Between the two of them it doesn't take long before the armour loosens and shifts, but he doesn't immediately start pulling it off; instead he reaches up, and his hands hover just above Steve's. They radiate warmth in a way a human's absolutely wouldn't, but it isn't painful.
"There's no need to count yourself out just yet."
Giving comfort came so easily to him, once, even bitterly isolated and drowning in loneliness. Now, well - knowing what to say is one thing, but it comes out rough and awkward.
Steve doesn't understand why Zerxus made it that far toward physical contact, then stopped and hovered. The only way he can read that is wanting it, but not thinking it will be accepted.
As a result, he flips his hands over and wraps both hands around Zerxus' forearms and gives them a gentle squeeze. He's definitely not as warm as Zerxus. Just bog standard human in a too warm room. There's a lot of emotional warmth, at least, for the brief period it's there before he lets his hands fall.
"No. I think I do need to count myself out." There is a very slight smile with that. "Otherwise, I'm just giving someone a handle to grab. Consequences of me not being there are bad. Consequences of me getting desperate are worse. I'm okay." He isn't okay, but he isn't frantic or panicked, just resolute and... sad.
Something as simple, as basic, as casual physical affection should not completely short-circuit a man. Certainly not a whole-ass devil knight.
There's a lot going on, in his immediate reaction. He's frozen squarely between the impulse to pull away and the urge to lean in, and words die in his throat in a strangled sound that's - yearning-indignant-stunned. Even once Steve pulls back, Zerxus barely registers what he's saying at first.
Finally, if a bit roughly, "Hope and desperation are two different things."
What was that noise? Steve tilts his head and does something with his eyebrows that isn't exactly raising them but manages to be a mildly concerned question. Reaches back out to test the theory and squeezes Zerxus' hand. He keeps it this time.
Well, not entirely to test a theory. That would be cold and calculated; it is natural behavior for Steve. He's also still just trying to be reassuring.
"I know. I'm not real wired to surrender, anyway, but I need to get my head around the fact that I can and will sacrifice a few million people to save a few billion. Otherwise, I'm going to end up on the wrong side of that line." He is quiet and heartbroken in a way that shows, but he is somehow still steady.
Now. "I'm probably going to need clothes and practicals at some point or I'm going to end up naked and sleeping on your floor."
You've got to move forward. Even in someone else's hell.
Edited (oops, I did it - there was an extra word, shhhh) 2024-10-24 20:36 (UTC)
It's a little more subtle this time, if only because he isn't caught so unaware, but there's a sharp inhale that betrays him immediately: this is a profoundly touch-starved devil. Which apparently can happen.
He's already struggling to choose what he should do - jerk his hand away because that's definitely safer for both of them, or keep it right where it godsdamn is thank you - while he tries to focus more on Steve's words than the gentle squeeze of his hand. That means there's no shuttering his expression, hearing that heartbreak; there's no hiding just how viscerally he empathises with it.
Every decision allowed to him in the Calamity was, if not false outright, calculated. He knows that they were meant to haunt him, and that doesn't mean anything.
And while he's still grappling with all that this Captain goes and puts the image of him naked on the palace floor in his head.
"...You - that - th - "
His head hurts less, suddenly, which would be more of a relief if he couldn't hear Asmodeus cackling madly in the depths of it.
Steve watches all those reactions, and inclines his head very slightly. Does not immediately let go of Zerxus' hand, but does loosen his grip -- and not because Steve's stupid enough to read that as pain.
Neither is the empathy. Empathy more than the intense response to basic physical contact and affection make Steve wince, albeit faintly. Zerxus has been consistently more kind to him than fits his appearance or location (in the devil's house). Raw empathy and pain, here, in this discussion with all the rest of what's been said?
Steve's not stupid.
"What did you think you were getting in exchange?"
He's not judging. He's not condemning. He's not even pitying. He's just... sorry.
The darkly delighted purr inflames his nerves, makes him even more sensitive to gentle touches and distracting images, but it isn't an order.
