logsinthenight | Making the Rounds [Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA]

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Making the Rounds [Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA]

characters: Bucky and Various (Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA)
location: Around Beacon
date/time: October 19 - 29
content: Catch-all for Bucky stuff
warnings: Just the usual occasional disassociation, swearing, and bickering with himself

I. Closed to Matt

The Soldier stops by the general store once a week to check the level of supplies and, on rare occasions, actually pick something up that someone in the house needs. The remains of the costumes are still strewn about, some on display, some just a mess in the boxes. The Soldier eyes them thoughtfully, something prodding at the back of its brain about scraps and raw materials, but fuck if it can work out what to do with that.

So it's there, picking restlessly at costumes with all the metal-scent and quiet mechanical arm-noises that entails, when Matt comes in.

II. Closed to Daylight

The Soldier has more than once spied Daylight visiting with spirits, and, thinking about its own spirit-friend, approached (somewhat nervously) to offer to see if any of Daylight's friends know Morse Code, in order to perhaps translate more phrases in their musical language to something the residents of Beacon can be taught to understand.

So here it is, following Daylight to the woods, bearing a pot of coffee securely in its metal hand (which can't feel the heat of the pot as "pain") and a bunch of very small cups and dishes it scrounged up, to see if these spirits appreciate its favorite drink. Always best to bring a little peace offering when planning to ask anyone to work on something, right?

III. Closed to Aziraphale

It takes a while to work up the bravery to come to Aziraphale with the request. But the Sergeant swore up and down that Aziraphale had offered, and seemed earnest about it. Seemed like he wouldn't mess with anything they didn't want him to. Like he would be polite and helpful and above all careful.

So one day when Crowley is out of the house and Aziraphale is finishing puttering around the kitchen, the Soldier sidles up a little and says, carefully not actually looking at him, "The Sergeant said. You could see happy memories."

Sucks to have the actual Soldier back, in some ways, don't it, Aziraphale?

IV. Closed to Bruce

There are a lot of odd people around Beacon, for a given value of "odd". Some of them are odd because they aren't human, or have obvious trauma, or particular reasons that they're obvious about telegraphing. The sneaky young man who avoids contact most of the time and visits the general store and Invincible when he seems to think no one else will be around doesn't fit into any of those categories. He hides and avoids people, he moves like he's more well-trained than he should be, and the Soldier is having a hard time pinning down just how old he actually is. He reminds it a little of Eleven, which makes it worry.

So the Soldier keeps a distant eye on him for a few days, or tries to. Occasionally it loses track, but always manages to pick it up again eventually. At least it does work out where the young man is staying, so it waits outside one late morning (ish; for a given value of "morning" in a place with no sun) to intercept him on his way out for the "day" at the time he usually appears. It doesn't do casual well, so it's just sitting on a tree stump within view, obviously waiting and watching the door.

V. Wildcard!

Got something you wanna say to the Soldier? Want to come to one of its classes at the gym? Got some other idea based on his daily routine? Just hit me up here!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Not an expected answer. It doesn't seem like a lie, though. Too calm, but at the same time not quite easy enough to be flippant. Almost has a shade of pleasure to it. (Maybe the young and the brave like being afraid. Or else the hallucinations didn't show him anything as bad as what we saw. Maybe. With any luck, weird kids like him don't have anything that bad to throw at them.)

The Soldier considers that for a moment, and the stillness while it does so probably fits best with the mental category of "sniper" if Bruce has categorized any of those, then nods acceptance. "Maybe you'll do better in this place than I will, then. Good." Anyone who reacts to fear by feeling alert and alive has the advantage in just about any situation, but one where people can be thrown their worst nightmares at any moment it will be especially useful.

It's pretty sure this one actually has a name. He seems like a complete person. So he asks, "Can I ask your name." It'll be fine of the boy-slash-young-man doesn't want to share. But it would be nice to have something to use to refer to him, in its own mind at least.

Like most things with Bruce, it isn't as simple as a matter of like or dislike because his preferences are irrelevant. The hallucinations had reminded him of the many times before when he has been confronted by things that can't be adjusted, negotiated, or stopped. But in doing so it has reminded him also of the difference between his own voice and those he'd heard on repeat. There is still potential in the former, the latter cannot be changed. It isn't just liberating, it's a powerful assertion that there's still a course to be altered here and by extension, it keeps him focused. It makes him stay present.

The moment stretches, heavy not with uncertainty but with consideration. If the circumstances were different he might casually bridge the gap between them and extend his hand to shake, or fit his face with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Instead his footfalls are very, very quiet- even on the forest floor. And Bruce closes the distance until only an arm's length remains between them. It's a kind of handshake in and of itself. A truer one perhaps. It means something else.

