Logs:Needful Things

Needful Things
Dramatis Personae DJ, Steve
In Absentia	2021-03-21 "Won't kill me. The last two haven't."
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. It's a mild evening, and the windows of the living room have been cracked open to let in the semi-fresh breeze. The apartment is freshly cleaned from top to bottom, and Steve is still fussing over the positioning of lamps in the living room. He's rolling the sleeves of his blue, purple, and green flannel back down as he drifts toward the windows, both the shirt and the crisp blue jeans hanging ever so slightly loose on his still-muscular frame. Despite that and the very slight pallor of his skin, he's cleanly shaven and his hair impeccably combed and pomaded. His shield is leaning against the side of the couch, and he glances back at it, as if fighting off the urge to go to it. There's a knock on the door soon enough, a sharp firm shave-and-a-haircut rap. DJ is just outside in jeans and a lightweight green flannel, hair just a touch rumpled. There's a paper carry-out bag over his wrist, a slightly restless unease in his stance that is settling only as his hand drops from the door. He offers the bag in lieu of greeting when Steve comes to the door. "Do you like Japanese? I wasn't sure. The internet promised this place is good." Steve flinches at the knock, but he smiles, too -- wistfully. The smile hasn't faded completely by the time the pulls the door open. " -- two bits," is apparently somewhat automatic, since he blushes as soon as the words are out. "Do I like Japanese what?" he asks, expression blanking. Then his eyes drop to the proffered bag and his blush deepens. "Oh! Yes --" He accepts the food and waves DJ in. "-- I mean to say, I haven't had much -- well, it can't be worse than K-rations!" Actually cringes. "I'm sure it will be delicious. Can I get you something to drink?" A faint flush in DJ's cheeks answers Steve's. His hand lifts as soon as its freed, reflexively moving to set his hair back into a neater order. "I haven't had that pleasure but I've heard those -- aren't much to write home about." He drops his hand to his side as he follows Steve inside. "There's some pork sandwiches, some curry chicken on rice, some vegetable udon, some edamame, dumplings -- sorry, I didn't -- really know your. Tastes, so." His eyes are darting around the apartment, not lingering long on any one surface. "Just some water would be great." Steve closes the door behind his guest and sets the bag of food on the kitchen counter while he fills two tall glasses with water. "They were so bad it actually was worth writing home, if you can manage to make the complaints witty and amusing. My tastes run the gamut, and I eat -- a lot. I don't know what udon or eda...mame are, but I'm excited to find out." He offers one glass to DJ. "How have you been holding up?" "Noodles. And beans." DJ takes the glass, fetching up against the counter with it. "-- Huh." His eyes flutter briefly wider, but then drop to his glass. "Right, it's not. Just an expression. Were your letters witty and amusing? Kind of an underutilized art these days." His brows furrow. "At home, anyway." "I like noodles and beans," Steve replies gamely, taking a sip of his water. Starts, "Oh, I know --" Breaks off, shakes his head quick. "I ah -- well, I like to think they were interesting, at least. Writing never was my strong suit, but I sent sketches, too. Didn't have much family left back home, but -- guess 'found family' is what they call that, these days." There's a barely perceptible slump to his posture, but he soldiers on. "No, letter-writing doesn't seem to be much in fashion here, either. I'm sure there's folks out there typing florid emails and such, but I haven't seen much in the way of that." Then, thoughtfully, his smile faint but warm, "Luci's a bit of an outlier." "Family is family, however you come by them." DJ's eyes settle on Steve and linger, at that slump, his brows pulling together. It's a few breaths before he looks away, shoulder tightening and his glass lifting for a small sip of water. "-- Luci? Florid?" His brows raise on that, a flash of bemusement crossing his expression. "You mean Tessier, right?" The bemusement hasn't really left as he looks over the living room furnishings. "Maybe I'm just old-fashioned but I don't think grandiloquence has the same kind of effect in an email as on paper." "Yeah, that's --" Steve swallows. "-- you're not wrong." Looks away, blinking. Takes a deep breath. "Sorry, I'm being terribly rude. Would you like to sit down, have a bite to eat?" He gestures expansively at the dining set, his eyes flicking between the elaborately inlaid tabletop and DJ. "Well, 'florid' isn't quite the right word, but he's also...old-fashioned, in some ways." Now his smile is a touch rueful. "Guess that goes without saying for me, and your background is --" Breaks off, frowning. "Don't actually know your background, really." "Right. Food. Yes." DJ pushes away from the counter to move toward the table. There's a beat of hesitation before he approaches it; the sweep of his eyes over its surface comes with a brief disruption of his gruntlement. He settles it back into array easily enough, offering Steve a small smile. "Oh -- My life was exceptionally boring before all the war and --" He waves his glass vaguely around himself. "New world and all." DJ's eyes lower, another flush of pink suffusing his cheeks. "I don't know that anything goes without saying for you. I feel like I know you and I have to keep reminding myself I --" This falls away. Into a small breath, into a small sip of water. "I take your word for it, but I mostly just meant -- maybe you had a sort of. Old-fashioned. Upbringing." Steve unloads the contents of the bag DJ brought onto the table. "I'd like to say I can relate but honestly, my life has always been a train --" He breaks off mid-sentence, not just his breath but his whole posture hitching. "-- been a mess. Long before the War." He returns to the kitchen for plates and, despite a furtive glance at the chopsticks that came with the food, two sets of silverware. "Me, too," he says quietly. "Especially since..." Doesn't look up as he sets the places, left-handed. "...he's one of the people I'd turn to when I had a rough time." He lifts his eyes, jaw setting tight. "Wouldn't fair to put that on you, just because you happen to --" His braced right hand also waves vaguely around them. "I'm Mormon." The wisp of smile that crosses DJ's face is small. "I think sort of old-fashioned is baked in." The glass vanishes from his grip at that hitch, appearing neatly on a coaster on the table. He reaches toward Steve's shoulder, but drops his hand again as the other man goes to fetch plates. "I -- got the impression you and he were close." DJ drops heavily down into a seat at the table. His cheeks are redder, his eyes fixed on the water. "You know," his fingers twitch briefly against the tabletop, "I think my life's moved way past worrying about fair." His eyes meet Steve's when he looks up. "Are you? Having a rough time?" "That was my thought, but then -- didn't want to assume." Steve looks down at his fork. Frowns. Bends it more or less back into shape and sets it beside his plate with probably more care than is necessary. "Yeah, we were ah -- very close." He blushes hard, too, his gaze tracing the inlaid patterns of the tabletop that his hand are pressed against, the right uncurled farther than it should, the edges of the brace digging in hard. "I guess it's not a lot beside..." His breathing comes faster, though still measured. He opens his mouth. Hesitates. Abruptly decides to forge on. "It's the 76th anniversary of my -- death. A few days before that I lost my best friend on a raid. And --" He shakes his head, sharp and quick. "March is just a great month for me." The twitch his smile is brief and joyless. "Won't kill me. The last two haven't." "Lost your -- wait, Bucky?" DJ's brows rumple. "Before the -- oh. That -- sounds like a lot." He's quiet, but only for a moment. "I don't -- think your math's quite right. I mean, most things don't kill us, until something does." Steve's eyes widen, and he nods. "Sorry. It is a lot, but beside all the rest..." He shrugs, not really looking as nonchalant as he perhaps wants to. "Only, I didn't have to watch everyone else die." His laugh is soft, sudden, maybe surprising even him. "Well, I guess it did kill me, back in '45." His next words are careful, deliberate, calm. "Wasn't planning on repeating that experience." "It's not beside the rest, though, is it? It never really -- gets less just because other people are hurting. I mean, if pain could be displaced that way we might be living in -- Omelas." DJ's teeth catch at his cheek. "I'm sorry. I just mean, it is a lot to shoulder. You