multiversallogs | It don't mean a thing.

He feels more at home right now than he has in seventy years. Even if he was asleep for sixty-eight of them, hush, they still count.

He wears the Hellsing dress uniform Narcissa had commissioned for him because it's the closest thing he's got to what would wear on a night out in his proper time. Steve orders a beer, humming along with the song the band plays as he waits, and then he carries it over to a table at the edge of the dance floor.

And for a few moments, it's just him and his memories of friends back home, loved ones long since gone. There's a hint of a sad smile pulling at his mouth as he settles in, both hands wrapped around the pint glass.

Steph, riduclous as always, went to the effort of finding a dress that matches the theme for the night. Getting dressed up is half of the fun, and if she's going to do this right - this being enjoying herself no matter what Baedal throws at her - then she needed the dress.

She's not at all surprised to see Steve here, from what she knows of him but she's also aware, since their last conversation, that there is probably something bittersweet about this scene. So when she approaches him, she leans against the table rather than sliding straight into a seat, like she would with most people.

"You want some company, Captain?" And gives him the option to say no. Although it has crossed her mind that he might say yes simply out of politeness, but she can't help that.

He looks up at the sound of her voice. It's clear that his thoughts were elsewhere, because there's a moment before his face catches up, before he recognizes who it is and he smiles.

"Please," he says, getting to his feet, pulling out a chair for her. "I'd love some company."

Oh god did he just stand up and pull out a chair for her? Steph is almost flustered for moment, unsure how respond to that before she shakes her head at herself and takes the seat, "Thank you."

(There's a difference, she's found, between guys who act chivalrous because they think it will get them laid, or that women need coddling, and guys who are just nice and maybe a little old-fashioned. Steve, fortunately, falls into the latter category.)

"How does it compare to what bars like this were back home?" She's genuinely curious for his expert opinion, as it were.

Steve is definitely in that latter category. He's met enough strong dames-- uh, ladies-- in his time to ever assume any one of them isn't capable and needs his help. No, he's just a good-mannered boy from a time recreated here tonight.

"I guess a bar is a bar is a bar, no matter where you go," he says, smiling as he takes his seat again. "But they did a good job, tonight. It reminds me of one I went to in Italy a few times, with my team members."

That first statement of his is probably not entirely true, Steph thinks, considering some of the bars she's been to, both as a civilian and for vigilante business. Though he probably doesn't want to know about the sorts of bars that let fourteen year old girls into them.

"It's nice they managed to pull it off, reminders of home can do a lot of good," Which is somewhat directed at Steve, but mostly just a general statement about this city, "I'd kill for a even a little piece of Gotham here."

An exaggeration, perhaps, but she does miss it a lot, for all it's horror.

"It can," he agrees, though maybe he sounds just short of convinced. It's not that this is bad; at any other time maybe he'd find this thrilling, have it bring back all the good memories of home.

But he's fresh back from "home" and he was never more out of place there. Even his, the sunniest of dispositions normally, is a bit dimmed with memories here.

But he smiles all the same. "What's Gotham like? Is it a big city, like New York?"

Her head tilts slightly, regarding Steve with a sad smile. He doesn't sound quite convinced, and she can understand why even if she can't, really, understand how he's feeling. She decides that she can try to cheer him up, or at the very least try to distract him from whatever morose thoughts he's having.

So she clicks her tongue in disapproval, exaggerating her Jersey accent when she talks and hoping he'll get the NY/NJ rivalry joke, "Careful, that's a dangerous comparison to make," But she's smiling and adds, "It's on an island, in the Delaware Bay. Kind of, uh, terrible, if I'm being honest; especially the division between social classes. But it's pretty sometimes, and the people are fighters, if nothing else."

Which is a trait she admires, and likes to think that she has in herself.

Late to her own event, Njoki spots Steve and a young lady sitting at a nearby table. Once she's got a beer of her own in hand, it's pretty easy to navigate her way through the crowd and pull up a seat.

The closest thing she managed to get in era appropriate garb is a men's button down shirt and tie.