Zerxus closes his eyes, for a moment, and just - anchors himself, as much as he can.
"I knew what I was getting. Time, to do what I needed to do. A chance, to do something - else." With a slight shake of his head, he pulls back and turns around, starting to shed the rest of his armour. "But none of that is important. We need to get you settled, figure out what's happening, and fix it."
Ah, yes. You're so good at that. Shut up, Asmodeus.
He expects another lance of pain through his temples. It doesn't come, and somehow that's worse.
Steve's both fought and fought beside 'gods'. Steve is fully capable of understanding gods as incredibly powerful physical beings that are neither invincible nor infallible. He's even got a rudimentary understanding of... alternate planes of existence.
This would be a situation he were more confident in fighting if 'protect your soul' wasn't a thing. That goes beyond mind control and 'it's an alien' in a way that... is enough for even him to be pretty damn daunted.
Not defeated. Not quite, but definitely daunted. Would be even if Catholicism weren't in play.
"I don't have the first idea how to figure out what's happening." He moves away from Zerxus to pick up his gloves and shield, so he can follow. There's more tension and wariness for that one - enough that while he just pockets the gloves, he sticks the shield back on his arm to carry.
It's not mistrust of Zerxus, or unwillingness, but 'led around the devil's... castle' is just alarming on principal. "I can barely even figure out alternatives that aren't Loki. Guess a big enough power source Hydra could punch me through a reality or three, but I doubt they'd close the door behind them, and it wouldn't make sense to put that much effort into removing me. Past that, I got nothing. I assume you'd have some idea if something on this side was the cause?"
Zerxus guides them towards a specific corner, first; before anything else, he may as well put the bulkiest of his armour onto its proper stand. "He'd know if it was something in Hell."
That leaves him in the gambeson beneath, which matches more than he'd like - rich black leather embellished with golden silk and shining rubies, buckled with Asmodeus's emblem because of course - but it's at least easier to move casually in, and a few shades less imposing. (Not that the Captain had seemed intimidated...ever, really. But things can change.)
It also makes his body language that much more obvious; when he turns around and notes the shield, his shoulders visibly ease. Yes, good, you should be thinking about defending yourself.
"But that leaves...well. The Abyss, which has been at war with the Hells for millennia. The Material plane, the Feywild, the Shadowfell, Limbo, every other god's domain - "
There's a second there, when it's clear that Zerxus is going to put at least the bulk of his gear away that Steve is not just pleased, but comes close to a dry 'good boy'. He twitches one corner of his mouth up in a faint smile, instead.
What's under that armor's more intimidating for Steve in some ways. It makes both how human and how not Zerxus is more obvious, makes Steve notice that he's attractive, and... well, mostly, it's depression era kid looking at a really flashy display of wealth. It definitely leaves him staring for a few seconds.
Fit just fine in hell, but Jesus (pun intended).
He sees the slight release in tension at noting the shield and figures that's... actually a good sign. Means at least some of the shit here is defensible against - maybe. Mostly he waits until Zerxus is done, and then follows wherever they're going.
"It isn't hard to figure out hell's got a lot of enemies or that those enemies are gonna be powerful. I'm gonna assume if they're involved something went off the rails in a big way, or I fell into a side-effect. Anything else on that one's a hell," (pun not intended), "of a stretch; I'm not even close to that special." Why - or how - would he even be known?
They aren't going far, so Zerxus doesn't mind pausing to throw an archly sceptical glance over his shoulder. "Is fighting off gods a common hobby where you're from, then?"
He doesn't wait for a response before he keeps moving, leading them towards plain sliding door. Well, as plain as anything gets in a palace made of black gold-veined marble.
"We're around the same size, so..." With a light push, he shoves the door open and reveals a wardrobe that's -
Well. It sure won't do anything to make a depression-era kid to feel more at home, and something about Zerxus's grimace says he recognised something in Steve's expression, back there.
"Some people call him a god of indulgence. He isn't, but isn't hard to see where they're getting it from."
