Summary:Tigra is able to grant her wisdom to Steve about being caught between two worlds. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Steve is learning a good number of things in his period of lycanthropic infection. He's learned that lavender will always be sullied in his mind with fear and the need to resolve an issue immediately with violence. He's learned that glass walls are just as damning as solid walls, though too many of his fellow Avengers seem to understand the difficulty of incarceration in this manner — this has kept him up far later at night. He's learned that he will eat just about anything when furry and hungry, having earned him the nickname of "Fuzzy Garbage Disposal" from his husband.
And he's come to the conclusion that he needs to talk to someone who understands the plights of his current state perhaps the most of all.
Meet me at Green-Wood Cemetary in Brooklyn? Want to speak with you about a hairy situation.
Bah-dum-pssht.
Steve's off the beaten trail in a copse of trees with surprisingly dense cover. He's not visually easy to spot either, having worn clothing in shades to match the changing woodlands of the park. He'll be easy to scent though… His deodorant, laundry detergent, breakfast not long ago, an upkick of nerves in sweat, and…dog. Lots of musky dog.
Well, it's nice to know that the Dog Days of Steve haven't killed his sense of humor. As always, all Tigra needs is a general idea of where to meet, and one of the finest noses in the world leads here to the specific location. And as often is the case, the nose tells her much of the scent's owner's emotional state, and her empathy tells her more as she walks into the area.
For once, she's careful to be seen approaching, not doing a play stalk, or practicing a hunt. no sense triggering instincts that may or may not have the upper hand at the moment.
Far earlier than a normal human might have sensed Tigra's arrival, Steve can be seen to look sharply away from his consideration of a blue jar in the leaves of the tree he stands beneath. For a second, his true-blue gaze is keen as a knife on the tiger-woman and the fine hairs on his neck rise. In the next breath, however, what rise in tension seems to have gripped him relaxes, as if he'd soothed himself.
"Miss Tigra, thank you for trusting me." The Captain's voice is quiet as he takes a few steps towards her across the leaf-littered ground, his steps as shockingly silent as hers in an unconscious care. "It means more than…well, no." A huff of a laugh. "No, you'd know exactly how much it means." A flicker of unease passing through his face. "I'll be blunt. Figured you could weigh in on things. 'm sure you've heard what's been going on, one way or another, 'nd…it's…" His chin tucks, eyes on his boots.
A sigh and Steve looks up again. "It's getting worse. Thought you might have some wisdom for me. Figured too, um…figured I'd show you 'nd then try 'nd make myself change back. You could stop me."
Tigra turns to face him and stands as casually as she can. Her gaze is sympathetic, having been where he is, possibly not as badly, but certainly able to understand where he's at. Her tail gives a little flick at what he says, and she gives a nod. "I can certainly try to stop you," she says, wryly. "I'll have to hope that you're not as skilled when you're a wolf as you are now. I'll certainly do everything I can to help you, though."
Surely Steve can be forgiven his wry little smile. "None of the skills go away, unfortunately." It's a double-edged sword, to be sure. "But the moon's…not up right now — " His face turns unerringly towards its hidden dip beyond the western horizon for a moment. " — so I've got a better hold on it."
Shucking his windbreaker and then his tee shirt (with some pinking at his ears as he explains, "I like this shirt, don't want to ruin it…"), the Captain also kicks aside his sneakers. It leaves him in baggy sweatpants too large even for him.
The sigh is deep and preparatory. "I can sign in ASL while changed," he informs Tigra, " — and I understand English. You be honest about what you can tell." Please, comes the unspoken request. Then, with a swallow, Steve closes his eyes.
About thirty seconds later, after a cacophony of bones and tendons realigning, and the gain of about one and a half feet alongside an extra three-hundred pounds of blond furred muscle, there stands Steve Rogers, werewolf extraordinaire. His eyes are still blue as the summer sky, but that's…really about it for similarity other than coat color. The sweatpants survived, thank god. With high-set pointed ears lifted up, he crouches down on two feet from seven feet of height and begins signing at Tigra.
«I promise I will not hurt you. I have very good control today.» There is a graceful accuracy to his signing, even with the recurved talons strong enough to shred steel.
A glance to the west, though Tigra already knows he's looking for the mood. "Should i not tell Bucky about this part?" she asks teasingly, to lighten the mood, as he partly strips. "I don't know ASL," she warns him. "but I think we'll be able to get by." Even though she's hardly in his personal space, she can't help but step back at the painful sounding transformation, though she doesn't look away from it, watching closely.
Another bit of twitching from her tail to underscore understandable unease in her own scent, but it's not true fear, and there's an element of, well, let's call it interest there, too. "Well, super-soldier werewolves certainly are big'uns, ain't they?" she asks. Werewolf? There, wolf. There, castle.
Those dagger-sharp ears flick back and forwards at Tigra's comment about his build. He nods — the attempt to smile doesn't work so well when one's teeth are something out of the Ice Ages and canines hang down past the black lining of his lips.
There's an attempt to continue signing nonetheless. «Have you seen anything like this before? That is not you?» Then comes the pidgen attempt to convey the question. A point at Tigra then at his own eyes and then a circling gesture to include all of himself. Tilting his head conveys the note of a query, his eyes never leaving her.
A doggie smile is a lovely thing. A werewolf smile is…something different. Between his gestures and her empathy, Tigra thinsk she has the general vibe for what he's asking her. "Have I seen a werewolf before? I have, once. Crossed paths not long after I got furry, myself. You're different looking, though. A lot bigger, plus the muzzle," she adds, both hands sliding along an invisible snout in front of her face. "He was more like the Lon Chaney werewolf."
