Col. Nick Goddamn Fury (themanonthewall) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-09-05 11:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | bucky barnes / winter soldier (616), nick fury (616) |
Who: Nick Fury & Bucky Barnes (616)
When: 4 September 2014, 5 pm
Where: A burnt out bar in the South Bronx
What: Nick Fury may have answers.
Rating: Low
It was almost a comedic touch that within the charred remains and brick that was once a bar, there were three stools still bolted to the floor and relatively unscathed. The wooden bar itself had been victim to the fire which, undoubtedly, some kids had started for kicks one night, but three stools remained. Bucky tapped one with his foot, and it squealed a few degrees before rust halted it once again. Forget it. He’d prefer to take his chances standing up to Fury, anyway. The windows were knocked out. A corner had the remains of a homeless person’s bed, although they were nowhere to be seen. More importantly, though, the openness of the structure and the debris all around meant no one could really sneak up. A crunch of a footfall would do in lieu of a knock. A car approaching would have to be heard. Maybe Bucky hadn’t brought the drink he promised, but Fury wouldn’t have counted on it, anyway. Bucky checked his phone for the time. This wouldn’t be a no-show, but the question remained about who would turn up. He crossed his arms, and he waited. Nick and Bucky had a long history, and one that was full of encounters in burnt out rat holes like this one. But it wasn't one that was marked particularly by social calls. They tended to serve a purpose--which was why Nick had driven trans-continentally when he got a call for a meet. Nick ran a lot of side games that brought him into conflict with a lot of Avengers. And while, for once, he was going half-blind into which one had ruffled Barnes today, a phone call to Widow had been less illuminating than usual. Nick had no intention of letting on. He had had eyes on the address as soon as it had dropped, and left Betsy with his marks posted outside, grabbed the bottle of whiskey the bar that was wouldn't have, and made his approach. There was no angle to sneak up no Barnes, and Nick Fury didn't goddamn need to skulk (all the time at least). So he let his boots scuff on the pavement and though there was no real need with the busted out windows, went through the motions of opening the door and looking around. "Y'know" he paused "I'm all for slumming it, Barnes, But I don't think this place is serving." Bucky had his elbows perched atop one of the stools, having swiveled it to face the door through which Fury entered. He made a short show of almost looking around, but his eyes didn’t leave the other man for even the briefest of seconds. “No kiddin’? My bad.” He shoved himself upright, and waved towards the stool beside. “Still got places to sit. Why don’t you grab one?” Bucky asked, his movements careful enough to skirt on the boundaries of casual. There was always the question of whether this was actually Fury. He could have been from further down the timeline and this was an LMD to hide behind. He seemed of an age from before the shit really hit the fan, but, again: LMD. Bucky supposed there was one way to find out if there were wires or tendons on the inside, but he kept that as Plan B. Nick's only real weapon against superheroes was his base of knowledge. That and actual weapons hidden in pouches and wrinkles of his long jacket that they both knew were there. And even if he didn't know exactly why he was here, there were intricacies to the universe Nick had grasped that a boy like Bucky, as much a rat of this city as Nick had ever been, couldn't imagine. He didn't press or ask why the meet nor did he refuse the obvious trap, kicking away a charred rafter as he made his way towards the bar. "Sat an awful lot on the drive here." He set the bottle down on one of the teetering stools in the absence of a bar, staring at Barnes with a stubborn contempt veiling an analytical curiosity. He could come out and ask what this was about, but if he knew Bucky--he knew Bucky--that'd be obvious enough in a moment. "Bet they don't even have ice." A ghost of a grin passed across Bucky’s mouth as the bottle on the stool induced the fainted squeak of a broken spring in the cushion. “You’re fucking impossible to please, y’know that?” But then the moment drifted back into silence. Fury wouldn’t reveal his hand of cards without prompting, if he did even after that. Gentle approaches? Wouldn’t work here. Bucky sighed. He stepped out from around one of the stools to face Fury head-on. “So tell the rescue party outside to make a run for some ice. There’s a gas station 2 miles back. If they walk, should take ‘em long enough to really appreciate the Bronx at night.