driftfleet | 02. | All lies and jests; still a man hears what he wants to hear

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02. | All lies and jests; still a man hears what he wants to hear

Who: (Winter Soldier) Bucky Barnes (

sinistral)
Broadcast: No
Action: Yes; SS Starduck, SS Iskaulit, B'lire
When: From the start of the post-calibrations drift to visiting the new planet

SS STARDUCK
→ Reacclimation;

The time spent aboard the Marsiva had been uncomfortable, to put it politely. Bucky still doesn't believe it, not really, when they're returned to their own ships; it comes with staying awake for the first twenty-four hours just to make sure this isn't a dream or a trick of the mind. Considering the state of his mind, he's not entirely convinced, but it does seem a little bit elaborate to just be a part of the Calibrations.

And if this is truly the ship, if they are truly back to what passes for daily life around here, then it has to start with checking over everything. Maybe he's taking the whole idea of Security a bit too literally but now that he's had some time to think about it, he can only conclude that his presence and assignment here is due only to what he is. What HYDRA turned him into has made him valuable; if he performs his role well, perhaps the switch inside his brain won't be flipped. So for that reason he's combing all of the ships nooks and crannies, looking for anything that might be out of order or out of (what passes for) the ordinary. He won't enter a crewmate's quarters without being asked to do so though; he sees it as too much an invasion of privacy.

When he's finally satisfied and no longer has that activity to occupy his mind, Bucky heads to the workout area in the cargo bay. He doesn't know which former crewmembers had seen to the upgrades of the equipment there, but he's thankful to be able to take advantage of it once more. And, judging by the force behind his punches, to do his best to attempt to break it. There's a lot of frustration to work out, enough so that it's definitely palpable. Call him out on it? Try to keep up? Pity the amount of protein solid he's going to have to consume to compensate for all those burned calories?

SS ISKAULIT
→ Work It Out;

Bucky really only has one goal in mind in coming to the Iskaulit: to push himself in a way he can't with the limited facilities on the Starduck, to force the body into exhaustion since the brain won't accept any other sort of quiet. That it's not the healthiest pursuit doesn't matter. As long as it works, it's fine. And he'll make it work.

He tries to choose odd hours if possible, hours that coincide with the times he'd expect most people to be sleeping and the facility to be empty. It doesn't always work in his favor but as long as there's a heavy bag or a speedbag available he stays, alternating time spent against the bag with weights. And if the facility appears too busy for his liking, he simply leaves with the intention of returning later.

→ Art Appreciation;

Though most of his time spent aboard the Iskaulit is spent in the gym, it's not the only reason Bucky visits. He hardly appreciates heavy-handed attempts at steering his actions but whether it had been the Vision, or the Atroma acting through the Vision, the scene he'd been shown of the mural aboard the Iskaulit has not faded from his memory. That in and of itself is significant enough for him to seek out the mural he'd been shown, to find its location and maybe figure out why it's so important.

Seeing it doesn't bring him any answers.

It's a nice enough work of art he supposes; he's not one for appreciation of the arts, and he's got no skill in them himself. He can draw a rough map though, so the next time he visits, he brings along a journal and starts copying down that section of the wall he was shown aboard the Marsiva, mapping it out in rough lines on the paper. It's not a good drawing, more a diagram than anything else, but it's good enough for his purposes, good enough for him to write down his thoughts (questions, mostly) on the next few pages. And it's a good enough place to sit quietly, back against the wall because even here, in a place that's supposed to be peaceful, he's defensive and closed off more than anything else.

PLANETSIDE
→ Hunting;

It's more than a literal breath of fresh air to get off the ships and onto solid ground again. It's not that Bucky doesn't do well with being cooped up; it's more that the close quarters with others — even his shipmates — and the happenings on board the Marsiva have him feeling like a caged animal. And like a caged animal, his first instinct is to lash out; fortunately, the punching bags have held up against such expulsion of energy. So far, anyway.

Fortunately, this system's planet seems well suited to his kind of stress relief.

He's a regular in the wooded areas both for the exercise of hiking and the action of hunting. Ghosts or supernatural beings or whatever, he'll keep an eye out for them just fine, but it's the more substantial creatures that he makes his prey. People are willing to pay both for pelts and for the meat from carcasses; it seems a good use of his time.