Steve has no idea what kind of relevance who he fights could possibly have in how special he isn't -- because he doesn't have a clue with this one. Most people? No. Is he the only one? No, not with Thor and the likes out there and certainly not across multiple planes of existence.
"Most people have more sense," he says, and he says it dismissively. It isn't seriously self-depreciating. He is just a guy. He knows a lot of guys he has a hell of a lot of admiration and respect for, and faith in.
He keeps following Zerxus to the wardrobe, because that's where most of his attention is, anyway. Then Zerxus grimace is joined by a pained look from Steve, and him dragging his hand over his face.
"At least the colors work for you?" He probably shouldn't be noticing or thinking about that and he doesn't know shit about fashion in any realm, but he does understand color theories and contrasts.
"Grab something you're okay with me using. I already feel stupid about it, but I can't stay in this thing." This thing meaning the stealth suit. He can tolerate the heat, especially here, but that thing is tactical gear and the effect of all the reinforcement is that it's insulated.
And... it keeps him from needing to put the theory out there that he was not so much sent in, or fell in, but brought in. The... apparent lack of involvement from a god who's house he is in, is starting to ring some bells, too.
"Maybe, but I always preferred blue." Entirely true, but there's the slightest arch of playfulness that even he's only half aware of.
(Has he laughed more in the past half hour than he has in decades? Yes. Is he doing his best not to think about that? Also yes.)
"I'd be fine with anything, but...let's find you something light."
Steve may notice another theme, as Zerxus leads him through the wardrobe. Decorating boots and gloves, linking clasps and lapel pins, cascading from belts and pockets and mantles - it's always chains.
It's notable, then, that Zerxus finds a shirt without that, and hands it off. "You can unlace that, if it's tight." It's hard to say which of them is broader in the shoulders.
He seems to be having a harder time with pants; the simplest also tend to be the sturdiest. Finally, he pulls out these, and looks over very sheepishly. "...I can keep looking."
"They stand for different things," he says, off hand.
He's too busy thinking about what the number of chains on Zerxus's clothes represents, and what him avoiding them for Steve says about the character of the man. That even the most generous read on red implies violence, and all the implications of chains and pets and leashes.
He snorts at the pants, but takes them alongside the shirt. "I've worn more ridiculous and more revealing," carries a faint touch if dry humor. That USO costume covered his skin, and that was all it did.
He sets them aside immediately, bends down to unlace his boots. "And they're certainly well ventilated, though a heck of a contrast to what you were wearing when you picked me up."
When he stands up he immediately gets his collar undone, undoes the securing snap and unzips the suit - shoulder to knee. No shyness or hesitation, but he starts looking a little less sharp and more... mentally fatigued.
He's absolutely still in danger and aware of it, but is coming out of being battle ready. He doesn't really have a choice; no one can be that *on* all the time.
"Can you take care of getting the shirt loosened up for me while I handle this? We can adjust the fit once it's on me."
He's all set to take that revelation in stride and then Steve starts undressing.
Even that might have been easier to deal with if he didn't look so vulnerable doing it. It sets this moment leagues apart from any devil barracks he's staggered into.
All he can really manage is a low noise of affirmation before he starts tugging gently at the shirt's delicate laces. That definitely needs every bit of his focus, he's staring at it very intently.
Belatedly, very much to this fingers, "When I picked you up I was patrolling."
If Zerxus is going to use the shirt as an excuse not to watch Steve undress, he might want to pretend those laces are tangled and go slowly. Steve isn't putting on a show, and he isn't delaying. What he's getting out of still a structured one piece suit made out of ballistics fabric and Kevlar. It's made to be moved in, but it has limited to no stretch or slip.
Taking it off takes the time it takes. He is at least practiced at the process, and it's faster once he gets his arms out. The arms, however, take some doing.
He grunts in acknowledgement of that remark, because sleeves but: "Think that just means there's a heck of a lot of contrast in your life, too." Says the man who's finally gotten the hard part done and is peeling off tactical gear and pulling on those pants.