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Or send Matilda. Your call.” There was the briefest twitch of his cheek at the call, but it wasn't as if Bucky had said much he couldn't have known, or anything he couldn't have guessed. If Bucky Barnes hadn't brought a second with him he was dumber than Nick frequently gave him credit for. And dumber than Nick figured he was. Fury didn't look but rolled his head backwards towards the building casting a shadow over them, nor did he deny them. "I didn't rig em for audio." He figured Matilda wasn't actually an option more a door to the point. Fury easily slid a hand into his pocket, though though the LMD had been with him for decades--long for one of the ultimately disposable miracles of biology and technology Nick had found all those years ago in Aries' crypt. They'd served him well, replacing a holes bullets tore all too frequently in the wall he built. He was practically known for him, but Matilda'd never been to earth before now and even if he was here, Bucky made a point he knew him. "You're making a new friend? Usually my bots are a little cagier about their names." “Better hope they’re not listening in,” Bucky tossed back. Trying to read Fury’s face was getting nowhere. Something about the missing eye and the lack of expressive range made for a tough crowd when it came to these chats. It was worse with poker, but Bucky always had a knack for the game. Even without having to cheat. A short glance over either shoulder was more to satisfy that the immediate area was still clear. “And they probably wouldn’t have to be if you didn’t give them names like that. In fact, how’m I sure I’m not talking to one right now?” There wasn’t any use in being subtle, but a spy’s skills never went to waste. Bucky’s hand hovered over the knife concealed at his back. “You play a hell of a lot of games with people.” "Callin em all Nick gets a bit confusing. And Matilda happened to be in the top 800 names in 2009." It was a minor point, because the other two were much bigger bites. Nick's LMD's were good, beyond the shit they gave for business men and politicians, even better than the ones that SHIELD and HYDRA kept in their sometimes shared vault.They bled, they passed most medical tests, Nick wasn't sure sometimes if he would even know if he was an LMD. He banked on most of his enemies being as uncertain. "Would it make a difference? They all report back to the same place." He took a step to the side, casual as his fingers trailed along the rusted stool, staying close to the bottle and nearest not yet lethal weapon. "And I don't play games" Everything Nick Fury did was a game as part of a greater Game. But the rules had meant sacrificing everything, life, love, law, morality. Everyone knew Nick would never stand tall like Steve Rogers, but no one would ever know just how far his fight had taken him. Not even those who tried to chase him downward. "Maybe if you'd all stop thinking that's what this was, I could be more straight with you." He cut to the chase. "What's this about, Bucky?" Bucky’s hand didn’t move away from the blade. There wasn’t much doubt that this was Fury playing dumb, but that was as given as the sky was blue. “Makes a difference to me. Now, I know you’re grounded. Probably gets to you not having the overhead view.” A simple slip of the knife from its sheath put it in Bucky’s hand. He flipped it up into a proper grip, more or less as a statement that it would be used if needed. “But I don’t think you’re giving me much in the way of trust right now, and that’s gonna be a mistake. LMD or no?” The blade was pointed towards Fury, awaiting an answer. For any other pair, this would have been a quick escalation, except that was about par for the course between Nick Fury and Bucky Barnes. Somewhere within all that aggression and animosity was some real affection, but even if you knew to look, it was hard to see. Nick was stilting in praise, and Barnes had no shortage of skill with that thing. "I drove from Paris so you could ask if I'm a robot." That was neither a yes or no, which left Nick an option to play along or make this harder. The raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the bottle. It was never an easy decision. But Nick didn't care about whether or not he was a robot nearly as much as Bucky. He inhaled with a snort. "I'm not an LMD, Barnes." And a t least as far as he knew that was true. Little changed in Bucky’s stance. Without carving the man open, this was as good as it got, and he knew that. But, it was a straight answer, and that counted for something. The knife was lowered, even though the grip didn’t loosen one bit. If Bucky didn’t start in with the actual reason for the meeting, they’d be here all night trading challenges. “If people start getting new memories from back home, you’re gonna end up with a lot more in the way of interrogation. Probably worse than depending on who we’re talking about. That’s what this is about.” There was a beat before he added, “And I want to hear it from you ‘cause I’m still not convinced someone just didn’t screw around with my skull.” Nick hadn't been so active in recent years, but that didn't mean he wasn't still causing trouble: Leviathan still existed, HYDRA did too. He'd heard tale of Viper establishing herself in Madripoor, but that wasn't even the real war Nick Fury'd been fighting. At nearly 93, his age wasn't catching up to him exactly, but his infamy was. So he wasn't too surprised that something came up in the future whether it was his past coming back or the future holding some call that had to be made. It was easy to make judgement calls when the world