logsinthenight | Taking in Strays [Closed log]

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Taking in Strays [Closed log]

characters: Bucky, Crowley, and Aziraphale
location: Miner's Castle 3
date/time: Sept 3, evening
content: Somebody's getting a roof over his head (finally)
warnings: Just Bucky being his usual Soldier-y self for now

So far, the Soldier had mostly been dozing in trees and behind the church, not able to settle down at any of the empty houses. They felt too big and rattling, but at the same time too small and confining. Not secure. Not right.

But then the string bean handler offered, and that felt a little more right.

So here it is, approaching the house at Miner's Castle 3, lantern in hand and the single blanket its collected so far (it gets chilly in a tree, okay) folded over its shoulder, trying not to look anxious at the idea of meeting the handler's "flatmate" (what the fuck does that even mean) or being in an enclosed space with two semi-strangers. Good thing the Soldier has a lot of training in not looking anxious, so it pretty much just looks blank.

It stands outside the door for a long couple of minutes, waiting to be acknowledged, before some ancient memory finally rises up and it knocks the back of the metal hand on the wood.

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Aziraphale comes rushing downstairs, very confused, looking between Crowley and Bucky. "And who is this?" he asks, extending a hand for Bucky to shake. "I'm Aziraphale, as you might have assumed from the yelling."

And then under his breath, he mutters: "Really, Crowley, was that absolutely necessary?"

He smiles, tightly but warmly, at the stranger. No, he has no idea that he's the soldier-human-person that Crowley's been talking his ear off about. He doesn't look very pleased to see them though, and it tarnishes Aziraphale's smile a little.

The shout does in fact startle, and the Soldier twitches the metal hand towards one of the knives hidden in its vest, until it remembers handler and it would probably be punished for threatening him. (Even if the string bean handler doesn't seem to be following the rules, still.) It forces its hand back down, and steps inside as instructed, looking around without moving its head.

The sight of Aziraphale earns another twitch, and a brief (very brief) expression of alarm. Shorter, rounder, no military-like haircut, softer clothing, softer voice, bowtie. That's not a handler. That's a tech. The Soldier swallows once and then inclines its head in greeting. "Soldat," it says, hoping that it doesn't count enough as a name to require the Chair. "I am protecting you both now."

Crowley looks at Aziraphale with an immensely pleased, just short of smug look. "You see, I did ask his name."

He takes a step away from the door so that the human soldier person can step on in. He gives a gesture towards the rooms.

"That's me, that's Aziraphale, and I figure you can sleep somewhere hereish, if you want," he says, gesturing at a spot on the floor next to the perfectly good couch. He turns to Aziraphale, as if suddenly realizing he hasn't gone over this with his flatmate. Which, it is important to note, he hasn't.

"Oh, yes, Aziraphale, I've asked the human soldier person if he'd like to live with us a bit until he finds his own place."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, exasperated.

But he takes one look at Bucky and decides they can't just throw him out on the street, so he puts on his tightest, most polite smile. "Alright, it's a pleasure to meet you, Soldat. First of all, excuse my friend here, you can feel free to sleep on the couch." He shoots a pointed glare in Crowley's direction. "And by any chance, do you speak Russian?"

Hard to tell from just the one word, could be a host of the slavic languages, but he figures he'll go for the big one.

It's impossible to have lived in the Soldier's life without learning how to pick up on subtle cues as to the mood and attitude of other people, and right now it is glaringly obvious that not only did the handler not warn the flatmate tech that the Soldier was coming, but the tech doesn't actually want it there. It's really too bad that handler instructions trump tech opinions, or the Soldier might feel the urge to bolt. (It feels urge to bolt, anyway, but it's not doing so.)

"Of course," it answers the question, eyes darting between Crowley and Aziraphale, looking for clues as to the relationship between the two and what exactly the Soldier will need to do for them both. And also to watch for more signs stacking up into the "shouldn't be here" column. This is definitely not what it had been hoping for in coming here. (What had it even been hoping for? The Soldier knows better than to hope. Shit.) "I have been trained to speak many languages. Russian was my first."