"Bruce."

The man before him falls into unnatural stillness again, as if this is the state he lives in between one thought and another. Bruce suspects that it has been cultivated, but can't guess yet at why, or by whom.

"Can I ask yours?"

That would be one reason it took the Soldier so long to even figure out there was a kid sneaking around-- he moves about as softly as the Soldier itself does. It's impressive, and disquieting, and makes him seem more like they might have things in common beyond not being able to talk to people easily. They both also seem to have a weird kind of tactful respect: not actually reaching out and touching is appreciated.

Though the Soldier does sit up straighter, closer to on the same level without actually standing up. The boy-slash-young-man-- Bruce; his name is Bruce-- isn't small, but the Soldier is still bigger, and has no wish to loom. Looming is generally more threatening than just sitting up straight.

"I don't have one." That's going to be its version of the handshake, another unusual truth. "You can call me Soldat if you like. That's what I tell most people." It just means "Soldier" in Russian, if Bruce knows Russian. It doesn't auto-translate like most things, since it's meant as a cover name of sorts.

The difference in their angles isn't profound but Bruce knows that's only the case because the man, the soldier remains seated. That choice is deliberate in the same way that coming out here, waiting for him to exit first instead of coming directly into the museum when it is, after all, public property. Bruce hasn't decided if he accepts the motive that he's been given. This isn't to say that acts of compassion and general care are unheard of in Gotham, or that he's been exempt from them either.

But this is different.

Bruce watches his face, the strangely still absence of emotion. That's what I tell most people, he says. I don't have one. He's met very few people that don't have a name, even an unconventional one. But instead of agreeing or repeating the word, Bruce asks, simply, "Are you sure?"

"Very sure," the Soldier assures him. There aren't a lot of things it's sure of, but not having a name is one of those things. That's absolutely not allowed. "Though if you prefer, you could also call me the Asset, or the Soldier. One of those people who insists on asking me if I'm okay calls me Tinman." It shrugs. "It doesn't matter to me."

This is different. It's actually probably one of the most careful conversations the Soldier has had with anyone so far, and that's saying a lot. If Bruce weren't so young, if he hadn't reminded the Soldier in odd ways of itself and of Eleven, it might have slipped him into the role of handler without even thinking about it. But it really feels more like Bruce would need to look for a handler, not be one.

Or look for something, at least.

None of these things sound like a name. It reminds him, unfortunately, of Eleven and by extension also of Karen- who had to name herself, because she deserved better than Forty-Four. Is it naive to think it? Bruce knows that not every child comes into the world with parents who do or can love them because he'd met those same children living on the streets of Gotham. And then there are those that do- but find their lives abruptly diverted. Their trajectories become something else, owned by someone else.

Which category then, does the soldier fall into?

He's right of course, Bruce does look for things. But it isn't a handler or a weapon. He looks for understanding. He looks for the truth.

The options float through the air and he sounds as unattached to each new offer as he had been to the last. It's curious to hear him say that it doesn't matter, but that what he chooses to use in this circumstance and perhaps by extension, the majority of his interactions, is Soldat.

"Why not choose one for yourself?"

The actual, physical twitch at the concept is automatic, as is the answer, "That's not allowed."

That's the first thing that wasn't measured and careful about this interaction. It's wanted to put forth at least a veneer of being stable, at least, for Bruce-- if not entirely a person, because it's pretty sure it could never pretend to be that. There's just too much missing. But sometimes there's nothing to be done.

So, sounding vaguely apologetic, it adds, "There are some things I can't do. Having a name is one of them."

Allowed, he says.

Bruce might remain still but his eyes land not just on the man's face, but his shoulders, his hands, his feet. Allowed. A word that a parent, employer, or even legal system might use, suggesting the presence of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors. Suggesting consequences.

Perhaps the implications they're making, the things they aren't saying, make the tone of his voice strange- not because it's riddled with complex inflection, but because there's something even paced and conversational about it. Something calm and measured, the way any two people might discuss the weather.

"What are the others?"

Some of the things it can't do aren't safe to share, because they're personal safety protocols. Talking about memory malfunctions, letting exits out of its sights, admitting to preferences and wants out loud. (Getting better about that last one, though. Not with an actual handler. Well, who'd want to tell the good Inspector about anything you want, anyway?)

Some things, however, are fine-- operational protocols were public knowledge among those who kept it, after all. Ironically, they're probably the worse things.

