milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Steve comes through the door in his dress uniform, looking hollow-eyed and grim. He goes to the Bar and drops a pile of Army scrip on the top.

"A bottle of Atlantean, please," and then adds, "And some paper and a pen, and a poppy from Remembrance Day, if you have one."

The Bar delivers. Perhaps with an air of concern.

"Thank you, ma'am," Steve says and, in big dark letters that are nothing like his usual cheerful hand, writes:

IN MEMORIAM
SGT. JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES
1918-1944

and pins it to the bulletin board, along with the poppy.

He then takes the bottle and goes to the darkest, least visible booth he can find.

[ooc: Feel free to have your pup react to Steve's announcement, but please PM or email me before tagging Steve as he is in a Very, Very Bad Place. Thanks.

All threads millitimed to before the thread with Orpheus, please.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Orpheus sees the note before he sees Steve, and he frowns. Mostly because of the dates. He doesn't immediately equate that name with Bucky.

When he does see Steve, though, he makes the connection easily enough. He asks Bar for two glasses and makes his way to Steve's booth.

"At least drink it from a glass," he suggests, sliding one of the empty ones to Steve before sliding in next to him.

Steve shakes his head and has a swig. "Drunk most of it already."

"Gods," Orpheus says, shaking his head. He's never seen anybody go through it like that.

He's not likely to take it away, though. He'd be rather hypocritical if he did. Instead, he just carefully sets his guitar aside and asks, "What can I do?"

Steve's head swivels to look at him. "Turn back time?"

Orpheus frowns, nodding.

"I'm sorry."

Steve has another swig.

"Yeah. Me too."

Orpheus tentatively touches his shoulder.

Steve sags, and turns to press his face against Orpheus's stomach.

Orpheus hesitates a moment, then curls an arm around Steve, stroking his hair.

"It was my fault, Orpheus," Steve whispers. "He would have lived if I'd--been better."

"You can't know that, lovely," Orpheus whispers in return.

"I told him to take my hand. He was reaching for me when--"

He presses his face harder against Orpheus's stomach.

And Orpheus holds him tighter.

"That doesn't make it your fault."

"It does," he insists stubbornly. "If I'd grabbed him first--if I'd moved faster--gone out farther--"

"If if if," Orpheus says. "Ifs are never certainties."

Which, as he well knows, often makes them worse.

"He shouldn't have been there. I thought about leaving him behind--thought he might be compromised--"

"He wouldn't have stayed if you'd tried," Orpheus responds.

"I know," Steve mutters and pulls away to have another drink. "I know."

Orpheus keeps a hand on his back.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I know it doesn't make anything better."

"Nope," says Steve. "Nothing's gonna make it better."

Swig.

"You want to know the worst of it?"

He doesn't but, "Tell me."

"We couldn't find a body," Steve says bleakly. "I can't bring his body home. I can't give him a decent burial."

"Oh, gods," Orpheus, for whom this is likely an even more significant worry than for Steve, says, looking vaguely horrified. "Gods, Steve, I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

He drains the bottle and sets it down with a thunk.

"God, there is not enough liquor in the world to make this go away."

"No, there never is," Orpheus agrees quietly.