Agent 22 (sitwell) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2015-06-16 12:20:00 |
|
|||
It had been a year. MSNBC had confirmed what edited newspapers and fuzzy memories had all but erased. A year ago tomorrow, three helicarriers fell into the Potomac destroying an agency to SHIELD the world. A year ago Thursday, an agency dormant since the second World War came to light from the rotting wood of the World's security. And a year ago today, Jasper Sitwell's life, as tenuously as he had held it, ended. He had to escape the media storm, the well intentioned looks of every less deeply entrenched in the memories of Washington DC, and his masochistic need for both. So where others might have stayed inside, in bed, or in their own heads, he had gone out. It was very hard to find a bottomless brunch on a Tuesday. And it didn't actually help. Or so he thought until he stood too quickly upon paying, feeling the disequilibrium of a head that had been trained out of an urge to binge drink before he had even started. But it was good, because it made him concentrate on the world outside his head. Jasper settled himself into his crutch and set down a bill for a tip. "I told you." He offered, testing out his voice. "They have great tacos del la flaca." Most of Bucky’s attention was on the room full of people - his need for threat assessment reasserting itself - but his gaze shifted to Jasper when the other man talked. “It certainly looked swell,” he responded. “If the burrito hadn’t been so substantial, I would have tried that out as well.” Small talk. It was simple, casual, almost familiar. It stopped him thinking about what today really meant. A year ago, Bucky had been nothing but the Winter Soldier; a weapon, set on HYDRA’s enemies. He had been sent to kill Steve and Natasha; he’d almost succeeded with the latter. They were his friends now, yet the reality of what he’d done - even if he had been brainwashed - never left his mind. It was especially vivid today. “The sangria was better than I remember,” he continued, while they walked towards the entrance. He kept to Jasper’s speed regardless of how fast or slow the other man was with his crutch, a simple gesture of politeness. When they reached the door, Bucky took hold of the handle with his gloved left hand and hauled it open swiftly, holding it open for Jasper out of sheer habitual manners. “The wine must have improved over the last while.” "Yeah, well you know, vineyards work better when Europe's not on fire." He took in the gesture at war between an indignant need for self-sufficiency that had been heightened by his newly gained disability and a comfort at the easy charm of the man behind the Winter Soldier. It was a glimpse of the easy charm of Bucky Barnes in newsreels and publicity stills, the Barnes who had come through the Tesseract unfettered by the weight of 70 years in HYDRA, and an indication that that man still existed under the weight of his past and his mind. A kindness that suggested they weren't all as lost as it might seem. "But they've done some great work with genetically modified grapes." He nodded in acknowledgement and brushed by Bucky out of the dimly lit cantina, squinting at the bright sun off the windows of Broad Street buildings. On 5th Avenue, the sun would be blinding, here it was nice. He raised his hands to shade his eyes and looked down the street. He continued with the same sort of empty niceties that had punctuated most of the silence of brunch. "Bigger, sweeter, more resistant." Before the twentieth century, there had been creation through art. Since the War, science had overtaken creativity. "Kind of like its soldiers." The half-thought, spoken, was quickly brushed aside as he dropped his right hand. "Delancey-Essex's two blocks down unless you wanted to get a cab." “Oh, I don’t know. It could have provided a uniquely smoky flavour,” Bucky mused, managing to keep the neutral expression on his face only because of how turbulent his thoughts were, behind the facade of idle conversation being exchanged by the two men. “I stuck to bourbon most of the time, anyway. Easier to obtain, less hassle to transport while on the road, and it was unlikely to sour even when you were in the middle of nowhere.” Following Jasper out of the cantina, Bucky heard the door thud shut behind him while he stuck his gloved left hand back into the pocket of his hoodie. No one was bound to catch sight of the metal underneath the clothing - he was thorough about covering it up when he dressed - but it was a comfortable habit, and Bucky liked those. In a world where he felt like an outsider, those comfortable and familiar habits kept the ex-brainwashed assassin slightly more at ease. “Genetically modified grapes? The modern world has clearly thought of everything,” he remarked, a hint of amused derision in his mostly neutral voice. Turbulent as his mind was, he took in Jasper’s following comments, which encouraged a slight grin to tug at the corner of his mouth. Were he in a more stable frame of mind, Bucky might have even tossed a flirt back at the other man in response. He let the barely visible grin linger at the corner of his mouth for a few moments instead, shifting his gaze downward briefly in an almost bashful reaction. “Sweet suits the wholesome image of Captain America. Others, not so much.” He would have given less of a cryptic response if they weren’t on the street, but Bucky knew better than to refer to himself as an ex-brainwashed assassin in public. There was always the chance that various unwelcome parties might hear him. A shrug rippled