«I know the movie you are talking about.» A taptap alongside another three nods indicates Steve understands what Tigra is referencing. He suddenly pauses and lifts his head, his attention back towards the paths. There's a jogger running past with a stroller and the babbling of the toddler snags his attention for a second.
Both he and the tiger-woman aren't seen in the undergrowth and Steve's attention returns to his conversational partner. There is proof of his strangle-hold on his human mind in the lack of predatory interest in anyone around himself. «Let me change back.»
A clawed pointer finger uplifted: one moment, please.
Closing his eyes, he crouches down on all fours. Those expressive ears rotate nearly flat to his skull before lips ripple to peel back from his teeth.
The inverse shift leaves Steve there as a human again in a matter of seconds, surrounded by some tufts of blond fur and his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. He collapses to one hip and pants deeply. "God, that's like…like…having all of your joints shoved back into your sockets," he breathes.
Gee, Steve, good observation.
The first signing goes over Tigra's head, nothing for her to work with there, not that it matters. The body language of going 'on point' is clear, though, plus she had heard their passage as well. She looks back to him with a small smile. "You seem in control," she notes, and then nods as he raises a finger, and waits, watching at the transformation that has to be like torture for him. She grabs his windbreaker and drapes it over his torso. "I sure don't envy you going through that. For me, it's nothing like that."
"Thanks," the Captain murmurs as to the covering of clothing. Shifting his weight with a wince to gather his legs beneath him in a messy crisscross, he shrugs on the windbreaker entirely and zips it up against the chillier air of autumn. With wooziness still in his eyes, he glances up at Tigra.
"I've had to put joints back in often enough that it's something I'm used to." What an admission to make. "But…it's really damn good to hear you think I've got a hold on it." His smile is weaker but true. Blowing a hard sigh, he lets his head hang for a second. "I mean…I remember in your files about how you had to get a hold on things too — remember you telling me this before. Any…any trick to it?" Those true-blues flick to Tigra again.
Tigra sits down in front of him, legs to the side as she lets him take the time to recover from his experience. "I've done that, once or twice," she says of joints. "And to me, Steve, you seemed completely in control there. When the jogger and kid went by, you looked over towards them, but to vibe I got was just that you were keeping track of them, not that they were a threat, or worse that they were pray."
She considers his question for a moment, and then rests a hand on the amulet on her bikini top. Her form seems to waver for a moment and then, rather less dramatically, she's human as well, with a height and figure the same as she has as Tigra, though with black hair, vice tiger-orange. "Being like this helped me some," she answers. "It kept those instincts behind a door, but it was hard to stay like this. I mean, you have to have felt how much more…-intense- the world is when you can smell and feel and hear as easily as seeing, and more so. And everytime that I was the cat-woman, it was harder and harder to go back to being 'just' a woman." She touches the amulet once more, returning to her feline form, and absently rolls her shoulders and head, briefly indulging in her muscles without being conscious of it. "Reminding myself of who I was helped. Repeating it to myself, that I was Greer Nelson, that I was in control, that I wasn't a beast, that helped. And being active as a hero, that helped. Helping others to help myself, sort of. The adrenaline, the endorphins, they gave me a little more…oomph to be me."
With brows knitted, Steve nods as he listens. He lets his gaze slide to one side. "It is hard to stay like this," he echoes a bit morosely. "It is an adrenaline rush…like jumping out of a plane, but continuously — and yeah, I didn't think the world could get more…intense, but it does. The smells and the sounds…"
Reaching out, he picks a leaf from his pants-leg and tosses it away. "But it's good to hear that what I'm trying worked for you. I think to myself, 'You're Steve Rogers. You have duties. You have friends. You have Buck. You're an Avenger 'nd a soldier.'" A wry smirk twists his nose a little. "…that, 'nd 'You can't bite people, it's rude.'"
"The smells are what do it for me," Tigra says absently. "I don't know ifyou've tried this or not yet, but if you have a favorite food, try eating it as the wolf. Smell and taste are almost the same sense, and it makes a good dish come alive in a way I can't describe otherwise." She grows quiet for a moment as she considers her next words. He did ask her to be honest. "I won't lie, Cap. It got worse for me. I don't know how long I could've managed until I got the help that I needed. I literally had two souls and they had to be integrated before I really could be, well, me."
To hear of her struggle increasing does sober the normally good-natured super-soldier. He picks another leaf off his pants-hem and throws his one away the harder, now frowning at it as if it had insulted him.
"It's getting worse for me too," Steve admits very quietly. "SHIELD 'nd WAND are helping…'nd so's Buck… Thor even stopped by, said something about knowing about wolves on Asgard who can change. Just…"
His sigh is heavier. A champion sigher, this one. "…don't want to hurt anybody before this all gets settled. 'm glad you're here to help, Miss Tigra, even if it's taking me down."
"If it comes to that, I'll do my best," Tigra promises, sincerely, while hoping it's a promise she never has to meet. "We'll keep you from hurting anyone." She considers for a moment again. "I would offer to talk to the people that helped me, but they're the ones who first changed me, and integrating my souls had to do with the way that I was changed in the first place. I don't think it has anything to do with what you're going through. And they're nowhere near in the league of someone like Thor," she adds with a crooked grin. The grin eases away after a second. "Anything else that I can do, you know you can count on me."
"Any port in a storm…"
Nodding to himself, Steve then gets to his feet with a series of winces and a few joints still popping as if they were complaining about his earlier efforts. He dusts his sweatpants entirely free of leaf litter before stooping to grab up his tee shirt. Rather than put it on, he stucks the wadded top into his coat pocket. "I really appreciate it, Miss Tigra. You've given me things to think about." His look to her is profoundly grateful before he glances around for his sneakers.