steam rises from his mug in billows, and he cups coarse palms along the porcelain sides, ginger as he rises the mug to his lips. it’s a remarkably typical day -- muggy for early august, with children and families entering and leaving the tiny coffee shop wearing i love new york t-shirts and holding selfie sticks and laughing. laughing. he hangs his head, eyes falling under his yankees cap to his coffee, the newspaper and the worn notebook he jots in beside it. a typical day and it’s still unbearable. it’s when he feels the presence of someone hovering above, he glances up, thinks to grab for his thigh holster but knows not to do that. he doesn’t believe his eyes when he sees her and -- sees hot flashes of desert, sees carol danvers thin in rags, sees blood and sand and -- simply blinks up at her. then laughs himself -- incredulously, humorlessly.
“shit. shit. danvers? i’m goin’ crazy or -- shit.” he huffs, guffaws, almost, then, stone-faced as he can possibly be -- “can i uh, can i help you?”
@WARBINARY 💀⚡