He feels kind of vulnerable, but not because he's letting himself feel tired. The vulnerable there is way more to do with the thigh to ankle exposure of his legs. It's still a physical relief. "If patrolling is a thing you regularly do, anyway."
Edited (I have a half naked icon. I'm using it.) 2024-10-28 12:31 (UTC)
Unfortunately that kind of feint isn't really an instinct, even after all these decades. He's already finished once Steve is out of one sleeve, so he just - drapes the shirt over one arm, and starts rummaging. He'll figure out what he's looking for later.
"He wanted a weapon to wield." That's what a champion is, in the end. Some gods care more about personal autonomy than others, but ultimately you're an extension of divine will. "That war is over, now, but he's not one to waste resources. Most of what I do is violent; these clothes are for...downtime. Or diplomacy, if he wants a laugh." There was a time when Zerxus could persuade and inspire allies, but it sure wasn't in the Hells.
He can hear it, when Steve finally wrestles the suit off and slips the pants on, and he does need to hand over that shirt, so -
"...They fit. Good." He'll just. Lightly toss the shirt over.
Steve catches the shirt out of the air, and drags it over his head. It doesn't do a thing to make him stop being aware of his legs. Time will probably do that. It probably won't explain why he'd feel less naked naked.
It also won't make him not take a second to picture Zerxus in this outfit. The conversation stops him being a little flustered, but not much else would have.
"I won't pretend to really understand," he says, but says with compassion. He's always aware of at least most of his points of serious privilege and advantage and where he got lucky in other ways. Still having his soul is a really, really broad one and it's only the start here. "Broad strokes, at best, for some parts of it."
He grabs his suit off the floor and takes it to put over an arm chair, and moves his shield out of the way to lean against the wall. Stops talking and looks at it for a moment, then shakes his head very slightly to refocus his attention to here.
"That military experiment was one particular war. That war ended, fighting didn't. Neither did the occasional attempts to use the... image. Much softer application. I sure as heck wasn't doing it in hell and alone." That's pointed. He is not mentioning his soul, thanks.
But the more he sees? The more he feels for the man, the more he wants to help and the more he realizes that there's a tactical problem they're both walking into with this-- and he's not going to stop.
There were already things he was desperately grappling with - chief among them the writhing twist of desire-shame of seeing someone else in the clothes Asmodeus conjured for him - and now he's confronted with impossibly sincere compassion, empathy, pity -
Stop it. Are you so certain that was me?
It doesn't matter, he needs to stop this before it gets out of hand. His expression shutters on that stark, yearning vulnerability because whatever he's grasping for, he doesn't deserve it - not from anyone, certainly not from a lost soldier from another world who needs to get the fuck out of here.
"After you fought, they used your image for their own ends. But the war itself - you said you volunteered. You believed in it, what you were fighting for?"
The last person Steve pitied was fucking Loki. Pity requires a lack of respect, and Steve's very capable of that, but it sure as hell isn't in play at the moment.
He's somewhat distracted by the... math he's doing on the situation here. Compassion is a variable, but it isn't the only one.
He comes back to more full attention and focus on Zerxus immediately, because he fucking hates that question just as immediately and more so in light of the abrupt way Zerxus' expression shutters. The look that comes with it is damn close to the one that came with 'pick up your damn gauntlets'.
"That question has an ulterior motive and I'm not answering it until you tell me why you're asking it." Which is maybe a weird response given that it's the first thing he's dug his heels on, but he suspects this is about to be a deflection -- or a sideways attack. Probably deflection. He'll deal with it if it is, but he's damn well not doing it without an admission.
"Oh, now you act like you're dealing with a devil." A moment ago his voice was as solid and featureless as polished stone; now that wry warmth is back.
It's like this man was tailor-made to slip through the cracks of every wall he builds and it's getting very frustrating.
He can at least cross his arms; not the best barrier, but it's something.
"The motive is contrast. There are things about me that I really need you to understand."
