ArchivedLogs:Fight

Fight
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Steve	2015-11-24 "{Kinda the catch, isn't it? With family. Having them, it's the only way /to/ get through all this. But losing them --}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
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 a clear, cool night, with a full moon riding high in the nearly-cloudless sky. Dressed in a purple, green, and white plaid shirt and dark blue jeans, Steve sits on the edge of the roof. He has one arm slung casually over the lower bar of the railing, holding a half-finished bottle of beer, and the other (sleeve rolled up to the elbow to reveal some white gauze holding on bulkier bandage) sketching on a yellow legal pad in his lap. Behind him, his shield is propped up on a six-pack of the same brew he is drinking. There's a sudden draft stirring up the pages of Steve's legal pad. A shadow briefly blotting out the moon overhead; Dusk backwings to land on the edge of the roof some short distance away from Steve with a heavy thump of boots, a sharp snap of wings folding in behind him. He's been absent from the Commons for most of the week, and looks a little pale, now, kind of drawn, dark shadows under his eyes. He's in old corduroys kind of too big for him, a soft fleece raggedly slashed open at the back where his wings poke through. His nostrils flare, eyes drifting first towards the bandaging. Then to the sketchpad. Back to the bandaging. 'You OK?' he signs, pointing to the bandaging with a lift of brows. Steve holds down the paper when the wind picks up, tipping his head back to watch the winged silouette descend. The portrait taking shape beneath his pencil is of a handsome, dark-haired young man with neatly trimmed mustache and aviator goggles pushed jauntily up onto his head, his mouth twisting into the beginning of a smirk as he holds a dark glass bottle in one hand and a sabre a champagne in the other. He lifts his bottle in casual greeting, then sets it down to sign 'OK' back in confirmation. "{Not see you all week,}" this is in Spanish, but then he copies Dusk's question with an emphasis on the pronoun: '/You/ OK?' Dusk's wings stretch out and resettle -- one still bears its snowdrift-patterning; the other has a faint scattering of snow-colour collected at a few outside fingerbones but mostly is just dark, fuzzy black freshly regrown. His head tips to one side, examining the picture and then lifting his eyes to Steve. "{Got medicine. Been puking.}" Hs tone is a little wry. "{Not dead yet. I'm --}" His wings shiver at his back, his eyes turning out towards the courtyard. "{... sorry. That I left you all. Here. For...}" His head shakes. "{How you feeling?}" Steve raises his eyebrows as he gets a good look at the recently injured wing. "{You...get better, fast.} For all its inaccuracy, his Spanish has definitely improved just in the course of a few days. "{Hope same for sickness.}" He looks down at the courtyard, too, eyes momentarily vacant. "{Hard fight.}" His head shakes, slowly, and his eyes track down to his drawing. "{Not your fault. Me?}" He holds out one hand, palm-down, wobbles it from side-to-side. "{I have fought much. Will keep fighting.}" He nudges his shield aside. "{Want a beer?}" "{You /learn/ fast.}" A fangy warm smile splits Dusk's face as Steve speaks. "{Sometimes. Sometimes really fucking slow, if I'm not feeding enough.}" Dusk shrugs, the hitch of motion through one wing more than through his shoulder. His wing stretches out, briefly touching to Steve's back as the other man looks down into the courtyard; it folds back in momentarily. "{I heard. I. There were.}" His head shakes again, sharper. "{We always keep fighting.}" He reaches a hand out for the beers, fingers beckoning in acceptance of the offer. "{I have good...}" Steve struggles for a word, finally settling on "{...reason? I learn fast under pressure.}" He tenses fractionally when Dusk's wing touches his back, but then relaxes again. "{Finding food, is harder and harder now.}" This seems to be a comment on Dusk's healing, still. "{I have seen so much fights. Seen so much death. Never gets easier. But you--they were your friends and your family.}" Lifting a bottle from the carboard carton, he holds it out to Dusk. The label reads 'Spaten Optimator'. Dusk drops a hand to rest on the roof between his feet, his other fist lifting to circle his chest when Steve tenses. His wings fold tighter against his back. "{Food, I can hunt. Blood -- not so much.}" His eyes fix down on the courtyard, still. "{They were my family. And you've been here helping them.