apocalypsehowcomm | Log: Losing count

Entry tags:

Log: Losing count

Who: Steve Rogers and you!
When: Throughout April
Where: During the Leviathan mission, the gym, Alden Pond Burial Ground, ADI/apartments
Summary: Steve goes on the Leviathan mission and follows it up by wearing himself out at the gym. He later investigates the Alden Pond Burial Ground and has some unsettling visions. Feel free to happen upon him at any point!
Warnings: Visions of death, suicidal ideation

Steve volunteers for the Leviathan mission, because of course he does. He's big and strong (mostly; the dizziness and achey joints from using Mjolnir most recently seems to have worn off) and he's on Security. He really ought to go.

And for the most part, the mission goes fine. Better than expected, in some ways — it's not a giant, hulking monster the size of a city block, though it is a very big lobster.

But the thing is… Steve of course has to think about it. Has to be weirdly impressed by the size of the thing. By how it's survived. And even by the way these people have deluded themselves.

He's no stranger to feeling small and insignificant. But it stirs something inside him that's already been roiling after recent events, and he spends the next afternoon and evening in the gym, going at the heavy bag like it's insulted his mother. Except the longer he goes, the more (naturally) tired he gets. The slower and less coordinated his punches become, the angrier and more frustrated he feels. Sometimes it feels like frustration is such a big part of him, these days. He spends far longer than he should at the bag, giving anyone who looks like they might even want a turn a flat glare that says Don't even try it. The few — very few — times he pauses for a drink of water and someone might head in the bag's direction, he snaps, "Hey. I'm using that."

He finally shuffles back into the apartments minutes before curfew takes effect. He's sweaty and dragging and unhappy, and keeps his head down in the hallways. His hands are red, the white electrical burn scars spiderwebbed over them standing out angrily against the skin. He might quite literally bump into someone if he's not careful.

Despite the lingering feelings of physical inadequacy, Steve is, naturally, curious about anything graveyard related these days. After the bread in October and then the fire two months ago, he's maybe seeing connections that aren't there… or is he? It feels like it's worth following up.

So, sometime in early April, after the lobster-related smash-and-grab, he catches the bus to the park. Alone, because he's still bad at requesting backup, and he honestly isn't sure he's going to find — or see — anything, anyway.

But he does. And while he doesn't think there's anyone on the stairs with him at the time, there certainly might be.

He's quiet on the bus ride home. And through the next day. And the next. So that's what he'd given up and then decided to chase, before he ended up here and everything changed.

Well. The best way to stop thinking about things he doesn't want to think about is to keep busy. And those stairs still need investigating.

So he goes back to the burial ground. Back to the stairs. And a few days later, he does it again. Then, again. It's like he can't get enough of seeking out what it might or might not show him. He might miss a few days of work, or skip out early, or not show up when he said he might meet someone somewhere. He might be a little obsessed.

He can't always make sense of what he sees. Usually it's a battle with someone or something he doesn't know. Once, he's the monster, an angry, raging thing almost like the Hulk used to be, tearing Gloucester apart until people like Winter, like Yelena, take him down. Once, he's an old man dying in his bed.

He frankly isn't sure which of those last two bothers him more. Or how many steps he counted that day, dammit. They're all starting to blur together.

He even gets knocked down once or twice. Those days, he doesn't approach the steps; on one occasion, he ends up sneaking back toward the apartment with a very impressive shiner forming around his left eye.

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Winter frowns at him. Steve snapping at him is weird. He doesn't like it.

He gives Steve a look up and down. "No you're not," he says flatly. "You're about to fall down. When is the last time you ate."

Steve would be sorry - should be sorry - but he's feeling particularly antsy and unhappy, and hitting things (admittedly his go-to coping mechanism) isn't helping. Frankly, he didn't actually realize it was Winter he was seeing out of the corner of his eye until he heard his voice.

"Dunno," is the only-slightly standoffish answer; it may or may not give Winter flashbacks to Steve's pre-serum days. He reaches for the bag again with one hand, as if to steady it while he punches with the other. Or maybe just to claim it, like Winter's going to somehow grab it away. "Not hungry."

The truth is, he's passed starving right into upset stomach, but that seems just fine to him, given his mood.

Edited 2023-04-19 19:20 (UTC)

It does sound weirdly familiar. The surly, grouchy tone. The pinched expression. It creates a swell of fondness. And annoyance. And determination.