He lifts his eyebrows as if to say 'surprise, I'm not actually an idiot' but doesn't address that part at all.
Good job on coming back to yourself, at least in vocal tone, though.
"No, it's not. The motive is for you to be given an opportunity to explain to me that you're a bad person because you sold your soul to the devil and do bad things, and to control my perception of you. We're not doing that - and we sure as shit aren't doing it using my actions with free will to yours without it."
He will argue with you. Something about situations going south and not being able to ignore them. Light him on fire, okay, but he's not handing his actions over as a tool for self-flagellation.
"...Are you lecturing me right - " He cuts himself off as his voice starts trembling with laughter, indignantly delighted. No, no, that is not happening.
None of this should be happening, he never should have been this selfish.
"I'm not a bad person for selling my soul." Desperate times, desperate measures. "I'm a bad person because my brother gave me an escape clause with his last breath, and I was too proud to take it."
"I've lectured the god of Love and Thunder," Steve says, dryly aware but also fond. He likes Thor - a lot. "I also punched him repeatedly in the face at one point."
He looks around the space they're in and after he puts his boots beside his shield just... sits the fuck down. It's been a long day, and this conversation doesn't need to continue to happen upright. The consequence of his position (one leg folded and one knee up) is his pants falling apart, but that's not a focus right now.
"That's not being a bad person, that's being stupid. Assuming it was actually pride." Which he is wholly prepared to believe, actually, unlike 'bad person'.
"...Your thunder god is very different." Picturing Kord in either scenario is, alternately, hilarious and terrifying.
On the one hand, looming over the person you're arguing with is generally better. On the other hand it means he is staring directly down at Steve's bare thighs.
Okay. The pants were a mistake. He's big enough to admit that.
"How many people die before the line between 'bad' and 'stupid' gets too thin to matter?"
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"There's no need to count yourself out just yet."
Giving comfort came so easily to him, once, even bitterly isolated and drowning in loneliness. Now, well - knowing what to say is one thing, but it comes out rough and awkward.
His head is still pounding.
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As a result, he flips his hands over and wraps both hands around Zerxus' forearms and gives them a gentle squeeze. He's definitely not as warm as Zerxus. Just bog standard human in a too warm room. There's a lot of emotional warmth, at least, for the brief period it's there before he lets his hands fall.
"No. I think I do need to count myself out." There is a very slight smile with that. "Otherwise, I'm just giving someone a handle to grab. Consequences of me not being there are bad. Consequences of me getting desperate are worse. I'm okay." He isn't okay, but he isn't frantic or panicked, just resolute and... sad.
He is not awkward giving comfort.
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There's a lot going on, in his immediate reaction. He's frozen squarely between the impulse to pull away and the urge to lean in, and words die in his throat in a strangled sound that's - yearning-indignant-stunned. Even once Steve pulls back, Zerxus barely registers what he's saying at first.
Finally, if a bit roughly, "Hope and desperation are two different things."
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Well, not entirely to test a theory. That would be cold and calculated; it is natural behavior for Steve. He's also still just trying to be reassuring.
"I know. I'm not real wired to surrender, anyway, but I need to get my head around the fact that I can and will sacrifice a few million people to save a few billion. Otherwise, I'm going to end up on the wrong side of that line." He is quiet and heartbroken in a way that shows, but he is somehow still steady.
Now. "I'm probably going to need clothes and practicals at some point or I'm going to end up naked and sleeping on your floor."
You've got to move forward. Even in someone else's hell.
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He's already struggling to choose what he should do - jerk his hand away because that's definitely safer for both of them, or keep it right where it godsdamn is thank you - while he tries to focus more on Steve's words than the gentle squeeze of his hand. That means there's no shuttering his expression, hearing that heartbreak; there's no hiding just how viscerally he empathises with it.
Every decision allowed to him in the Calamity was, if not false outright, calculated. He knows that they were meant to haunt him, and that doesn't mean anything.
