thespaceopera: (hello)
Voices from Heaven ([personal profile] thespaceopera) wrote in [community profile] driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am

...And also these.

[ Calibration Rooms ]
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  • redactions: ([ ca: cw ] 67.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-10-27 01:04 am (UTC)(link)
    'Practice,' he murmurs, in reply. He might be a showman born but each role is only perfected by living in it. He was a boy from Brooklyn, once, something carefree, reckless, and the worst thing that could've happened to him and his best friend was losing Sarah Rogers. Then the War came down upon them and he became — something else. Something cold. 'Practice makes perfect, right?'
    tothefly: (well I suppose)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-10-27 01:17 am (UTC)(link)
    Practice. She practiced for years and years and years. Practiced until she got it all right. Doesn't know if that's perfect, though, or maybe the opposite. She shrugs, sliding off the box to stand on the shelf in a perfect fifth position.

    "Never. Practice makes better. Practice makes nearly perfect. But perfection is impossible. You know that. We're all just struggling towards 'good enough.' Does that make the practice a waste, do you think?"
    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 21.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-10-27 01:20 am (UTC)(link)
    His eyes follow her first — in his way he's always watched her and always been too many steps behind for his liking. But everyone is like that, and no one is special. That's what he likes. She never treated him differently from anyone else he met just because he was a Capsicle.

    'No,' he answers. 'Never. There's worth in the process.'
    tothefly: (hrm)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-10-29 04:19 am (UTC)(link)
    She is what she is. What she is, is many things. But always honest, with him. At least, she doesn't lie outright. Just bends the truth, shades and colors it until it doesn't look like anything real anymore. Truth isn't black and white, anyway. It's an Escher painting. A Rorshach test. Truth is what you make it. So is self.

    So she considers him, tilts her head, shifts her posture into something a little more like a casual stance. A little more like the woman she is awake.

    "The process. You make it sound like evolution. So what exactly are you becoming?"
    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 07.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-10-29 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
    What is he becoming? Someone he doesn't much like. Someone empty and cold, born from war and loss and grief. Someone both the Natashas he knows think could be a good man anyway.

    'Wrong question,' he tells her. 'I am and I have always been James Barnes. It's just which part of him is real and when.'
    tothefly: (Default)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-10-29 05:02 pm (UTC)(link)

    He could be a good man. Was a good man, once, still is inside. Maybe he doesn't have the distance and perspective to see that, but she does. Easier from the outside, without the past to haunt you, without guilt and regret to seep in around the edges and recolor your memories. Granted, she's got memories of her own involving him, or a version of him. That may color her own perspective a little, but not enough to change her opinion.

    "We're all made of different parts. Different people at different times.That's part of the act," she tells him. "Just because you play one part more than the others doesn't make those other parts less real."

    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 66.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-10-29 05:08 pm (UTC)(link)
    'The machine always has all the components,' he replies, quietly, nodding. 'But I never said one part borrowed nothing from the others. The lines aren't that clear.'

    With people, they never are. Because that's the truth. All the men he's been over the years; their true north is Steve and it's what he circles back to, caught in the orbit of a star that's no longer there.
    tothefly: (Default)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-03 05:35 pm (UTC)(link)

    "Lines aren't clear, parts aren't clear. What is clear, to you? There must be something. You have all these answers you don't even have to think about. Means that you've answered these questions before, for yourself or for someone else." Her words are almost musing, more a wondering he's privy to than the next line in a conversation. "What makes you tick?"

    Something that waking Natasha would never ask, but has perhaps been wondering herself.

    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 07.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-03 11:40 pm (UTC)(link)
    Steve.

    The answer is Steve. He makes things clear. He blots out the corners and he draws the line: he makes it simple to pick a side. The best role Jim ever played was his friend and he keeps trying, and falling short of it.

    Steve is kept safely away in a place with high walls and secrets, where no one can touch him to taint the memory.

    'Tomorrow,' he answers. It's a half-truth, but he can't give her the whole one. Not even Natasha, who he has come to trust, never mind that he would've anyway, because of what he owes her. 'I want to see which part is real tomorrow. And the day after. Maybe it will be good, and worth it.' He pauses, then, 'You know what I am.'
    tothefly: (Default)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-04 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)

    She keeps her memories of Steve on the highest shelf. He can see that much for himself. Steve does make things clearer, doesn't he? He doesn't just draw the line, he is the line. Everyone else just...falls a little short. She can respect that, admire it, even, though she knows better now than to try to measure up herself. She'll never come close.

