Logs:Reassuring

Reassuring
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Steve
In Absentia	2020-05-24 "Hey, it's been months since I last got shot."
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 bright and brisk Sunday, the weather just nice enough that all the windows to the apartment have been thrown open to let in the semi-fresh spring air as well as music and chatter and laughter from the street below. There are several vases bursting with cut flowers on the kitchen counter, dining table, and scattered throughout the living room and Steve's room. Steve is no longer in his Sunday best, at least not fully, though he hasn't wholly changed out of it, either, a pale blue dress shirt and gray slacks. Though none of the bandaging is visible -- save the gauze still wrapped around his right hand -- the stiffness in his movement tells of his still unhealed injury. "Please give my thanks to Hive. I am hungry. Can I get you something to drink?" He opens the refrigerator, which still holds an abundance of half-full tupperware containers. "Folks were -- very concerned. We've been eating like kings here." Dawson is still in his churchwear, deep blue suit immaculate and subtly striped tie neatly tied. His arm is feathered, as it often is -- though today it's a tessellation of oddly flame-licked grey and white wings, a number of wide unblinking eyes visible in places where the wings shift in their overlap. "Yeah, getting shot ought to earn you a little bit of concern. The first few times especially. Though you can definitely count on Jax to supply an unflagging stream of baked goods no matter how many times you --" He cuts himself off, looking up in the middle of unpacking containers of lentil curry and seasoned rice, spring rolls and seared sea bass, mango salad, raspberry-lime cupcakes with coconut frosting. "-- Not that I'm advising you keep this up, or anything. It's not actually hard to get cookies out of him even without getting holes punched in you." Steve chuckles softly -- wincing, just a touch. "Hey, it's been months since I last got shot." His bandaged hand flexes, perhaps unconsciously, at the recollection before he plucks a bottle of lemonade from the refrigerator, setting it on the counter beside the food being laid out. "Don't worry, I'm not keen on doing more of that if I can avoid it. For one, I can't afford to, without Tony Stark picking up the tab." His eyebrows arch at Dawson as he reaches up to fetch a glass. He hides the wince better, this time. "For another, I'd rather my friends didn't have to fend off endless hordes of government vampires intent on my blood." "You are aware most people don't measure that in months, right?" Dawson sets out the last of the containers. Leans up against the counter, eyes drifting to Steve's hand when it flexes. "Right. Strict friendly vampires only policy for your blood. I'm --" He hesitates, folding his arms down against the countertop. "-- a little wary of asking, but do you know what he wanted with it?" "Don't have to be friendly -- though that's a nice bonus -- so long as I've got a say in it." Steve blushes lightly, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. Shakes his head, slow and thoughtful as his eyebrows wrinkle. "S.S.R. was constantly drawing my blood for research back in the day, and I imagine S.H.I.E.L.D. did more of the same before I was conscious." His eyes travel over the food listlessly. He does not drink his lemonade. "I assume this fella was after the same thing they were -- recreating Project Rebirth." "The only one I know is extra friendly." Dawson's fingers play slowly against his opposite elbow, tracing against a hinge in his mechanical arm. "It's just -- from what Hive's said, this -- person," his lips press thinner here, for a moment, "his -- agency, it's very mutant focused and you're." There's a very faint flush that creeps into his cheeks. "Not. Do you -- know if anything -- anyone -- ever came out of Project Rebirth besides you?" Steve's blush deepens. "I didn't mean to -- I mean Dusk is -- that's...so very different from this." He shakes his head. "As far as I know, I was Erskine's only American subject. But then, I wouldn't have had the clearance to know about any successful efforts to recreate the serum after his death." His lips press together tight for a moment. "For all the paperwork they made me sign, I -- didn't really understand the magnitude of what they were trying doing until afterwards." He looks up at Dawson, with an effort. "Maybe, when mutants became more widely known, the agencies that wanted to make supersoliders...shifted their focus." "Dusk is -- kind of in his own class." Dawson's fingers tighten against his arm. His eyes lift, meeting Steve's steadily. "I think it would have been hard to for anyone to wrap their heads around before actually experiencing it. Or -- after, to be honest." A small wrinkle pulls at his brows. "So -- what, you think these people wanted to make more of you so they --" His words cut off, very suddenly. More slowly, his eyes lower, much of the color draining out of his face. There's a small clicking scrape as his mechanical fingers twitch erratically against the countertop. Steve nods slowly. "They wanted an army of supersoldiers, but all they got was me. I was only ever meant to be a prototype -- no matter how much I exceeded expectations -- and I wasn't fond of following orders." He frowns suddenly, studying his friend. "Flicker?" He circles the counter to Dawson's side, reaching for him. "What's wrong?" Dawson's arm tenses, twitching reflexively away from Steve as the other man reaches for him. Only a very small stutter of motion -- then he settles more solidly in place, fingers gripping tight against the unyielding surface of his opposing arm as his weight bears down on the counter. "Sorry." His eyes lift halfway, gaze not quite reaching Steve's face before he drops it back to the counter. "Sorry. Right. I -- sorry. Just -- after seeing what they accomplished with you. I -- can only imagine how -- what lengths. They might go. To try and --" His jaw clenches; there's a quiet creak of his grinding teeth. "He didn't lay hands on you, though. I'm glad. That. Lucien was there." Steve's brows knit tighter. His mouth opens, but for a moment he does not speak, only stares. Finally, he manages, "Yeah, I -- I'm always grateful for him, but some days it's particularly obvious why I should be." His pale blue eyes are wide with concern, but his voice is calm. "But clearly -- if they're so keen to get hold of me, they haven't got what they need yet." His gaze drops, and his hand, too. "I may not have understood then, but I do now. I won't let it happen." There's a wideness to Dawson's eyes, and a long fixed delay before they tic sharply over to Steve's hand where it has fallen. It takes a beat more before his jaw is unclenching, his fingers slackening their grip on his arm; he swallows hard, head bowing. "I'm not -- sure it's reassuring to think they'll just keep trying." His cheeks flush darker, and this time as he half-straightens from the counter, he starts to reach for Steve. Pulls his hand back with a slight hitch of breath, a whispered: "Sorry." His teeth catch at his lip, eyes skating to the untouched food. "I was meant to be feeding you." Steve hasn't really budged, although to someone as familiar as Dawson is with his body language his entire carriage screams tension, and he is leaning on the hand that he has braced against the edge of the counter. "I'm sorry. Not sure there actually is any to way make this situation more reassuring, but if there is --" He frowns. "-- please know that I'm good for it. Look..." He hesitates, still not meeting Dawson's eyes. "You seem pretty upset, and if it'll help to just -- sit down and have a bite to eat, let's do that. But if you need --" There's a very faint twitch of pain in his expression as he breaks off. "--if you need Hive, right now? I can feed myself just fine, too." Dawson's shoulders ease downward, his breath pushed out slow. His eyes lift, only now actually focusing again on Steve's. "I know you are." His voice is soft; his hand lifts, touching lightly to Steve's arm. "I probably need a lot of things. But right now, food."