And while he's still grappling with all that this Captain goes and puts the image of him naked on the palace floor in his head.
"...You - that - th - "
His head hurts less, suddenly, which would be more of a relief if he couldn't hear Asmodeus cackling madly in the depths of it.
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Neither is the empathy. Empathy more than the intense response to basic physical contact and affection make Steve wince, albeit faintly. Zerxus has been consistently more kind to him than fits his appearance or location (in the devil's house). Raw empathy and pain, here, in this discussion with all the rest of what's been said?
Steve's not stupid.
"What did you think you were getting in exchange?"
He's not judging. He's not condemning. He's not even pitying. He's just... sorry.
He'll sprawl around naked, later.
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The darkly delighted purr inflames his nerves, makes him even more sensitive to gentle touches and distracting images, but it isn't an order.
Zerxus closes his eyes, for a moment, and just - anchors himself, as much as he can.
"I knew what I was getting. Time, to do what I needed to do. A chance, to do something - else." With a slight shake of his head, he pulls back and turns around, starting to shed the rest of his armour. "But none of that is important. We need to get you settled, figure out what's happening, and fix it."
Ah, yes. You're so good at that.
Shut up, Asmodeus.
He expects another lance of pain through his temples. It doesn't come, and somehow that's worse.
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This would be a situation he were more confident in fighting if 'protect your soul' wasn't a thing. That goes beyond mind control and 'it's an alien' in a way that... is enough for even him to be pretty damn daunted.
Not defeated. Not quite, but definitely daunted. Would be even if Catholicism weren't in play.
"I don't have the first idea how to figure out what's happening." He moves away from Zerxus to pick up his gloves and shield, so he can follow. There's more tension and wariness for that one - enough that while he just pockets the gloves, he sticks the shield back on his arm to carry.
It's not mistrust of Zerxus, or unwillingness, but 'led around the devil's... castle' is just alarming on principal. "I can barely even figure out alternatives that aren't Loki. Guess a big enough power source Hydra could punch me through a reality or three, but I doubt they'd close the door behind them, and it wouldn't make sense to put that much effort into removing me. Past that, I got nothing. I assume you'd have some idea if something on this side was the cause?"
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That leaves him in the gambeson beneath, which matches more than he'd like - rich black leather embellished with golden silk and shining rubies, buckled with Asmodeus's emblem because of course - but it's at least easier to move casually in, and a few shades less imposing. (Not that the Captain had seemed intimidated...ever, really. But things can change.)
It also makes his body language that much more obvious; when he turns around and notes the shield, his shoulders visibly ease. Yes, good, you should be thinking about defending yourself.
"But that leaves...well. The Abyss, which has been at war with the Hells for millennia. The Material plane, the Feywild, the Shadowfell, Limbo, every other god's domain - "
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What's under that armor's more intimidating for Steve in some ways. It makes both how human and how not Zerxus is more obvious, makes Steve notice that he's attractive, and... well, mostly, it's depression era kid looking at a really flashy display of wealth. It definitely leaves him staring for a few seconds.
Fit just fine in hell, but Jesus (pun intended).
He sees the slight release in tension at noting the shield and figures that's... actually a good sign. Means at least some of the shit here is defensible against - maybe. Mostly he waits until Zerxus is done, and then follows wherever they're going.
"It isn't hard to figure out hell's got a lot of enemies or that those enemies are gonna be powerful. I'm gonna assume if they're involved something went off the rails in a big way, or I fell into a side-effect. Anything else on that one's a hell," (pun not intended), "of a stretch; I'm not even close to that special." Why - or how - would he even be known?
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He doesn't wait for a response before he keeps moving, leading them towards plain sliding door. Well, as plain as anything gets in a palace made of black gold-veined marble.
"We're around the same size, so..." With a light push, he shoves the door open and reveals a wardrobe that's -
Well. It sure won't do anything to make a depression-era kid to feel more at home, and something about Zerxus's grimace says he recognised something in Steve's expression, back there.