still existed thanks to them. Avengers never got that. But if it was a multiple people thing, and Barnes knew Matilda and about his satellite, it was pretty clear what he was on about. The weight of decades sat heavy on Nick's shoulders and he reached to pick up the bottle. "So one of you bastards finally figured it out. What gave it up?" Abject denial would have almost been better than this. Bucky’s mouth threatened to tip downward, but he kept his expression steady and neutral. “You’re looking at the bastard, but only because you got sloppy in your old age.” It was a half-truth, but the context that would have to be explained first was a stack reaching skyward. After a thought, Bucky reached to resheath the knife. Something about kicking a man when he was down wasn’t sitting well with him, and this was Fury. Fury. Understanding a guy’s motivations and exactly what he was doing changed the game up. It was why this meeting was even happening, after all. “Someone plugged the Watcher. Forces unseen decide to pull together a bunch of us to do the legwork and figure out who and why. Turns out it was also finding a successor ‘cause someone up in his ivory tower knew he couldn’t keep going forever.” Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one.” While Bucky started, Nick unscrewed the cap on the bottle of whiskey, tossing it to the ground. He knew goddamn well the story of the Unseen, the man on the wall, destroy of worlds, bringer of sin, perpetrator and preventer of more violence than he ever saw in Wars or SHIELD. It wasn't the sort of thing most people would get, but Barnes would, depending what he knew. But the news about the Watcher was just that. Nick had never liked the bastard. Uatu the Watcher and the Man on the Wall were two in the same, watching, distant, more a fixture on the walls of the world than a part of it. But Nick Fury could never just stand by and let evil happen. Uatu had to. Nick could easily see himself killing the Watcher; he could easily see himself killing most people. But it wasn't a thought that sat well with him. "Parts of it." Nick paused, taking a deep swig of the burning liquid, one of the few things that cut through the years these days. He sucked in a breath "The bastard was fine and lurking on the moon still last I knew." Nick offered over the bottle and pushed his luck. "He happen t'see who did it?" Bucky’s eyes lingered on the bottle for a moment, but his hand reached out to take it, effectually feeling this was the fuck-it moment of the night. “Yeah, he did. My understanding’s that his eyes were hacked out after,” was the reply, given with all the mirth of a tombstone, before Bucky took a drain. It didn’t do a hell of a lot for the headache that came with having memories forcefully crammed into his mind, but it beat weathering that without something to distract even just a little. The bottle was given back. Kind of fitting that this conversation was happening in some nonsignificant hole in the wall. No one would know from it unless either of them went talking after, and that was probably where control over any of this started and stopped. The moment people got wind that Fury might not be stable in a way worse way than they originally thought, this could swing into a full-blown spiral. “Everyone’s convinced you lost your mind, y’know. Or they’ll hit that point. People’re gonna want to know what else you were hiding, and… call this the advance guard. You get your stories straight now, maybe you’ll be able to convince them about whatever they need to hear.” Nick nodded and took the bottle back. Nicholas J. Fury hardly needed to be told to manage his lies. It was the truth that gave him trouble more often than not. It was dessicated, bare, and fragile thing protected in a web of lies stretching so far back not even Nick knew where it began. It hadn't been with him. "They've asked it before. Hell. Maybe I have." Fury chuckled darkly, a sound that turned into a cough. Like a weed, Nick Fury had made a habit of dying back and persisting in the cracks, back home. But to be so exposed was searing, and telling. Nick wasn't as young as he used to be. "That doesn't mean they've a need to know jack shit." "But if I killed that milksop on the moon. I goddamn have a reason--just not one I'm privilege to at the moment." And that bothered him. That there were secrets just out of his reach. Nick took another swig of the whiskey and set it down on the stool. "So I'll worry about the Avengers when and if they come." Nick's hand turned the stool slowly, watching the hazy reflection of the other man in the bottle. "But that's really what you wanna talk about with this?" It was hard to pin if this was the most honest conversation Bucky could remember having with the man. There were shorter ones, sure, but none that dug this deeply. Necessity or not, no one can keeping either of them in the burnt remains of a bar, talking about the impending wave of crap that might fire up at any moment. Bucky dipped his head, jaw working as he mulled over the open invitation that had been extended. First, though: “Reason you did it was ‘cause someone needed to.” It probably sounded more of an effort in reassurance, but it was pure fact as far as Bucky