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.]

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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.

"Another bottle," Steve decides and looks for a waitrat.

"It won't help," Orpheus cautions, though he makes no attempt to stop him.

"I don't care," Steve says and the wait rat's whiskers twitch. "More Atlantean. Yes, more."

Orpheus' hand moves slowly over Steve's back. He knows he has nothing to say that will help at all.

Steve leans against him again with a heavy sigh.

"I don't want to cry," he mutters and wipes his face with his arm.

"Why not?" Orpheus asks, fingers moving to rub the back of Steve's neck.

"'Cause. 'Cause men don't cry."

He is a man of his time in many ways.

"They do and they have and they always will," Orpheus counters.

He may have very strict ideas about gender roles, but he sees no issue with men crying.

"Not where I come from."

"They may not do it where you can see, but they do."

"Well, I don't want to do it here where everybody can see."

"Then let's take your bottle upstairs, lovely."

Steve sits for a moment, then nods and swings out of the booth.

Orpheus slings his guitar over his shoulder and follows, a hand on Steve's back to steady him and lead him toward the stairs.

Steve's fingers are wrapped tight around the neck of the bottle. His footsteps are, it's fair to say, not as steady or graceful as they would normally be.

[ooc: OOM? Your place?]

Orpheus doesn't mind. He keeps his hand there, occasionally using his whole arm as needed.

[ooc: Will you put it up, actually? I'm heading to bed, but I will tag in tomorrow!]

[ooc: Here tis. Good night!]

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