driftfleet | Calibrations Spill-Over Post

[ Something changes the moment the vault gains a visitor. Numerous people have come and gone with little effect. As soon as the door shuts with a very audible groan and click as the lock slots back into place. The static raises in volume, a whining shriek on its edge. Winter's gaze locks on Steve, watching him over the edges of the heavy, black mask. He does cease his pacing, though it still does not take away the tension building- much like an animal settling into fight or flight. Instead, his shoulders tense as he dips his head toward his chin.

Do you know me? Knowing isn't the word he would use to describe it. He knows protocol. His mission. Steve is... distantly familiar. Very clearly the face in HYDRA's dossiers. Nothing more than a fact. Information with no real feeling attached to it. Steve doesn't come alive in the fractured shambles of his memory..

Not like the Steve Jim talks so highly of. The short, frail man with the heart of gold. Who was everything; like how he imagines the sun would feel after weeks of grey skies and thunderstorms. Secretly, Winter lives vicariously through Jim's-- their-- shared memories, though he's not been blessed with anything so wonderful.

He frowns, eyebrows creasing as he considers the response, the room around them. This could very well be all in his head, a game of some sort. He assesses Steve quickly, eyes snapping down, then back up before settling on his face as he flickers around the edges again. ]

[ He chooses his words carefully. ]

I know of you.

[The words are deliberate. Real and solid and Steve closes his eyes briefly against the howling winter gale they evoke, the static screech that's too much, too loud. He can feel the nails-on-a-chalkboard banshee wail reverberate in his bones like the impact of a mortar strike. Yet somehow, holding fast against it is the easiest thing he's ever done.

He hasn't prayed in years, found faith for much of anything, but he remembers hitting the water. He remembers thinking it'd be ironic after everything if he drowned for real, and not having the energy or wherewithal to care about the burn of water in his lungs.

He doesn't remember the beach. Natasha was the one who told him between idle snaps of gum that they'd found him there and there was a single set of bootprints leading away. He didn't ask, and she didn't confirm it, but he knew.

He knows now: Bucky won't kill him.]

Do you mind if I'm-- [he falls silent, the words a struggle. Then,] here? If we talk?

[His voice is soft. It might kill him, but he'd leave if Bucky asked him to. Dignity of his choice, Peggy had said, lifetimes ago. He hasn't forgotten it, no matter how badly he wants to pull his best friend into a hug and never let him go again.]

[ Winter inclines his head , glancing toward the locked door. They're both stuck, or at least he is. He's not sure if Steve would be able to come and go or if he was caught as well. They really don't have a choice. Of course, the entire room doesn't have room for much choice, either.]

You can try to leave.

[ It isn't exactly a threat, but the meaning is enough, he thinks. If he couldn't get out himself, he very much doubted Steve would be able to, either. Winter shifts to one side so he can attempt it, even.

All things considered, the area in front of the door is the safest to be. Winter offers the shake of his head. Talking really is the least of his worries, especially for where they are at the moment. Steve isn't the worst person that could be there, he thinks.

He hopes. If he's being completely honest with himself, he doesn't know how he feels about him being there. On one hand, this is Jim's Steve. No-- their Steve. Winter still has trouble making the connection. His wires are crossed; frayed beyond help. Mending them together is a temporary solution. ]

Edited (because reasons..) 2015-11-24 04:45 (UTC)

[His left hand twitches, an echo of a time he didn't reach far enough or fast enough to make a difference. The guilt has eaten him alive these last few years. Hollowed him out, stripped him down and laid him bare. Somewhere out there, there's a universe that spared the better man.

There's a faint furrow to his brow, he clears his throat before he speaks,]

That's not what I asked. I don't want to leave.

[ The better man was spared. Someone as good as Steve didn't deserve anything resembling the contents of the vault. Nobody did.

The noise draws him to attention, and he straightens a fraction.

Why the hell doesn't he want to leave? Winter can't very well leave, but he actually wants to stay. It's not really something he can comprehend. It clicks into place, like something hazy. His eyes focus past Steve and on the chair sitting too-innocently in the corner of the room.