He fixes Steve with a steely expression and reaches over to take his wrist, pulling it away from the bag. "No. You need to eat." He twists the wrist a little so he can see Steve's knuckles and his steel turns into a scowl. "And to let your hands recover. This isn't helping you."

"It's not helping anybody," Steve counters; though he doesn't try to yank his hand back. Even if he wants to. It's like his body recognizes that Winter's touching him and doesn't want him to stop, even though he should.

"They just look like that now," he points out unhappily - though of course, they don't. The scars are, well, scars, so they're always there. But of course there's the way he's abused his hands past the point when he should have stopped hitting things on top of it.

"No, they don't usually look like you've been beating things with them for hours," Winter corrects. "I know what your hands look like, Steve." He covers this one with both of his own, giving Steve a direct look for once. "Come with me. I'll let you have my last brownie that I was saving for tomorrow."

Yes, he has a stash of food in his locker here in security. Chocolate always cheers him up. He's sure it will also work for Steve.

Winter's touch threatens to soothe him, but there's a part of Steve that wants to stay prickly and belligerent. Which is why he doesn't pull away or dare look away from Winter's face while he's actually looking Steve in his, and yet also says, "I'm not gonna eat your last brownie. Geez."

"It's what I have," Winter says. He can always get more brownies. He can't get another Steve if this one breaks. Or shouts at him and he either shouts back or crumbles into terror over it. Even he can't predict which one would happen. He would really, really rather not find out. "We could raid the vending machine, if you would rather. But you're done hitting things for today." He tugs on Steve's hand, a little. "Come with me."

There's a long, tense moment where it seems like Steve might plant his feet just to be difficult. Just to be belligerent.

But then he takes a step. And another. And doesn't pull his hand away from Winter's, though he won't grab for it if Winter drops his, either.

He'll follow, though he won't exactly exude happiness over it. He does finally say, "I guess I'll have half the brownie."

Some of the tension in Winter releases a little, too, when there's no shouting and no violence. Not that he expected Steve to hit him, not really, but maybe to yank himself away or shoulder-check him to get him out of the way. That he didn't is-- good. There's relief.

He realizes he hasn't really seen Steve angry, here. Grouchy, but not angry. There's something familiar to it, but it brings up shades of fear, too.

So he keeps Steve's hand as he walks, one step at a time, away from the bag and towards the locker room next to the gym, sandwiched between it and the official security office. "We can share, then," he allows. It's a concession and he'll take it.

"Why are you angry," he asks after another two steps.

Steve's jaw clenches at the question, and his free hand clenches into a fist at his side. "Because I'm useless. I'm not - I'm not doing everything I can. I'm not helping people, really. I know I can do more, but - I can't right now. I should be able to do more."

It's a feeling that he's had for a long time, admittedly, so it's hard for him to necessarily separate out the fact that it got bigger and more encompassing after a specific incident this week. Instead, it just feels... normal. It's normal for him to feel this way. Small and useless, and he hates it. He hates that there's some bigger power keeping his power to help people at bay. He wants it back. He wants to stop feeling this way.

For the moment, Winter takes this at face value. "What could you be doing that you aren't?" he asks, reasonable and thoughtful. "Most of what needs doing is either spy stuff. Like research or infiltration. Or doing missions to keep people safe where we shoot things. You're doing that one." If there's something more they could do, Winter certainly would be trying to do it, he thinks.

Winter, this is an existential crisis, okay.

Because no, Steve is not good at the spy stuff, at the research and infiltration. But also: "I could be stronger," Steve points out. "I could be better at the missions we are going on, without - without needing to rely on Mjolnir." Which isn't working as it should, anyway. Maybe if he was stronger, if he had the serum, that wouldn't be happening, too. He doesn't know.

"I could be able to hit things for longer," he adds, sullenly, glancing at his own hands live they've betrayed him.

Winter's fingers tighten a little on his, not in support, but with realization and sudden tension. "You want the serum back," he says flatly. "Even though you know how you would have to get it."

"Of course I do," Steve says - doesn't quite snap, this time, though it's admittedly a little snappish. Frustrated. Because that's the answer to both of those questions. Statements. Whatever.

He wants the serum back. And he knows what he has to do to get it.

And he hates the whole damn thing. He hates himself for wanting it. He hates himself for considering it. And yet he is. He can't not. Because, "I'm weak."

It probably comes out sounding like he means it purely physically. But he doesn't.

