AU Milliways

[therighttime]

The door opens from one pub to the next. A rosy-tinted, warm little English pub filled to the brim with uniformed soldiers and local girls, crowing and laughing and being alive, really feeling it for the first time in longer than any of them would like to admit.

The woman who is leaving that particular pub is tall - very tall, inches over six feet - shapely in her 1940s olive dress uniform. Her make-up is fresh, her tie in perfect order, her hair is even curled in classic victory rolls (it took three showgirls three hours to make it happen, but they're all used to it by now).

Stephanie Rogers is grinning, flush-faced and filled with joy as she waves to a dark-haired soldier at the bar and steps purposefully into -- another bar.

She recognizes a shift, a difference immediately, and keeps one hand on the knob even as she frowns thoughtfully at the room around her.

Comments

[winter_never_left]

There is a dark-haired soldier at the bar here, too. He looks up when she enters, with dark, watchful eyes, and assesses her coolly before returning his attention to the beer he's nursing.

[therighttime]

Steph stops when she sees him. Her frown stays, eyes narrowing on the man before she looks over her shoulder.

There's a similar man sitting at the bar she just left.

Hesitant - is that a giant... rat? with a tray of drinks? - Steph approaches, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. "Buck?"

[winter_never_left]

He turns, looking her over again, a tiny smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

"Are you asking, or offering?"

'b' sounds like 'f' sometimes.

[therighttime]

She frowns again, deeper, more worried than anything. Her hand curls at the edge of the bar as she moves to stand beside him, looking down at that smirk. Bucky always smirks but there's something about this one, not quite right. "What are you doing here?"

[winter_never_left]

"Isn't that my line?"

He swivels the stool to face her, leaning back on the bar, eyes shadowed.

"Lovely lady like you in a place like this, and so on?"

[thebesteverseen]

Steve's already at the bar tonight. Convenient thing about Milliways' Bar, she keeps tabs even though he's almost never in possession of his wallet when he walks in here. He wasn't tonight, walking in from walking out of his office. That empty coffee cup, being exchanged from a Longboard.

He doesn't drink on shift, but then he didn't used to end up on the opposite side of space and time on shift either. But it's been nearly a twelve hour day, there's a jagged cut running out his hair line about half an inch he keeps bothering (he doesn't mind them, but it's itching, now and then, and that bothers), and he's sick of his third of Danny's the paperwork.

Which means he could be off shift. Everyone in his team, long gone, except for Danny, yet including him, probably thinks he should be.

So a beer it is and a break and the graciousness of the Bar (she'd only be more gracious if she'd agree to put it on Danny's tab until he noticed), while Steve watches the room from a corner of the bar, his back turned to the wall, so nearly nothing can pass behind him. He's a little surprised and impressed by the uniform that walks in, and he's not specifically looking to catch her eye, but when she looks that way he tips his beer.

[therighttime]

A real, true 1940s US Army olive drab uniform, cut for a woman.

Because the person in it is part of the real, true 1940s US Army.

Catching that motion, Steph turns to take in the man. There's nothing of particular interest to his dress or his manner. The atmosphere in this place is awfully casual and he's not rude or leering at her. She could nod and move right on to the next person, now that she has the background and rules of this place in her mind, but one thing does stop her.

There's a shiny gold badge on the man's hip, brightly apparent at the angle he's sitting. Steph's spent enough time dodging cops as a child to recognize a police badge when she sees one.

Better the evil you know, and all that. Especially when it isn't actually evil.

Stephanie Rogers smiles, nods back, and makes her way to him to say hello.

[thebesteverseen]

He gets the colors, branch is easy, so is that it's outdated. But he couldn't really tell how outdated, even with that hair. Danny had said this place had the crazy factor amped up with different times from any number of planets or places, even theirs. It is a familiar enough dress uniform in that way, that can can assume something like their world but not it, Not it currently, at least.

"Steve McGarrett." There's a gesture for a seat if she wants one, but it's not pushy or insistant. Just if she wants it, which is gestured with a slight tip of the beer. "Definitely haven't seen that uniform in these parts so far."

[therighttime]

Steph nods, appreciating the gesture, reaching for the chair to pull it out for herself. She glances back at him, eyebrows lifted before she answers. "Steph Rogers," she says, and tells herself firmly it is for accuracy and not for pride to confirm her station, "Captain."