was concerned. Some things were horrible. And they needed to happen. A hand was loosened from the folded arms across Bucky’s front; he waved the former topic along on its way. “You remember when Sin gutted me. Look, I don’t know if that was actually you or some LMD, but there was a call made that day, and I know that was you. Like you had to ask Natasha -- her answer was always a given.” He kept Fury framed in his vision, waiting for acknowledgement. In a way it was a pity they wouldn't remember this back home. Here in this burnt out husk of a watering hole rather than the battlefields of the midwest or Nick's own last stand, there was a chance Nick'd never had. A chance to ask and figure out this job from the frontside. Howard had given him toys, but not direction. Bucky could use a little more direction. Nick knew exactly what Barnes was talking about and he wasn't wrong with where he was going with it. He nodded and stilled the spinning bottle. "And you think this is why." “I think everything you’ve done’s been pieces moving into place,” Bucky answered. It was impossible to tell when he’d become one of Nick’s set, but the general idea was probably once he was not dead and not completely crazy or brainwashed. Three easy qualifiers once a guy had been put through hell and had to deal with the fact that he’d committed some of the worst crimes and atrocities. On enemies and innocents alike. A memory of Colonel Phillips talking to him through the bars of Camp Lehigh’s holding cell drifted across the surface of Bucky’s mind. Captain America needed a partner who could take the kill shots. Hadn’t he always been the one doing the necessary evils? Since he was a teenager, this had been his life -- like it was all some long-wearing, grandiose plan for him, and finally he’d been herded right to the only place that he could have ended up. “And if you were smart, you would’ve kept the formula you used to bring me back. It never made sense to me why you didn’t. People die. Sometimes it even sticks. The world was saying it was my time for good.” Bucky shifted on his feet. He half turned away. The more that surfaced, the more answers seemed to find their way to questions he’d had. “And then I end up working from the grave ‘cause Nick Fury made it so.” "Haven't you always been working from beyond the grave?" It was an argument in his favor, disappearing would have been the easiest way to man the wall. And while Nick hadn't been able to abandon Earth in the decades that wrapped up the 20th century, he had learned that willingness was just another sacrifice the post called for. Fury had been officially dead since 2005. Retired from SHIELD since 2011, but was about as ready as Uatu to give up the ghost. Nick had no idea how long the infinity formula mixing with his blood would last, a fact he'd been all too aware of when he pushed it into Bucky and Bobbi's veins and which sprang to mind in the face or memory of his sons. But the years had become a monument to loss on the personal level. Nick had let go of Gabe, or Jasper, or Pinky no more readily than he had Dum Dum. It had become easier as years passed, to understand the helplessness of the Watcher even as he fought against the darkness encroaching, and it was burning to a hot and bitter ember. That same simmering anger and retrospection left Fury silent as he picked back up the bottle, filling the silence with whiskey. As he thought of what to say. How much to say. It was his nature to say nothing when it came to the truth. He hadn't settled on Bucky, not officially, but he was probably the best candidate on Nick's ever-shrinking list. The Avengers had many extraordinary people among them, who would happily sacrifice life and limb for the greater good. But a disposable hero could never do what Nick had done. He had eyed the ones on the outskirts, who understood what it meant to sacrifice personal integrity for the survival of a planet and whose hands were already crimson with blood. "I've had my run. It's only natural to look towards what's next--that wasn't necessarily you." That had been Barnes for some time: earth native, brutally effective, self-checking, and more sane than Castle or Strange without Panther or Pym's ego. Now functionally immortal. Probably. “Borrowed time,” Bucky corrected him. “Beyond the grave comes when you get the whole damn nation crying while you sit and watch the coverage on TV. Natasha --” He stopped, and the line fell away with it. No use bringing her up. She was only a reality in this world. Nick didn’t need to hear about it, anyway; he knew the story. He knew exactly what she meant to James Barnes. Bucky closed his eyes. Nick Fury knew exactly what she meant to James Barnes. It was easier to leave that line of logic alone. He’d wound himself down from a fight, and, for once, a little temper control would go a long way. The bottle was snatched, instead, with little attempt at apology. “You make a guy feel so special,” was the flat response before half of what was left was thrust into Fury’s chest. “And you should go see a doctor for that cough, old man.” It felt like enough had been said, anyhow. Open air wouldn’t solve all the problems they collectively had, but it sure wouldn’t hurt. |