Voices from Heaven (
thespaceopera) wrote in
driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am
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Entry tags:
- !event,
- ahsoka tano,
- coil lenn,
- margaret "peggy" carter,
- nami,
- natasha romanoff,
- nelkeila tarid,
- nyssa al ghul,
- octavia blake,
- one,
- phèdre nó delaunay de montrève,
- r. daneel olivaw,
- rapunzel,
- remy lebeau,
- riku,
- robin redbreast,
- rogue,
- santanico pandemonium,
- shawn hunter,
- sokka,
- stefan salvatore,
- steve rogers (ou),
- steven quartz universe,
- stiles stilinski,
- syeira,
- tadashi hamada,
- tekhetsio,
- the vision,
- vash the stampede,
- vima sunrider,
- wanda maximoff,
- wrath,
- yamanaka ino
...And also these.
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"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?"
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'No,' he answers. 'Never. There's worth in the process.'
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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?"
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'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.'
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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."
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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.
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"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.
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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.'
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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.
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But this feels like permission, and yet he hesitates before pointing to them. This is as good a time as any. 'May I?'
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"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?
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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.
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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?'
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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?
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'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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.'
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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.
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"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?