She settles in her chair carefully, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt and tucking her ankles behind the chair leg without looking away from him. "I imagine you're referring to this particular uniform with a skirt and heels, and not just a lack of Army in these parts?"

[thebesteverseen]

One rank below, which isn't here or there, but the thought passes. Not that he'd given his rank at the first. Even though he knew it didn't show on him sitting here, dressed like this. When the only assumption to make is the one he's learned to let slide, even though it grates against his skin, and his entire career, each time the assumption was made. There were battles you chose, and other you let go of.

"Both, works." Steve was pretty easy about admitting. "I haven't run into many other service members in pressed dress here."

Which he didn't write off entirely as something that didn't happen, since he came here sporadically, especially after he made the point to never come in during active cases. But that didn't mean they weren't here. He actually would have liked the idea of a greater showing of those men and women here.

[without_fear]

With her comes a cloud of aromas: beer, stale and fresh, wine, hairspray, and a cheap but vintage perfume that announces her arrival to the woman at the bar.

Maggie doesn't turn her head at first - there's no need to, she just stops and brings her coffee away from her face so she can really appreciate the lady who just walked in. And no word other than 'lady' can describe a woman with those kind of cosmetics.

Well, maybe one other word.

Damn.

When the new arrival hesitates at the door, Maggie adjusts her sunglasses and turns around. She's dressed for a day in the office: power suit, low heels, and a clean dressing on the cut on her left cheek, that resists only a little when she smiles.

"Hi, are you new?"

[therighttime]

A friendly face is extremely welcome right now. Especially a woman, really. Steph has never been real good with making female friends but surrounded by male soldiers, USO girls, and Agent Carter, a friendly woman wearing slacks is fairly incredible.

Steph grins at the woman, ducking her head in some shyness. "That easy to tell, huh? Yes, ma'am, I am. Just sort of stumbled in a moment ago."

[without_fear]

"There's a breeze from the door," Maggie explains, nodding her head in not quite that direction. "People who know the place usually come all the way in. Someone holding the door open suggests hesitation, which in turn usually means new.

"So welcome to Milliways, then."

Her smile stays in place, warm and welcoming.

[therighttime]

Steph startles, glancing back at the door she'd left behind. She didn't think she'd spent too much time gawping but she must have, surely. It was startling.

All the same, the smile she gives Maggie is admiring. "That's quite a deduction, ma'am. I'd guess not much gets past you."

The dressing on her cheek is a little worrying but the woman doesn't seem concerned by it, and Steph knows better than to point out anyone's injuries.

[without_fear]

Well, that's good, because one gets tired of explaining that yes, bullet grazes to the face are actually just part of being a lawyer in Hell's Kitchen, and it doesn't mean that Maggie's secretly moonlighting as some sort of costumed vigilante.

Which would be ridiculous.

She waves away the compliment. "One in five people around here would probably deduce the same thing. It's not a big deal."

It is obvious, however, that she's at least pleased, if not flattered. The woman's heartbeat just before she spoke suggested that she was indeed, impressed by the deduction.

[stark_spangled]

It's been two months. Actually, it's been two months, eight days, and thirteen hours  —  but who's counting? It's not like waking up in a strange room thirty-four miles and twice that in years from your old home is the kind of thing you think about every. second. you're. awake. Steve isn't counting. Steve's drawing.

Buildings.

Billboards.

747s.

Boeings.

Ferries.

Statues.

A tree in Central Park — 

(He knows somewhere in his old book, lost somewhere along the way, there's a picture of that same tree as a sapling. Only then there was a girl leaning against it. He put a lot more thought into the girl. Now, he's kicking himself for not putting more thought into the tree. What was it like? How could it be the same?)

He checks his watch.


Thirteen hours, fifty-nine minutes.


There's a crick in his neck. How long has he been at this? He tosses his pencil down on a sketch of a waitrat carrying a sensationalized platter of food (worm spaghetti, fried galaxies, fizzing drinks in glasses shaped like test tubes), and stretches his shoulders. The chair creaks against the effort.

That's when he sees her.

She's pretty, yeah, but that isn't it. It's the clothes. The crisp, pressed uniform, the victory rolls (the hemline where he remembers it  —  it's a skirt, not a cocktail napkin), and he thinks — 

Peggy

 — home. She looks like home.


Huh. The one thing he didn't expect to feel, in this world or any other, was the low-humming thrill of Coney Island, the high of Yankee stadium, or the soothing eighth notes of jazz on a familiar old record player.

