He held his sword up, still streaked with drying blood despite the quick rinse earlier, and whispered dramatically, "Veilcleaver."
I stared at him. "That sounds like a magical spoon that separates soup and noodles."
Steve blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah. Or like a kitchen tool with delusions of grandeur."
"Damn it." He sighed, leaning back with a defeated groan. "You know, naming a sword is harder than fighting with it."
"True," I said. "You've had that blade since before we met, and it's still just 'Steve's sword.'"
"It deserves more," he said, almost genuinely. "It's been through so much."
There was a silence that settled between us for a moment. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes only after too much noise.
Steve looked down at the reflection of the stars on the surface of the pool. He dipped the blade in and swirled it through the water.
The red bled away in ribbons.
"I enjoyed it," he said softly.