    And anyway, his answer's good enough, isn't it? Keep going for tomorrow. Maybe it's not all the answer, but it's enough. "I know enough," she allows after a moment. "Even if I'm still learning. You know what I am, too. Layers on layers. Like the nesting dolls." She points them out, two shelves below, nestled inside what looks like a ripped and slightly charred black jumpsuit.

    redactions: ([ ca: cw ] 67.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-05 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
    'Parts of a book no one can read,' he replies, after a moment of thought himself. 'I have a paragraphs. Maybe a chapter. Never everything.' And he doesn't need everything. Only enough to know the role.

    But this feels like permission, and yet he hesitates before pointing to them. This is as good a time as any. 'May I?'
    tothefly: (yeah I know)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-05 03:07 am (UTC)(link)
    It's as good an analogy as any. She nods, and it may as well be an answer to both comments. She never has the full story, either. She's still writing the chapters.

    "May as well. Otherwise, you'll always wonder." She sits on the edge of the shelf, toe shoes dangling childlike, as she props herself up on her arms, waiting. Will he take them?
    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 07.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-05 03:09 am (UTC)(link)
    He reaches forward with his inhuman hand, and picks up the dolls, handling them with infinite care.
    tothefly: (put you on hold)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-05 03:19 am (UTC)(link)
    The dolls are light, barely weighing anything, the size of his doubled fists, maybe. There's a faint rattle as something moves inside it--presumably more dolls. The first one he separates comes apart easily, with a whispering sigh and a faint puff of scented sawdust. It reveals only another doll.

    The second one, when he separates its halves, comes apart with the sound of voices. A car engine. If he holds it close, he can hear two voices--both familiar, having a conversation he's coming in on the middle of. Doll-Natasha doesn't seem to mind, only cocks her head and listens along, feet swinging.
    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 02.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-05 03:24 am (UTC)(link)
    He puts the shell back on the shelf, with equal care, and turns the second doll over in his hands. It's like he's sitting in the back of the car, only half-listening, and his eyes are on Steve — on the tension in his body, the lines of his face. We're borrowing, he says, and Jim laughs. Typical. Oh, this is Steve, alive, and — the rest can come later.

    When it fades Jim's arm is stretched out, trying to grasp the ghost. A smile haunts him.

    'I always got him dates. Taking my job, Romanoff?'
    tothefly: (Default)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-05 06:15 pm (UTC)(link)

    She watches the look on his face almost hungrily, watching how his expression changes at the sound of Steve's voice. She'd known they were close. This is just a reminder of that, confirmation she didn't need but still wants. Good to know that some things were true no matter where you went, no matter what universe you're in. The sun rises and sets, the world turns, and Steve Rogers and James Barnes are...what they are. Friends, partners, brothers.

    She shrugs, smile curving her lips laced with rue.

    "He's a good guy. Good guys deserve a little happiness now and then. And good guys like Steve Rogers shouldn't be spending their Saturday nights alone."

    He's still holding the dolls in his hand. There's clearly more of them inside this one. Does he dare go further?

    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 35.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-07 01:04 pm (UTC)(link)
    She has always been a predator, and he lets her look. All this costs is nothing — he's Steve's, and there's so few people in the world who know Steve Rogers anymore.

    'He's the best guy,' Jim corrects her, but it's not firm, just an opinion. 'The best there is. Yeah, he shouldn't be spendin' his life alone, but he always kept his own counsel. Stubborn ass.'

    He sighs, heavily, and opens the next, putting the bigger doll next to the largest one where it was on the shelf.
    tothefly: (over there)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-10 04:09 am (UTC)(link)
    "Sometimes he listens. Sometimes he shouldn't, but he does." A shrug. He knows, better than she does. Better than anyone.

    The next memory is much like the first. This one, though, is less subtle, almost jarring--like it's his back hitting the wall, like it's his heart racing with adrenaline. Fear. Anticipation. Who to trust? Who to tell? Her secrets are kept safe, she has the key to a dozen locks, even if she doesn't have them all--and it only takes a moment for her to decide to share. Just this one, with him. One of her most important secrets.