"Hey, sorry I wasn't here at the get go, but work was a mess." Literally. That's why her hair is still wet and she smells faintly of the almost unscented lemongrass soap she prefers.

Steve shakes his head, a fond smile turning his lips. "Don't worry about it. It happens. Hey, do you know Steph? Steph, this is my good friend Ki. I've known her about as long as I've been in the city."

...And a second later, he catches himself.

"The first time."

"Nice to meet you, Ki," Steph offers her hand to Ki after Steve has done introductions, "Thanks for letting us know about this."

She would've had no idea otherwise, since it's not the sort of thing that pops up on her radar, but it's nice to have a regular (sort of) night out without worrying about everything else that's going on. So she's grateful.

"How did you guys meet?" The question's directed at both of them - whoever wants to answer first.

"It's no problem. I had a client of mine come in and tell me all about it - he's from considerably earlier, but he liked the forties." His actual words were something along the line of 'the 1940s were great, the 1740s were shit with shit music' and wisely Ki doesn't mention that.

"I tend to run to shake off the stress of work and I saw him, wanted to know if I could keep up." No one ever said it was a good idea that lead to them meeting each other. "He usually wins, but with grace and aplomb, so I can't do more than gripe and make him buy ice cream."

Steve shrugs, almost bashful. "I'm just happy to have somebody who can keep up. Before that I had to either run alone, or, back home, slow myself down so the other fellas could keep up."

He glances from one to the other, and then, as gentlemanly as ever: "And speaking of me buying things, can I get you ladies anything?"

"That's a good way to make friends, especially if you're pretty evenly matched," She'd met a couple people that way, when she first came to the city; she misses running with Kaitlyn. (She misses going to a track and racing Wendy even more, but that's a million miles away). "And I think ice cream is a fair consolation prize."

Steph shakes her head at the offer, "No thanks, I might grab myself a soda later, but I'm good for now."

It also helps that they both keep strange hours and are just as happy to go for a run at noon as midnight.

"Naw, I'm good, but thanks. I was going to buy you a pickled egg, mostly just so I could say I bought you one." Nothing says 'I care' like dodgy bar food, right? "Anyway, what else is news in the city? I haven't come out among the living for a while and I feel a bit out of the loop, yeah?"

The face Steve makes. Not that he's not up for adventure, or that he'd turn down the kindness of a friend, but... a pickled egg? "I... guess. Maybe the three of us can share one?"

He shrugs, gaze drifting out over the dance floor for a moment as the song changes. "I don't know that I'm the right fella to ask about what's gone on in the city. I just got back and I feel like I've been playing a nonstop game of catch-up ever since." He looks over at Steph. "How about it, Steph, you more in the loop than me or Ki here?"

There's a little chuckle at Steve's face, "I'll share one with you." She's probably eaten worse, and anyway, if it's really terrible she can just spit it out (such a lady).

"Probably," In response to Steve asking whether or not she's in the loop, "There was some weird stuff going on at Flag Hill recently, holes in the hillside that the city had to cover up. And things have been kinda all over the places lately with people coming in and out of the city. You're not the only one who disappeared for a couple of days, Steve."

It's not that it hasn't happened before, but usually three people don't pop in and out around the same time. And Steph noticed it this time because some of these disappearances affected her more than usual.

With his bottle of Coke in hand, dressed in fatigues the likes of which Steve may be familiar, Hellboy wanders about the gathering crowd of the bar. He thinks he recognizes a few of the faces from the rare couple of times he's been at the Apache for non-cohort-occasion purposes, which doesn't seem overly surprising given the kinship of style between the two establishments.

"Steve!" he calls out with a grin as he approaches. "Should've known you'd be here. Brings back memories, doesn't it?"

He stands up, grinning. "Hellboy! I like the uniform. And yeah, yeah, all of this does. Good ones." Not that he'd ever admit to anything less.

He gestures at his table. "Come join me?"

"Don't mind if I do," he says, and settles himself into a chair after situating his sword on the back of the chair.

