Logs:Painful Things

Painful Things
Dramatis Personae DJ, Steve	2021-06-06 "-- you have got to be messing with me."
Location <NYC> Glen Span Arch - Central Park
Here in the northern reaches of vast Central Park, down amongst the trees with the bright burbling of the Loch damping the distant city noises, you can almost forget you're in the middle of Manhattan. The rustic stonework of the arch itself blends seamlessly into the natural (and not-so-natural) exposed rock that slopes down to the stream flowing from the Pool. The foot and bike traffic on the broad walking path is relatively sparse at this hour, but getting heavier as lunch hour fades to afternoon. Steve is perched on a boulder that juts out above the stream, dressed in his Sunday best -- a breezy off-white linen suit over a blue dress shirt that brings out the color of his eyes, cinched with a darker, watery blue tie in a subtle wave motif. That shield that almost never leaves his side, done up in bi pride colors for the month, is slung casually over one shoulder. He is not-quite-absorbed in an article on his phone, eyes darting up at every sound and movement, his hypervigilance as often as not ending in a friendly smile to passers-by. One of those approaching movements is DJ, neatly dressed in pale grey slacks and a white button-down, one sleeve tucked and pinned closed at his side. His hand is empty, gazed turned out across the stream and his pace a casual amble down the path. A small smile curls across his face as he draws nearer to Steve; his eyes hitch on the shield for a moment, growing just slightly wider, before he lifts his hand to wave. "Sorry," he offers, lightly. "I hope you haven't been waiting long." Steve's answering smile to DJ is quick and sincere, at once warmer and more wistful than what he'd offered the other park visitors. "Oh, it's fine. Hasn't been that long and, besides, I was catching up on the news." One side of his face quirks ruefully, and he waggles his phone by way of demonstration before slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket, buttoning it as he rises. "I ah, hope service was..." He hesitates, lifting one eyebrow ever so slightly. "...inspiring?" Waves DJ toward the footpath with both eyebrows raised now, an invitation but not a demand. "News? On a Sunday?" DJ does partially suppress his grimace, anyway, but it deepens -- just for a moment -- at the question about Church. His tone is lightly amused when he answers, though. "I'm not sure scheduling testimony meetings the same days as fasting was our best idea ever. I just think it'd be a bit more inspiring if people had breakfast before they felt moved to get up and speak from the heart. Was Mass --" His eyes flick briefly over Steve. "Holy?" "Never been great at the whole 'day of rest' business," Steve admits. "Can't say helps my nerves, but..." His head shakes, quick. "Well, I'll not drag you down with me into the sordid and worldly! Mass was...about the average amount of holy, I suppose? It was someone's feast day, but I've already forgotten whose." He blushes faintly. "We don't fast much except during Lent, and that -- tends to be pretty unpleasant. Sure it plays havoc on your metabolism, too. You know, I..." His gaze ticks away to the glittering water of the Loch, then back to DJ. "Flicker and I were close, but I feel I never got around to understanding his faith as much as I should have. Fast days are...once or twice a month, right?" "Do you fast?" DJ's brows knit, with this question. "Uh -- first Sunday each month. Fasting and Mormon Open Mic. What's should have? Are you interested in the faith? Most people can't wait for us to shut up about it. I'm actually startled you were friends so long without --" He cuts himself off, head dipping. "Nevermind. -- I'm sorry, did you paint that?" He's looking back at the shield again, more openly staring, this time. "Can you do that?" "Oh yes -- well, we're only required to on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, but some folks still keep to stricter paschal fasting." Steve's brows furrow slightly. "Early on in our friendship -- well, I just figured the LDS Church was more or less like any of the hundreds of Protestant sects. Whatever weird rumors I'd heard, I chalked up to good old Christian xenophobia -- God knows there's plenty of that against Catholics." He shrugs the shoulder free of the shield harness. "We talked about our faiths, but usually in such loose terms I didn't think he was all that interested to share. To be honest it wasn't until I saw The Book of Mormon that I really started to get interested..." If he was going to elaborate he's quickly distracted the question, which seems to perplex him for a moment until his eyes track DJ's sightline to his pink, purple and blue shield. "This? Yes, I -- well, I didn't paint it personally. It was Tag -- do you know Tag? Little Chinese fella, brilliant artist, can make just about anything any color." He looks down at the glossy convex face of the shield, the silver star at the center the only part that retains its iconic colors. "I suppose some might object if I queered up the official historical one, but this one is mine." Softer, just the barest quaver in his voice, "Not sure many people could tell them apart on sight, anyway." "Sorry, does that mean you've confirmed or dispelled the weird rumors? -- Wait, saw The Book of Mormon?" There's a clear confusion in DJ's expression at this. He looks away from the shield when Steve unhitches it, turning out to the water instead. "What's the difference between them?" "Dispelled some, confirmed some, and learned -- much weirder ones than what I'd heard." Steve's blush deepens. "Meaning no disrespect to you or your Church." He blinks twice in rapid succession. "I meant the musical, though I did read the actual book after that." He touches the edge of the shield lightly with the tips of his index and middle fingers. "This one -- it's better balanced, flies farther, curve's a bit shallower, finish smoother. Brackets for the straps are more sturdy and easier to snap onto a harness. Howard --" His eyes flick down to the broken stone beneath their feet. "-- Howard Stark kept improving it after I went missing." "Musical? They made it into a -- you have got to be messing with me." DJ's head is shaking, slow and bemused. His hand lifts to pass slowly across his eyes. By the time it drops his small smile has dropped, too. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring up -- I mean, you must really miss him." His fist curls hard at his side. "Tony handled most of the equipment -- needs for all of your -- the team back home." "I'm not --" Steve starts, then breaks off, blinking again. "Maybe it just didn't exist in your world? It's pretty popular here -- not a musical rendition of scripture, just a comedy about two young men on mission in Africa." His brows furrow thoughtfully. "With a side of satirical commentary on LDS culture. If you're curious, we can go see it when Broadway opens back up." His eyes widen slightly at DJ's apology, a touch startled but not dismayed. "I do. Every day. But you don't need to apologize." His own smile returns, wan and bittersweet. "It hurts to talk about him, but I want to. I've had time and people to help me heal. Including Tony, if you can believe that -- my Tony, before..." His head shakes, quick and sharp. "Guess we'll have to handle our own equipment needs. I'm sure that S.H.I.E.L.D. is eager to oblige us. Maybe just a bit too eager." "Oh -- oh. That's -- probably more reasonable than a musical of -- right." DJ's cheeks flush, his head dipping. "I haven't really seen a lot of musicals but yeah. Maybe that'd be good." He looks back up with a quick lift of his brows. "-- Why wouldn't I believe that?" "Didn't mean to ah --" Steve's blush seems mostly sympathetic. Clears his throat. "Well. Musical theater isn't famous for being reasonable." He cants his head slightly, considering DJ. "I suppose because Tony is arrogant and prickly and keeps people at arm's length? But then, he -- I mean, the other -- Stark had been...your Steve's friend, too. Had been your friend." One of DJ's eyes twitches at arm's length, and he wanders a little farther down the path, leaning up against a tree and looking out at the water. "Pff. Prickly I can deal with. Prickly was actually --" His expression is a little distant, here, "-- pretty close to home for me. Things were still good, between -- all of us." His shoulder hitches. "Until they weren't." He offers Steve a wan half-smile. "I shouldn't complain. I lost my friend years ago. For you --" Steve follows him into the shade of the tree. "-- some of it's pretty raw, yeah. You lost a lot more than one friend that day and... These things don't hurt less because other people are hurting, too." He stares up at the dappled sunlight finding its way through the leaves overhead. "Prickly was fine, but the arrogance -- thought he could engineer his way out of any problem. Some days it was a real struggle not to deck him." He swallows hard, his shoulders slumping. "Guess I'm also bringing up painful things. No shortage of those, between the two of us." His hand dips into a pocket and coming out with a small pouch. "Meant to do this before, but when I saw you last...well." Even though his right hand looks completely healed, he still unties the pouch left-handed and shakes out a flat steel that he offers out to DJ. "Ton -- Stark asked me to return this to you." DJ chuffs, quiet, glancing over sidelong at Steve. "What, so you never did? Admire your restraint." The smile freezes in place when he looks to Steve's hand. He stares at it for a second -- is halfway to reaching for it when he stops frozen again. "Wh -- he -- what? When did -- how long did --" When he finishes the motion it's almost too fast to catch, the ring seeming to simply vanish from Steve's palm. "And what?" His smile is gone, his voice softer and more clipped than before. "You've just -- been hanging onto it?" Steve doesn't move at all, except to drop his gaze away from DJ's face. "It's -- been a while. If I'd just told you I'm sure you would have --" He sucks in a deep breath. "-- just didn't seem right to bring it up in a text. It's no excuse." His tone is very deliberately even. "I'm sorry." "Would what? Have had a piece of my life back? Have --" DJ's jaw clamps shut with a click. It's just about the same instant that his fist snaps up, straight toward Steve's jaw. He may not be particularly stronger than an an average human of his size, but the speed behind his movements is astounding. He's blinked several feet away a moment later, cheeks red and head bowed. "-- s..." begins low and a little thick, but he swallows the apology unfinished, jaw still tight and muscles clenched. Steve's eyes begin to track DJ's fist, but -- whether by choice or by comparatively less superhuman reflexes -- he does not move to either block or dodge it. The force of the blow snaps his head back, and his trailing foot slides to the very edge of the stream bank. When he throws out his arm for balance the shield slips from his shoulder, jarringly quiet when it hits the ground. His fists clench and unclench. He straightens up, his posture tense but neutral. Starts to speak, then stops with a minute flinch. Works his jaw for a moment. "That's fair." Quieter, "At least that's one thing." DJ's eyes track the path of the shield to the ground, his breath coming out soft when it lands. He doesn't look back up. His shoulders just slump; a shimmer-blur later and he is gone.