}" He takes the bottle with a nod, twisting the cap off. "{Never gets easier...}" There's a pause, his brows furrowing. His eyes lift again, drift back to Steve's legal pad. "{Kinda the catch, isn't it? With family. Having them, it's the only way /to/ get through all this. But losing them --}" Steve waves off the apology and picks his own beer back up. "{Hunt? Animals have blood.}" He sounds just a little uncertain. Presumably not about whether animals have blood. "{You need.../human/ blood?}" His mouth pulls to one side, and the shake of his head is quick, slightly unsettled. "{You needed medicine. You didn't abandon them.}" His smile is rueful. "{I know about coming late. You--}" He frowns, looking for the right word, but finally shakes it head. "{You are here now. Still fighting to do.}" When he looks down at his sketch, he smiles again, faintly. Raises his bottle and his eyes to Dusk again, "{To family.}" "{Human blood.}" This clarification comes with a small twitch of wings, though they largely stay folded close to his back. "{To family.}" He stretches out a hand to clink his bottle lightly against Steve's, taking a swig after. Then gesturing with the bottle towards the drawing. "{He yours?}" His mouth curls up, the tip of his fangs glinting in a small smile. "{There's always fighting to do. I may not have been around for so long as you but that much I know.}" Steve nods. "{So your family...give blood to you.}" It's not really a question. He taps his bottle to Dusk's, takes a long pull from it. Rests the tips of his fingers on the bottom edge of the drawing. Chuckles at the question itself, though not happily. "{Yes. Mine. Gone now.}" His pencil adds a few more strokes to the page, wrinkles in the young man's jacket. "{They told us, victory would mean a free world, a peaceful world. They told us a lot. I did not believe it all, but...more than I should. You had to learn all that fast.}" Dusk watches Steve's pencil, focusing on the young man on the page. He nods in answer to the not-a-question, taking another gulp of beer. "{Still telling those same lies. To different people, in a different fight. I don't know.}" His breath huffs out, a quick quiet chuckle. "{I don't know /what/ the fuck I've learned. A free world? We've never had that. We're clawing and clawing and clawing for it. Some of us, anyway. Hard to know if we're getting any closer. Been a long fucking time since you were fighting and we're still not there.}" "{You learned those are lies. You learned you still have to fight. The war, it teach me...}" When Steve shakes his head this time, there's a hint of a smile on his lips. "{...it teach me a lot. The war never really ended, I think.}" He sharpens the line of his subject's jaw just a touch. "{Nazi were wrong. That doesn't make America right. Not then, and not now. A lot more fighting to do.}" He sips at his beer, looks up from his sketch over the glittering city skyline. "{If you need more blood. I can give. Type O...positive.}" "{Sometimes I think we're lucky.}" One long sharp claw of Dusk's twitches, flicking out towards the houses around the Commons. "{A lot of people still believe it. A lot of people don't care enough to fight. A lot of people don't believe there's any need to fight. Easy for us. Never really a choice.}" The offer of blood puts a low growl, brief and hungry, whining up in Dusk's throat. He looks sharply away from Steve, tightening his wings in against his back again. "{That's -- thank you.}" Both his hands curl around the bottle, his eyes fixing down on it. His lips curl up, twitching into a crooked smile as his gaze slants sidelong up towards Steve. "{Before the war, were you...}" But this trails off. His head shakes. He takes a sip of beer instead. "{Lucky? Maybe. If you think so.}" Steve leans his head back against the polished steel railing. "{But I think it's still a choice--to not give up, to fight.}" He turns to look at Dusk, one eyebrow arched at the half-question, but he does not press. "{Also a choice how to fight. What to fight /for./}" Dusk's eyes close slowly. His wings wrap in around himself, folding in a tight pseudo-hug. "Mmm." His brows have dipped in together, fingers drumming against his beer bottle. "{What have you chosen, then?}" "{Fight.}" Steve drains his beer and sets the bottle down in one of the empty sleeves of the carton. "{Fight for liberty and justice. Fight against hatred and...}oppressione." The last word comes out in Italian. "{Well, /now/, fight to live. Fight to keep others alive. I'll go from there.}"