owen rogers is no coward (starsandshield) wrote in superbabies, @ 2012-12-09 01:54:00 |
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Luka had pulled through. With that revelation, James felt that he could move on with his own issues. One of those issues was with his little brother and his life choices. Truth be told, James should not have been out of the hospital so soon. He had taken additional damage to his already injured body but James couldn’t stay. He needed to see his siblings, needed to check on Steven, needed to know about Luka, and all of that in whichever order it came. Now that things had settled down, James had been given time to think and to come to grips with the reality he hadn’t been wanting to face. So he had decided to start with Owen. The conversation with Mark had only been to solidify some things that James was fairly sure Owen wouldn’t say to him out of fear of disappointing the elder Rogers offspring. He still didn’t understand it. He was on the grounds, dressed fairly warmly but still needing to move to keep the blood flowing. His arm and shoulder hurt like hell and there was a peculiar way his pinky and ring fingers curled inward of their own accord. He was on vicodin most commonly and had already upped the dosage since leaving the ER with Pella. Blue eyes caught movement as he spotted Owen coming out to meet him, as requested. “Take a walk with me,” he said and turned just enough to signal that his brother should fall into place at James’ right. “We need to talk.” Owen was still bothered by Friday’s events----of course he was. People were hurt. It was good to know that Luka was going to be okay (but his recovery freaked Owen out) and James was okay, but he was shaken. The fact that attacks were common in this community didn’t really make it easier. He’d spent a lot of time with Mark and Abby, holed up in his room. Now that James wanted to see him, he was finally dragging himself up and out into the light of day. Dressed in jeans, a baggy button-up striped shirt, and a battered old bomber jacket, he trudged his way out onto the grounds and was immediately met by his brother. “Talk about what?” he asked, concerned. “Is everything okay?” “Everything is fine,” came the automatic response and James winced; he had told himself that he wouldn’t lie about it. He sighed, more tired than anything else. “Just--” he started and then shook his head. His hands were shoved into his jacket pockets and he trudged off to get them both moving. “Is art school really what you want?” James asked, deciding that was the best place to start. Owen blinked, startled by the subject. Given the circumstances of the weekend, he really hadn’t foreseen this conversation topic. He pushed a hand back through his shaggy, unkempt blond hair and let it fall right back into his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “You’re right. Art school can wait. It’s selfish of me to not serve my country.” “That wasn’t the question, Owen,” James said sharply, more commanding officer tone than older brother--though with James they were often too similar to tell the difference. He looked skyward, trying to find the patience for the conversation he didn’t want to be having. “What do you want, kid?” he asked, tone softening again. Owen looked down at the ground, kicking a stray pebble and sending it rolling through the grass. “What do I want?” he asked, surprised. He glanced up at James. “I want to go to art school,” he said. “Like I told you. I want to go to art school and be an artist.” He didn’t understand it--at all--but James nodded. He was listening, at least. “Then that’s what you should do,” he said. “I’ve had some time to think and it’s pointless to do what you think I, or Dad or Mom, want you to do. I always thought it was what you wanted, Owen. I would have never pushed you otherwise.” Or, so he would like to think. James couldn’t exactly go back and change his approach. “You’re no safer here than you’d be out there if you got deployed. If you’re gonna wind up fucked, it might as well be doing something you love instead of something you feel obligated to do.” He usually tried so hard to censor himself around others, especially his younger siblings, but James still slipped when he was agitated. Owen stared at James, leaning back a little like he just didn’t trust him. There was a catch. There had to be a catch. “Are you telling me this because a bomb went off at the bar?” he asked. “‘Cause, what---I mean, really, James, what brought this on? Because you were just telling me I’m a selfish jerk if I don’t go into the Army like I’m supposed to.” “Yeah. Because a bomb went off at the bar,” James said. “Because I’m not okay. Because I’ll probably never be okay. And I can’t put that on you. A few days ago, it was