ten_fwd | First Entrance

He'd been to visit Peggy when he got the call from Director Fury to check in. He was making it a routine, every Tuesday afternoon when he wasn't on a mission. Then it became every Tuesday afternoon and every Saturday morning. It's funny how long it took him to work up the nerve to see her, and now it's all he can do to stay away. She's still his best gal.

He parks his bike in his usual spot in the underground garage next to the Triskelion, shoulders the bag with his gear in it, and starts walking to the elevators. He's wondering what kind of mission Fury's sending him on this time when the sun catches his eyes ... wait, where's that coming from?

He blinks hard, and when he opens his eyes ... this is not the elevator. This isn't the garage, heck, this isn't even D.C. He's in a room, some kind of restaurant or bar. People are milling about, some in uniform and others in civvies, and outside the windows ... jeepers, that's a lot of stars.

His hand tightens on the strap of his bag and he plants his feet shoulder's width apart, jaw set. He isn't sure what kind of trick this is, but if he doesn't get answers soon he's going to start demanding them.

[ooc: Hello! Steve is pre-Winter Soldier, but only just, and he has entered the room in civvies. Slacks, button-up, leather jacket, boots, his usual affair. His cowl is in the bag, along with his shield and a few other things, but by all accounts he looks like an average guy. Well, an average tall, strong guy. Any takers welcome!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I won't hurt anyone," she says, serious because she hates hurting people. The thought of what she can do--the memory of pulling her hand out of someone's chest with a wet squish even though she hated it and hadn't looked still made her want to retch.

"But we can talk. If you tell me what happened when we lost."

The tone of her voice and the way she looks tells Steve all he needs to know. She's practically green, all of her earlier threats against him replaced with the look of a kid who never wanted this kind of power heaped on her in the first place. It gives him enough confidence to place his hand on her shoulder, heavy and sure.

"I believe you," he says. He doesn't care what year it is for her, or where they are, or what will happen when they get put back where they came from; in this moment, he makes a silent promise that she won't have to hurt anyone else ever again. "You want to talk about the war now? Or after we find the people in charge here?"

"Later," she says. She doesn't want to talk about it at all right now. Not until she can look up who he is. And what happened.

Her shoulder dips under the weight of his hand, and Sinthia takes a deep but gently shuddering breath to steady herself. She really doesn't want to be sick.

"I don't want to have to talk about it at all."

"You don't have to," he says. Under his name in the Smithsonian, it says 'WAR HERO'. But Steve still wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, delirious and confused by his own bed, more unnerved that it's quiet than if there were bombs going off. She doesn't have to talk about any of it if she doesn't want to. "You just make up your mind on what you want, and I'll be here."

He pauses before straightening up, and offers her a helping hand to get down from the table if she wants it. "Do you still want to come with me?"

Once she's down off the table, Sinthia eyes the distance to Steve's shoulders again, and looks down at the floor. It's a very nice, very solid floor. It's a good floor. She likes it.

"Can I just walk beside you?" she asks. Steve is awfully tall. "For now."

She doesn't want to talk about forced practice with her abilities; not because she doesn't like to use them, but because remembering the lengths to which she's gone and been pushed make her feel at best nervous and at worst sick. Beneath those feelings she understands the reasons why, because there's no point in making a weapon without testing its limits, but when that weapon can remember...it adds a new kind of trauma to the playing field.

One corner of Steve's mouth rucks up in something like a smile.

"Yeah, you can," he says, offering her his hand. He's not sure what to make of the kid anymore, but it's hard to look at her like a threat. Still, he'll keep her away from his throat, and close to the ground in case she feels like running. He wouldn't blame her.

"I meant what I said," he says quietly. "You and I can stick together until we figure out what's going on. It's gonna be okay."

It's a lot to digest. In the span of one conversation she's gone from sure they're friends, to sure they're enemies, to now quite vehemently unsure of everything, and the changes show on her face. It's tiring, it's upsetting, it's disorienting.

If she knew what shellshock was she might be tempted to use that as a description. It's a long time between when she takes his hand gently, and when she finally says something--unknowingly Steve has probably set her back talking only when she's spoken to, when she'd just started coming out of her shell and being assertive.

"It doesn't feel like it's okay. We're going to lose, and I don't know what happens." To me is the unspoken part, important in the distinction it makes. But Steve is probably smart enough to guess that, or would be even if Sinthia didn't add on at the last minute--"Do you have to kill me, Steve? In your war?"

He is smart enough, and fast enough to pick up on what's not being said until she comes out and says it.

"No," he answers immediately, vehemently firm. "No. Nobody is going to kill you."

He stops and crouches to get on her level, standing in front of her with a hand on each arm. His brow is deeply furrowed when he reaches up and strokes her hair, the tenderness coming without thought. It's already done by the time he stops to wonder if anyone has ever been tender with her, if she'd even know why he was doing what he did.

"You're here with me, Sinthia. You're safe," he says, hoping she can let herself believe that. "The war is a whole galaxy behind you now. Your fate is whatever you make it. Johann can't get to you here."

He doesn't know that for sure. He couldn't. But with ever fiber of his being, he'll will it to be so.

Have you ever seen a housecat, Steve? How, even when they're angry and unhappy they'll find their person and knead out their distress until they can relax?

Sinthia is, in that respect, much like the metaphorical housecat in that instant when Steve touches her hair, brows uncreasing and face relaxing a bit; it's something only Johann ever does, touch her head like that, and while he's not nearly so tender as Steve is with her the idea is the same. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I want to trust you. But I had to ask."

He inches closer, free hand resting on her shoulder. He clenches his jaw twice, lips forming a brief line before he forces a wry smile, and shakes his head.

"It's OK. Asking is good," he assures her. Trust, but verify. It's a creed Steve holds close to the vest. "I promise no one is going to hurt you. No one. OK?"

"Okay," she echoes, leaning just slightly against his hand on her shoulder, brows drawn together not out of anger or distrust but sheer confusion, a trace of tiredness.

"I don't mean to assume so much," she says. "But I don't want there to be any problems because you don't like my father."

He isn't sure how to respond to that at first. He wets his lips, and then shakes his head slowly.

"There won't be. We've just got to learn about each other, right?" he says, smiling wanly. "And we've gotta learn about where we are. We're partners now, okay? You help me talk to the people in charge, and I'll stick by you."

He gets back to his feet, gently palming her hand. "C'mon, kiddo. Let's get started."

First Entrance

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