    "I only act like I know everything, Rogers."

    The doll murmurs the words along with her larger waking self, voice almost unnoticeable. She waits, again, for him. There are more dolls, more answers if he cares to look. If he isn't afraid of what he'll see.
    redactions: ([ ca: cw ] 67.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-10 04:16 am (UTC)(link)
    Exhaling, Jim steadies himself through the next memory, careful to separate himself from her, facing Steve. Stop lying, and he shudders, then smiles. Ever the weapon of intent, disarming an angry man. People don't act rationally and predictably when they're angry. They can tug too hard at the strings.

    He's been suspicious of her, angry with her, cared for her. But never afraid, not any more than he fears his own reflection. You hurt me, so I hurt you back. Training, she'd said to him, once. There is no fear left.

    Never afraid. He opens the next doll.
    tothefly: (genuine)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-10 04:46 am (UTC)(link)
    He knows who and what she is. That memory should be less of a surprise, though she can see it's not exactly a happy thought. The next one, though...the next one begins oddly. Blurs of sound, lights and colors slowly resolving into shapes. Screams, gunfire, explosions, people running, the feeling of breath coming hard and fast. And finally, silence, as she waits. The fight, hard blows and more blurs. Glimpses of a face. Eyes. A metal arm.

    There's the pain of a gunshot, pain that echoes in lesser quantity through his own shoulder, radiating outwards, sharp and hot. The rest after Steve runs in is just sounds. Sounds of fighting, sounds of her own harsh breathing, half-muffled curses in half a dozen languages.

    It ends with Steve's voice, cracked, disbelieving. 'Bucky?'
    It ends with a familiar voice and unfamiliar cadences. 'Who the hell is Bucky?'

    It ends in silence. She waits, and this time it seems there's something more expected. There are more memories, but this...this seems to be an important one. He has to stop, at least for a moment.
    redactions: ([ ca: tfa ] 20.)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-11 02:51 pm (UTC)(link)
    He's been here before, in another life, as another man. It was silent then, the sound faded out, and the faces other than the targets blurry. Unimportant. Everything is in colour, here. Too much is alive. Of course, she tells people to get out of the way. There's a murderous kiss on her stomach that's one reason why.

    He's a winter soldier himself. He doesn't stop, not for anything. Yet, he's a dancer too, and he follows the music of their unspoken, shared speech.

    'She told me about the scar, when I asked,' he says, to Natasha, quietly. 'We played a lot of games; one of 'em you know. A secret for a secret. Dunno why she fell back on that, I only had a single one to share and she already guessed it. I haven't given her all of it, though God knows she's more than earned it.'

    Who the hell is Bucky? Good question. Maybe the only question worth asking. He looks at her, and his shoulders drop. 'I'm sorry. Not because I wouldn't've hurt you if I had to, but because I would.'
    tothefly: (thinking hard)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-13 08:19 am (UTC)(link)
    "My secrets aren't really secrets to you, are they? She's shared them all with you before you even knew I existed." Her words are thoughtful, not necessarily directed at him. Maybe directed at the ghost of that other woman who's always haunting him. The one he always seems to see just behind her at unexpected moments. "I wonder."

    Her focus shifts directly to him, then, and like that other Natasha, this one also seems to know his secrets. There's nothing but an unspoken honesty in her eyes, a sort of clarity her waking self might not want to share. "I know you would. We both do what we have to, don't we?" They're the same, in a way. She doesn't hold it against him.
    redactions: (tfa { in a way I'm yearning)

    [personal profile] redactions 2015-11-13 12:21 pm (UTC)(link)
    'Not all. You're not her.' He shrugs, and doesn't stand down or flinch under her gaze. There's no reason (any longer) to balk. She'd do the fair thing; they often have the same definition of fair. 'Let's just say a lot of it won't surprise me, but that's not because of her, either. We've been a lot of people: I'm two, most often, and you're many.'
    tothefly: (Default)

    [personal profile] tothefly 2015-11-19 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)

    "And sometimes, we're the same," she replies with a wry twist of smile. Acknowledgement. They both are practical people. They do what they must. And yet there's something else to this. Not just acknowledgement. She trusts him to do what has to be done. She doesn't trust lightly. Gesturing towards the painting behind him, she waves.

    "Exit's on your six. I'll see you out there."

    After all, what else is there to say?