a hell of a lot easier to separate the worlds I lived in. You don’t deserve that. Mark said you’re brilliant. I should have listened to you and I’m sorry. I can’t even pretend to understand why you want to go down that path but it’s not my life we’re talking about.” He stopped and pivoted so that he was facing his brother fully. James reached up with his good hand and slowly peeled back the sterile bandage that covered his damaged eye. The outer damage had been mostly healed but there was irreversible damage that had left him blinded. “There’s no fixing this. I’m useless to the Army like this.” His left hand came out of his pocket and it was held out between them. “I am in constant pain and I can’t feel three of my fingers. I can’t sleep and when I do, I apparently sleep walk and I attack my best friends during a crisis. No offense, Owen, but if I can’t handle this? I’m not about to send you into that possibility. It’s not meant for you.” He stilled, jaw clenching as the soldier knew exactly what that sounded like. “I can’t do what I love, what I’ve always wanted to do, because I’ve been rendered inoperable. Broken. You love art. What if you wound up so injured that you could never hold a pencil again?” James asked, his voice quiet. Owen listened, watching his brother’s face. He couldn’t stop looking at James’s damaged eye. He’d never heard James talk like this before. Ever. And now James was suggesting art school because he’d come to terms with his own damage and didn’t think Owen could come close to handling it. James wasn’t wrong; Owen was a gentler, more emotional soul. He was prone to insecurity, depression, and post-traumatic stress. “James, I...” He didn’t have it in him to be insulted; not now. He wrapped his arms around James and pulled him in for a hug, burying his face against his brother’s shoulder. There was no protest as Owen wrapped his arms around him. A hand came up, protectively, and rested at the back of his little brother’s neck in a comforting gesture. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ll get it all figured out. I’ll talk to Mom and Dad, get them on board and they can help you look at schools.” The only reason why James wasn’t offering was because he knew nothing about art and felt he would be of no help in the effort. “Come on.” He was still vaguely uncomfortable with the display of affection in what counted as public and he extracted himself just enough to get Owen walking again, though James left his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I never got to congratulate you on your win, by the way. You guys did great. I’m proud of you. My first time leading was a disaster. We got it together after that.” James grinned at the memory; that he had been a leader back in his days at the school should have come as no surprise. It was in the Rogers blood, after all. Owen wiped away tears. “You think we did okay?” He’d been the leader of the group, and with Tomás Keller’s help, plans had paid off. Owen might have seemed like a bit of a loser on the battlefield, too sensitive to handle it, but he wasn’t a bad technician. He wasn’t that bad when it came to fighting, either. He was capable, he was smart. He could have been a good soldier, but he lacked the emotional strength to push past trauma. And now James was congratulating him on a good job. It was like being handed a medal. James still didn’t quite understand the idol-worship from Owen and didn’t ever really recognize it. If he had, maybe he would have been more careful with his words and actions in the past. “Yeah. There were a few things I probably would have done differently but it worked. You did good, Owen,” James reassured. He offered a hint of a smile. They continued to walk and James wound up shoving his hands back into his jacket pockets. “Look, uh, don’t talk to Mom or Dad about my... injuries,” he said quietly, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “They still think I should go back home and I hate lying but I need to in this case. I know they’re just worried but it’s not what I want or need right now. If they ask, just tell them I’m working with Doctor Starsmore and if they have questions, they should really just talk to me to get the updates.” Owen stopped, touching James’s arm to get him to stop as well. “Why are you lying to them?” he asked. “It’s Mom and Dad. They just want you to be okay. Why would you lie to them about something so important? They know you’re hurt, they’re just going to think it’s worse than it is if you won’t talk to them.” “They know I’m alive. I’ve talked to them. Briefly,” James said and closed his eyes to steady himself. “I can’t have them hovering over me, making me feel guilty because I’m choosing to stay here through all of this, Owen. They might not mean to