Its tone isn't precisely conversational, but it is uninflected and unemotional. Just reciting the rules. "Disobey a handler. Disobey field command. Leave living witnesses while on a mission. Engage in threatening behavior towards technicians." (Did that one anyway.) "Fail a mission or leave it incomplete. Make excessive eye contact. Resist returning to base. Ask for things. Remember." A shrug, a little tilt of the head. "A few of those are getting better. Some I'm sure will never go away."

Edited (whoops italics everywhere) 2019-11-06 05:29 (UTC)

It's a very revealing list and Bruce wonders at the motivation behind disclosing it to begin with. Has he been conditioned to unroll this list and is obeying the conditioning itself? Is he trying to work against it? Is it an entirely autonomous decision? Perhaps more relevant is that he chooses to finish with the phrase 'a few of those are getting better.' It carries the implication that he wants change. That he sees change as a positive thing, to become 'better.'

"Then you're attempting to change those."

Bruce wonders if better has any other definition. If it's synonymous with words like human, or normal, or civilian. He wonders where the impetus for this journey began, or if necessity was, as the adage goes, the mother of invention. There is a marked absence of inflection in his voice, he works through the points by rote. And then he shrugs. It is a fascinating shift from one to the other. A visual signal that separates two halves.

"Perhaps the name is only a matter of time."

"Hard to keep from remembering things when your brain isn't being scrambled every few days," the Soldier points out, and it's tone is very nearly dry. Actual inflection can at least sometimes be a thing. "And I have people here who make me ask for things and want me to look at them. Those same people who ask me if I'm okay." Bringing this whole accidental conversational branch back to the point, there.

It's just going to leave the name bit alone. It would have to want a name in order to get past that particular block, but like with Eleven, it can't quite bring itself to admit that to Bruce. These dumb, brave kids would probably never really understand, and it does still want to have a little respect out of them.

Better, in this case, mostly just means "not as awful as usual". And not having a name, not being a person, is safer and easier right now.

People who make me ask for things, he says. Who ask me if I'm okay.

All change requires a period of adjustment, but that he frames it in this way, describes the relationships around him with these words, speaks volumes about how he perceives them. Bruce wonders not for the first time, if he made the decision to pursue personal growth in this way or if it's happened organically. If he made the decision at all or if instead it was a manifestation of human nature- the desire of others to help.

It's a comforting reminder, especially here, in this supposed afterlife.

"As you've done for me."

But as the soldier brings them back to the point it also brings them to this strange impasse. Bruce appreciates that people try to take care of one another, that they want to help where they can. He likes that there are people who make others ask for the things they need and who want to make sure that those around them are safe and whole. But he is not a person who wants to answer. People, as a whole, don't like to be lied to; and Bruce knows that he lies. That he has lied. That he will again. His privacy is very important to him and he cultivates it carefully- not just by finding a home for himself relatively removed from all others, but by making his identity itself a pile of shifting sand. It doesn't matter than he wants to be known, because what he wants is irrelevant. There are other, bigger and more important calls to answer.

It's as his father had said, you can't have both happiness and the truth.
Bruce has made his choice.

"I appreciate the gesture. But there's no need to check on me again."

That was, of course, a possible response. A refusal of further contact, of help. It's not a surprising response, given Bruce's actions so far, even if it's disappointing. The Soldier isn't quite ready to give up, though. Arguing isn't its strongest point yet (it'll get there; stubbornness is in fact a trait it has, just sublimates into things other than arguing), but patience is.

"No need," it agrees mildly. "But may I do so anyway?" It also adds, an offer, "You don't have to talk. I know that's hard sometimes." Probably for different reasons for Bruce than the Soldier, but his reasons don't matter so much as the outcome in this case.

He anticipates the beat of resistance- after all, he'd had similar interactions with others through the years. Not simply Jim Gordon and Alfred, who had been powerful influences in his most formative years. But in Selina, who he had turned away a number of times, who he has hurt and been hurt by in turn. And by Dr Thompkins, who had tried to be kind and who had worried about his safety, but who Bruce would never truly be honest with.

It is, he finds, another thoughtful offer; you don't have to talk. And it's well noted, Bruce is very good at conversation, but mostly that means he's very good at directing it. At deciding where it goes, about talking without answering. He hinges however, on a more immediate concern. The trouble is whether or not he chooses to address it- because there's a degree of vulnerability that comes in acknowledging a weakness. A point at which this other person, a stranger, for all intents and purposes, already as the advantage. It is not in Bruce's nature to roll over, not for the sake of pride, but for sheer stubbornness.

