logsinthenight | Losing Family [Catch-all Log

Entry tags:

Losing Family [Catch-all Log - Open]

characters: Bucky/Soldat and OPEN
location: Aziraphale and Crowley's house, around Beacon, the church, etc
date/time: First half of March, up to the Wild Heart event
content: Soldat lost some really important people and is reacting poorly
warnings: Excessive sadness, a temper tantrum at one point, varying levels of ability to actually verbalize, and the usual disassociation for a Soldat post

I. Ferry Fears (Open)

It's normal to visit the ferry on the day it arrives. Soldat always helps unload, and this month they have things they badly want, anyway. They frown at the smell wafting off the lake as the ferry drifts up through the melting ice. They know that smell-- they know it very well. Why does the ferry smell like weeks-old dead bodies?

Well, that's a question quickly answered. Leaping on board even before the ferry docks-- thanks, superserum!-- Soldat is faced with... actual weeks-old dead bodies! What a surprise. They crouch to investigate them, because of course they do, looking for signs of cause of death, alert for potential danger still on board. And that facial structure and rotting clothing is... familiar. That curl of blonde hair. That--

"--holy shitting fuck," Soldat whines, scrambling back with a start. That would be the decaying body of one Misty Day, right there. But they saw her just this morning. She's fine. They, uh, dash out a quick text message to her on their tablet (Misty please tell me you are okay) and then pick themselves up. Gingerly. And start looking at more bodies, giving that one a wide berth but keeping it in the corner of their eye anyway. Other bodies reveal themselves to be other friends, including a Crowley and Aziraphale, and, wedged into a corner of one cabin room, their own rotting corpse-- metal arm still shiny and undecayed because the damn thing doesn't even rust.

"What the fuck," they mutter to themselves, before finally, warily getting busy hauling getting supplies off the boat. Maybe a little more quickly than usual. They wanna see people's faces in person, after this.

II. Frantic Searching (Open)

Only there are a few faces missing. Aziraphale is nowhere to be found (again) and Crowley is missing from his bed and Mewtwo is not at the armory. Soldat checks in with the others-- Sora, Misty, Ellever, anyone they actually know and find comfortable to talk with actually-- with one of the questions: "Have you seen Crowley? Tall, copper hair, kind of an asshole?" "Have you seen Aziraphale? Kind of round, white curls, awful bowtie?" "Have you seen a tall blue cat-like person that floats and talks in your head?"

Even after the weekly bulletin with Lucius and Aziraphale confirmed in the obituaries, that doesn't mean they're not coming back. Right? And Aziraphale will be pissed as hell if Soldat managed to lose Crowley hours after his untimely demise. So they keep looking, keep asking around, keep checking the various outlying buildings and holding up their lantern fully unshuttered to the dark woods in search of a glimpse, an echo of a voice, a goddamn scent of Crowley or Mewtwo. (Fully unshuttered means anybody passing by can catch a glimpse of that little green crack, too, for those inclined to be nosy and who might know what that means.)

III. Church Vigils (Open)

When the search falls short after a few days, Soldat's routine changes. Patrols are cut a little short. Visits to handlers are brief, a quick assurance for Misty and dropping off a meal for Javert. Lunches or dinners at the Invincible are made to go. Meals, network scrolling, and weapon maintenance all take place in the church, a pew near the back, while Soldat waits for Aziraphale. And maybe Crowley. And maybe Mewtwo. Maybe even Lucius.

After the first week, it's Crowley and maybe Mewtwo. And a fixed, carefully neutral expression. They go through two notebooks, writing not memories of before they died, but memories of a former handler and technician. Those are precious, too.

IV. Rattling Around the House (Semi-open, close CR only)

Four hours twice a day are set aside for sleep. Mostly, in the empty house, Soldat does not in fact sleep. They pace around. They make little armies of origami animals. They cook mounds of food and plow through it without tasting it, to make up for the nervous energy and the lack of sleeping.

They can be found here during the two four-hour segments of the day they normally sleep, if anyone wants to come by. Only close friends get an answer at the door, though. People Soldat doesn't feel comfortable being nervous and only partially verbal around don't get to come in.

V. Packing Up (Semi-open, close CR only)

After the second week of church vigils, Soldat stops going. Because no one stays dead that long unless they really are dead. After that, patrols and handler visits don't happen at all for about three days. One of those days is spent out in the woods behind the village punching trees and making a big, noisy fuss outside of the immediate earshot of anyone who might worry. One is spent in blank moroseness, locked up in the house, out of energy to make a fuss.

The third day is spent slowly packing up all the personal things that belonged to Crowley, Aziraphale, and themselves. (Including a weird-ass little ghost thing that seems to like being petted on top of the head and occasionally followed them around the house during their pacing. It's kind of cute, and it used to be Crowley's, so apparently Soldat is looking after it now.) Friends can come in this day, too, if they want to help in the packing.

