driftfleet | 03. | When everything's meant to be broken

Entry tags:

03. | When everything's meant to be broken

Who: the Bucky Barnes who no longer goes by Bucky or Barnes (

sinistral)
Broadcast: no
Action: yes; SS Starduck, Lyndia
When: throughout the visit to the Bix star system

SPACE
→ SS Starduck;

Once, far enough back in Earth history that no one would likely truly remember it, some sarcastic jackass responded to a challenge with two now infamous words: Watch me. And while it's more likely than not that the Soldier had been in cryo for said occurrence, he certainly seems to embody the spirit thereof. He's been told, by several different people at several different times, that his life is his to live as he wishes. It's invariably followed up by recommendations, and even at times objections when his wishes do not conform to the path they'd imagined. He can't, shouldn't, withdraw from everyone and everything, they say.

Watch me, his current behavior replies.

He's stopped visiting the Iskaulit, save for a single afternoon to memorize a document. Most of the Starduck's crew keeps to themselves, making the avoidance of casual conversation easy. He keeps appointments to train in the gym space in their cargo hold, still makes his own rounds of the ship to check its safety and integrity — and to check that nothing new has been planted on board without their knowledge. He checks, re-checks, and re-checks again the upgrades to their systems. He trains himself, choosing odd hours, times during which other members of the crew aren't likely to observe the way he uses — abuses — the punching bag. It's not solving anything, his brain supplies. It's not answering any questions.

Watch me, his fists beat into the bag in steady cadence. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me.

PLANETSIDE
→ Sun's Rest;

A desire to surround oneself with physical beauty seems simple enough, right? He recalls a conversation, one in which the other person had told him that the aesthetic appreciation of a thing need not be based on extensive knowledge or experience. The words were meant as a kindness, he thinks, and they're what sends him to see the glowing grove when he hears of it.

If a single word must describe the place, he supposes that beautiful is the one most would use.

Thankfully it also seems quiet, which is a small miracle. He directs his thanks to the flora and fungi of the planet; were it not for their apparently aggressive allergens, it's likely that there might be more people wandering the paths to enjoy the sights — or wandering off the paths to enjoy other activities. Put in that context, the relative emptiness is a blessing. Still, it apparently doesn't stop all of those with amorous intent and on hearing rustling and moaning (and a sneeze or two) from a particular cluster of bushes, he'd been quick to abandon his exploration of the weeping, flowered branches of a tree, not having any desire to know any more about who's in those bushes or what, exactly, they're doing together.

He stops by the edges of the lake, watching the glowing forms of the fish swimming underneath the water. There's an imagery there for which he doesn't have words. But as he sinks to a sitting position at the edge of the lake, he supposes that he doesn't really need them either. For a little while at least.

→ Kenn-Tellnic;

At least this planet is relatively high end, as far as supplying oneself is concerned. Proper combat knives are a requirement and most people would probably scoff at how much of a morning is given over to the pursuit of obtaining just that, but he's picky. He needs to be picky when it comes to something that needs to feel like an extension of his own body and needs to be just as reliable. It's a process that takes him through several shops and half the city before he finds something that meets his standards and specifications; he realizes the time once he's left the shop with purchases secure in their sheaths and decides that the cafe caddy-corner to his current position will do. It's glass and brushed aluminum and streamlined — apparently this planet's high-profile coffee chain — and even the short line of customers moves efficiently.

It's too good to be true.

There's certainly something to be admired in the efficiency of the operation that is taking an order, accepting payment, and fulfilling that order. It's clean. Impersonal. Exactly the way things should be, and the entire thing grinds to a halt when the cashier looks him in the eye and asks, in that distinct retail blend of perky-yet-interested-in-moving-the-line, for his name. It's an uncomfortable moment, made worse by her follow up, the slight slowing of two syllables: "name, sir?"

"Nothing. Never mind," he says, turning away from the counter to move for the door. He doesn't spare another glance for the girl left standing behind her register, nor for the other patrons of the shop. No coffee in the universe is worth answering that question right now.