In examining his alternatives however, what else is there?
Bruce hesitates, it's a visible tell and yet very small all the same. His eyes flick briefly to one side, to the lines of trees that separate them from everyone else in town, in the homes. Then they come back.

"I don't want anyone to know where I am."

Is that seriously his only concern. Honestly, Bruce, have you no faith in the assassin that you hadn't caught tracking you for the past week? The Soldier blinks once, slowly, expression quite bland. It says, "I have been hiding the way you hide for a very long time. I am well-trained and I am always vigilant. No one will see me come here." Then, since privacy is a thing it does understand to some extent, it adds another offer, "Or you can show yourself to me somewhere else, if there is another place you go regularly."

Bruce doesn't need to consider it to see the truth of it, he is a talented tracker. He's uncomfortable enough with the situation that he intends to lay traps of a kind in the morning- not to harm anyone on their way to the museum, but to give himself advance warning of the approach. He dislikes the unknown the way he dislikes anything beyond his control.

"You've also been quite candid in disclosing personal," he means dangerous, potentially dangerous, "information in our conversation." Bruce watches his face. His own expression is not bland, he does not blink slowly. If he resembles anything at all perhaps it is a wild cat, watching everything. Seeing everything.

"Trusting you with my secrecy is something I have to do whether I accept the terms or not."

That would be a fair point, for anyone else. The Soldier looks past Bruce's shoulder again, the steady gaze registering, and considers for a long moment whether to give him a real, true out. It would show Bruce that the Soldier meant to be an ally, perhaps, but it could also dangerous. It doesn't think Bruce is particularly interested in gaining power over people, or he wouldn't be hiding like this all the time, and nothing about the boy's demeanor or actions here suggest he's particularly sadistic-- but it could be wrong. Trust is hard when you've been literal property for a lifetime.

After that moment, still not looking him in the face, it finally makes the admission. "You don't have to. Technically. You aren't a handler. But I do still take orders from other people. If you order me not to come here again, and not to tell anyone you live here, I won't." It won't be the steel-clad obedience of a handler's orders, but it'd be enough, combined with the certainty that Bruce wanted nothing to do with it, to keep the Soldier quiet and out of Bruce's way.

And now they find out just how much Bruce values his secrecy: enough to breach the Soldier's (admittedly limited) sense of free will, or not?

The difficulty is in naming the feeling that follows- because Bruce can't deny that there's a part of him that immediately recoils at the concept- the idea that he could have some kind of ultimate say over another person's life, choices, behavior. But there is another part of him, a darkness that Bruce has recognized for many years now, that tries again and again to control the uncontrollable. To account for every possibility- to prepare, for everything. By that measure the offer he makes isn't appealing or unappealing. It's both.

Bruce feels his spine want to stiffen, to draw up straight, the way he might prepare for a punch. For an uncomfortably long moment, it's quiet. He doesn't speak, the soldier doesn't speak, and there are no chirping crickets or calling birds.

When he takes the last step forward it's just enough to bring his face into the light of the other man's lantern. The removing of a mask. Bruce's eyebrow is split. There are stitches there and over the bridge of his nose. The entire left side of his face is mottled with heavy bruising and his lip is swollen- so too is his right hand. Two of the bones had been broken, he's wearing a homemade splint.

"That's too much responsibility for me. If you can give me your word, I'll take it."

It isn't, of course, that simple. But Bruce is hiding two people inside the museum at his back and it's in his best interest to keep the area clear, and quiet. Besides, this isn't a kind of power he can be trusted with. He knows himself well enough to know that.

Congratulations, Bruce, you're a halfway-decent person. Temptation given, and then resisted. The Soldier is quietly pleased (and relieved; it really hadn't wanted to be be ordered today, and it's also good to know it hasn't misjudged someone). "You have it. No one will know you're here from me."

No one has said anything further about checking in, though, so guess what: it's going to still do that until told otherwise.

It regards Bruce's damaged face without much surprise. Look, even without much light, even without being super obvious about it, it's been watching Bruce closely for the past ten minutes. It's not easy to completely hide that much swelling and a splint on one hand, when it has in fact seen Bruce's face once or twice before and knows what it's supposed to look like. How that got there isn't its business, though. All it says, after taking in the extent of the pummeling Bruce must have taken, is: "Perfectly functional, huh?"

That doesn't look like perfectly functional, buddy.

"I can keep going."