"And thank you." Hellboy adjusts the button used to close the right sleeve of his shirt above his mighty stone hand. "It's been a long time since I wore something like this, and never really officially."

Steve raises his eyebrows, reaching for his glass. "Never officially? Then what was the unofficial reason? And what was the official uniform? If there was one."

And then he gestures at himself. "Mrs. Malfoy had this made when I was working with her, before she left the city. She did good work, I feel right at home in it."

"Uh." He rubs at his forehead, realizing that he maybe hadn't been so clear on some things before. "Okay, you know that picture on my desk, with the soldiers and me as a little kid? That was 1944. Then they brought me to America, and I grew up on base at the Roswell Army Air Field. I needed clothes I could run around in and grow out of, so, fatigues."

He looks over Steve's uniform, mentally picking out some of the detail. "I like it. It's very Army dress meets Hellsing. Very you. Only thing missing is a garrison cap."

"Oh. Oh, well, that makes sense. About a lot of things, actually." And if anything, the kinship he feels with Hellboy grows a bit more; it's comforting, somehow, knowing someone else knows his time, lived through it.

"And I mighta forgotten to put the garrison cap in the drawing I made for Mrs. Malfoy, when she asked about what I wore. She was real good about the details, she wouldn't have left it out."

That reminds him, next chance he gets, to look in on her husband, make sure the poor guy's okay.

For the first time in a very long time, Adam thinks of London, and actually feels a bit of longing.

It's not the same longing that he had when he was a boy, when London seemed the center of the universe. Certainly a better place to be than Cumbria, though it wasn't particularly hard to be a better place to be than Cumbria. Though maybe it was a touch of that old longing that had lured him back when this war broke out. London had seemed to be where he needed to be. For once, some lingering loyalty to his home country had won out over merely choosing the side that either paid him better or offered him more interesting opportunities.

Such a romantic time that had been. He translated intercepted radio messages and cables--his fluency in Japanese had come in so handy--and had the adoration of many just for leaving his flat in uniform every day. The world had seemed about to end, to most; not to him, he knew better.

He'd loved the music most of all. And now he sits at the bar, turned so he can watch the people dancing, sipping at a mixed drink and wondering if he still remembers how.

One of the women dancing is having a ball, if the way she laughs as she moves around the floor - and from partner to partner. She dances with both men and women, her skirts swinging as she twirls. It's a minor miracle she doesn't made herself dizzy enough to fall over - especially in those heels - and eventually she misjudges the space between herself and another dancer on her blind side. There's a brief moment where all movement seems to stop around her as she throws up her hands to brace for impact, but instead narrowly avoids collision, stumbling off toward the bar with an apology underscored by laughter.

It could just have been one of those moments that seem to slow down while you're watching them. Or it could be that the red-haired woman headed in Adam's direction cheats physics. (She does. Thanks, superpowers.) Still giddy and catching her breath, she leans both arms against the bar to Adam's right, flagging down the tender to order a vodka tonic. He knows her blonde, a few years younger, and without the scars, but it's tough to mistake Odessa after a display like that. And if she'd turn her head to look, instead of securing her booze first, Odessa would realise who she's just stumbled into.

Adam watches the woman twirl with mild alarm; it seems she'll fall any moment. And then he sees the collision coming, sees the woman brace for collision, and he actually shifts against the bar, ready to set his drink down and help her to her feet if needed. His is an odd morality. He's been ready to wipe out the entire world but he cannot leave a drunk woman to fend for herself in a bar.

But then there's no crashing of bodies, no one goes toppling or stumbling. That's a lucky-- no. No, wait, he's seen this before. It was-- it can't be, can it?

When she bellies up to the bar beside him, he takes advantage of her distraction to study her. It's her. Odessa Wander. She's older, she's changed her hair. And seen some trials, if the marks she now wears bear witness.

The thought of stepping away and leaving crosses his mind. But he resists. If someone must recognize him, let it be quietly, when he's prepared, where he has some hope of control over the situation.