through his shoulders, a silent response to Jasper’s suggestion. “Subway’s fine. Cab drivers like to have conversations. And I wanted to make a stop by the tower.” "You've clearly not seen Thor." It was a more markedly queer-coded statement than he tended to make, but Jasper was sure even straight men could recognize the god of thunder's ornamental value. He didn't linger on the moment, instead pressing the crutch into the ground and beginning his movement down the street. There were nicer blocks in the city, nicer restaurants too, but there was an openness to the streets on a Tuesday morning in the parts of New York not frequented by the ubiquitous tourists that was comforting, especially for New York. This was what he liked about Brooklyn Heights, with a little higher crime rate. "Nearly everything. We still have problems with artificial tissues," Jasper reached up as he walked, flicking on the projection on his lenses. Giving the walk less attention than he otherwise might, but he didn't feel threatened, and he got a lot of emails. Besides, Jasper was used to seeing the world as a walking status report. It was weird without the blue text overlaying the sidewalk. "As you've seen. And hoverboards." The mention of the lead Asgardian enticed his attention a bit more. Bucky had never met Thor, yet he knew enough about him from the news footage of the Avengers and whatever else that Steve mentioned through idle conversation. “Not in person,” he admitted after a moment, his right hand reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I don’t think he classifies as sweet or wholesome either. I can think of other words, though.” Jasper’s movement down the street had Bucky falling into step beside him, again keeping the other man’s pace out of habitual politeness. The mention of artificial tissues made his attention shift subtly to his left arm, although his gaze didn’t follow suit. It was, at times, a touchy subject for the Brooklyn-born lad but he had mostly come to accept the vibranium limb. “With all the advances in technology achieved, surely a hoverboard is a simple concept,” he remarked, even if he wasn’t actually entirely aware of what a hoverboard was. So many things in the modern world were confusing to him. While they talked, Bucky’s gaze seemed to be focused on the street ahead of them, as well as the man beside him. In reality, he’d fallen back into the comfortable habit of threat assessment, scrutinising every single passer-by with such subtlety that it was practically impossible to notice. "Sweet can have different meanings." Jasper countered, slipping his hand into his pocket. He looked glanced to the crosswalk briefly before looking back at the reflection of the other man in the corner of his lens. It had been a frequent move during his days in R&D, storming to and from Victoria Hand's control room to where ever it was he was needed while keeping an eye on the team behind him. Back when he had rank, and position, and a hip that sat properly in his pelvis. But it was wrong for talking to Barnes. He half turned around, relying less on the crutch to walk backwards facing him. LEOPARD was about a more level playing field, like new SHIELD pretended to be. They had all been at various points in their career or the aftermath, but they were all in the same place now. Because of that anniversary none of them could avoid. "I think the problem with Hoverboards is more one of human error though. Balance, equilibrium--" The prosthetic leg caught on the curb illustrating the point slightly with a slight sway as he steadied himself with the crutch behind him. "See?" There was a lingering appreciation in the back of Bucky’s mind when Jasper made the effort to face him while they continued their conversation, aware that the other man wasn’t required to do such a thing, especially if you considered the crutch that was his almost constant companion. A different person might have inquired about whether it was a good idea for Jasper to be walking backwards while using the crutch, but Bucky made no such remark; he loathed whenever people treated him as fragile or delicate, and he was pretty certain that Jasper would feel the same. His mind had been focused on what Jasper was saying, forming a response slowly, but every idle thought in his mind disappeared when he saw the other man start to sway in front of him. It only took him a split second to assess the situation, utilising every centimetre of his peripheral vision, and he reacted purely out of instinct. He took a swift step towards Jasper, his gloved left hand coming up and firmly wrapping around the other man’s right elbow, while his left hand went to rest lightly against Jasper’s left forearm. There wasn’t any intent behind the action, other than to help steady the other man’s balance and prevent him from falling over, but he was very careful not to destabilise Jasper’s balance which the other man had already through the use of the crutch in his right hand. That would have just made things worse. His mind relaxed once he was certain that Jasper wouldn’t fall over, slowly returning to paying attention to what the man in front of him was saying. “The streets obviously haven’t improved,” he commented, managing to mutter a reply to Jasper’s rhetorical question. Jasper heard Bucky's response as if through water, in the aftermath of being tugged back to his feet by the inhuman tension in the arm. He felt instead the hand still around the fabric of his suit, the gust of wind from a passing cab at his back, and the sun that was brighter than it had any right to be as his