war is nothing to hope for.
Steve looked at him --- long and hard and with all the colors of BATTLEFIELD playing across his face. Had Steve ever hoped for war? It was hard to remember. He can still picture sitting in tent after tent, desperate to be a part of it. He can remember stepping inside a tank, half-hope and half-despair, and stepping out as something else. He can remember first getting there, among soldiers and nurses and worse, and tasting IRON in the air. I just don’t like bullies, he’d said, and he’d been young and stupid and eager to fight ‘em all the same.
“You’ve never been in A WAR, have you?” If the other man had, he’d know no one that fought ‘em hoped for one ever again. Didn’t matter the kind of war, didn’t matter that Steve wasn’t sure what to do with peace. He wasn’t part of some WAR MONGERING MACHINE, no matter what people liked to say about Captain America. “I’d appreciate if you don’t lecture me on it then.”