The unfortunate thing is, it looks like he's staring at her ass.

[therighttime]

He's not the first. Not even for that particular reason. A lot of men left their girls at home and she and Peggy get the same sort of looks, far off gazes and faint sad smiles. It's sad. Sweet.

Yes, okay, a little annoying, like Peggy always used to insist. But Stephanie's learned to pick her battles and sad, lonely boys far from home aren't the most important target in front of her these days.

So for this man and his look and his sketchbook, she can smile and nod and be the best soldier she can be.

[stark_spangled]

Steve looks at the world with curiosity, eagerness, and willingness. Willingness to jump in, to act. Sometimes that inquisitiveness is trumped by other expressions  —  like the boy-whose-hand-just-got-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look that crosses his face now. His mouth falls open, his ears feel hot...

He drops his gaze, grinning shyly. After a minute or two, he chances a small, awkward wave.

And then he picks up his pencil.

He's not the best at striking up conversation with women, especially when that woman didn't come with him and is standing a good fifteen feet away. Bucky knew all the lines, how to smile just right  —  Steve just knew how to be nice. Which is why he motions to his pad, and arches his eyebrows, waving his pencil in the air to ask her permission.

You mind if I draw you, ma'am?

Yeah, he's not good at talking to women, but he's great at miming niceties.

[therighttime]

Stephanie pauses, taking in the gesture. When his meaning becomes clear, she blinks in surprise.

It's one of the better lines she's heard over the years. And she doesn't even need Elena or showgirls to tell her how to respond.

Smiling, Stephanie approaches the man and nods hopefully to the seat across from him. "May I join you?"

The look she casts over his paper, his pencils is admiring, a little covetous. It's been a long time since she had the time to draw, much less the materials.

[stark_spangled]

She isn't within ten feet before Steve rises from his seat, quickly enough to cause a groaning of chair legs across hardwood. His palm goes flat against his chest, instinctively holding back the tie that isn't there. He isn't in army dress. He's in khakis, a short-sleeved button-up tucked in and belted, collar left open to show a glimpse of his undershirt.

"That would be nice, ma'am."

He nods, but he gets a little caught up and it ends up looking like a bow, stilted and jerky. At least she's looking at his work. Maybe she didn't notice.

Um.

"Steve Rogers."

He presents his hand, fingertips stained black.

[abyssum_invocat]

Across the new bar from the very tall woman is a fairly short girl; she's dressed neatly but plainly, in a quiet gray shirt and a plaid jumper dress with a pleated skirt. Her hair is a medium brown, cut into a severe-looking pageboy style that only manages to accentuate a skeptical face, with blue-flecked brown eyes and a cautious moue of a mouth.

There's a bag of marbles sitting on the bar surface under her hand, already possessive of them, but there's also a mysteriously written-on napkin that Sinthia seems to be eyeing.


She seems rather young, and alone, to be in a bar by herself.

[therighttime]

Sometimes a bar is a good place for a child. Because it's crowded and bright and bartenders see everything. That sort of a child needs a place like that because nowhere else really offers it.

Steph didn't grow up in an easy era and there's a look on that girl, a familiar hunch of her shoulders, that softens the soldier to her almost immediately.

She approaches at an easy walk, her smile friendly without pushing familiarity. There's a hand resting gently on the back of the stool beside the girl and Steph tilts her head, trying to gather attention. "Mind if I take a seat?"

[abyssum_invocat]

The girl flicks a careful but quick glance at Steph, measuring her and assessing at the same time. She's glad it's bright and crowded; she can move more freely here, and there's no one shouting at her.

Not verbally, anyway. "Nein, gehen Sie vor," she says clearly, slowly and unused to seeing so tall a woman, and so fair--blondes with blue eyes are less common than some people would like. "You may sit, madam."

[therighttime]

They're in Italy at the moment, but Steph's had a quick crash course in German during basic. Which means she understood 'nein' and nothing more. Enough to recognize the language, at least.

Instead she smiles, friendly, and replies with a gentle, "Danke. You can call me Steph, if you want."

[abyssum_invocat]

"Steph," she repeats, with a nod. "My name is Synthia," the girl replies, drawing the marbles closer to her; they're pretty, blue with white and colored and sparkling flecks that makes them look like galaxies.

"Is it short for Stephanie?"