be pulling that card but they are. Pella had to talk them into letting me come here. Like I’m eight years old instead of twenty-eight.” He opened his eyes again, still not quite focusing right when he looked at his brother. “So lying to them to make them back off is what I need to do right now.” “I get it,” said Owen. He scratched an itch on his nose, leaving a dark smudge of pencil on his face. Even during all of this he was drawing; maybe he was doing it to cope. “They want to be with you and they want to take care of you, of course they’re not happy that you’re not at home. Mom’s texting me all the time asking about you. She’s not stupid, she knows you’re avoiding her and she knows you’re ‘passing her a line of bullshit’, in her words.” Of course she was. "We'll be back for the holidays," he said, somewhat flatly. "I'll have a sit down with them then. I just can't deal with them right now." Not when he was only barely holding it together. He already felt inadequate as it was just being around the teachers, the residents, everyone at the school. His parents would only solidify that feeling. James knew they loved him, that they were just worried about him, but he wasn’t Owen. He wasn’t able to just surround himself with that warmth and know that everything would be okay. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be. Nothing would be okay until James was able to stand solidly on his own two feet again. “You holding up okay otherwise?” he asked, turning the conversation back around to Owen again. “Mm?” Owen shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I’m okay,” he said. “I’m worried about people. We felt the explosion here, you know. It shook the whole building and there was a boom loud enough that we thought something here had exploded.” It was like he hadn’t expected that. He’d grown up in a quieter part of New York, away from the chaos of the main part of the city. Explosions from the big superhero battles could be felt all the time. It was like living on the edge of a warzone. “Just the first time that’s happened, that’s all. Never thought anyone would attack the town.” James sighed quietly. “Attacks can happen anywhere at any time. At least in a warzone you know you’re in a warzone. You’re on guard. All the time.” Which was part of why he had snapped. James had let his guard down and the abrupt shift, coupled with the flashback, is what had made him unable to recognize his surroundings or allies. He ducked his head and only glanced up at Owen briefly. “Look, I’m sorry for coming down on you. I won’t pretend that I understand because I don’t. I was never an artist. But I’m sorry. I should have listened better,” he said. James didn’t bother making the legitimate excuse that he had been bombarded with way too much information at once, while trying to deal with his own trauma. Owen watched James warily. He wasn’t used to that kind of understanding from his brother. They loved each other, but James usually loved to steamroll Owen into feeling the way he was supposed to feel. “I don’t think I’m a soldier, James,” Owen admitted. “I can’t do what you do. I wish I could. I wish I was better than I am, I wish I was stronger, like you. Or Dad. Or Mom. But I’m not. I’m a coward.” His good arm came out again, sliding around Owen’s shoulders. It was the same embrace he would have given to any member of his unit who was feeling like they couldn’t do the job. “You aren’t a coward, Owen,” he said, his voice firm. It was true that James was used to steamrolling. This was going to be one of those times. “And I hate sounding like a broken record so stop making me say it, runt,” he said dryly. James brought his hand up to ruffle his brother’s hair, smirking faintly. “But I think you just summed it up nicely. You don’t think you’re a soldier. It’s not about thinking. It’s about knowing. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you out there.” It was an honest admission and James tucked his hand back into his pocket again, feelings-time over. “You eat yet?” Owen wasn’t sure how to take all that. On one hand, he was relieved. James understood him. On the other, he felt like a failure. Like he was taking the easy way out and James was disappointed with him. “I’m not hungry,” he lied. He threw his arm around James. “But, yeah, I could eat something if you wanted.” “Good,” James said, looking back toward the building, “because I’m famished.” It had been a long couple of days and nights. “Let’s go back inside, kid.” The small nudge he gave Owen gave away the tease in his voice, the word ‘kid’ used in affection rather than James not seeing Owen as an adult. He was still having trouble with that but he could only chalk up the age issues to his being gone for so long and for such long periods at a time. |