→ Jungles;

Being around people has become increasingly uncomfortable. He knows it's all internal, all him; he was designed to be a weapon, not a person. At least out here he can put that reality of his existence to good use: there is game to hunt, and he's nothing if not a hunter. And the creatures here are certainly big enough and strong enough to provide a challenge.

When they don't, there's always the escape of pure physical activity, running and hiking and climbing, if he can find it. Anything that presents a challenge; anything that pushes the body to its extremes, that elusive point of exhaustion where the brain finally quiets and nothing exists outside of pushing the muscles to achieve more. It's a luxury in every sense of the word: to have a body that can perform on such a level, and to have not only the freedom to exercise it, but a place that presents enough challenge to do so.

He's being reckless, he knows. But as it's not endangering others, he just doesn't give a damn.

WILDCARD
→ Elsewhere;

Did we discuss something and I forgot in the hell that has been final projects and exams? Have another idea? ~~Want to go steal some Flouds?~~ 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"In that, it will be very much like the gym. I'm glad you let me talk about it, though. I didn't exactly feel comfortable talking to Tyrion. I didn't want him to feel bad about anything because he did nothing wrong. He...he was perfect. There's nothing else he could have done differently than he already did and he was right to make us stop."

Even if Sansa hadn't wanted to at the time, she sees that it's the right decision now.

"I am lucky, to be surrounded by such good people. It's not the case at home, I'm afraid."

"I don't mind being your sounding board. As long as you don't want advice on actual bedroom activities, because I'm very unqualified." It's an attempt to bring a little levity into a conversation that can very easily — too easily — get darker. "He cares about you, and intimacy can take many forms. I would imagine that you don't have to engage in the sexual part of it to feel close to each other."

Then again, he's not the most qualified to ask.

"Though I'm hesitant to express thankfulness for anything of this place," and that's mostly out of distrust for the Atroma and their games, "it does perhaps have its good points."

"It does have its good points. I wouldn't have Lady outside of this place," she says, giving the direwolf a quick scratch behind the ears. "And I wouldn't be able to be with Tyrion or have met you and your friends."

Sansa tips her head a bit, watching Bucky for a moment. "You've become very dear to me. I know I tell you this often but I feel like I cannot express it clearly enough, that I cannot describe exactly how much your friendship has meant to me during my time here. I feel as if I can talk to you about anything and you won't judge me for it. It's a rare thing in the world."

That's a strange concept: friends. There's really no one he'd put in such a category, because it implies a level of trust he's not willing to give another person. There are people who know him, claim to know more about him than he knows about himself and have plenty of opinions about who he is and how he should act. It's not at all comfortable. But he supposes this isn't the time to argue the semantics of it; the conversation really isn't about him anyway.

Or at least, it's only partly about him.

He looks out across the water of the lake. It's stunning, lit as it is by the phosphorescence in the plants and animal life. "I don't like judging people. I don't like forcing my ideas on others. It's not right. Everyone should have the freedom to live as they want to."

It's not that simple and he knows it, but it's a nice thought regardless.

"They do. I've fought for that for myself and I'd fight for it for any of those I hold dear. You're one of those people, for me."

Sansa turns her head to look at him, watch him as he watches the water. "It's so beautiful here, isn't it? If I had never come to the Fleet, I'd never see places like this. I'd never know such beauty in my life. I wonder what makes it glow that way. I've never seen such a thing in all my days."

"I hope it's a battle you'd never have to fight, but I thank you Sansa. Truly."

It might be wishful thinking, only because one never knows what the Atroma are going to come up with next. But at least the night seems to provide a moment of peace and beauty; as much as he dislikes thanking their captors for anything, he can't deny that sights like this are truly amazing. "It's got to be something in the plants or fish themselves, but I'm not science-minded enough to know what. Still, we can enjoy it plenty without knowing how, right?"

"We can. There's a great many things I don't understand about the Fleet because Westeros doesn't have them," Sansa admits. "I usually just accept them as the magic of the place but sometimes, if I get too curious, I ask Vision to explain them for me. He's quite patient in these matters."

She wonders if Vision could explain why the plants and animals glow here - it's something she thinks Bran might have been interested in, as a boy; he'd always been a reader unlike Sansa or Arya.

