and every battle must be ended
Apr. 21st, 2022 07:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldborneThe Clubhouse is not as busy these days. Miles and Peter both appear to be busy, and Quicksilver comes and goes as he will, sometimes at speeds too high for Steve to get a good look at him. As a consequence, the rooms that Steve claimed for his own have become about 10% sleeping quarters and 90% art studio.
If he's honest with himself, he's pretty happy. There are things going on at home that worry him, political currents that make him want to speak out, or scream; petty battles that don't require his input, especially now that he's half the man he used to be in the most literal fashion possible. Some days (most days) he aches to put on the suit and pick up the shield and try to fix things. But other days he paints a few delicate lines on a canvas and watching the sheen of oil paint shimmer in the studio lights makes something in him feel stable and at home for the first time in decades.
Today, he's actually got medical textbooks spread all over one of the booths in the central room of the Clubhouse, because he's about to get a crash course in first aid training for street medics, and if Sam or Bucky figures out what he's doing, they'll have kittens. Learning first aid isn't a problem, but the idea that he'd wade into a protest with a med kit and a chip on his shoulder is not one his close friends wish to entertain.
He's not sure he'll ever use this information, but it feels like doing something. That's important.
If he's honest with himself, he's pretty happy. There are things going on at home that worry him, political currents that make him want to speak out, or scream; petty battles that don't require his input, especially now that he's half the man he used to be in the most literal fashion possible. Some days (most days) he aches to put on the suit and pick up the shield and try to fix things. But other days he paints a few delicate lines on a canvas and watching the sheen of oil paint shimmer in the studio lights makes something in him feel stable and at home for the first time in decades.
Today, he's actually got medical textbooks spread all over one of the booths in the central room of the Clubhouse, because he's about to get a crash course in first aid training for street medics, and if Sam or Bucky figures out what he's doing, they'll have kittens. Learning first aid isn't a problem, but the idea that he'd wade into a protest with a med kit and a chip on his shoulder is not one his close friends wish to entertain.
He's not sure he'll ever use this information, but it feels like doing something. That's important.
