silentspringlogs | [ota] February/March Catch-All

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[ota] February/March Catch-All

Who: Chell and her new neighbors!
When: Some February, mostly March
Where: Around and about!
Open/Closed: Noted in starters
Applicable warnings: Feb TDM warnings may apply; descriptions of agoraphobia. Anything that comes up will be in the comment headers.

a. The Errands - OTA, early February

Once the smoke clears, and people are allowed out of their houses again, Chell is faced with a brand new test: grocery shopping.

It's not like she's never done it before. She knows she has. Her memories of life before waking up in Aperture may be hazy in places, but she certainly knows that she used to go to the store and buy food and probably even make it sometimes, although she also has a feeling she used to eat a lot of microwave meals. That's not an option here. And her household has gone through most of the easy-to-prepare stuff like canned food during the lockdown, so now she needs to go restock.

And the thing is -- the thing is, Chell has faced down giant mashy plates with spikes and arrays of turrets training their sights on her and bombs and floors covered in toxic waste. A grocery store should be no problem. And yet, faced with the aisles of food, the people, the constant mechanical whirr and ching of the cash registers, Chell is finding herself uncharacteristically overwhelmed. She can't see the exits when she's trying to pick between oatmeal and cream of wheat. Everyone else seems to be moving with certainty and purpose where she's a welter of indecision and nerves. What if she picks the wrong thing? What if everything is poisoned? What if something comes through the door? What if she throws up? What if--?

All of which has resulted in Chell standing in front of the freezer case for at least five minutes, looking more like a deer in the headlights than a shopper. She moves out of the way when other customers need to get past her, but she doesn't seem quite able to shake herself into either picking something or moving along herself.

b. The Zoomies - mid-March, OTA

It's been several weeks of adjustment, and the idea that Chell doesn't need to be running for her life and probably isn't going to be put into cryosleep unexpectedly is starting to sink in. That hot urgency that propelled her through testing chamber after testing chamber is being replaced with a cool, prickly unease that never entirely goes away.

Unease, and boredom, particularly as the weather gets nicer and there's reason to be outside. Mid-March finds her in the park pretty regularly, despite the masses of pigeons, power-walking laps around the pond and the edge of the park. Occasionally -- very occasionally, and usually only if she thinks she won't be observed, because she's already gotten some odd looks for it from the locals -- her energy gets the better of her and she breaks into a sprint for a few dozen meters, her skirt fluttering indecorously and her jacket flapping behind her. Then she brakes to a walk again, breathing hard.

Who'd have thought that a whole town could still feel as enclosed as a salt mine?

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Chell's annoyance dissipates as he scribbles. She wasn't expecting such specificity!

Still a little cautious about getting in his personal space, she reaches out to take the first sheet, and mimes putting it in her pocket, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. Can she keep this?

NO QS I CAN DO THAT

She frowns at the list and then realizes she does have a question, actually.

WHAT DOES A GOD FEARING AMERICAN ACT LIKE??

Well. She's going to find out that he's a man of two extremes. Either he will be excruciatingly vague and she has to decipher what all those grunts, chuffs, growls and groans are supposed to mean. Or she'll find him following directions to a tee. But having a sustained, semi-normal conversation, either written or signed or spoken - that's going to be quite a challenge for him.

He nods once, firmly, when she pockets the sheet. No idea what she's going to do with it. It was just a random dump of... recommendations to keep her head down and try and make it through this place in one piece. He didn't even expect her to take him all that seriously, truth be told.

Her question has him leaning back a bit, tilting his head, pursing his lips. What does a God fearing American act like? It's a weird question. One nobody's asked him before. This time he gives it some thought before he starts writing, so as he tears off that sheet and starts with a new list - although it is still a jumble of Sunday school, pre-WWII propaganda, Sweetwater conditioning, the man everybody else thought Steve Rogers was, and the man Bucky wishes he could be - it hopefully seems a little more coherent than the last list.

be kind to your neighbour
accept others differences
stand up for what you believe in
help and protect people
be fair honest and humble
go to church on Sundays
call your mom and tell her everything
work hard and dont cause trouble
and dont be an asshole

Of course, this is not the world he'd come from. It certainly isn't what Brooklyn looks like in 2024. But it may have never been what Brooklyn looked like in 1943, or before. It may have been what Uncle Sam told him he was killing other people for, what he would have liked to have died for. But it's not what Bucky went back to. And sadly, Sweetwater might be perpetuating more of these false comforts than any place or time Bucky has been through, as manufactured and plastic as the world around them is.

