logsinthenight | Routine Adjustments, Catch-All Log for February [Open+Closed prompts]

Entry tags:

Routine Adjustments, Catch-All Log for February [Open+Closed prompts]

characters: Soldat etc, open and closed prompts
location: Various, see each prompt
date/time: February 4 - 15, non-event stuff
content: Some new additions to the usual routine, some quiet grieving, and some dancing
warnings: Just the usual Bucky shit

I. Expanded Patrols, All Over + Invincible [Open]

With downtown open, and so far away in the snow, patrols take a little longer. Soldat spends a week in early February balancing locations until they find the optimum route for the morning and afternoon patrols (or, the 0500 and 1600 patrols, since there's no real morning or afternoon in a world of endless night). After that, snow and ice or not, they can be found reliably following one looping path or the other, depending on the time of day. Sometimes with company, sometimes not. Sometimes stopping at the scrapyard to give the dog-spirit a treat and sift through the junk in search of something useful. Sometimes wandering the halls of the school, wondering what it would have been like to attend one. Sometimes glowering at the mall downtown with the stupid crocodile spirits in the lower level.

And after, lingering in the warm Invincible tavern room and kitchen, listening to people, playing music softly on their tablet, and munching idly on sandwiches or whatever Midge has made that day while they play a newly remembered boredom-dispelling game: solitaire.

They're willing to segue into poker, should anyone come to join them before they get up to clean their dishes in the kitchen and go home to sleep.

II. Expanded Hours, Gym [Open]

Wednesday and Friday, like clockwork, after the 1600 patrol along the downtown loop, Soldat is at the gym with Javert and Jason for weapons and survival lessons or, if no one shows up for those, sparring and practice. Because practicing outside is kind of dumb when it's freezing, and because the trees behind Aziraphale and Crowley's cabin are starting to look rather worst for wear, Soldat winds up adding another day during the week-- sometimes Monday, sometimes Saturday, whenever they have time. They just show up at the rec center and throw knives at things, slash at imaginary opponents all across the gym floor, and hit things with the flesh fist (the metal one doesn't need to practice; it's a machine).

Feel free to join in. Or watch and wolf-whistle. Whatever.

III. Fading Hope, Church [Open]

Between actual routine activities, Soldat has spare time. They don't normally like spare time, and try to find useful ways to fill it, but the first week or so of February, it's good that they have it, because they spend most of it in the church.

Scarlett, their very first friend since Steve Rogers, had an obituary. Scarlett has been gone for possibly weeks. Scarlett might still come back, and Soldat wants to be there when she does. Or at least find her as soon after as possible. Make sure she's all right.

So they sit in a pew near the back, feet propped unrepentantly on the pew back in front of them, and hold a notebook over their knees, sometimes writing (slow and halting, occasionally hasty scribbles), sometimes just staring at the blank pages. Waiting.

IV. Buck Up, Sad Boy [Closed to Misty]

Scarlett is gone, apparently for good, but. Well. They're not. And other people are not. And they can only wallow in Sad for so long before the Sergeant nags them into doing something they enjoy, even with the Asset apparently enjoying the mope. So after clearing out Scarlett's things from her old room (boxing up the more personal effects in their own room, distributing her canned food supply to the store), they head to Misty's.

They have a plan. This will cheer them both up, they hope. So they knock, tablet already out and clutched to their chest, and hope she's awake.

V. Dragged Along for Research [Closed to Sora]

The library is not really Soldat's favorite place, but here they are anyway, trailing along behind Sora, looking around at the books in a somewhat blank and lost manner. There's so damn many. How do you even know where to start.

Thankfully, that's what hyperactive teenagers are for. Start them in the right direction, Sora. Or at least start them somewhere.

VI. Wildcard

Got an idea not on here for something you'd like to do with Soldat before the memshare event? Hit me up, I am open to p much anything and everything.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Yes, it's a good thing. I think it is, anyway." If Misty doesn't like dancing, then maybe it's not, but they're reasonably sure she won't disapprove. They push the couch further to one side, closer to the far wall, and the coffee table over into the kitchen, well out of the way. They move a couple of her plants, for good measure, then set the tablet on the now-safe coffee table and hit the button to start the little mini-playlist folder.

