Logs:World of Hurt

World of Hurt
Dramatis Personae Sam, Steve
In Absentia	2020-10-15 "Do I wanna see the other guys?"
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. The door handle rattles and a moment later Steve slips inside, later than has been his general habit when he's been at Chimaera, though these last two days have seen his schedule in chaos regardless. He's wearing a tan canvas jacket over a paint-splattered black shirt, and blue jeans, but there's a long, bloodied gash in the sleeve, a cut above his left eye, a bruise blossoming across his left cheek. For all that his movement is free and easy, his gaze sharp and quick, none the worse for the beating he's evidently sustained. He struggles out of his scuffed and paint-dotted combat boots and goes straight to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself an extremely generous glass of Jameson's and downing half of it at a go. Sam has been on the couch, laptop in his lap, but he sets it aside when Steve enters, twisting around to watch the other man's progress through the apartment. His eyes fix on the cuts, the bruising, the liquor briefest of all. He's slow to get up, meandering over with thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "Do I wanna see the other guys?" "Guess it's a matter of taste, but what's left of them isn't pretty." Steve starts to put the bottle away. Hesitates. pale blue eyes flicking up to Sam. "Would you like a drink? Won't do me much good, but..." He swallows, looking down into his glass rather than at Sam. "Nice not to drink alone." Sam glances to the bottle. Tips a hand out, beckoning in acceptance. "You -- find these fights or they just sorta come to you?" He leans against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest. Steve pulls down another glass, pours Sam about as much as he's got left for himself, and slides it over. "Sometimes they find me. Never a shortage of hotshots who want a bout with Captain America." He fills his own glass back up, replaces the bottle, and takes a swig. "This time, I found it." Sam accepts the glass with a dip of his head. "Wouldn't usually think of that as a blessing but guess right about now you need..." He looks down into the glass, head shaking. "Don't actually guess I know what you need. S'is -- a lot. Keep feeling like --" His eyes skim towards the window. He draws in a breath, lifting his glass for a quick swallow. "Shit." Steve swallows hard. "Don't rightly know what I need, either." He shrugs out of his torn and bloody jacket, looking down at the wound on his forearm with more annoyance than concern. "I just...I've lost so many people, and he --" He scrubs his face with one hand, then lifts his glass for a long drink. "I should have done better by him." "I'm sorry. It's not right. Don't know what should gets you now, though. He --" Sam's lips press together, his fingers tight around his glass. He takes another sip, watching Steve over its rim. "You need a wrap on that?" He tips the glass toward Steve's forearm. "Sure as hell didn't do anything for him," Steve agrees, softly. Clenches his hand into a fist, reopening the wound here and there, where it had started to close itself. Raises his drink to his lips again. "He wanted so much more from me and I -- what the hell am I doing?" His fist unclenches and he looks up at Sam, his eyes wide. "I can't keep..." His gaze drops to the cut on his arm. His voice is hoarse and quiet when he finally speaks again, "I -- I guess. Yeah, I'd appreciate. If you'd patch this up." "You were his friend. He was a busy man. Don't think he'd have spent all year making time for you if he wasn't getting something out of that." Sam sets his drink back down on the counter. "Don't know what you're doing, though. Grieving. But that --" He gives Steve's arm another glance as he pulls away from the wall. "Dunno where that ends you but in a whole different world of hurt." He moves past Steve towards the bathroom. "Run some water on it, yeah?" He's disappearing, briefly, to rummage for the first aid kit. Steve nods. Sets his glass down and turns on the faucet in the kitchen sink. He doesn't flinch when the water hits the cut. Just stares at it kind of blankly. "It's an old habit." He sounds a little reluctant when he adds, "Probably not a good one. Can't replace the pain with violence, but..." His breathing quickens and he blinks rapidly. "Afraid if I stop I might just --" A quick shake of his head. "-- fall into that pain and never come back up." Sam returns to the kitchen with the bright orange first aid bag, setting it on the counter beside the sink. "S'a real fear. Grief's a deep place." His head shakes as he unzips the bag. "But you don't gotta pull yourself out of it alone."