Some of those honestly seem ... not so bad? She's got no problem with being kind to her neighbors, or accept others' differences, or working hard.

On the other hand, not causing trouble might be tougher. Also:

OK I DON'T HAVE A MOM TO CALL

She shrugs when she shows him that note; it's not something she feels a lot of angst about, it's just a fact.

I HAVE TO GO TO CHURCH?

me neither

Well, actually, he-- hasn't looked his family up yet. He-- probably should? Try to connect with one sister at least? They won't be in Maryland but there should be a way to find them. He starts to turn away as that train of thought has him going down a dangerous path of hypotheticals and even a glimmer of hope. But his own family is mostly something of his past. The woman in front of him remains his priority and he promptly snaps out of it.

good gossip
befriend the locals
find alibis
itll be good for you

Chell narrows her eyes at him. A man thinking about alibis is not a man staying out of trouble. Does he take his own advice?

Not her business, she supposes. He can do what he wants, and she'll take care of herself. (The full importance of being "married" hasn't registered for her.)

DOUBTFUL BUT OK

And then ... what now? Looking back through her half of the conversation, she underlines a question and taps it.

WILL THEY STOP ME IF I LEAVE?

The fact that he started giving her a list of ways to behave here kind of suggests that they're stuck here, but -- why? Would this mad scientist pop out of the bushes if she just tried to go get on a bus out of town or something? Or a Party Escort Bot grab her by the ankle and drag her back to a bed she doesn't recognize?

She'll come to figure out soon enough that her husband is a 'do what I say, not what I do' kind of guy. Just one of many horrendously unendearing qualities about him. Hopefully in time she'll find a few redeeming things she can put up with at least...

cant leave
if you get caught theyll hurt you

He might not be telling her everything, but he's not being deliberately vague either. He just doesn't want her to get hurt. He doesn't want anyone in this town to get hurt.

i didnt mean to hurt you

Just in case she starts thinking he's part of whatever grander conspiracy is at work here. He did pull a knife on her after all.

Well, that's a straight answer. And one she's inclined to believe. People lie about good things, like cake, and helping you, not dire consequences. Dire consequences seem way more likely to be real.

And that means she's stuck here. In Maryland. Maybe even in this house. Trapped, again, and this time with nothing: no portal gun, no Advanced Knee Replacements or Long Fall Boots, no Companion Cube, no tests. Just herself, and this guy with his list of American values.

She reads the last thing he wrote and shakes her head.

YOU DIDN'T

Now that he mentions it, though, she does look down at herself and takes in what kind of mess she's made of herself by throwing herself out a window. There are some scratches on her calves and forearms from the bush that broke her fall, though none are particularly serious. Nothing she hasn't walked off before.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO LEAVE THE BEDROOM IT'S YOURS

She points at herself and gestures at the living room. The couch is fine for her.

Edited (oh actually I cut the line that needed the content warning SHRUG EMOJI) 2024-03-24 04:34 (UTC)

He shakes his head. Maybe that's not universal for 'no', he doesn't know. But there's no God-fearing American man who would kick his wife out to the couch while he takes the bed. And Bucky's relationship with God might be on the rocks - hasn't been on anything more than shaky ground for eighty years now - but in some ways he is still traditional enough to be able to pass off as a local around here.

i dont sleep on beds

Which doesn't explain how he got into the bed last night, but then, she doesn't have an explanation for how she got in there either.

back door boobytrapped
and basement door
dont open
leftover mac cheese if you hungry

He'll convert those boobytraps to a trip wire at some point later today so she won't accidentally get herself killed. And they'll figure this... domestic situation out.

TRAPPED HOW?

The mention of food prompts a sudden, loud growl from her stomach. Chell looks surprised and puts a hand on her belly. Food! Holy shit, when was the last time she ate something?

rigged with ~~PAVA~~ pepper spray
nothing lethal
ball bearings out of stock

Would he have jury-rigged a claymore mine to take out any burglar, raccoon, mad scientist doctor, suddenly-wife or unsuspecting neighbour? You bet.