A cheerful 40s dance tune starts up, all brassy trumpets and bouncy clarinets, and Soldat takes a deep breath, squares their shoulders, and offers their hand to Misty. (The one that would be opposite her good one, of course. She's healing, but they're not going to jeopardize that.)

Well that's. A shock. A good one, but a hilariously far cry from the fist bumps, nudges, and rare head pats she's been scraping by on. What brought the leap in progress or memory, she doesn't know - and won't ask until later. No wasting this or cutting his momentum in the moment. Too exciting.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she warns, careful to keep her tone amusing enough not to discourage. Self conciousness might play a part. Though she does accept the metal hand without any fight beyond that. "Not allowed to laugh."

Oh good, she's not averse to dancing. Not that they really thought she would be, but... they just worry needlessly, sometimes (all the time). This might still be a disaster, but maybe it will be fun, too. Like snowball fights. "Misty. I won't laugh. I'll show you. That's what a good dancer does. They lead." And according to Midge-- and their own memory, now-- they're a pretty good dancer.

And with that, they pull her into a turn, starting a simple set of steps from the Lindy-- nothing fancy on her part. It's a slightly slower dance tempo than some pieces, specifically in case she didn't know how to dance. Where necessary, they'll murmur what to do, but mostly hands and feet to the guiding, a lift and a turn here, a little footwork there. They are, in fact, a good dancer.

A far, far cry from a disaster. She fears for a moment he'll overextend himself, have proposed the idea with good intentions and quickly hit the same contact barrier, but it fades. He seems fine and there seems little risk he'll trip her over anything - so she allows it to be fine. Also a worrier, she's learned decently enough to turn it off. Small bursts.

It's nice. Not a talent she expected of him, but a fantastic surprise. Exact steps will take more than one round to memorize, but she has rhythm and takes direction quite well - just stoked to be there, really.

"You should be careful, if I have too much fun or get anything like good we'll have to make a habit of it."

Truth be told, they were only about 70% sure this would go they way it's going. It could well have devolved into jerking away and shaking in the corner at at moment-- still could, they suppose, if they push too hard-- but right now, it just feels right, as the first song comes to an end, to dip her back once and then pull her back to her feet. There's not a lot of full-body contact, not in this kind of dance, all the weight held on their hands and forearms, but it's still a big difference from holding a wrist. It's steps.

They're smiling, anyway. "I think HYDRA didn't ruin dancing," they say. There was nothing HYDRA knew or did about the steps in their head, the sound of the music. "So we can probably do it again. I can teach you the steps."

There's not a complaint to be had. He seems too at ease to worry he's enduring something for politeness' sake, the music is slowly but surely growing on her, there's a light enough air that nothing can be taken too seriously...it's fun. There's precious little fun in Beacon, she realizes. Maybe precious little fun anywhere. Rude to do anything but bask in it.

There's not even a tense at the dip. He has worked his way past that most natural fear of being dropped. "Nothing but time," she agrees, careful not to sound rushed. "I wouldn't mind learning something fun while I'm here. Teach away."

Probably helps with the trust issue when the hands holding her up have super strength, too, at least in this case. They're never going to let her fall. They do let her go after the song ends, and consider. They hadn't really though ahead to teaching today, but if they can teach fighting, surely they can teach a dance steps without a ton of preparation. Less likely to wind up accidentally hurting someone, too.

"Only a couple today, though," they decide, and bend to skip the song to a slower one, so there's still music but it won't get in the way of showing her a few things. "There's time."

"Not insisting, of course, just - you seem happy." Which is nice, and if it's an independent interest, all the goddamn better. It ought to be encouraged, which is hard to do when it is, in her understanding, something not done alone. "It's nice. And probably something I should pick up anyway."

Tempting as it is to hog his time, she doesn't want to be intrusive.

...Which isn't to say she's not thrilled at the response, and looking eager. "Whenever you wanna stop we stop, promise, this is just for fun."

How can they say no to that face? Honestly. Their smile edges a bit sheepish. "Happy, huh?" They still aren't sure they know to even recognize "happy", but they do feel better. Less sad, less weighed down by Scarlett and their own stupid brain. This is something they can still do, and it feels good to do it.