It's odd.. He remembers the memory, but not the actual context of what it contains. ]

You were on the bridge.

[Steve doesn't need to track the Soldier's eyes to know where he's looking. That chair is a thing of nightmares now, and he's well aware he only knows the half of it. Instead, his jaw tightens incrementally and he nods.]

I was.

[He intends to leave it at that. Succinct, like the snap of a bone. He's trying to be careful, to respect what James had told him, but Steve isn't built to handle his best friend.]

I didn't realize you'd-- known me. Then.

I didn't.

[ He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge the memory from its confines, but the rest of it remains stuck like tar. It wasn't so much that he knew who Steve was-- only that he felt familiar in a way that he couldn't recall ever truly feeling before. Like he'd just caught sight of home after a long journey.

Of course, he could have hardly recognized that at the time. It was only when he'd started to get the words out that things had started forming shape instead of intangible mists passing through his fingers.

Winter looks back to Steve again in contemplation. He may be staring, but he can't find it in him to really care unless he says something about it. ]

...Just knew I wasn't supposed to shoot you.

[His mouth twists, it's by some sheer act of will it transmutes to a half smile.]

I'll take it.

['Not shoot you' has variable definitions. He survived a few of the finer points of it, but any one of those shots could have killed him and didn't. The leg shot missed the artery, the chest shot missed the heart. The back shot missed the lung.

Bucky was fighting more than just him on the Hellicarrier. He knows.]

What's he-- what's James told you about me?

[ The question throws his thoughts off their axis, and immediately, he's suspicious of Steve's motives. It takes more than a few seconds to talk himself out of being aggressive about it. That's not how people-- he's-- supposed to act. It's a simple question, but it feels more like an invasion.

Winter mulls it over carefully, his appearance flickering like a stubborn light that refuses to stay illuminated. ]

He's told me plenty.

[ He's heard such wonderful stories about Steve in the many nights they spent camped out in Jim's office. From Coney Island to the Howling Commandos, the picture he pained was always warm and bright. Yet at this very moment, he doesn't really feel.. any of that. He can't place what the feeling is, either.. ]

[All right, so that's a misstep. Clumsy, heavy-handed. He's spent the last year reading everything he could get his hands on, how to deal with the closest analogues to this trauma the world has to offer, he's talked to vets and POWs, he's listened to Sam, wrestled with all his own demons. But here, confronted with the reality of it all, he realizes how little he's actually learned. This man isn't his best friend any more than the James Barnes that wears his colours is, but the only thing they can't fix is death. They can come back from this.

His heart's been breaking by degrees for years, but in this room the realization of it is like learning how exhausted you are only when you stop moving. Loving with a broken heart is no more a hardship to him than walking on a broken bone. He has a knack for healing, and an iron will.

Steve looks down at his hands. Turns them over, curls the pads of his fingers loosely against his palm and then lets them go slack.]

I'm sorry. I'm not-- I've never been good. At this.

[Bucky was the one who brought people back from the edge, in from the cold. Steve was the one who could convince the sick and weary to fight. He could inspire - and he'll admit to having taken advantage of it more than once - but his hands are not a healer's, the currency of his soul is sundered.

Maybe he should have taken the memory that James had offered.

He keeps his attention elsewhere, focused on his hands. His shoulders are slack. It's not a posture of defeat, but it's certainly one that suggests no will to fight. He'd go right to his knees if he thought it would help.]

Is there anything you'd like to ask me?

[ The apology is unexpected. Something that still takes getting used to. It's a simple enough right, but it still like listening to a radio station that isn't set to the right frequency. It makes sense, but doesn't resonate as clearly. Winter shrugs it off, shifting his position so that his back isn't immediately to the door.

Merely a tactical advantage. ]

I wouldn't know.

[ There's no frame of reference for knowing Steve- not in this aspect, anyway. The fact that he's not looking for a fight does help, but being unsure about how to proceed isn't making things any easier. Does he not want to search the room like the others before him have? He's asking questions that he doesn't know the answer to. Can't foresee the answer that Steve wants to hear. ]

Negative.