Packing complete, Soldat starts sadly carrying armfuls of things to Misty's cabin or back to the general store.

VI. Back to Normal? (Open)

After that, things even out. Soldat is staying at Misty's house now, though the torch remains in front of Aziraphale and Crowley's house since she has her own. Their routine resumes, exactly as if they never stopped it. Patrols are on time and thorough, meals happen actually at the Invincible, they return to practicing at the gymnasium on days when there's no combat classes, and they actually sleep again.

Still kind of quiet, though, with little casual conversation and no singing under their breath, and there's been no catching various friends with a song and a dance like had maybe seemed like it was becoming a thing now and then. Soldat's going to be a while actually getting back to happy, sorry friends, but they never turn down company.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Misty doesn't know. She doesn't even like Crowley, why would she think Soldat did something wrong to make him think he couldn't talk to them? Make him so miserable he had to sleep for two months? Why would she think he might want to stay for them?

Why would they think he'd stay for them? That's not fair. That's-- that's selfish. What's six months-- four months-- what's that, to thousands of years? Wherever Aziraphale is, Crowley ought to be with him, they ought to stick together. All of this wallowing is just selfish. Everyone's been checking on them, bringing them snacks, keeping them company. Misty's letting them come here so they don't have to be alone.

And they're just focused on the two people they can't have. (The three people. Four people. Nine. Too many people. All gone, all fucking gone.)

Acknowledging how selfish it is, how stupid, just makes everything feel that much worse, turns the uneven breathing into the horrible wrenching sobs from after the memories broke everything. Disgusted with themselves, they let Misty go and curl away, retreating across the bed, trying to make a ball of miserable guilt against the wall instead of leaning towards her like a part of them really wishes they could do.

She scoots back, a little more firmly planted on the mattress. Not going anywhere. This isn't new. Waiting it out, while horrible, is absolutely doable. After a moment's thought, she scoots further - not touching him, but close enough the dip ought to be felt. Ghost of a presence, she can work with that.

"I promise it won't feel like this forever. You're in the worst of it now - we've done this before, haven't we? It starts unbearable, and you grow around it with time. Everything will be alright."

She didn't leave. She should leave. They don't deserve love when they're this selfish and stupid. When they can only think about how miserable it's going to be outside their-- their home, without an angel and a demon, without Scarlett and Steve and a mother and sisters. When they're a fucking murderer who can't even remember all their victims.

They want it anyway.

But the Asset is not allowed to want things.

They want Crowley and Aziraphale back.

The Asset is not allowed to want things.

They want nothing to have changed from-- from two months ago, when Crowley was awake and grouchy but still there and Scarlett still might change her mind and talk to them again and they didn't know they'd killed Steve or know the face of their mother.

They want to turn around and bury their face in Misty's lap and let her pet their hair until they can breathe again.

The Asset is not allowed to want things.

Everything goes back and forth in their head, and not even the Asset and Sarge and chiming in, it's just all Soldat, conflicted and face pressed against the stupid metal arm on their knees and shuddering while the plates somehow manage not to cut pieces off their cheek and nose despite half of them vibrating with the need to shift. Even crying themselves out doesn't stop the conflict, it just tamps it down.

They have their boots on the bed. That's what finally makes them move, and that to uncurl just enough to pick at the laces of said boots, still stuffed and red-eyed and unable to regulate their breathing. They got dirt and snow-- water, now-- Misty's nice quilt.

He doesn't need to do that. It irks her a little that she has to swallow that assurance, as this is at least movement. It's a concern for something immediate and tangible that he can correct, something, anything, under his complete control. If this is what can be fretted about, she'll leave it be even if it's silly. And even in this, really, quite sweet.

"I'm sorry it's like this, Soldat. I really am, and I wish there were more I could do..."

Useless, but necessary. Running theme.

"Still love you. Still here."

"Already. Do more'n you should." Off comes one boot, set aside on the top of the trunk, since getting them all the way to the floor would require tossing and they don't feel up to tossing. Socks, as always, stay on. They start on the laces of the other boot. "Not supposed to want things. Do anyway. Want things I can't have."

Which, honestly, the goddamn Winter Soldier should be used to. They've always wanted things they can't have. They just rarely had things they got taken away to want back. (Training. The gymnast and the dancer, yeah? And I reacted to that by trying to kill the guards, and then got shoved back into cryo with bullets still in my chest. Then I didn't remember when I came out again. Not gonna help me now.) And maybe that's part of the problem. There's been loss for decades. There's never been any chance to learn how to deal with it.