"Some people call him a god of indulgence. He isn't, but isn't hard to see where they're getting it from."
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"Most people have more sense," he says, and he says it dismissively. It isn't seriously self-depreciating. He is just a guy. He knows a lot of guys he has a hell of a lot of admiration and respect for, and faith in.
He keeps following Zerxus to the wardrobe, because that's where most of his attention is, anyway. Then Zerxus grimace is joined by a pained look from Steve, and him dragging his hand over his face.
"At least the colors work for you?" He probably shouldn't be noticing or thinking about that and he doesn't know shit about fashion in any realm, but he does understand color theories and contrasts.
"Grab something you're okay with me using. I already feel stupid about it, but I can't stay in this thing." This thing meaning the stealth suit. He can tolerate the heat, especially here, but that thing is tactical gear and the effect of all the reinforcement is that it's insulated.
And... it keeps him from needing to put the theory out there that he was not so much sent in, or fell in, but brought in. The... apparent lack of involvement from a god who's house he is in, is starting to ring some bells, too.
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(Has he laughed more in the past half hour than he has in decades? Yes. Is he doing his best not to think about that? Also yes.)
"I'd be fine with anything, but...let's find you something light."
Steve may notice another theme, as Zerxus leads him through the wardrobe. Decorating boots and gloves, linking clasps and lapel pins, cascading from belts and pockets and mantles - it's always chains.
It's notable, then, that Zerxus finds a shirt without that, and hands it off. "You can unlace that, if it's tight." It's hard to say which of them is broader in the shoulders.
He seems to be having a harder time with pants; the simplest also tend to be the sturdiest. Finally, he pulls out these, and looks over very sheepishly. "...I can keep looking."
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He's too busy thinking about what the number of chains on Zerxus's clothes represents, and what him avoiding them for Steve says about the character of the man. That even the most generous read on red implies violence, and all the implications of chains and pets and leashes.
He snorts at the pants, but takes them alongside the shirt. "I've worn more ridiculous and more revealing," carries a faint touch if dry humor. That USO costume covered his skin, and that was all it did.
He sets them aside immediately, bends down to unlace his boots. "And they're certainly well ventilated, though a heck of a contrast to what you were wearing when you picked me up."
When he stands up he immediately gets his collar undone, undoes the securing snap and unzips the suit - shoulder to knee. No shyness or hesitation, but he starts looking a little less sharp and more... mentally fatigued.
He's absolutely still in danger and aware of it, but is coming out of being battle ready. He doesn't really have a choice; no one can be that *on* all the time.
"Can you take care of getting the shirt loosened up for me while I handle this? We can adjust the fit once it's on me."
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Even that might have been easier to deal with if he didn't look so vulnerable doing it. It sets this moment leagues apart from any devil barracks he's staggered into.
All he can really manage is a low noise of affirmation before he starts tugging gently at the shirt's delicate laces. That definitely needs every bit of his focus, he's staring at it very intently.
Belatedly, very much to this fingers, "When I picked you up I was patrolling."
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Taking it off takes the time it takes. He is at least practiced at the process, and it's faster once he gets his arms out. The arms, however, take some doing.
He grunts in acknowledgement of that remark, because sleeves but: "Think that just means there's a heck of a lot of contrast in your life, too." Says the man who's finally gotten the hard part done and is peeling off tactical gear and pulling on those pants.
He feels kind of vulnerable, but not because he's letting himself feel tired. The vulnerable there is way more to do with the thigh to ankle exposure of his legs. It's still a physical relief. "If patrolling is a thing you regularly do, anyway."
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"He wanted a weapon to wield." That's what a champion is, in the end. Some gods care more about personal autonomy than others, but ultimately you're an extension of divine will. "That war is over, now, but he's not one to waste resources. Most of what I do is violent; these clothes are for...downtime. Or diplomacy, if he wants a laugh." There was a time when Zerxus could persuade and inspire allies, but it sure wasn't in the Hells.