"I shall have to ask him about this planet and see what he thinks. He explained electric lights to me once and if I were clever enough, I might be able to build them back home."

"Sometimes needing the explanation can bog down the importance of just enjoying the moment."

Not that the explanation wouldn't be interesting, at least somewhat. But he's fine with forgoing it for now to simply enjoy the sights, to take a moment to forget everything that's been bothering him lately. It's not easy, but he thinks it might be worth the effort.

"He might know. He certainly seems versed in a variety of topics." And none of the explanations he's offered have been patronizing; that certainly helps with a willingness to talk to him.

"Vision is kind. I think I like Wanda and Vision best of your...people from home," Sansa says, not wanting to really speak much on the other version of Bucky or the other man she'd met from his world.

"You've all welcomed me as much as I would welcome any of you to Winterfell. Of course, I think it's much more pleasant here than at Winterfell - there's no snow here. If you like snow, though, the North is perfect. I could be in the snow until my hands grew numb, I think, and never tire of it."

“I don’t really know them,” he replies quietly. “Here I guess I’ve gotten to know a little of them, but they’re all strangers to me. Strangers who know who and what I am and insist that they know me, when I don’t even know who I am.” To call the situation uncomfortable paints it in a very mild light.

He shakes his head though when she mentions snow. It’s not the snow that he minds, it’s the cold. “I think I’ve had enough cold for anyone. Though I heard it said that space is cold as well.”

"Well, no one can truly know anyone, I think. You've seen inside my mind and I still think there's parts of me you don't know," Sansa says, considering his words. "There's no way to know all facets of a person, all angles. Assuming that you do is arrogant and like to lead to ruin. We all have our secrets."

Sansa agrees that space is cold. The cold is a comfort, though, because it reminds her of home. Perhaps it isn't a comfort to everyone.

"There's a difference between knowing and thinking you know." He shrugs; it's the core of the problem he's having with others and not wanting to get close to them, or so he's considering. It's one of the avenues of thought that have crossed his mind, anyway. "When someone thinks they know something, and you tell them that they're wrong, it's not always well met."

He glances sidelong at her as she sits at the edge of the glowing lake. "I doubt you came here for grim conversation though."

"It's not grim. I've had discussions about executions, Bucky, this is far from grim. You're right, though. People have their own expectation of the world, their own way of seeing how the pieces fit together. When you don't fit those expectations and fit into it neatly, there's an anger that can rise up because it just seems wrong. When I was a girl, I wanted nothing more than to marry the prince and be queen someday. The prince wasn't a good man but because it seemed wrong for a handsome prince to be a bad person, I twisted the way I thought and told others they were wrong - especially my sister."

If she'd only listened to her father or Arya, things might well have been different, but Sansa would also be a different person than she is today. Those experiences had shaped her for good or ill.

"They have one image of you. They're even presented with alternate versions of you, paths you could have gone down. Why aren't you that Bucky, the one they expect? It doesn't fit, therefore it's wrong. It's not very fair to you, though, because it isn't as though you're a wall to be painted a new color or a dress to be dyed. You're a person with your own thoughts and feelings, your own wants and desires. You shouldn't be expected to be anything for anyone."

"Perhaps." He knows how her life has been anything but easy, and it has reflected in many of their conversations. Still he does recognize topics that are considered heavy, and it would be unfair to keep piling them into the times they talk. Moreover, to say he dislikes talking about his own situation is a gross understatement. It makes for navigating the conversational waters difficult at times, especially given how sharp and quick Sansa's wit can be.

"I've decided not to use that name anymore." He says it cautiously, because he's not sure how she'll react. Certainly she agrees with his desire to not have to shape himself to what others wish to see, but still. "It belongs to too many other people, and I can't be what they are."

"I certainly can understand that. I've...lived under another name, for a time. It was mostly because being Sansa Stark was a dangerous thing to be, though, and not because I chose to live under it. I guess it does beg the question as to what I need to call you, though."

Sansa gives him a bit of a smile, hoping to ease him somewhat. "Are we going to pick a name for you together? Or did you have something in mind already?"