That's... not quite true. Is it? Maybe it is. Fuck, it doesn't even know, it just wants to edge back out the door and hide in a tree again.

"Oh, good," Crowley says, dropping onto the couch in a leisurely slouch. "I'm sure Aziraphale can find some sort of Russian literature you two can talk about while you're here. I don't read, so I'll just sit here and ignore you, shall I?"

He looks at the couch, then back up at the human soldier person. He's only just got the couch, will the human soldier person demand that Crowley not sit on it if he's going to sleep on it? Oh, he does hope not. This is really the best seat in the house.

"Hang on, we've got things to eat if you need them," he says, not moving. "All canned, of course. Did you know how good canned peaches taste when you're hungry? It's a bit disgusting how good they are. Not used to hunger, me, but it's something I'll figure out eventually."

"Oh, yes." And then he switches to Russian to ask: "I'll fetch you something to eat, dear boy," speaking in a polite, respectful form. Odd, for a tech, isn't it? To be showing such a sign of respect. "Do you drink tea? I'm afraid we don't have coffee, and the water might be a little suspect. But yes, there's plenty of--," he stops, not knowing how to say canned food because his Russian precedes the canning process. He hasn't updated it in quite some time, and he sounds rather archaic.

No matter, Bucky understands English just fine. "--Canned product, but it's also highly suspect." He busies about putting a kettle on, and fluffing up some of the pillows on the couch. When he pats them, dust flies out. He is incredibly embarrassed about this, but it's not really his home. "Make yourself at home, Solda-- oh do I really have to call you that? It just seems so impersonal. Do you have a nickname, maybe?"

That is a bit weird. It makes the Soldier want to frown (though it doesn't), try to think. It recognizes the almost silly archaicness of it. None of the people it learned Russian from spoke like that. It learned Russian a long time ago, it feels like, even if it only remembers a few days clearly. But not that long ago. It gives Aziraphale a warily curious look, but only when the angel's back is turned and he can't see.

(The idea of Russian literature is almost interesting, actually, if the Soldier thought it might actually happen.)

The chatter isn't as tense-seeming in Russian, maybe because it feels less like Aziraphale is going to flip from pretending to be nice into something else with that ridiculous accent. It even answers, in the end, with stating what it thinks should be obvious to a tech, of all people: "Assets don't have names. Soldat is the closest I can come. If you prefer Winter Soldier, that is my codename in America, and I can answer to that as well." It does so in English, since Aziraphale switched back, too. Maybe Handler Crowley (fka string bean) doesn't speak Russian.

Crowley speaks 0% Russian. He learned a little bit when he needed to do some work in Russia in the 1970's, but promptly forgot it when he didn't need to be there anymore. There's a brief moment of panic when Aziraphale starts speaking in Russian that he's going to get totally lost in this conversation, but he's grateful they switch back pretty quickly.

He watches the human soldier person as he speaks and gives his chin a brief rub. "Assets?" he says. "What---is that the sort of soldier person you are, then? An asset? Bit impersonal, isn't it?"

He nods towards Aziraphale. "Didn't your lot try to make the military more touchy-feely in the 1990's, or was that my lot?"

"Probably mine," he answers without a second thought. "Can't imagine yours doing that."

He thinks about it for a second. "No no, Winter Soldier is also si impersonal. Winter, maybe. Still..." He moves about, getting a blanket from the other room and placing it on the couch for him. "Please come sit, I promise I don't bite."

He never usually has to say that.

"We've got other blankets, if you don't like these ones. And the bathroom's right through there. Our rooms are upstairs if you ever need us."

Then, suddenly: "Ah! I've got it. Walter. I'll call you Walter."

"What?" Crowley barks. "You can't just go giving people other names because you don't like them, angel!"

A beat.

"And you really want to call him Walter? Isn't that the name you give to a person destined to be a middle-mangement accountant type? Not our friend here at all."

