Steve Rogers (
manwithaplan) wrote2013-04-24 06:43 pm
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Don't let anybody know that it's hard to live in the city.
Steve had never lacked for purpose before. It was a luxury few young men ever saw back in his day, so great was the need for soldiers. He knew that he wasn't alone; readjusting to civilian life was always a challenge, and there were some who never quite managed, but he had never imagined that he would be one of them. It made a twisted sort of sense, though: he had been just a kid, then, so determined to prove himself that he'd never spared a moment to consider what might follow once he'd achieved that goal.
Well, there was time to spare for that now. In fact, he found himself wandering the city often these days, either in the name of reconnoissance or in search of something (he wasn't entirely sure what). Today, it was both, but he stopped at the café when he recognized the woman from the park.
"Excuse me, miss," he greeted her, stopping near the edge of her table. "I'm not sure if you'll remember me, we met in the park a while ago? I'm sorry for not introducing myself then; my name is Steve."
Well, there was time to spare for that now. In fact, he found himself wandering the city often these days, either in the name of reconnoissance or in search of something (he wasn't entirely sure what). Today, it was both, but he stopped at the café when he recognized the woman from the park.
"Excuse me, miss," he greeted her, stopping near the edge of her table. "I'm not sure if you'll remember me, we met in the park a while ago? I'm sorry for not introducing myself then; my name is Steve."
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"Oh," Sybil stands when he greets her as is only polite, especially with a near stranger. She does remember him, and what he'd been doing that day which seems nearly a lifetime ago. "The artist? You were sketching I believe?"
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"That's right. That I was sketching, that is," he amended, "not necessarily the first half. I wouldn't call myself much of an artist, really, it's just something to pass the time."
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"I'm Sybil," she puts out a hand as is common now and not thought over-familiar for near strangers as it would have been in her own life. "Would you care to sit?"
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Sybil pauses, realising that she’s talking of her war and all that she’s learned since, and that Steve may not be from the same time that she is – so few are. “I should say the Great War. I know there are others, after. It was 1917 when I arrived here.”
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His face burns with anger, and resentment, and shame when she mentions the posters, but he doesn't say that he started off as another form of propaganda himself, either. "1917," he repeats, surprised; he'd thought her from a time a little closer to his own, but he ought to have asked rather than assumed. "I was born the following year. My father served in that war, and my mother was a nurse herself." That neither survived is yet another thing that he doesn't share, leaving it to Sybil whether to ask him to elaborate or not. If not, he'd like to believe that he's doing her a favor by allowing her to believe the best, if she would. "The Second World War came at the tail end of the 1930s," he reveals ruefully.
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"I'm sorry," she mistakes his look for one of regret, the grief and anger she's seen from those who've fought and survived. "That any of us had to go through such things."
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