They like teaching, too, they know. Two things that they enjoy doing, with Misty, shouldn't be bad.

So Misty get to start learning the Lindy Hop. "Don't laugh at the name," they warn from the get-go, modeling footwork first. "It's a great dance."

Having been on the cusp of definitely, absolutely laughing at the name, Misty refrains with a particularly lost little grin. "Something about the music, or just this combination of little--" all-of-that-movements, "Really hits a good note for you?"

"A hop means a dance or a party, Misty. It means fun. It's slang. Like callin' a lady a dame." They might be able to tell that she was about to laugh and find it kinda funny to deny her the pleasure. This was the best dance, anyway.

Showing her one of the turn moves, they explain, "I used to do this. Dance halls, jazz clubs. All the time. Like it was my favorite thing to do." Yes, they got an actual memory back. Twice, actually: once just for the band, once for the actual dancing.

"Never totally got 'dame' anyway. What's the Lindy mean, then?" If you're gonna go and sass her, Soldat-- not that she can even hold onto faux-irritation in the face of that new knowledge, and good news. "Makes more sense, my being so fond. We've got good taste in the important stuff." And this is fun, no part of her denies that. "Louisiana's big on jazz, you know. Don't have any of the big names on me, but maybe I'll dig around for you."

(She owes him a late Christmas. Nothing quite feels good enough. Deeply frustrating.)

"You can't expect me to know everything," Soldat complains, but amiably, walking through the footwork and hand-clasps of the third and final Lindy step they're aiming to show her today. "I'm working on incomplete memories, here." One thing about the afternoon-- whether the dancing, the banter, or the focus on memories-- seems to be that their voice is slipping more casual, making more full sentences and colloquialisms. It's not quite Brooklyn, but closer: not the Sergeant, but more like how an actual person might talk. They haven't noticed, really, themselves, or it might well stop.

"Does Louisiana jazz sound like this stuff?" they ask curiously, showing the step again. "I've got a lot of different things I recorded from the jukebox. And there's that new music thing on the tablets, now."

"Where would I be then, huh?" Laughing, she's happy to go along with it - there's little hope she'll remember even one in its entirety, but most individual steps will stick. The slight relaxation of his speech is noticed. Not commented on for that exact reason, but appreciated. Impossible not to beam, really.

"Some, for sure. Changes with the times, like anything else, but we're a hotspot for it. If I dug up all I could, something would definitely scratch the itch for you. Once I dig into that app I won't do anything else for...ever."

That's what practice is for. There's an actual upswing song coming up on the tablet, and they're gonna put these three steps together. "Yeah, I spent too long searching through the music there, the other day." While sitting in the church waiting for Scarlett, they don't say. That would ruin the mood. They're going to have to talk about it sooner or later, but they're going to go with "later". At least one more song.

They judge Misty competent enough for the moment, so when the song does change over, they just pick her up around the waist and swing her right into position for the first. "Okay, in order. For four measures each." Please know what a measure is, Misty.

"It makes everything a lot more livable, I'll say that much. This, I wish we'd just had from the get go." She'd been losing her damn mind, fretting about batteries and battery sustainability. The swing passes without comment, but her expression shifts briefly into absolute elation. Huge, huge leap, not the coveted hug but something nearly as good.

Wouldn't even imagine cuffing him had he expressed doubt in her understanding of the term, even. Friendly contact is just that potent.

"Gotcha." And she'll do as instructed - stilted initially, a few lulls to check herself against what he's doing, but it's recognizably the motions intended. Unpolished, but there. It's taking real effort not to say anything too positive and jinx herself, but she's getting it.

Aw, Misty. That look. What did they do to get that look? Surely not manhandle her around... people don't generally like that, do they?

They sit on that, mentally, while guiding her through the rotation of moves, and throwing in a lift and spin of their own at the end, not something she has to do anything with but accept, just to see what she does.

Her tastes are bizarre and intense-leaning enough on either end of any spectrum to place her well outside of 'general', more often than not. It's a uniquely lighthearted gesture. The bone-deep satisfaction of normal contact but with energy, with pep, that asks nothing of her. It helps that he's him, strong and safe and in sore enough need of encouragement she can abandon any gunshy leanings.