It's an order. Sort of. The Soldier makes it to the couch, sits-- as far away from the two of them as it can manage without being too rude about it. Hopefully not too rude, anyway. It slides its own blanket off its shoulder, revealing more of the metal arm and the red star at the top, and nods to the offer of more blankets, working on something to say in response--

--and then a name, and it makes a whole body flinch. The plates in the metal arm whir and click against each other. It can't breathe. It can't tell what it's face is doing, but it probably isn't good.

The Soldier can't protest. Aziraphale is technician. Techs make decisions. They determine maintenance. But. It doesn't want it. It doesn't want this almost as much as it doesn't want to ever see the Chair again.

Thank the motherland for Handler Crowley. While the Soldier attempts to get its face under control (with only moderate success, and it's still struggling for breath) Crowley protests, for it.

"It means ruler of armies, since he's so determined to have a name with soldier in it, if you must know." He frowns.

"Are you quite alright?" he asks, striding over to Bucky to take a look at his arm because clearly that's what ails him. "Have you greased this? We'll need some of that as well. Crowley, have you got any somewhere?"

No. No, the Soldier is absolutely not all right. It is afraid and unhappy and it does not want a name.

Also, Aziraphale is entirely too close.

But there is a question, and questions should be answered. Especially from a technician, about the metal arm. "The arm does not need maintenance at this time," it manages after a moment, forcing its voice into flat compliance, forcing the tremor away. Most of the tremor. The arm plates stop shifting, but the Soldier can't stop them from vibrating instead. "But it will eventually. Thank you."

"Glad to know the arm doesn't need maintenance," Crowley says. "But I think the angel's a bit worried about you at the moment, mate. Don't get me wrong, Walter's a bad choice, everyone thinks so, but it's not the worst."

He should probably get up, give Aziraphale some room to look at their new flatmate, make sure everything is all right. He should, but he's going to continue to slouch on the couch until the moment that things turn pear-shaped and the human soldier person needs real help.

And, the more that Crowley gets to know the human soldier person, the more he thinks he probably needs real help.

"What happened to you, when you died? You said you weren't retrieved by handlers. What handlers?" These are, in retrospect, questions he probably should have asked before inviting the human soldier person to live with them. Still, it's always nice having a bit of company.

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a glare as if to confirm his thoughts and ask, yes, why in the world didn't you ask this man these sorts of things before you invited him into our house?

But then he turns his attention back to Bucky. "No need to thank me, dear boy, I haven't done anything. Are you sure it's not bothering you? Looks a bit unstable." Whether he's talking about the arm or the man is known only to him. He's about to say something else, but the kettle whistles so he goes to take care of putting some tea together.

Crowley never drinks any, but he might start if he feels hunger now, so there are three cups.

The tea kettle whistle gets a twitch, but then somehow the Soldier recognizes the sound. From somewhere. From a long time ago. (Tea. Not as good as coffee. But warm, which will be good.)

With Aziraphale moving away, the Soldier can get itself back together a little more. If these were a proper handler and tech, there would have been punishment by now for falling apart like this. Then the Chair. Or cold storage. So it finally does get its breathing and expression back under control, locking it down. The Soldier operates with fear in the background all the time. It can do this. It can explain some of the rules, in answer to Handler Crowley's question.

"Handlers provide missions and targets, give orders, and dispense punishment," the Soldier says, voice calmer now, almost flat. Its face is turned in Crowley's direction for that, though it doesn't quite look at him. "Technicians repair the arm and the body, determine usage of the Chair and cryofreeze, run experiments." That comes with a slight turn of its head in Aziraphale's direction while the angel pours tea. It looks down, then, at the cabin's floor. "I failed my mission. Punishment was expected. And then cryofreeze for repairs."

"Punishment?" Crowley says, and his voice sounds more than a bit knowing. "Got quite a bit of punishment in Hell, especially when orders aren't followed. I'm living proof of that. Well, dead proof of that."

He doesn't like the sound of the Chair or cryofreeze, or experiments. Crowley gives a look to Aziraphale, and then back to the human soldier person. What sort of life did this man have to live before he died? What sort of torment did his handlers and technicians put him through?