[He won't call it a dead end. Just-- not the right back alley.]

Then is there anything you'd like me to see?

[ He nods toward the room, moving to stand in front of the door again. ]

What do you want to see?

[ Really, anything that Steve can touch without having to unlock isn't for him to police.. Even the more unpleasant things. ]

[They're a dichotomy of questions. Steve doesn't want to take, but Bucky doesn't want to give. There's a balance to be struck, some highwire balancing act on the edge of a knife. If he slips, how far will he fall?

He's never been afraid of heights, and he is nothing like Hydra. Resolve is a wisp of smoke in him, it curls its inelegant hands along the lines of his bones. He sets his jaw.]

What's the oldest memory you have?

[ Their balancing act is one without solid rules to it. Not in this room. There is only so far that Steve can fall, even if he asks the wrong questions. Unfortunately for him, Winter isn't exactly sure on the timing of some of the memories he has access to.

However, two stick solidly out to him, and he reaches out to offer two small brass keys to Steve. They're antiqued, and in a room full of these boxes, he could be in for a long night. As soon as he touches them, though, he'll know exactly which one of the four they belong to.

Inside will be two old film reels, which he will somehow know how to operate. Two memories may seem pretty hopeful, though it's best he not get his hopes up too much. ]

[He takes them. God help him, he takes them and hates the weight of them, the way his fingers close over the skeleton brass, the fact that instinct tells him which lock they open. He feels sick with anticipation, but he doesn't shy away, back down. He's not one for flinching.

Instead, he approaches the boxes. Opens the leftmost one first, and gently lifts out the celluloid reel. He knows how to thread a projector (a short-lived job when he was seventeen) and he does it deftly, sets it up and steps back. Whatever the contents, he'll see it through to the end.]</small.

[ The picture spread across the wall of deposit boxes warps it even further, but it starts up with the faraway melody of a piano. The picture comes into focus- a stretch of mahogany, a nearly empty shot glass, and a shaking hand. Your hand.

You knock back the whiskey and it's strong and bitter; just how you like it if your throat weren't quite so raw. Someone is in front of you, but behind the bar. He says something, but it's muffled, out of focus. Looking to his face, there are no features. He asks you something again, but you can't follow.

The picture flickers, skipping itself. The same song is playing and there are rowdy voices singing along. You can pick up the purposeful stride of Agent Carter walking into the room.

The muffled voices start up again, but now, clear as day, Then what are we waiting for? You know that it's your voice you hear. Her voice cuts, with just enough mercy to leave you your dignity.

The right dance partner.

The film ends, reel spinning noisily and the white light still casts its glow upon the wall. ]

[He watches it, attention keen on every detail. One arm is braced across his abdomen (over an old wound that didn't scar, but he's trying not to think about that) and supporting his opposite elbow in his palm. His right hand is cupping his jaw, index finger splayed across his mouth.

He watches until the film rattles through its reel, and then he reaches out to still the machine very gently.]

Did you-- want to know? About the rest? What happened?

I know how it ends.

[ He can assume what happens in the middle- it isn't important right now.

Moving slowly along the wall, his steps are silent, though they definitely shouldn't be in this room. He steps into the nook, surveying the dissonance. Once he's found what he's looking for, his hand wraps around another reel, this one covered in dust and a bit of frost at the edges.

With a flicker, he's over to the projector, replacing the films. His eyes dart over to Steve's face before he flips the switch.

The noise of the wind whipping about your face, the crisp, biting cold of wind as it howls past. The roaring clatter of a train travelling far too fast, shaking in place. Below you is nothing but a sea of sharp grey and biting white.

Your hands are gripping a bar so tightly you feel that you may break it in half. Your heart hammering so painfully against your chest that you can feel it in your arms. Your legs shake, feet trying to find a solid footing.

It's okay, it's okay. It's fine. Steve is right there..

He's reaching out for you, but something is off about his face. It's forgettable. Glance away and you'll have forgotten what he looks like. You compensate your grip so you can extend your arm to grab onto his hand.