The second boot joins the first. They don't put their face back down, letting the arm plates move as they wish now, instead leaning their head against the wall. "What do I do with this."

"You feel it. That's all you can do, to start, and I hate saying it but that much is just life. We all want what we can't have, or can't get ahold of." There cannot be, of course, any lying. Comfort, reassurance, strained truth if it comes to it, but never an outright lie. He hasn't come this far to be fed false niceties. But she'll join him against the wall, with a sigh.

"You cry, you tantrum when you need. Loud or quiet. You don't apologize for that. You talk to me, when you can. Putting it away from yourself is better than not. And you...wait. They take time. Like a cut. Keep branching out, when you can, at your own pace. Let me stroke your hair once in awhile, and remind you you're doing just fine."

They don't feel just fine. They feel raw, flayed open except in the brain and not the skin. Like coming out of the Chair, except memories are still there. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but it's a little better than the hollow nothing from the day before and before the crying jag.

Soldat can't see her from this angle, but they can hear her heartbeat, feel her body heat through their clothes. It's good enough. She's safe.

She wants them to talk about it. Words are hard, though, and while some come to mind, they don't come to mouth. He is silent a long minute, before resorting to the tablet still tucked inside their coat. (Probably ought to take that off, too, hmm. At least the rifle stayed downstairs, thankfully.) They type, then show her: Wanted to have you do the hair thing but I shouldn't have it. I'm sitting here with you being you and I'm too busy being a sad mess to appreciate it.

Not surprising input. Her stare at the tablet is long, not at all to do with judgment and instead wholly spent trying to work through the pang it sends through her. Wrestle up more words of her own.

And, of course, slowly reach up to stroke his hair anyway.

"You get hit by a car and taken to a hospital, you don't sit there thinking 'I'm not appreciating the doctor', do you? No. Would anybody ever imagine expecting that of you? No. It's the right thing to do, to help, and if there's thanks to be had it can happen later, once the injured person's back in working order. You don't have to appreciate it right now. You just have to breathe, and feel a little better, and let me do what little I can do."

That is a great speech. It really is wonderful. It's a shame she gets interrupted before it even gets started.

Soldat gives a little shiver at the touch to their hair, letting the tablet sink to the bed again, start to relax maybe a hair... and then she says the word "doctor" and they weren't expecting it, couldn't brace for it, and whoops they're launching away and off the bed, scrambling up against the far wall with a gun in one hand (the rifle is downstairs; the Sig Sauer was still in its thigh holster inside an oversized pocket on the cargo pants).

God fucking--

"Easy. Easy. Breathe. Nothing here to hurt you."

This is, at least, not an unfamiliar sensation, nor one she's outgrown expecting by any means. Which isn't to say this isn't throwing her. It is. But any in depth examination of that will clearly be best done privately, silently, and not directly from him. Hands drop to lap, and barring a very respectably fair tenseness to accompany a gun being waved around (something does flicker, briefly, why is it always in beds, her stomach would churn if it had the time) her body language stubbornly errs on the side of calm.

"Relax."

The gun, at least, is not waved around at random, or pointed remotely at Misty. Misty is safe. The rest of the room might not be. So it covers the four corners, pointing firmly at each in turn, then the window, then goes down to point at the floor in front of Soldat. Still in hand, though, and the metal arm is shifting and whirring.

"No doctors," they say, voice hoarse.

At least there's an explanation for you, Misty.

"Sorry."

The bottom of the barrel hath been scraped. At a loss for the moment, there's nothing to do but scrub her face.

"Sorry."

Soldat takes a long minute to get their breathing and heartrate back under control, then slowly just slides down the wall to sit, elbows on their knees and hands (and stock of the gun, barrel pointed at the ceiling but hand off the trigger now) up against the side of their head. "No. No, it's. You didn't know. I freak out. Not your fault. My fault."

"No."

No apologies. Holding fast and firm to this rule. She flops to her side, sighing. One self-pitying moment, to tide her over.

"You haven't done anything wrong. You're fine."

"If I didn't you didn't either," Soldat counters with, albeit a bit weakly. "Accident. Now you know." And now she can avoid that goddamn word. They're a minefield of fun and exciting new death-traps, and now Misty knows one more. "Daylight sent me a message about Solis. Ages ago. Called her doctor. Showed up at his cabin with the gun soon's I read it to make sure she wasn't there ready to. Do experiments. Or something. Ain't exactly rational."

Though at least they're finally putting the gun down.

"I'd say it's rational, just...only your circumstances." He's no loon, he's just been creatively beaten down for a very long time. Far be it from she to begrudge bizarre hot buttons.

"What I was getting at, is you don't have to be appreciative yet. Or ever, really. Helping's right. Nobody expects you to be focusing on gratitude when you've got something to work through."