If he were anyone else perhaps, Bruce might have the decency to look caught out by the lie. But he's been learning a great deal in the last few years, about how best to angle a situation so that the outcome is what he wants it to be- in this case it's a matter of technicality. He would argue that it depends on where you place the emphasis, on 'perfect' or 'functional.'

This is not the worst state he's ever been in. It wasn't the most difficult fight, or the most outnumbered, or the most desperate. He's still standing; has done more than stand, as it happens.

He doesn't gesture with his hands, but there's a small tilt of his head that might suggest that he's sharing a private smile.

"I've been told that I'm very tenacious."

Tenacious. Heh. Probably another thing they share. But Bruce doesn't have the kind of healing the Soldier has, and so is going to be sporting that look for quite a while. "I believe it," the Soldier says solemnly, which is half its way of sharing the joke. Its sense of humor tends towards dry.

One more offer before it lets Bruce have his privacy again: "Do you want me to splint that a little better, before I go?" Making a splint one-handed is not exactly easy, which is what the Soldier expected Bruce did, and hands are important to make sure they heal right. It's expecting a hard no, but there's no harm in offering. Bruce has already proven he's at least not going to hurt it, and it's pretty sure Bruce got the message loud and clear that it's got no interest in hurting him.

It would be an easy offer to take at face value, if he were any good at it.

Bruce knows that his splint isn't very good- it isn't tight enough and doesn't follow the shape of his fingers well, the support and stabilization it offers is inadequate. Riku can't yet be trusted without physical restraints and Bruce doesn't relish another sprint into the woods to keep him from recklessly endangering himself. And once Vanitas regains consciousness he'll be nursing his very first hangover. There are some things Bruce has practiced left-handed, first aid, it would seem, still needs work.

The trouble is that by either nature or nurture, Bruce is always reading into things. Trying to discern where each route and each new decision might lead, the possible outcomes branching off, the motives that propelled them to this point to begin with.

The options weigh themselves.
On the hard no end of the spectrum, Bruce is unwilling to go inside or to allow anyone else in either. He's worked too hard and sacrificed too much. He is not, as Alfred has reminded him, very good at compromise. But he can try. Bruce hesitates, visibly considers the offer. And instead of answering with any pretty turn of phrase, he lifts his arm into the space between them, carefully tugging up the sleeve. This might make someone, anyone, look more vulnerable. On another face this gesture might convey the narrowest lowering of one's defenses. It doesn't look that way on Bruce.

Pleasantly surprised at the assent, wordless or not, the Soldier immediately and equally wordlessly gets to work, first unwrapping the current splint and examining the fingers to make sure they're set properly. It's a good thing that after shooting Scarlett it's started carrying around a few basic medical supplies in one of its many pockets; it has better tape for wrapping this.

Provided no rebreaking or even regular setting is required here, it gives the splint pieces a dubious look, then a knife materializes from a pocket sheath to whittle the wood to a slightly more useful shape. Don't panic at the weapon, Bruce; the Soldier's attention is clearly on the wood bits and not on stabbing you. It only takes a few strokes for each splint piece. "These will be a little more delicate, but I can wrap it tighter to compensate," it says absently, eying it's work briefly before putting the knife away again. "And I can leave you some fresh ones later that will be stronger."

Edited (Damn phone tagging putting the post button too close...) 2019-11-13 19:46 (UTC)

There's always some measure of discomfort to be found- not just in re-bandaging injuries, but in allowing himself to be handled by another person. Even Alfred, who Bruce has always had, has always trusted, has always loved-

He wanted to be able to do things on his own.

The man before him works in short, practiced maneuvers; Bruce's gaze follows despite his outward stillness. A small knife is produced and he doesn't flinch, it'd be a stretch to say he even batted an eyelash. After all, if this man had come here to hurt him, or kill him, an attempt would have been made long before this moment. A knife changes nothing. The pieces he offers for the split feel fragile, but once the tape has been reapplied he considers that fragile is perhaps the wrong word. They're more flexible. They better follow the shape of his fingers and don't add weight. They won't slow him down.

"Thank you."

It's a very good lesson.
Once he no longer needs them, Bruce will keep the pieces and attempt to duplicate them. To learn.

"You're welcome." While Bruce is close enough, the Soldier also gives his face a critical once-over, tilting its head one way and the other to catch the light better. The stitches it deems adequate, even if not great-- not bad if Bruce did them, himself. Not much to be done about the bruising.

Except prevent it, next time. "Are you trained in fighting?" The Soldier assumes "yes", given the way Bruce moves and the sweat he smells of right now, but that doesn't mean he's necessarily trained well.

Making the Rounds [Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA]

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