"You can call me what you wish. I didn't mean to make it harder on you." That had been far from his intention. Then again, Sansa has been more accepting than most people about his struggle with what he is — namely, that she's given him the space. "One of the... other people with my face. He said he wanted the name, so I gave it to him."

It's still weird to think about that, having... duplicates. It had been weird enough for one, and now there are two others — two who are far more functional than he. He can't help but know that his own presence must only be on account of the Atroma having plans for him, because the only thing he has to offer that the others don't is the Winter Soldier.

"I don't think I want one." It's probably not something she wants to hear. "Not right away. I'd rather exist without an identity, until I decide what I want it to be."

Sansa thinks about what Arya told her of her time in Braavos. Sansa cannot profess to understand anything about the Faceless Men or the strange arts that her sister learned at their hand but she does understand that in order to become that, in order to progress with the guild, she'd had to abandon all she was. She could no longer be Arya Stark of Winterfell and had to become no one.

It changed Arya, for good or ill. Sansa's time as Alayne Stone had changed her too but only minimally - deep down, she's always clung to being Sansa Stark, clung to the pride she has in her family and in the North. She doesn't think she could ever eschew it, especially not after Ramsay. Bucky's situation is different still. He's faced with others who have his name, another version of himself who asked to use the name for himself, and now he is searching for who he is. It's not something Sansa thinks she can empathize with, not truly; the idea of letting anyone use Sansa Stark aside from her is treasonous. Sansa thinks he might be more of Arya in this.

"You should be the one who decides who and what you are, no one else. It would be selfish of me to put a name upon you that you did not want. Where I come from, names mean everything. The name of a Great House, like mine, is a heavy legacy to bear and a bastard's name means wearing the sins of your parents. I think whatever name you choose should feel right to you, regardless of what I or anyone else thinks of it. You're the one with the opinion that matters, not me."

He's quiet after that, taking her words and turning them over and over, pulling each one apart to absorb every tiny piece. Sansa is a skilled wordsmith but she doesn't speak empty phrases, at least not to him, and he appreciates it. Even her silences speak volumes; she presses enough, but not to the point of discomfort, and the only time conversation has been strained is when he's forcing her to do an extra round of squats in her workout.

She's gotten much stronger than when she started. He's proud of her, and he's pretty sure she knows it.

"Your opinion does matter to me," he says finally, quietly, putting a hand palm up on the ground between them. Of course the gesture comes to naught because Lady pushes her face into it a moment later, but he tried. "You have been kind and patient. And I'll keep the name of your House safe with me, until I have a name of my own to put with it."

"That's all anyone could ask," Sansa says. "And you'll find something that fits, I think, even if it's very different than any of your names that you have now. You'll find something that settles on you like a proper mantle and when you do, I'll embrace it. Until then, here's to finding yourself once more."

Sansa believes that he can, if only because he's shown so much strength and courage in spite of being faced with people from his own past who threaten his stability.

"I suppose you're right, though I do think there are those who could use the influence of your manners." He'd be a lot happier without some of the uncomfortable questions, and without some of the expectation to be a thing he's not. Then again, there are few who can truly understand it as Sansa does; even though their situations are different, they have found some similarity in their lives that he never would have anticipated.

He leans back eventually, laying on the grass and looking up to the sky. It's clear here and though there is nothing familiar in the constellations, the night sky is striking nonetheless. "You are far more patient than I deserve, and I don't thank you enough for it."

Sansa leans back as well, wanting to enjoy the view of the stars wheeling overhead. She'd never looked at them much back home and she knows they're likely different here but she likes to think that Westeros is out there, somewhere, and that she'll return someday to repair Winterfell and the North.

"It's not patience, truly. You're missing something of yourself and it's going to take time to reclaim it. There's...my father had a ward, Theon Greyjoy. Long before Ramsay had me to torture, he had Theon, and he forced him to go by the name Reek. The torture was so intense that Theon couldn't find his own self again. We helped one another and he became a comfort to me. He helped me escape Ramsay. His sister expected him to be the Theon he was, the person he'd been before Ramsay, but he couldn't. He'd been shattered into thousands of pieces. You're different, as every man and woman are unique, but just as Theon took time to become Theon again, you'll take time to find who you are."

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03. | When everything's meant to be broken

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