→ Shopping;

Man certainly can't stay in the woods all the time and while Bucky's no stranger to wilderness survival, it'd be foolish not to take advantage of the offerings available via trade. And not all goods are physical; there's certainly something to be said for the pursuit of information, even though little enough of it seems to pertain to anything outside of this world's particular customs. Still he asks, here and there, unsatisfied by the answers but unwilling to stop trying.

He's examining wares at a particular establishment, carefully testing the weight and balance of a hunting knife while keeping half his attention on the conversations of the building's other occupants. It's when he overhears stories of a metallic man that he decides to take his leave; local legend or not, it definitely sounds like something he'd rather avoid being tangled up in and he's glad to have kept the habit of wearing long sleeves and gloves when going planetside. It's just easier to avoid the questions that he doesn't want to answer.

WILDCARD
→ Elsewhere;

Did we discuss something and I forgot? Have another idea? I'm open to almost anything, hit me up via PM or at

sometimesamuse and we'll figure out out. I do write starters in prose but if you prefer brackets I'm happy to match.

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"It won't flee, though? I suppose without someone to stitch it, it won't survive." It's a grim topic, yes, but one Sansa needs to know front and back if she's going to survive a winter that is likely to be longer than any she's seen before. She tries to think about what would happen if she did the same to a man, sliced across instead of punctured, and the man has the face of all the men who have hurt her.

"I suppose I'll be wanting a bow if I attempt to take down something like a bear. I don't want to be within arms' length of that like I would a deer."

"It may flee, or it may charge; a wounded animal can be unpredictable. But if it flees you may have luck following it, and as its strength wanes you can finish it off more cleanly." He knows he shouldn't be imparting this knowledge on her, but he truly believes she means to use it for the hunting of beasts, not of men.

Then again, there have been men in her life worth killing.

"I can't train you with a bow, but some of the concept of shooting a gun will translate. Still, maybe we should seek out someone here with the knowledge and see about buying something with which to practice back on the ships."

“We don’t have the ability to make guns in Westeros. War would be even more deadly if we had them. It’s bad enough with swords and bows, I think.”

Still, just being in the Fleet doesn’t always guarantee her safety so if Bucky wants to teach her with guns, Sansa wants to learn. There’s no danger in learning.

“Once the animal flees and breathes its last, I track it down so I can clean and dress it, yes?”

"The firearms on the ships are guns though. I at least want to teach you how check to make sure they're safe to handle and how to safely handle them. You don't ever have to use one, but you should be aware of basic safety in regard to them." And the concepts of aiming should translate at least loosely, so it might be a good place for them to start.

He nods both at her words and at how she wields the knife against the carcass in their laps. "Exactly so. If it's close enough to your home it may be worth taking the whole carcass back and having the kitchens do the work but if you're afield then you probably want to field dress it, for which you'll likely have help from those with you too."

"Jim has taught me a little about how to use them," Sansa says. She knows basically how to hold one, anyway, but had not gone far in her lessons since there are no guns in Westeros and she's not likely to come to harm here in the Fleet. Men here don't seem to be the same as the ones back home.

"If you'd teach me how to aim and use one, I could defend myself if something happened here. Nothing has ever attacked me on one of the ships in the Fleet but that doesn't mean it couldn't, only that it hasn't."

"I can teach you." Especially if they're unable to get their hands on a bow for her, or unable to find a space for her to practice. "At least enough for self defense."

Which is a good idea in general, and Bucky thinks he should probably check with the rest of the crew of their ship to see if anyone else needs to learn. He knows that Connor is proficient with the weapons, and he himself is, but basic lessons in safety and handling may not go amiss among the other crew members. Which aren't that many, now that he thinks about it, but it's fine. He likes that their ship isn't crowded, and privately hopes it stays that way.

"We should look for a knife for you too, one for fighting instead of hunting, and incorporate it into the lessons I've been giving you." The ones where he's been pushing her hard and hasn't been unaware of the soreness in her muscles, but she's risen to the challenge thus far (even if it has come with some fierce glares from her eyes).

Sansa doesn't complain about how the training hurts. She wishes that her father or Jon or Robb or someone had thought to give her the tools to defend herself instead of relying on the notion of some noble knight or gentle lord to do it for her. There's no noble knights or gentle lords, not at all, and she'd been left with nothing but a lady's hands to defend herself with against someone who should never have attacked her in the first place. If she isn't safe in a marriage, where is she safe? Nowhere.