It's so close, you're almost in the home stretch. You can go home and laugh about this later.

Your fingers are an inch away from touching his when the bar you're holding gives a sickening lurch as it breaks free. You think you hear him scream, but it's your own tearing its way out your throat as you plummet.

His face falls out of view so quickly, it feels like a dream. The memory fades out with a sickening crunch and a jerk, blinding agony ripping up your left side. You've never felt anything quite so painful before. All of your broken bones pale in comparison. ]

[That memory is always vivid, always fresh for him. He relives it in technicolour. Mostly, he can fight it back down. But sometimes-- something as simple as the touch of a hand to frozen metal, the way cold wind can sting the eyes, having his boot lose its purchase when he's climbing, the shriek of metal on metal-- sometimes, all it takes is one small thing to bring him right back into it.

Having an eidetic memory has been a blessing and a curse over the years. But there'd been no real fear in Bucky's eyes until Steve reached for him and missed. Bare inches between their fingers and they'd never been farther apart. Funny, though, he doesn't remember screaming as Bucky fell.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, he reaches up unabashed to scrub a hand across his face. His shoulders draw up once, settle back down in something that's too controlled to be a muffled sob.]

I see. Thanks for-- for showing me.

[ Stony silence follows, and Winter does nothing more than nod once. He doesn't really understand why Steve is thanking him for showing something unpleasant.. It's very backwards.

Although, he does think very briefly about soothing the sting with a fond memory, though he's not certain he's ready to share his memories of Jim with a complete stranger.

Of course, he's not actually a stranger, his mind supplies. He knows as much, but it's certainly what it feels like. He shifts, glancing around the chilled room once again. He knows no one else will show up. It's the contents of the room that are the most unsettling. Reaching up, he takes the mask off his face and tosses it to the ground. ]

I don't know what else you want to see.

[ Steve may not want to jump any further down that particular rabbit hole. Especially with all the things he's already uncovered. ]

[His attention follows the fall of that mask. It falls like a heavy weight, and doesn't bounce.

His fingers flex, it's the same gesture as when he grips the straps of his shield. Only there is no shield here, there's only the vault, this room, the creeping cold.]

Would it be all right if we just talked?

[He sounds younger. Uncertain, almost, and for all that he's thought that little Stevie Rogers never came out of the ice, it's not a surprise to him that it takes Jim Barnes to reach into it, across time and space, and pull the ghost of him up out of the ocean.]

..That's fine.

[ Talking is rather harmless considering his current company. Maybe if it were anyone else, he'd be more hesitant to accept. After all, what harm could be done that hasn't already been done? There's nothing to be worried about.

Only that's not quite true, is it? There's always going to be something nagging at the back of his mind. For now, though, he can push it away and focus on the man in front of him.

The static spikes in volume for a brief moment before lowering to a much more tolerable level. It can almost be ignored, now. ]

[He hadn't. Quite expected him to agree, so Steve sort of draws a heavy breath, holds it. Lets it out.]

You know, I ain't the biggest fan of apples. What about you?

[Oh, he still enjoys pie, but it's just more for the nostalgia, more because he misses his Ma than for the taste. Too many rotted in the streets of Brooklyn back when the Farmer's Association was trying to hock their wares during the Depression. Five cents per, you think anyone could afford that? So they'd drop their prices as they rotted, until the vendors were just desperate to make back a margin of the buck-twenty-five they'd spent on the whole bushel, and you could get 'em real cheap. Whole apartment smelled like applesauce for months, and as a result? He'll eat 'em, sure. Can't abide the waste. But God help him, he halfway hates the things.]

[ Honestly, what choice does he have trapped in a bank vault? He can either avoid it, wary of his surroundings while people prod at his memories, or he can concede and not have to think about where exactly that they're trapped.

Winter mulls the question over, before coming up with a blank. He can't remember apples. He knows what they look like as well as their smell, courtesy of Jim's memories, but anything regarding taste is completely lost. He shakes his head, eyes flicking up to Steve's. ]

I don't know.

Calibrations Spill-Over Post

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