And, more importantly, why?

"Wait, you think we're the handler and technician?" Crowley says. He raises an eyebrow. This could actually be a bit useful, if he thinks about it. If the human soldier person is afraid of him, he could follow orders, get them what they need, help get them out of there with very little resistance. Definitely a plus. But on the flip side, Crowley isn't certain he wants to be associated with someone who puts people in chairs and hurts them. That's more Hastur's schtick. Crowley goes more in for low-level mischief than torture.

The daggers Aziraphale has shot at Crowley could've nailed him to the wall by now. "I don't have any cryofreeze, so you're off the hook on that one, dear boy." But Lord, what have they done to this man? He brings him his tea, and then brings Crowley a teacup too.

While he's up, he leans in and whispers, "do you really think this is a good idea? He's a man, not a robot. You can't just... program people like this," he warns.

The Soldier can absolutely hear that, you know. It politely pretends not to, though at some point sooner than later it absolutely needs to correct that. It's not a man. It's not a person. "Yes," it answers Crowley, and it does accept the tea, in its right hand. The metal one isn't particularly trustworthy around breakables at the moment, it decides. The warmth of the porcelain feels nice against its fingers. "You did say it sounded like I was in Hell before I died."

Unsurprisingly, the Soldier kinda agrees with that sentiment.

But that doesn't mean it has any idea what to do with itself without missions. So before Aziraphale tries to talk Crowley out of the idea, it explains, "A Soldier needs a handler for instructions. If there are no instructions, then I will just protect you both."

Crowley gestures to the human soldier person at his words, while looking at Aziraphale. He glances briefly down at the tea, which he still has no interest in, and then back up at the pair with him.

"See, instructions are good. We can----instruct as much as necessary. But not so much as he's not himself, am I right? Let him live his own life."

He looks at the human soldier person seriously. "When was the last time you were allowed to live your own life? Do---you know, anything you wanted? Besides just instructions?"

Aziraphale looks at him with stunned confusion. Still, he hangs back to drink his tea, and monitor Bucky with Crowley. Yes, better go make himself busy while all this goes on around him, he thinks he might go attempt to raid through their kitchen cabinets for something suitable to present to eat.

Crowley can do all the questions, like he should have in the first place, and Aziraphale will pop open a can of pineapple and try to make it presentable.

He's got a maraschino cherry in the middle of each ring, but on the plate, they're still floating a bit in juice. "There you are," he says, placing it down on the coffee table.

The Soldier's expression is one of blank incomprehension for the question. "Whenever there wasn't a mission, training, or testing, I was in cold storage. This is the longest I have been out of cryofreeze without the Chair for recalibration in." Pause. Trying to remember specifics is hard. "A very long time." So... never. Not that it can recall. It definitely never got to live its own life. It wouldn't even know what to do with a life.

The Soldier has a belated sip of tea (warm, good for the throat, but definitely not coffee), mostly to fortify itself against their gaze, but then it looks up at them both. It even meets each of their eyes (albeit briefly and with another tremor in the plates of the metal arm), and says, slowly and carefully, so that they can't misunderstand and they will start treating it properly: "I am not a person. I am a weapon."

Crowley glances in Aziraphale's direction.

"Not a person," he repeats. "They told you that you're not a person."

Yeah, that definitely sounds like Hell to Crowley. He imagines the human soldier person's life, being only treated like a weapon, and thinks about some of the creatures in Hell that are only treated as pawns, or as fodder for War. That's no way to live.

"Do you ever want to remember what it was like to...you know, be a person?"

Yes, this is the absolute worst case of brainwashing that Aziraphale has ever seen, and he's seen quite a lot of it in his day. He looks on incredulously but lets Crowley be the one to ask the questions, hanging back trying to put snacks together.

He does, however, cut in to say: "There's no chair here, not for recalibration purposes. And the closest thing we have to cryofreeze is the refrigerator, I hope you don't need any to sleep in."

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