Sansa trusts Tyrion because he's proven himself to her but it's occurred to her on more than one occasion that if his attentions turned too sharp, he's too small to fight against her. She has height and weight on him and she could flee, if she must. She hates thinking that way about someone that she loves but after everything, after Ramsay, she thinks that about everyone she sees. She likes to think she's safe with Bucky and Jim too and, most of the time, she feels that way but she still looks for the little weaknesses and tells in case something goes awry.

"Guns don't require you to be stronger than the other person. They only require you to be able to aim and shoot. Even a lady like me could manage to kill someone with one of those."

"I could stop bullets with my left hand," he says quietly, "and move fast enough to disarm you." It's not meant to berate her, but rather to illustrate a point. He is one such person who could do so; the Fleet may contain others as well. And while Bucky's strength is unusual for sure, one does not necessarily need to be super powered to overpower another. The element of surprise is a strong weapon indeed.

"And you've said that your home does not have guns besides. Having practice pulling a knife if you are cornered can only be a benefit." Never mind the fact that he hopes she'd never have to. He just doesn't want her to hesitate if she does.

"I want to learn the knife," Sansa agrees. "It's easier to conceal such a weapon than a gun anyway."

If someone is so close to her as that, she'll want the knife to put the distance between them. When Bucky mentions he could stop bullets with his left hand and disarm her, she reaches out and touches the metal lightly.

"I suppose this is going to sound stupid," Sansa says, fingertips going down the length of his arm to his elbow. "But I forget about it. Just as I forget about Tyrion being a dwarf sometimes. I forget that this arm isn't flesh and blood, Bucky. You're the same as everyone else, to my eyes."

"We'll look for one more suited for combat than hunting." He pauses, considering. "And of a design as similar as possible to something you'd see at home." So that if she's sent back there, she'll be prepared to use what she can find.

The touch surprises him and he has to look at her fingers in order to follow the progress because it's so light. "It's not stupid," he says finally. He knows his arm is the source of many questions and many speculations. It's been the source of much pain. There are times that Bucky hates it, and hates that he's come to rely on it. A statement so sincerely presented though means more than he could have anticipated and for the moment takes his attention away from cleaning their kill and their talk of killing.

Eventually he uses his other hand to cover hers, to guide her to a firmer touch. "Like this," he says; underneath her fingers, she'll be able to feel the shifting of the metal plates as he flexes his forearm. "It's harder to feel something so light."

"It's truly a wonder. I know you must feel complicated about it," Sansa says, pressing so she can feel how it moves. "But there's nothing like this in Westeros. If a man loses a hand or an arm, there's no way to replace it. He's crippled permanently. There's a swordsman, a good one, who lost his sword hand. He had to learn to fight left handed."

No matter her feelings on the Kingslayer, he is a consummate swordsman and that skill is one to be admired.

"My brother, Bran, fell from a tower when he was small. He lost the use of his legs. I wonder what they might have done for him in a world like yours with wonders like these."

"It is complicated." He's quiet for a moment as she explores, as she talks a little about her home. She's mentioned the differences in technology, so it doesn't surprise him that something like this comes as a wonder. Even in his own world he's something unique, miles beyond the prosthesis that most people see. "It's not a pleasant story."

But neither has her own been; he's seen evidence of that. "I wouldn't wish my experiences on him. But something simpler that would allow him to walk again? Our medicine may have made it possible."

"I don't see you any differently," Sansa says again, for emphasis. "I mean, obviously I know you have this arm and I've made you clothes and gloves for it but you're just...you're a good person, to me, and it doesn't matter what happened before. You're no different than I am with two arms of flesh and bones."

Sansa touches his arm once more for emphasis before letting her fingers fall away. "You didn't see me any differently after my calibration. It means more to me than you could ever know. I'm worth...less at home. Even those who love me look at me with pity. I'm not worth less with you."

"Thank you, Sansa." It means more than he really knows how to articulate, but at the same time he wonders if he can accept such kindness from her. If he should. She doesn't know his whole story, and is basing her entire viewpoint off of what he's told her and how he's treated her thus far. He doesn't know if it's either fair or honest.

"No, you're not." He looks at her hand as it leaves his arm, the juxtaposition of flesh on the metal. "I know what it is to be... treated in that fashion. To be treated as a thing, a tool. A weapon."

"That hand can do beautiful things too, Bucky. It isn't just to cause pain or death. You've been teaching me with it and you move well - graceful, even. I was never used as a weapon. I was...I was a vessel for a child, for a claim, for a castle that I had stolen from me and told I could only have back if I married over and over again. It's not all I am, though, and it's not all you are either."