He can hear it, when Steve finally wrestles the suit off and slips the pants on, and he does need to hand over that shirt, so -
"...They fit. Good." He'll just. Lightly toss the shirt over.
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It also won't make him not take a second to picture Zerxus in this outfit. The conversation stops him being a little flustered, but not much else would have.
"I won't pretend to really understand," he says, but says with compassion. He's always aware of at least most of his points of serious privilege and advantage and where he got lucky in other ways. Still having his soul is a really, really broad one and it's only the start here. "Broad strokes, at best, for some parts of it."
He grabs his suit off the floor and takes it to put over an arm chair, and moves his shield out of the way to lean against the wall. Stops talking and looks at it for a moment, then shakes his head very slightly to refocus his attention to here.
"That military experiment was one particular war. That war ended, fighting didn't. Neither did the occasional attempts to use the... image. Much softer application. I sure as heck wasn't doing it in hell and alone." That's pointed. He is not mentioning his soul, thanks.
But the more he sees? The more he feels for the man, the more he wants to help and the more he realizes that there's a tactical problem they're both walking into with this-- and he's not going to stop.
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There were already things he was desperately grappling with - chief among them the writhing twist of desire-shame of seeing someone else in the clothes Asmodeus conjured for him - and now he's confronted with impossibly sincere compassion, empathy, pity -
Stop it.
Are you so certain that was me?
It doesn't matter, he needs to stop this before it gets out of hand. His expression shutters on that stark, yearning vulnerability because whatever he's grasping for, he doesn't deserve it - not from anyone, certainly not from a lost soldier from another world who needs to get the fuck out of here.
"After you fought, they used your image for their own ends. But the war itself - you said you volunteered. You believed in it, what you were fighting for?"
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He's somewhat distracted by the... math he's doing on the situation here. Compassion is a variable, but it isn't the only one.
He comes back to more full attention and focus on Zerxus immediately, because he fucking hates that question just as immediately and more so in light of the abrupt way Zerxus' expression shutters. The look that comes with it is damn close to the one that came with 'pick up your damn gauntlets'.
"That question has an ulterior motive and I'm not answering it until you tell me why you're asking it." Which is maybe a weird response given that it's the first thing he's dug his heels on, but he suspects this is about to be a deflection -- or a sideways attack. Probably deflection. He'll deal with it if it is, but he's damn well not doing it without an admission.
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"Oh, now you act like you're dealing with a devil." A moment ago his voice was as solid and featureless as polished stone; now that wry warmth is back.
It's like this man was tailor-made to slip through the cracks of every wall he builds and it's getting very frustrating.
He can at least cross his arms; not the best barrier, but it's something.
"The motive is contrast. There are things about me that I really need you to understand."
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Good job on coming back to yourself, at least in vocal tone, though.
"No, it's not. The motive is for you to be given an opportunity to explain to me that you're a bad person because you sold your soul to the devil and do bad things, and to control my perception of you. We're not doing that - and we sure as shit aren't doing it using my actions with free will to yours without it."
He will argue with you. Something about situations going south and not being able to ignore them. Light him on fire, okay, but he's not handing his actions over as a tool for self-flagellation.
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None of this should be happening, he never should have been this selfish.
"I'm not a bad person for selling my soul." Desperate times, desperate measures. "I'm a bad person because my brother gave me an escape clause with his last breath, and I was too proud to take it."
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He looks around the space they're in and after he puts his boots beside his shield just... sits the fuck down. It's been a long day, and this conversation doesn't need to continue to happen upright. The consequence of his position (one leg folded and one knee up) is his pants falling apart, but that's not a focus right now.
"That's not being a bad person, that's being stupid. Assuming it was actually pride." Which he is wholly prepared to believe, actually, unlike 'bad person'.
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On the one hand, looming over the person you're arguing with is generally better. On the other hand it means he is staring directly down at Steve's bare thighs.
Okay. The pants were a mistake. He's big enough to admit that.
"How many people die before the line between 'bad' and 'stupid' gets too thin to matter?"
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