They're gonna just leave the damn doctor thing be. It's a reaction all out of proportion to the stimulus, and they know that, but it's also not really hurting anyone but themselves, and even then it's more stupid and embarrassing than actually a problem. So long as nobody comes at them with syringe or a scalpel, no one's actually going to get shot over it.

It's the other part that actually hurts. And now they're on the floor across the room, where they can't get their hair petted. Both good-- because not deserved-- and bad-- because want.

"Feels selfish," they mumble. "And I don't deserve it. Don't deserve you."

"Ain't about deserving. It's comfort. Someone needs it and someone else wants to give it, that should be the long and short of it. You do deserve it, obviously, but I don't expect to tip those scales right now."

Steady. Patient.

"You're allowed to need things, and I want to help."

They're not sure if she's stubborn, she's coming at this from some weird angle they're not considering, or she's just that determined to write off every bad trait and bit of history they have to care anyway. But Soldat only has so much energy to argue in earnest, and their reserves are so low they're in the negatives right now anyway. And they want. If she's going to be this insistent, Soldat is going to take it.

So for now, they're just done. They leave the gun on the floor where it is, take the shortest route to the bed-- hands and knees, because fuck standing up-- and rest their cheek and their right arm on the mattress, holding onto it, looking at her. Actually looking: for this there is eye contact. "Misty. You have to be careful. Not die. Not run away alone. I don't. I don't think I could take it."

Edited (missed a comma) 2020-03-06 22:04 (UTC)

She's willful. It's in the blood, Soldat. That she's absolutely just seeing things from a different perspective, at the end of the day, is only as important. It stings a little to see him crawling, but it's nice enough seeing him at rest again. Hand meets hair. Careful brushes.

"I'm not going anywhere." His gaze is held, if sadly. "Nothing in this place is taking me out of commission, and I'm too smart for fool's errands. I'll be right here."

Don't read too much into it, Misty, they're just worn out, and standing up would have taken more effort, especially since it was only like four steps and they were planning on just sitting back down at the other end, anyway. Never let it be said that the Winter Soldier wastes movement or effort when there's no point to doing so.

They shudder out a little sigh, and shut their eyes. She won't let herself be killed. She won't make any stupid sacrifices. She's confident. That's going to have to be good enough. "Okay. Okay, good." Without Crowley and Aziraphale, Misty is all they have left. There are others who matter, but none of them are the same pillars of Soldat's stability like those three.

They can register that it might not be a great idea to lean all that on one person, no matter how strong, but it's not exactly a conscious process. Even less than handler or technician selection. So for now, this is going to have to do, and they just can't lose her.

"Not getting rid of me that easy, Soldat." It's the closest she can possibly come to a joke, here. She's not smiling, but it's there in spirit. "Or discouraged. You're stuck with me fussing and loving you pretty much forever." Stroke shifts briefly to ruffle, careful not to muss his hair, but something a little lively and affectionate to counteract all the deserved sulking.

"So, deep breath, and try to relax however much you can. Let yourself be what you need to be, and worry about nonsense like worthiness and gratitude later."

Their hair is getting so long, and the healthier parts are so thick, that it's both kind of hard to muss and at the same time extremely easy. The bulk of it stays put, for the most part, unless she gets really vigorous and starts flopping it everyhwere... but the top gets frizzy and the front winds up in their eyes. Soldat's are closed, still, but they wrinkle their face up at the tickling anyway, and then blow out a breath to at least get it off their nose.

"Thank you. Just." Cracking one eye, though it focuses more on the hair in their face than on her. "Let me know when you need things, too. Yeah? Can't be me-me-me all the time." They can't let this be totally uneven. They can't. It's not... healthy? They have no idea what healthy is supposed to look like, but they know it's not comfortable to feel like they can't reciprocate.

"If you think this is you-you-you and not very clearly just someone reeling who needs a little extra, I'm not sure what to tell you," Misty gently cautions, so thrown by the thought it's almost funny. "It's not like I'm even rolling out the full red carpet as-is. This is all I can do, so I'm gonna do it. Anything you want to do back is fine, but I'm not going to ask for much until you're in better shape. Focus on getting better, that's the priority."

This is the full red carpet. This is more than the Soldier, the Asset, or even Bucky Barnes ever got. Everything was about the sisters, about Steve, about the handler, about the target. This is unfamiliar in so many ways, to every part of them.

They regard her with the usual not-quite-focused stare. Then they creakily push back to their feet, metal arm buzzing, though not in a disturbed kind of way. They move around the bed to the trunk, lift the lid, and fish around a moment until they pull out a folded piece of notebook paper.

And head downstairs with it. Sorry, Misty, something came into their head and they gotta do something about it. If you wanna see what it is, better come with.

cw: really really unhealthy thinking?

:C

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