Finally abandoning the pen and paper, he flexes his hand and gestures for her to come. Of course, the standard military way, sweeping an open hand closer to himself, which probably means something else to her. Hopefully she'll follow him to the kitchen regardless. With his toes wedged against the bottom door, Bucky opens the top door of the fridge. It was fully stocked when he got here, but supplies have whittled down to mostly just the things he eats. Bacon, eggs, milk, butter. A bag of apples. A whole shelf of beer.

He doesn't seem to have any problem using a knife on people, but chopping vegetables is tough with one hand. So anything that most families around here might buy intact and keep in the fridge is in the freezer, like pre-cut broccoli florets, sliced three colour peppers, 30 boxes of TV dinners...

Anyway. Leftover mac and cheese is in the fridge, above the beers. He's portioned them out into 3 containers already, so he takes one out and removes the lid, slides it into the microwave and punches in two minutes. He's figuring out his human body can't eat as much as he used to, but making smaller portions has not been so intuitive.

They're going to have to figure out how to communicate without writing all the time. Bucky gestures for her to sit and points to the coffee pot. Want one?

Oh, okay, good, no mashy plates. Pepper spray is nothing to play with, though. It's really hard to dodge.

She follows him to the kitchen, watching him navigate one-handed. When he invites her to sit and points to the coffee, she nods slowly and takes one of the kitchen chairs, perching towards the edge of it. Not totally relaxed yet. (Her nightgown rides up to reveal a set of gnarly, old-looking scars on both sides of her knees, like something was once surgically installed and then removed without much finesse.)

She waves for his attention, when she gets the chance, taps her left arm, and points at him quizzically.

He's clearly used to navigating this space and doing things with one hand, so she can gather even without asking that this isn't a new injury for him. Going through the motions of putting the kettle on and getting the coffee started, he's shuttling between the stove and the microwave to get her her food, making a quick stop at the pantry for the black pepper and the mixed herbs in case plain old mac and cheese is too pleb for her palate.

At first he doesn't really want to say much about his left arm, but his hardened resolve and gruff exterior suffers the slightest flinch when he catches a glimpse of scar tissue on his way back to make the coffee. His fault for his eyes wandering maybe. Very odd to be in a marriage where he never has to talk if he doesn't want to, with somebody who has matching scars. Must be somebody's idea of a hilarious joke.

"I lost it in the war, in 1945. I had a metal arm, black with gold--" He draws random swirls with his finger on his missing upper arm. "Inlay. They took it." He hasn't really shared that with anyone, but. Well, who knows? If she sees a black metal left arm lying around, she might feel inclined to at least let him know where it is even if she can't bring it back to him.

Something about "the war in 1945" seems extremely off, but Chell can't quite follow what it is at the moment. Too distracted by the prospect of pasta. For what it's worth, though, she doesn't look pitying or anything. Maybe a little curious, but not so much that she'll bother writing out follow-up questions at the moment. He hasn't asked her about why she can't talk, after all.

And also, there's food. She gives him a grateful nod, bypassing the extra spices, and digs in.

Oh. It may not be cake, but fuck, it tastes good. Bucky, and her uncertainty about what happens next, and the question of what they brought them here and took Bucky's arm -- all of it falls completely by the wayside while she wolfs down the mac and cheese. It is distinctly unladylike and maybe slightly feral.

Bucky is honestly quite impressed by the way she's chowing through his mac and cheese. And maybe, quietly and privately, a little flattered. He's not much of a cook, having been spoiled by his various caretakers and the conveniences of 24/7 food availability in Brooklyn, and honestly mac and cheese is a little lazy, even for him, but he watches her eat with some level of satisfaction before he goes to finish up making their coffees. At least it's a difficult dish to fuck up too badly.

Placing her steaming cup in front of her, he tries not to make her too uncomfortable with the way he hovers in the kitchen. He has a bit of a staring problem and he's not used to having company, that much is painfully clear, but he's trying to take things in his stride. Putting some distance between them, Bucky backpedals towards the stove and finds a safe place to perch. He quietly observes her for a little while longer before not completely turning his back towards her, setting his coffee aside while he does some washing up in the sink.

He probably has to go through the place and clear up his shit, make it a little less... paranoid bachelor on the verge of a meltdown pad. But maybe he can start with clearing out the sink and then try to inconspicuously circle around the rest of the house while she's busy-- figuring things out or maybe exploring the neighbourhood.