pupils dilated as his blood was flooded with adrenaline. He had believed, since talking with Romanoff in January, that he had been hit by a truck, though HYDRA had told had told him as much months earlier, and Nick hadn't really denied what he said in his debrief. He'd even watched the footage of the freeway attack an unhealthy number of times. But it had never clicked--or he hadn't wanted it to. But something inside him triggered, a flood of those shattering seconds that flashed like eternity. He could feel the glass like confetti and and the hand on him he had helped to set. The realization hit him harder than any truck, but he wasn't dead yet. Jasper jerked his arm away from the assassin he had befriended and hobbled backward, finding his way to the ground in his leg's confusion. But his eyes never fell, locked upwards in a new soldier's shell shock. What in the hell had they done? There was no response from Jasper, and Bucky wondered for a moment whether the other man had heard him or not. He had muttered out the reply, after all, and not everybody’s hearing was as good as his own. The grip that he applied to Jasper’s arms was firm but not unnecessarily so, not wanting to hurt the other man; he had spent so much of his life hurting people, he tried damn hard to not let it happen wherever possible. Yet, as he looked at Jasper, a gradual sense of uneasiness settled into his gut. Only a handful of seconds had passed since Bucky had reached out to steady Jasper but it felt like years, the uneasiness in his gut growing with each moment that passed. Then Jasper jerked away from him, the other man’s arm yanking out of his grasp almost violently, and the feeling of confusion that settled over Bucky momentarily was enough to slow his reaction time. He watched, as if in slow motion, the other man stumble backwards slightly and fall down into the empty parking space on the side of the road. He reacted after, moving forward and into a crouch on the edge of the sidewalk, his brow furrowed slightly while his mind tried to figure out what had just happened. “You alright?” he asked, his tone lingering on the very edge of concern. He didn’t let the emotion seep into his voice, though, not wanting to make the current situation possibly worse. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you stumbling and just reacted.” He tried not to let his mind descend into a degree of panic, seeing how Jasper’s gaze was locked on him. Jasper wasn't sure he was a threat, but he felt threatened. His eyes narrowed to focus on the man and his own heartbeat as he took a moment to collect himself on the pavement. It would have been the easiest to right himself using the crutch, but even as he drew his right leg closer to his torso, planting the toes on the pavement, and reached back with his left arm for leverage, the arm with the crutch instead came forward. The posture was defensive though primed with more aggression than strength like a cornered beast. "You grabbed me?" It was an accusation phrased as a question. Because that's what it opened up. Questions of if Bucky knew, if so how long, and the paranoid part of his brain wondering if this wasn't all some long laid trap to finish the job as he looked away from the assassin to the length of his crutch. It stayed there for a long moment before his eyes snapped dangerously back. His breath was still shallow. "Do that again." He wasn’t expecting the question, sounding suspiciously like an accusation. The measure of panic that had taken root in his mind was increasing, while the sense of uneasiness in his gut was twisting into something worse. His head shook from side to side, only a slight gesture but enough for Jasper to see. “I didn’t want you to fall,” he replied, attempting to explain the reason for taking hold of the other man’s arm, although he wasn’t certain why he was having to justify the choice. Seeing how the other man’s posture was defensive didn’t help his precarious state either. He attempted to reassure himself that this entire situation was a misunderstanding, while keeping a respectful distance between himself and Jasper. The shallowness of the other man’s breath did not escape his notice, yet it wasn’t something that he felt necessary to comment on. Instead, what Jasper said threw him for a complete loop. His brow furrowed further, a flicker of confusion manifesting in his blue eyes. “Why?” he asked, a degree of uncertainty to his voice. In another situation, he might have seen the statement as some strange, out of left field flirt; he was too on edge to think of that now, though. Standing would have been safer, but to rise from his crouch he would have to use the crutch, expose his crown, and waste indefensible seconds: seconds he couldn't even spare for the piece in his waistband or the flasher in his jacket. He wasn't sure himself why he wanted Bucky to grab him again. Because he really didn't. Every synapse in his body was prepared to defend himself as best he could from the return of the metal hand, but when he didn't, Jasper was just as disappointed. Perhaps he figured the contact would trigger something more. Something that told him it hadn't been Bucky, or hopefully that it hadn't been. There was no polite way to ask someone if they had nearly killed you. If there were words to ask, for once Jasper Sitwell didn't know them, so he offered back combative ones. "So you can finish your goddamn job." Whatever response he might have been expecting from Jasper, it definitely wasn’t that. Those seven words repeated over and over in his mind, searing into the back of