The dark is more restless, this time. More painful memories dog Aziraphale's presence, as if trying to catch his attention, but knowing what he's looking for helps, too.
This memory unfolds equally as quickly, once exposed to the rest of the Soldier's mind. Inside a different small apartment, sitting in a tiny bathroom with a younger and even skinnier Steve sitting on the toilet seat, lip bleeding and eye starting to purple already.
He has the first aid kit out on the sink's counter, dabbing at the split lip with alcohol on a rag, eyeing bloodied knuckles and considering cleaning them up, too. "So why'd you start it, this time?"
"Why d'you always think I started it?"
"Because I know you, Stevie," he says with half a smile. Steve always starts the fights. He always has to finish them, and then patch Steve up after. Not that he minds, well, except for the whole "Steve bleeding" thing.
Steve grumbles something about bullies, like he usually does. Steve's like one of those angry terriers with a bone, except less cute and more wheezy. (Who's he kidding, Steve's cuter than a fuckin' terrier.) He wets a washcloth at the sink, managing to get a little cold water out of it, offers it to Steve. "C'mon, punk. Hold that on your eye."
Steve finally looks up, spots the blood on his own face, and his eyes go big and startled and all protective. Steve gets that look all the time, just not usually at him. It's a little different when it's turned full on a person, than when he's just seeing it pointed at some kid that needs defending. "You're bleeding!" Steve exclaims.
He deflects a little, vaguely embarrassed, putting fingers to the crusted cut over his eyebrow. "Yeah, but I'm a tough sunnovabitch, I can take a hit. Unlike you."
"It was Billy, wuddn't it, I'm gonna break his jaw next time." As if he could. Steve hops up, holding the washcloth to his eye at least, but pushes him down onto the seat next. "Your turn."
He sighs, as if annoyed, but lets him. Ain't that often Steve gets the chance to look after him, back; might as well give it to him. This time.
The alcohol to his brow stings, and he winces a little, and--
And as if summoned by the memory of pain, another scene leaps out of the blackness ti displace this one. Too much digging around in his brain did stir things up, and most of what's in there isn't good.
There's a surge of panic, and Aziraphale's mental presence gets launched right out before he can get more than a glimpse of a concrete lab ceiling with a pair of doctors bending over the Soldier, the sensation of sharp pain in its head, and the echo of a scream. The Soldier finds itself in a ball on the floor, metal arm wrapped over its head as if that might protect it from technicians that are probably long dead, now.
Still a successful escapade: two good memories against one bad one.
sorry that took so long, had to decide on another memory...
This memory unfolds equally as quickly, once exposed to the rest of the Soldier's mind. Inside a different small apartment, sitting in a tiny bathroom with a younger and even skinnier Steve sitting on the toilet seat, lip bleeding and eye starting to purple already.
He has the first aid kit out on the sink's counter, dabbing at the split lip with alcohol on a rag, eyeing bloodied knuckles and considering cleaning them up, too. "So why'd you start it, this time?"
"Why d'you always think I started it?"
"Because I know you, Stevie," he says with half a smile. Steve always starts the fights. He always has to finish them, and then patch Steve up after. Not that he minds, well, except for the whole "Steve bleeding" thing.
Steve grumbles something about bullies, like he usually does. Steve's like one of those angry terriers with a bone, except less cute and more wheezy. (Who's he kidding, Steve's cuter than a fuckin' terrier.) He wets a washcloth at the sink, managing to get a little cold water out of it, offers it to Steve. "C'mon, punk. Hold that on your eye."
Steve finally looks up, spots the blood on his own face, and his eyes go big and startled and all protective. Steve gets that look all the time, just not usually at him. It's a little different when it's turned full on a person, than when he's just seeing it pointed at some kid that needs defending. "You're bleeding!" Steve exclaims.
He deflects a little, vaguely embarrassed, putting fingers to the crusted cut over his eyebrow. "Yeah, but I'm a tough sunnovabitch, I can take a hit. Unlike you."
"It was Billy, wuddn't it, I'm gonna break his jaw next time." As if he could. Steve hops up, holding the washcloth to his eye at least, but pushes him down onto the seat next. "Your turn."
He sighs, as if annoyed, but lets him. Ain't that often Steve gets the chance to look after him, back; might as well give it to him. This time.
The alcohol to his brow stings, and he winces a little, and--
And as if summoned by the memory of pain, another scene leaps out of the blackness ti displace this one. Too much digging around in his brain did stir things up, and most of what's in there isn't good.
There's a surge of panic, and Aziraphale's mental presence gets launched right out before he can get more than a glimpse of a concrete lab ceiling with a pair of doctors bending over the Soldier, the sensation of sharp pain in its head, and the echo of a scream. The Soldier finds itself in a ball on the floor, metal arm wrapped over its head as if that might protect it from technicians that are probably long dead, now.
Still a successful escapade: two good memories against one bad one.