Sansa bites her lip a bit, looking at him carefully. "You're my friend. You know things about me very few people know. You listen to me, you teach me, you care about me even though you know about all the broken, dark parts of me. What sort of friend would I be if I only thought of you as a tool or a weapon? Not a very good one and that's not the kind of friend I am."

She leans in and kisses his forehead lightly, so similar to how she's kissed Jon or Bran or Arya. "There's a saying where I come from, something my father told me long ago. When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We're pack, you and I. I know we're not from the same place but if somehow, someway...just know that if you wound up in Westeros, you have bread and salt at Winterfell. You sit at my high table and you're part of my pack. I'm Lady of Winterfell. I can give anyone the name Stark that I want."

Her words are kind, but he doesn't dismiss their kindness out of turn. She doesn't use it to couch unpleasant words, or to dress up unkind sentiments. Nor does she make demands on him that he's unable or unwilling to fulfill. In all it's refreshing, especially as his encounters with others have been slightly less so.

"We each seem to see more than the other feels is there." He would not think to shy away from the raw and ragged pieces of her that he now knows. And someday maybe he'll feel more comfortable giving up more of himself to her. But this isn't the place to delve into the depths of that conversation, not when he still knows so little of himself as it is.

His eyes close when her lips brush against his skin, the touch brief but warm. It stirs a thread of gratitude in him; she's no child, despite her lack of years, and she's seen the world plainly enough to know its ugliness. Her words aren't hollow, of course they're not, but he can't help the hint of amusement at the symbolism therein. He's not ready to share his entire story, not yet, but a little bit of it? A little bit of it he can certainly give to her. "If I'm to accept the gift of your hospitality and name, then you should know more of mine. I was born James Buchanan Barnes. I called myself Bucky. But the name, the person I know myself as the most is an operative call the Winter Soldier. I'm more him than anything else."

Winter Soldier. Sansa wonders at the name, wonders at how she could become so close to someone who sounds as if they'd pledged their sword to her service. It's so ironic, since he comes from a place with no knights and no fealty to give. When he offers his true name to her, she repeats it softly, testing the roll of it upon her lips. It's then that she decides what to do.

"If you are truly a winter soldier, then, I suppose I ought to truly take you under my protection. A knight's vows are little more than words here and I know words are wind but...it's meaningful to me. I've already given you my half of them - mostly. James Buchanan Barnes, I vow you will always have a place by my hearth and I pledge to ask of you no service that would bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old gods and the New, as Lady Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa gives him a bit of a smile and tips her head down, slightly embarrassed about the other half of it. He's from a modern world, not one like hers, so it will seem silly, won't it?

"The part the knight gives is that I offer my services, Lady Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life if need be. I swear it by the Old gods and the new."

Sansa holds up her hand. "But you certainly don't have to give me the other half. I just thought you'd like to know it. Just...well, because."

Edited 2019-03-22 20:21 (UTC)

It's strange, he thinks, that something so negative in his world, in his existence, could be taken as a positive sign in hers. And he supposes that's the true danger of this Fleet: introducing people who never would have met, creating for them an environment, a life that intertwines so much with what had gone before, and yet is still so separate.

The Atroma really are more devious than he'd given them credit.

Her words though, they are both kind and cruel, he thinks. Kind in the sentiment behind them, the conviction in her voice and what she seeks to express. But cruel too because it highlights how they've been torn from the lives they knew, how — no matter what — this will never be home, at least not for Bucky.

But he won't say it. To say it is even crueler, and Sansa has certainly had more than enough cruelty in her life.

"I won't give you the other half," he finally decides. "It should come from a place, from a person who knows all of who he is. I am— not fully there yet."

It's a lot to admit because even though he's told her who he is, those words, that title, don't tell what he is. That conversation isn't one he's ready to have just yet. "But I will hold them with me, for a time when I can say them truly."

Sansa can understand not wanting to pledge to someone else before knowing who they are. She imagines if the shoe were on the other foot, she'd not want to pledge fealty to anyone if she didn't know herself and her own heart. To that end, she touches his hand softly in comfort.

"Hold my words, then, and let them comfort you. Know that you always have a place in my heart and in my home. If I can help you learn yourself again, I am honored to take part but it's something that cannot be forced, I think. I look forward to knowing you, Bucky, as much or as little as you want me to know. I love you just as you are. No more and no less. You don't ever have to pretend with me, all right?"

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02. | All lies and jests; still a man hears what he wants to hear

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