He leans back against the bar, his attention apparently back on the dancers as he raises his glass to his lips. And then, in a voice so low only she can hear, he quotes a film he saw in a theater back when the music playing was new.

"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world..."

He's near enough to hear the breath catch in Odessa's throat as her heart skips a beat. How can it not? First of all, that happens to be one of her very favourite movies. Second, she knows that voice. And for a moment, she's quite afraid to turn for confirmation of his identity.

Adam Monroe. She releases the breath she didn't realise she was holding, fixing her wide-eyed stare on him, lips parted in shock. The last time they met, as she recalls it, he said he would kill her. With one hand, she reaches up to brush the hair away from her face. It's held rather neatly in place by a clip bearing an orange flower on her right side, but sweeping aside her bangs reveals the worst of the scarring across her left eye.

With the other hand, she slowly tightens her fingers on her skirt, wadding it up in her fist anxiously, or hiking it up. With any luck he's too busy watching her movements above the bar to consider that she may have a knife strapped to her thigh, though she doesn't hold too much hope. To say Adam is something of a seasoned veteran is an understatement.

And really, what good is shanking the immortal going to do anyway? There's some kind of calm that accompanies that thought, and Odessa finds her voice. "And I had to walk into yours... It's been a long time."

"Longer for you than me, it seems." Is he telling the truth? There's no real way to know. Her age and the scars she bears tell the story of years and trials passed but Adam could walk through a century and come out unchanged.

He keeps his gaze on her face, though he's aware of the dip of her hands, the tensing of her arm given away by the way she holds it, the way her shoulder rolls ever so slightly as she hikes up the side of her skirt. It may be nervous fidgeting, it may be a grab for a weapon, he can't tell. He won't start anything, won't go on the offense, not here in the middle of a party, but if she does make a move he will defend himself.

"I last saw you..." He headtilts slightly, thinking. "Oh, it's been a few months, at the very least."

Steph managed to come through on her pledge, and Hellboy thus steps into the bar in a set of olive-drab fatigues in '40s US Army style. They're actually slightly bigger than they need to be, even for him, but that was intentional to match how they used to feel back in the day. The coat and gunbelts and such that make up his usual attire have stayed at home, with the exceptions of his half-boots (no running around barefoot anymore) and Excalibur on his back (some things you just don't leave at home, anachronism or no).

After standing just inside the threshold for a moment to soak in the music and ambiance, he gets a Coke from the bar (in a glass bottle, even! wild.), and goes to mingle.

"Well, lookit you. Rumour has it they pay off a stelanmancer to get the real cane sugar stuff imported in. What do you say?" Njoki is sticking to beer, but she can appreciate a classic coke as much as the next gal.

"Hey, you." Njoki gets a smile and an expansive arms-out gesture that lets her get a good look at the outfit.

"Well, the bottles are how I remember." He takes a swig of the soda, holding it in his mouth for a few moments with a scrutinizing air before swallowing it. "Tastes about right. I'd believe it. Besides, what's a speakeasy without the illicit goods?"

She's still not particularly good at Going Out on the Town-type things, but she does have the wardrobe for it, even if by the forties it would have been slightly outdated. It's nice, though. She'd been starting to forget how much she missed home, even with the problems it had. (Although, what is home anymore?)

So, uh, she brought a book. Maybe she'll pretend to socialize in... a few minutes, yes, but the music is nice.

Ivan's memories of the forties are mixed, but he'd seen Njoki's earlier network post. Instead of responding to it, like a normal person, he just shows up, lurking around the fringes and listening to the music. He may say hello if approached, but he's a bit on the brooding side.

"Is this where I quote Bacall? 'Cause we both know I am the least thing like her," Njoki drawls as she sidles up to Ivan.

He laughs, quietly. "Not my type anyway. This is pleasant, but very odd, as I'm sure you're aware." For someone who was actually alive (sort of) then.

It don't mean a thing.

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god I am sorry this took me so long :c

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If it has been too long to thread this, I UNDERSTAND