sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: September 17th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Will add if necessary.
STATUS: Closed

Even if Wakanda weren't as historically reclusive as it's been until more immediately recent memory, Steve wouldn't pretend he knows enough about it to say whether the fountain belongs there. He's hardly even been outdoors, for all that he's had quite a view from inside; as a guy who draws things in a notebook on occasion he doesn't really think it comes from the same school as the giant panther carved out of the side of a mountain, but what does he know? He and Bucky arrived bloody and exhausted, in no mood for sightseeing, no matter how much the hospitality of Wakanda might be considered a rare privilege. Hard to see it that way, after sleeping it off for a day or so only to wake up to Bucky having already made up his mind.

He's had a lot on his own mind.

Still, the fountain seems out of place with what he's managed to glimpse of a ferocious sort of beauty, in the midst of buildings that Tony would be more comfortable calling home. This is— well, this looks more like something from his time. And he'll just as surely end up calling the bottom of this fountain his home, if he can't get out of here, since he apparently has enough clothes to get him through a cold winter. At least mulling over architecture is as good a way as any to keep from thinking too hard on how much trouble it's giving him.

He hadn't made the first jump. He puts the sides at about fifteen feet, too high for a straight jump for the edge, but manageable with the help of one of the more horizontal cracks in the wall and a running start. He'd taken a few steps backward, used the momentum to jam the toe of one of his new boots into the crevice and launch himself upward. It'd been no good, the tips of his fingers reaching far below the edge. He'd felt it in his body before that, though, the unexpected effort of the maneuver, when it ought to be so much going through the motions. The second try hadn't gone any better, after trying it from farther back, and he'd looked around at the scattered debris in here with him, determining that the leaves and sticks and dirt weren't exactly enough to make anything of. Gives him an idea though.

Climbing up the centerpiece is easier, even if he can still feel the strain in his calves, his arms and shoulders. Steve ignores it as best he can for now, figures he'll get the answer to why his heart's beating harder in his chest to keep up with his exertion when he finds whoever brought him here. Pretty effective, whatever they gave him, to keep him unconscious long enough to move him, and to weaken him even longer — though he can't help but wonder why, then, he doesn't feel the least bit groggy. He reaches the top of the centerpiece and braces himself there, somewhat unsteadily — which he also ignores — and grabs for a branch hanging from the tree overhead. He's just able to reach the nearest one, though it's by no means the strongest, and it bows toward him. He sighs, mutters, "This part would've been a lot easier seventy years ago," and takes a look at his surroundings.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Steve can't say he gets accused of beating around the bush too much, but it doesn't change his expression except to deepen the furrow in his brow slightly as he looks at Frank, trying to get his measure. Steve knows his own mind just fine, and he was speaking it — maybe this tells him more about Frank than a hundred newspaper articles ever could.

"I wasn't asking for a way out," he says, voice even but not easily mistaken for conciliatory. He doesn't dance, either, in any sense of the word, but he doesn't say that part. "Whether we're gonna have a problem or not is up to you, so you tell me."

Frank's the one dodging, in his own way, and maybe a part of him knows it. Explaining how important Steve Rogers was to him to Steve Rogers isn't anything he's prepared to do, though, especially now he thinks it isn't going to matter anyway. They're not going to be pals. He meets Steve's gaze all the same, spine straight, but with a contrary tilt to his chin, like he's making his bad attitude his armor.

"You know what I did." There's no regret in his voice, but no mocking swagger either, the way there was in the courtroom. He's not proud. He's just not sorry.

"You want to know if I'm gonna do it again, the answer's yes. What I do, I do to keep people safe. That doesn't stop just 'cause of a change of scenery."

"You think what you do makes people feel safe?" It's not really a question, though, something in his voice too flat, the line of his mouth too grim. It's not just disappointment in Frank; he hardly knows the man at all. But when he'd said the Accords just shifted the blame, he'd meant it. If men like Frank exist because men like Steve offer him some twisted form of precedent, well — that's something he has to take responsibility for.

It's something he will take responsibility for.

"Maybe not. But it is gonna stop here 'cause of me."

A flinch flashes quick at Frank's cheekbone. What armor he's got isn't perfect, not against this, not when the guy he spent half his life looking up to is looking at him like he's broken — and maybe he is, alright, but he's not crazy. He knows what he's doing. He's making the streets safer, making people safer, whether they feel it or not.

"Because you would never, is that what I'm supposed to believe?" He huffs a breath with a shake of his head, but his disbelief is a thin, fragile thing.

"You're a soldier—" Not a hero, not a vigilante, because that's not the precedent Frank is following; that's not the kind of man he considers himself to be, and that's why this argument twists a knife in his gut in a way it didn't with Red or anybody else. There are things he'd never expected the Devil of Hell's Kitchen to understand, but Cap? "You served, what, four years on the front lines? As many as that since? Don't tell me you never had to make the hard call."

"Sure."

It clicks for Steve as he listens to Frank speak. It's not something he's ever exactly worn comfortably on his shoulders when it's accompanied by words rather than action, but it is at least something he's familiar enough with to recognize here. Enough for his gut to sink with the understanding, and he doesn't look away from Frank but still swallows before continuing.

"There are casualties. But the front line's not supposed to be at home unless someone else brings it there." He shakes his head, a quick nod as though to forestall a protest he knows is coming. He knows what kind of neighborhood Hell's Kitchen is these days and why Frank fights there. "If that's where it needs to be? You surround yourself with other soldiers, people you trust and who can trust you so they have a chance of stopping you if you're making the call for the wrong reason. If you think that doesn't matter, then yeah, you are crazy. No one's safe if the war's coming from in your head, Frank. You work alone, then you're no soldier. You're just a killer."

He has no idea what's going on in Frank's head. He could believe himself to be a paragon of sanity for all Steve knows, and he's heard him say enough to that affect. Steve's not sure he disagrees; Frank was clearly in his own mind, if not the right one. He presses his mouth into a brief line.

"Let me tell you, the hard call was never shooting an unarmed civilian through a window."