his skull, so that he couldn’t forget them even if he tried. His mouth opened - as if prepared to reply - but no words came forth; that panic in the back of his mind was definitely beyond control now, that growing fear of a serious possibility he hoped wasn’t true. Despite how he was currently crouching at the edge of the sidewalk, Bucky’s posture shifted into something more defensive and his boots shuffled on the concrete, increasing the space between the two of them even while he remained in the crouch. The confusion in his gaze was still present, yet fading steadily; panic was starting to seep into his blue eyes, the digits of his vibranium limb curling towards his palm and out again. “What do you mean?” he questioned, although every fibre of his being was telling him to demand an answer. His voice was rough now; scratchy, a bit like sandpaper. “What the hell are you talking about?” There was only one thing that came to mind when he debated Jasper’s use of the word ‘job’. He could only hope that he was wrong. They must have looked a picture: two businessmen crouched and snarling on the Manhattan pavement, ready to leap. but New York was a city that thrived on the bizarre, and they were somewhat sheltered by the cars parking Jasper in. They had yet to block off the sidewalk, though the flow of pedestrians had slowed and went around them. The cars at his back were steady and didn't help the claustrophobic edge. The problem was that Bucky stood between him and his exit, and though he was giving him space, they were both poised to close that gap. Jasper swung out with his crutch as if to swipe that idea off the table. "I wasn't hit by a car." Jasper snapped with a crisp fury strange in usually lilting voice. "You threw me into traffic." When he said it aloud, it didn't sound as ridiculous as he had moments ago hoped, and that was a problem. He didn’t care about the pedestrians. Every single ounce of fear and panic inside him felt entirely justified now, registering each word as they left Jasper’s lips and reached his own ears. You threw me into traffic. His mouth felt dry and each breath that he drew into his lungs felt very inadequate. He almost opened his mouth to ask specifics but he didn’t need to; he knew exactly what, where and when Jasper meant. “You were in the back seat of the car.” His words came out in a faint whisper, his heart thudding erratically behind his rib-cage. Images of what had happened on that day - precisely a year ago - played against the back of his skull; he was momentarily frozen, so much so that he didn’t even bother to reactively make some space between himself and the crutch that swung out wildly in his general direction. “I didn’t know….” Words failed him then and he brought up his left hand, tangling the gloved appendage into his hair on the side of his head and holding on tightly; as if that would help to remove the memories in his head that were neatly slotting into place, forming a cohesive scene from start to finish. Jasper had believed it when he had said it, and he could see the cogs spinning as Bucky came to the same truth. Bucky didn't deny it; he couldn't and Jasper wasn't couldn't say it was okay. They had both been doing their jobs, neither working fully or willingly for the side that nearly got him killed. Bucky hadn't been trained to disobey orders, and Jasper had been trained to accept consequences. But rationalization did little to help in the moment. As Bucky drew his hand to his head, Jasper dug the tip of his crutch into the ground. He used it as leverage to stand up stiffly. The ache was mostly in his head but felt in his joints, settling like the exhaustion of years catching up to him. "You couldn't have." Jasper shook his head, part of him wanted to hit him, a deeper part just wanted some space. Today was weird enough without recovering memories. He exhaled heavily, but didn't move to cross the invisible barrier between them.. "You know…" He nodded to it, making his excuses. "I think I'll just get a cab." His mind didn’t really register that Jasper stood up, yet he followed suit automatically; his body unfolded from the stiff crouch it had been in, returning him to a tense upright posture. He could hear his own shallow breaths as if from far away, echoing faintly in his ears, and his left hand tugged slightly on his hair before returning to his side. As if the pain would help clear his mind; he knew it wouldn’t. There was no escape from the things he had done as the Winter Soldier. The remark that Jasper made Bucky instinctively want to scream at him; he didn’t want that sort of dismissal of his actions, he wanted Jasper to be angry. To lash out. That made him glad of the space between them, yet he also loathed it viciously. Why couldn’t Jasper react differently to everybody else? Why couldn’t he lash out and react the way people should? He barely gave a nod when Jasper decided to get a cab, the memories crawling forward from the front of his mind again; he could see everything clear as day, and he knew only one thing for certain. He needed to get the hell out of there. “Sure,” he forced the word through his lips, though it came out more shaky than he wanted. “I’ll just walk to the tower.” Going there was the last thing on his mind, though. His feet were already moving, taking steps away from Jasper; the fact that he was heading away from the tower was entirely irrelevant. He managed to give Jasper a curt nod in farewell, then turned and walked in the direction of Brooklyn as slowly as he could handle. Inside, though, his mind was screaming at him to run. |