincere enough about that, anyway. "{Well, sure, they didn't give me all those trophies just for my good looks.}" Ryan's brows waggle for a moment, his grin briefly amused. "{Glad your nap's over, though, from all I've heard everyone's been -- pretty fucking thrilled to have you. I mean, around /here/.}" His hand waves to the rooftop. "{Can't speak for the /rest/ of the country, looks like you're fitting in pretty well with the stir you're making. News says Jax has been a bad influence but it's like they forget you're way the fuck older.}" Hive doesn't say anything. He's lapsed into momentary quiet, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray, his eyes focused through the holographic display of his computer. The mental images in Steve's mind resurface, tattoos briefly more prominent again -- the wolf, first, and then Jax's, soft and glowing like stained glass. Hive's fingers curl against the table, arm bracing there as he tips his chair back onto its rear legs. "{Judging by all the Twitters I've been getting, a lot of people are /not/ so thrilled to have me.}" Though the bits and pieces of Internet hate cropping up in Steve's mind are stronger than just 'not so thrilled.' "{I was trouble long before I met Jax, but he's definitely had an influence on me. This whole community has -- giving me food and shelter in the middle of an apocalypse. And love.}" He doesn't fight off the images this time. The colorful glow of Jax's ink fills him with admiration and longing, yes, but also a kind of calm. Hooking a hand around the thermos, he pulls it back to him, taking a long drink from it and then offering it to Ryan. "{Black coffee? Will you be staying long? Shane says you're away a lot even when there isn't a citywide quarantine.}" "{Got a lot of /that/ to spare.}" Ryan picks up the coffee to take a swig before handing it back. "{Love -- /and/ trouble, for that matter. Not sure about my plans. Wasn't supposed to be back yet, but I figured Spence could use...}" This trails off with a small press of lips. "{-- Actually, supposed to be taking him out soon. Should get on that.}" He hops down off the table, closing up his guitar case and lifting it in salute to the others. "{See you dinner, maybe? Jambalaya. I'm cooking.}" Hive lets his chair thunk back to the ground as he watches Ryan head back inside. The warm glow of ink in all its scar-marked detail lingers, in Steve's mind; /Hive's/ mind is picking through this thoughtfully, a faint trickle of mental presence threading itself into that sense of admiration. And longing. And calm. He bats at his display once the door closes behind Ryan, shutting it down entirely and lifting his eyes to settle on Steve's face instead. "{He's had an influence on you.}" Now he's switched over to French, words coming easier even if his smoker's-rough voice is no less gruff. "{Yeah. I can feel /that/.}" "{Yeah...}" Steve agrees softly with Ryan's unfinished sentiment. << He could needs all the family he can get, right now. >> "{Jambalaya? Definitely, I would not miss it. See you then.}" He's hungry again already. Drinks some more coffee, slides it over to Hive again, meeting his gaze. Steve doesn't pull away from the mental scrutiny, though he is still vaguely uncomfortable with it. The admiration is straightforward: flashes of Jax's compassion and patience, his dedication and talent. The longing is all touches and trembling breaths and shy sidelong glances and the hollow ache of his absence. But under all of this is a calm, quiet assurance: that there's more for him to give the world than his fight, and there /is/ peace to be had, even if the war never ends. "{He's a good man,}" this is in French, too, soft and reverent, "{and I think I love him.}" Hive pulls in a breath, at this, slow and unsteady. The odd mental touch fades, his grip on Steve's mind slackening. His gaze doesn't waver, though. "{Are you going to tell him that?}" Steve doesn't immediately answer, but his relief at the slow subsiding of Hive's presence is palpable. He physically settles further into his chair. Sets down the pencil he hadn't even realized he was squeezing. "{Yes, but he's grieving and heartbroken and under so much stress.}" An isolated sense-memory: Jax's cheek damp in his hand, jaw muscles tense beneath his fingertips. "{I don't want to add to his burdens. Make him feel pressured to reciprocate. Or damage our friendship.}" Hive nods, picking the coffee back up. His fingers tap against the side of the thermos slowly. "{Is there something that makes you think it would be /adding/ to his burdens? Or stress?}" His eyes have lowered to the table, his breathing slow and deliberate. He squeezes in at the side of the thermos, nailbeds turning white before he actually remembers to lift the coffee and take a drink. "{You're also grieving. And heartbroken. And under a lot of stress. Would /you/ feel more burdened if he told you he loved you?}" "I -- " Steve frowns, slightly uncertain. "{He /does/ kind of fret about everything, and would certainly fret about hurting my feelings, or how to respond to them.}" << If he doesn't already... >> His eyes drop to where Hive's hand grips the thermos. "{/Me?/}" << /I'm/ not... >> But the sharp twist of loss in his gut puts the lie to his denial before he's even articulated it to /himself./ "{No,}" he admits, watching Hive with some concern now. "{You...are you unwell?}" Hive's brows just /lift/ even before Steve can articulate that denial, eyes lifting to level back on the other man before dropping back to the table. "{He frets about everyone he loves. Don't think even I've got juice enough to stop his powers of fret.}" He slides the coffee back to Steve, slowly dropping his hand to rest flat on the table. Presses his fingers down against it. "{You already /know/ he loves you. It's pretty unlikely to damage that love if you talk to him about it.}" Steve scoops the thermos up and gulps more coffee. Kind of nervously. "{I know, I just -- }" << I'm afraid. >> This actually startles him. << I'll pick fights with guys twice my size, jump out of perfectly good airplanes, and charge into battle outmanned and outgunned, but this...? >> He blinks, shakes his head. "{You're right. I will.}" Then, after a beat, he reaches out a hand and touches the back of Hive's hand. "{Thank you.}" << {Yeah, well, all /that/ just might kill you,} >> Hive's mental voice is wry. He draws in a sudden breath at Steve's touch, quick and shuddery -- rather than tensing, though, he relaxes all at once, eyes closing as he slouches down further in his seat. His hand turns up, bony fingers curling around Steve's hand. "S'what I do."