Edited 2023-05-13 03:50 (UTC)

Oh, he doesn't like that. He doesn't like any part of that. "Steve. I spent six months feeding the Stranger. Before I figured out what the fuck I was doing it. It's not worth it," Winter says flatly. "Being able to hit longer. Or harder. It's not worth it."

"Well, I'm obviously not feeding anything," Steve points out. No super-strength. So he's fine, right? He's good.

He doesn't feel good.

Besides. "Maybe it's not worth it for you," he says, and the quiet tone of his voice isn't derision. It's honesty, and even a little bit of understanding, in the midst of his anger. He can understand if it's not a price Winter is willing to pay.

But Steve - maybe he could be. He doesn't know.

He feels like he should know. Like he did know. But ever since the lobster, he just feels... adrift. Even more than usual.

Winter doesn't like that even more. "Steve. You asked me once to stop you if you started doing that," he says, a little less steadily. "Started feeding entities. Scaring people for power. Please don't make me have to do it."

Steve frowns. "I did?" he asks, as if he's having trouble recalling. (Or, really, thinking clearly.)

Had he? It... seems like something he'd have asked, sure, but - "It was when I was still new," he decides.

Before he knew - remembered - how frustrating feeling powerless can be.

Winter drops his hand, turning to stare at him. He doesn't even sound like him. The Steve he knows respects people, doesn't value power over others, and while he might feel helpless sometimes, he doesn't brush off Winter's concerns.

"Steve," he says. "I will do it if I have to. I won't like it. I'll hate it. But I will. Do. Not. Choose. The entities. It will only hurt people and make the end of the world come faster."

Only if I do it wrong, is what Steve thinks - but, for better or worse, doesn't say out loud.

There's some part of him that knows if Winter is upset. If Winter is pleading. Then Steve's gone off the rails somewhere. It's just hard to want to listen to that part when so much more of him feels small and stupid and helpless. When there's an answer in front of him, and he believes maybe he can twist it around to make it work, if he's just clever and strong - ha - enough.

"No one's used their own power against them?" he asks, maybe voicing a little of that thought, if in a roundabout way. He at least sounds calmer. Quieter. Thoughtful - whether that's a good thing or not.

"No one could. It's made of fear," Winter says, not sure if he's relieved or more worried. At least logically that strategy doesn't make any sense, so he can counter it. "Turning that fear back on it will only make it stronger. And besides. You can't punch something you can't even see." Which is what the serum is good for. Punching things. And surviving things. "Nothing the serum can do will do a damn thing for what's in our heads. That's where fear entities work."

"I refuse to believe they're not afraid of anything," Steve says, quietly. He's not arguing whether fear makes them stronger, but - everything fears something. Even fear entities. They have to fear losing, or ceasing to exist, or - something. There's always something.

And the truth is, Steve has always been better at physical fights than mental ones. He knows that. The entities probably know that, too.

Shit. It's what he's afraid of. And they probably know it, and -

"Shit," he says, out loud, though he doesn't elaborate. This whole situation is just. Fucked up, and he hates it. "How are we ever supposed to trust ourselves, like this."

Winter's still for a beat, watching him, but then a little of the tension goes out of him. If Steve is asking that, then he might be listening to reason. "You trust the people around you," he says. "We help each other see what's real." He pauses again, then adds, "It's tough. I know."

But he's never really trusted himself; there's no way he could, with what he's done, and what's been done to him. And trusting other people was a long time coming. Yelena, Kate, Cortana, and Steve. Hopefully Steve.

He offers Steve his hand again. There's still a brownie to split.

Steve might normally make a joke about just how tough he makes things for Winter. But he doesn't feel like it right now. It feels, honestly, like it's taking a lot to accept that answer when - it shouldn't. It should be exactly right. It is exactly right.

It still doesn't feel like enough, but he's at least seeing enough reason not to argue it further.

Well, except, "I want this done with. I want to make them afraid."

It's more just a general statement. Not a call to action. But it's sure how he feels. He should be the bigger man. He doesn't feel bigger in any sense of the word, right now.

But he takes Winter's hand. That's something he always wants to do, even if he still has that very Steve look of deciding he hasn't lost an argument so much as just decided to stop arguing. For now.

"Then we do it our way. Not their way." He gives Steve's hand a careful squeeze, not wanting to hurt where he'd pummeled the bag too long and too hard, and tows him gently in the direction of his locker.

He'll take a lack of an argument for now. It's a lot better than nothing.

Gym

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wrap this one? or let them be cute together for a while?