She follows right along, and the instant she can process what's happening that look is back with a vengeance. An additional laugh, gleeful bordering on girlish without more time to develop. She is decidedly an enthusiastic fan. "Hey-!"

That's the look. That's it again. How could something like this get that look? It's an equation they feel like they're missing a few pieces from.

The song ends, transitioning into a much slower piece again, and suddenly it's too much. They set her down, take their hands back, and step away, looking sheepish and awkward. It actually lasted a lot longer than it could have. Still feels like an utter failure now that it's over.

"Guess you like dancing, too," they say.

"There's strong odds it'll start growing on me," she murmurs back, all grin and incrementally regained breath. It'd be embarrassing were it anyone else, but as is she's content to be pleased enough for the both of them. "Helps that you're a pretty great teacher."

The shift in his mood isn't unnoticed, but it's better to glide alongside than halt and call out altogether. Keep demonstrating that she's, frankly, psyched. "It was fun! You were great! And if you're winded," too delicate to be a jab, but it isn't intended to be serious anyway, "You can sit a minute. I'd say that was a promising first go at it, from my end."

"We'll do it again," they say. "Later." Like another day. Another week, maybe. But they will. They won't feel like shuddering all over and hiding their face forever. Just maybe for a few minutes. The arm buzzes through a rippling calibration loop, and they back up to drop onto the couch and put their head in their hands.

It was great. For four songs' worth. Do they have a limit to even good touch? Half an hour at most? Jesus, that's not fair.

"Scarlett isn't coming back," they say into their hands. Misty probably knows they've been keeping watch a couple hours a day at the church, for this mysterious person Misty probably hasn't even seen around. "I got her things out of her room so someone else can use it."

"You know where I live, whenever you've got the urge." Both earnestness and an offer of time, two birds, one stone. He'll need a minute, she knows enough to expect. Doesn't join him on the couch, instead nudging the coffee table slowly back into place and sidling into the kitchen for water. The rooms are open concept enough neither is really out of the other's range of vision, but small concessions can pay off sometimes. Worth the shot, giving him a moment.

Bad news comes as she's settling into a chair opposite him, and she looks appropriately crestfallen to hear it. Never met the woman, but it's nothing enviable. Infuriating, actually, knowing that were they anyplace else she could be dragging people back to life by the hair if she were so inclined. Voicing any of this won't be much help. Soldat's still there, and clearly hurting over it. Has been for some time, she realizes, as the gap fills in and she frowns a little harder. "I am so, so sorry." Useless but not untrue, and not unnecessary. "I didn't know her well, but that's - horrible."

She's at times still fuzzy on the workings of things over at the celestial household, but presumes he's still on a couch, which prompts, "If you don't have the room for anything important, you can keep it here? It'd be safe at least, mementos are important. And if - I don't know, if there's anything I can do to help..." ...He knows where she lives.

"She doesn't. Didn't. Have much. It's in a box under my bed." Check it out, they do in fact have a bed now, it's great. The music is still playing, and they try to focus on that, drop their hands and just lean their elbows on their knees. "She was the first one. She told me she could be my friend. Showed me how. Used to call me Tinman."

And then spent weeks avoiding them before she disappeared.

"I don't understand people, sometimes," they say, a little mournfully.

Fair enough, and probably better anyway. She abandons the chair to just...sit on the floor, a couple of feet closer. Closest to reassuring she can make herself without anything by way of contact. A friend, gone. This hurts.

She can at least smile, a little mournful herself. "We sure don't make it easy for anybody else, do we? Most, anyway." He's remarkably communicative and cooperative. She almost envies it. "Everyone's just a walking ball of issues. Sometimes people mesh enough to see right to the heart of it, sometimes they just like the trouble anyway. I wish I had something...concrete, to tell you, but any one rule for everybody'd be a lie."

"I know. Everyone's a little different. And sometimes it makes sense. You make sense. Crowley. The kid, most of the time. But sometimes it just. Doesn't." Like with Scarlett. Or Eleven. Rosinante. They clasp their fingers together, rubbing the metal thumb over the others, staring down at them, the closest to a fidget they really ever get. "I'm glad for that first memory malfunction. Don't know what I'd do without you."

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