Maybe it's a good thing Chell is used to surveillance? She's certainly aware of his staring, but she ignores it, scraping her fork over the bowl to get the last bits of cheese. When she finally finishes, she leans back and burps -- unladylike, and the first audible sound she's made aside from heavy breathing.

She picks up the coffee, letting it warm her fingers, and glances at Bucky at the sink. Does she trust him? No, that'd be too strong a word. And she's had too much recent experience with people going from friendly and helpful to murderous and weird in the time it takes to hit the DELETE button to fully relax here. But ... she can probably live with this. For the moment.

Rising, she grabs the notebook, scribbles, and comes over to him.

WANT HELP?

She pairs it with the sign, nodding towards the dishes.

Okay yeah communication is going to be difficult - comfortably quiet but difficult - between them. Especially since that doesn't look like a sign that can be made with one hand. He shuts the tap off and shakes his head, gripping at the hand towel draped over his shoulder to partially dry his hand.

"No. It's my mess." And yet, it's clearly evident that it's a bit of a struggle to get all the coffee grounds out of the French press. He's probably already broken one trying to bang the grounds out, but it's not ideal shoving it right up against the kitchen wall and trying to scoop out of it. It'll rinse out, sure, but his sink is going to get choked up far earlier than anyone else's on the street at the rate he's going.

I ate, she points out in sign, shrugging, and moves to just. Take the French press. Bold move when an hour ago they were both pretty sure they were going to murder each other!

He can sort of guess that that's food or eating-related, and that's something he can easily do with one hand, and he can ask her next time even if he doesn't know the sign for 'hungry?', so he mentally stores that sign away for later.

Initially he might seem a little miffed that she's just swooping in and touching his stuff, but he can see that she's trying to help, and he's doing his best not to be petulant or sulk or stubborn about it, schooling his face back into a neutral expression. She gets a grunt for her efforts, which she'll learn soon enough is his sign for 'thanks'.

"I need to clean up the rest of the place. Do you want to go out or anything?" Yes, he's kicking her out. No, he has not much subtlety.

Probably for the best. Chell's not a very subtle person herself.

She gives him a sidelong look as she finishes cleaning out the French press, and makes him wait until she finds a cloth to dry it out and put it aside.

GO WHERE? CHURCH?

Glancing down at herself, she adds:

SHOWER?

She was clean when she woke up, she thinks -- certainly her hair feels pretty clean -- but jumping out the window has kind of ruined that.

"...no. Out. Anywhere." Why would she go to church at this time? Is it even open? Maybe it's not such a good idea for her to go out wandering around on her own, but. He's not prepared to start hovering over her like an overprotective, controlling husband.

"Um. Yeah. Upstairs." And she needn't worry that the door or whatever will blow up in her face. It's just the entrance to the basement and the back door of the house that she has to worry about. "I'll bring you a fresh towel."

Anywhere. Just go anywhere. It's all she's wanted since Wheatley woke her up, and now it's actually an option, and she's not sure what to do with it. Hell, part of her wants him to tell her where to go, so she doesn't have to face the enormity of anywhere.

That rattles her, a little. Maybe better not to think about it. So she nods, firmly, gives him a thumbs up, and heads upstairs.

She'll be in the shower for a long time. Until the hot water runs out, probably.

He doesn't abuse the time she gives him too much. Although he doesn't tear through the house in a flurry of trying to get everything sorted in a hurry, he isn't as methodical with his approach as he would have maybe liked. He has to double back a few times, make two trips when he ordinarily would have only needed one, but eventually it'll be as tidy as he can manage. He also makes sure to disable the most fatal booby traps around the house and keeps his paranoia confined to just the basement door and the back door like he promised.

While he doesn't feel comfortable going through her clothes, he will bring the towel as promised. He doesn't rush her to finish up her shower though, placing the towel down just outside the bathroom door.

He's probably overthinking things. Or stressing out about this sudden new arrangement more than he needs to. In time he'll settle down. Might even get comfortable with someone else to share this big old empty house with. The fact that she doesn't talk should suit him but he might find her silence a little disconcerting at first.

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[ota] February/March Catch-All

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cw for implied medical horror/surgery but actually this time

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