Re: quicklog: atticus/matt
[Whatever had been done to Matt, whatever mimicry of the work that had been attempted on Steve, his body bore the scars of ugly, brute-force imitation. He thought of it like a bad, amateur copy of a statue in a museum - nothing was in the right place, nothing was done the same careful way, and all the detail was blurred and roughly executed. Matt was in some of the history books, once he was long-dead and the files were declassified. Owen was in some of them, as the Captain's friend, as someone close to him lost tragically from his tight-knit squad. By the time the asset had found itself back in the custody of the US Government, however, it was so far from that man, so separate from that name, that his handlers never did put two and two together.
Hand on his shoulder or not, Atticus was his patient. He'd force him to eat something when he woke up, because he was sure to crash soon. He thought that lazy smirk would get him in trouble if he ever got out of this bed.] No wonder Steve liked you. [He was difficult. It made sense.]
['Heroes' were an abstract concept, but he listened while Atticus told him about them. The note about Steve, about no one talking to him like Steve did, earned more than a nod or a tip of the head - it earned him a smile.] He likes this stuff. [No sign of tension or anger for the man who had disappeared without a real goodbye, just the faint melancholy of knowing he might never see him again, that last link to home.]
Don't think it breaks down the way you think. Anybody can do a good thing, anybody can do a fucked up one. Doing anything. Writing, fighting, doesn't matter. [He paused, thought on it a moment.] The ones that mostly do what's right, they suffer and sacrifice, sure, but it's not all Jesus Christ. Some of them make it out the other side. The ones that don't get killed, or don't kill anybody, they still count. [He shook his head.] Don't think it really exists. 'Heroes.' It's an idea. There's just people. And nobody's just a good guy.
[Unfortunately for Atticus he had been thoroughly noticed, at this point. Matt was still sitting on the bed, aware of the bulk of the body laying flat beside him, aware of the mess of curls and the whiskey smoke breath.] People who did good. [Atticus' parents sounded like the solid kind of people who did the Right Thing. And that didn't always mean they were right, or that they didn't do wrong, but that what they did meant something. To his father being obsessed with WWII, a flat, incredulous:] Why?
[He looked over at Atticus when he asked about PJ. He was trying to read his expression, gauge the purpose behind the question. Did it come from private knowledge, or as a statement of intent?] We're friends. [He assumed that answered either question.] She's a good person. [He smiled, fully understanding that he'd contradicted himself.
Most of Matt's chest, aside from the exposed arm, was still covered by the half-loose henley. What lay beyond the metal arm was no prettier to look at, so Atticus' many, many scars didn't shock him. His eyes lingered on the port scar, though.] Doing a lot of writing up here? [A little caustic, sure, but good-humored, and Atticus seemed like the type who could take the joke. The guy was clearly in pain, and not about old scars. Or not just about that.
As Atticus dragged his finger down, smooth metal gave way to ridges, one after another. The plates of the arm were almost seamless, but during typical use they were slightly parted to allow for better freedom of movement. It might have been an illusion, but they seemed to lift slightly higher as he dragged his thumb down and across. The metal was cool, thick and burnished under the fingertip. The scarlet star at the shoulder was still there, if he peeked.
He almost didn't get up to get the whiskey bottle, but finally stood, fetched it from the other table, and poured Atticus a few more fingers.] Last call. [He sat the bottle down on the opposite endtable again. If Atticus wanted it, he'd need to get out of bed next time.] I don't think I can be Kerouac. [He sat down again. The mattress squeaked - he was heavier than he looked with all that arm hanging off him.] Don't have any good words.