don't have to pretend it isn't. If I'd known I might've brought some wine with the food." The smile he flashes is a little lopsided. "-- Actually probably better I didn't, I'm not too good at picking it." That faint twitch of a smile, again. "I've read Ursula Le Guin. She was a marvel." Steve swallows. "I don't like to -- well. I don't want anyone to feel like they haven't got a right to see to their own griefs and needs just because mine happen to dramatic." He glances at a kitchen cabinet. "Oh, we've got plenty of alcohol. Just feels rude, when you don't partake. Besides, it doesn't really ah, work on me." "Doesn't mean you can't enjoy it." DJ looks at the food containers. At Steve's empty plate. "You should eat." He's not making any move to fill his own plate, yet. "What does work on you?" His cheeks flush again. "On the rough days. Not -- for inebriation." Steve makes a non-committal noise, but then says, "I do enjoy it. Nostalgia for the bad old days when two drinks would put me under the table, I suppose." He carefully transfers some udon to his own plate, winding the thick noodles with difficulty around his still slightly mangled fork. "I have a therapist. Support groups. Art. Friends. Volunteering." He doesn't actually start eating. "But mostly what I actually do when it gets really rough is go out and pick fights with fascists. Everyone thinks this is a bad idea." Half a beat later. "Including the fascists." A startled laugh escapes DJ's lips. "Oh -- oh." His curled fist lifts to cover his smile; it fades by the time he lowers his hand. "Never have put much stock in their opinions anyway. Though I -- can see the cons with that approach." His hand turns up, eyes lifting to meet Steve's. "The world's never going to be short on violence. Do you ever get tired of adding to it?" Steve smiles when DJ laughs, the expression pleased if wistful. "So can I, but they always seem so minor when I'm haring off to pick fights." He bows his head. "I remember quick enough when I see the looks on my friends' faces while they patch me up." His face twists into a rueful frown. "I like to think I'm helping, but..." He hesitates. Finally admits, "I do. Feel like I have to fight, anyway. Have a hard time imagining a world where I didn't feel a need to fight. Can you?" DJ opens his mouth, but then closes it, his palm rubbing slow against his beard. "I imagine it all the time. It is hard. But it's an image I hold onto tight. I keep it in mind when I wake up and hold it there before I go to sleep at night. I'm not sure how I'd fight if I couldn't imagine it." He shakes his head, only now starting to fill his plate, a small sample helping of everything. "Doubt the world's gonna run short on needful times to take up arms any time soon, though, without leaping to seek them out. Though I admit --" A small wince crosses his expression. "What's needful can be a bit subjective." "I used to be able to. Now..." Steve shakes his head, quick. "I just don't know anymore. Only times I can see it clearly is in other people's visions. Maybe that's okay -- even if I'm not feeling all that visionary myself, there's folks in my life won't let me forget what I'm fighting for." He pushes the noodles around experimentally, trying to wrap them around his fork like spaghetti and failing. "But you're right." He's quiet for a moment. "Comes down to it, I'm just lashing out because --" Looks up at DJ. Swallows. "Well. It's no real way to grieve and, like I said, it already got me killed once." "Is there a right way to grieve? I'm not --" DJ breaks off. His breath is slow, shaky. His eyes drop to his plate. He clenches his fork tight when he picks it up. "Sorry. Not trying to police how you mourn. I sure don't know how to do it." "I suppose not. But there are more and less self-destructive ones." Steve looks down, himself. "And I didn't think you were. Not like I've lacked for wakeup calls, but. Maybe I just needed one more." He makes himself look back up, rotating the fork slowly between his fingers. "I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you how to grieve a whole world. I'm still working on that, too, and this world won't stop to give either of us time. Doubt I'd have made it this far without my friends." He licks his lips, finally starting in on his food, though he hesitates again, just long enough to add. "If you'd like to talk about it -- or need to. Any time. I'm game."