silentspringlogs | Part Three: The Drive

"I..." He's a little alarmed by the sudden uncomfortable shift in Bucky's tone, and his own voice softens in kind. "No, I don't think that. But by your own admission you aren't much for planning, and the ideas I remember you offering at dinner weren't... ones that worked in our current situation. I'm sure they must in the future, but here and now we are much more limited. I was trying to say that I don't want it to come to violence. But making plans, asking questions- Bucky, that is quite literally my job. A-and I can't... I can't do anything on my own here," he admits, with a quiet growl of frustration. "Not blind."

"It always comes to violence." Bucky tosses the teabags out and gently nudges the mug over. He's a little awkward about touching, moving hands, but hopefully it doesn't show through too much. "Here. Your tea." He doesn't know of a life without violence, of a solution that doesn't involve violence, of a place that doesn't leverage violence. Which is not to say that he's discounting Arthur's experience, or think him to be naive. He's just wary of agreeing to things or making promises that he's pretty sure he won't be able to keep, as hard as he tries to resolve things peacefully.

"Can't help you deal with your blindness." He didn't think this was a recent thing, but. He doesn't really know Arthur's circumstances fully. And coming to terms with living blind is not the same as-- whatever it is Bucky is coming to terms with. Regardless, yes it's frustrating, but it is what it is. There are other things that are within Arthur's power and control to change. Just not the blindness.

"But I'll take you there."

His mouth presses slightly at Bucky's grim comment, but he doesn't deny it, or even look... uncomfortable, at the idea of inevitable violence.

Mostly he just looks resigned.

But then Bucky nudges his cup over and the expression disappears with the distraction. "Ah- thanks."

At least he has both hands again, that's a pleasant experience again. And he picks up his mug, but there's an obvious release of tension when Bucky says he will take him, and he smiles faintly.

"Thank you, Bucky." He can quite hide the relief in his voice, still. "A-and you can help, actually-- w-with my blindness, I mean, just- describing the room we're in is unbelievably helpful. But, er- that's neither here nor there, really."

He lifts his cup in a wry sort of cheers. "Just- let me know whenever you're able to make time for it. The sooner the better, of course, but- I'm hardly going anywhere, and the less we can disrupt our... our covers, I suppose, the better."

"We can go now. Later. Tomorrow." Whenever, basically. This is the first time Bucky's had to hold down a proper job with a regular schedule, and while he wouldn't say he's lacking in work ethic, he doesn't necessarily understand work culture either. Besides, he's not saving the world or anything. He's shoveled horseshit all his life. He's just, quite literally shoveling horseshit here. And he finds it therapeutic. And he likes being alone. It's not dealing with an alien invasion or a robot takeover. The world won't end if he comes back to it tomorrow or the day after.

"What's your cover, anyway?"

"Oh, um- now, then." He sounds surprised by the immediacy, admittedly, but he's immediately rallying, and bless him there's life in him as he perks up, blooming like a flower in sunlight. "Brilliant! There's a car in the garage, the keys are in the glove compartment."

He's putting his mug down as he talks, already caught up in the very idea of forward momentum. "Right, well- as I said, the easiest motive might simply be my sight - I've failed to find a satisfactory reason for my vision loss in Sweetwater general, and wanted a second opinion. Depending on the reception we might need to wait a little to push for the angle on Glassner, but if all else fails we could lean into the Investigative angle, perhaps as a journalist or writer, at a stretch perhaps even a doctor from a different clinic, though we'd need to sell a different story when we arrive."

He's not really seeing the connection between 'I'm blind and I'd like to speak to the manager' and 'so did you hear about this dead guy or what?' but, you know, Bucky's not going to question it. He takes a mouthful of his tea and grunts in an indecipherable, perhaps agreement perhaps acceptance of the idea. Usually he doesn't think too much about such things and just lets the one with the plan deal with all these details.

"Fine. If you want to go get ready, I'll check your house over. Then we'll go." Unless he's planning on wearing that out. In which case... no comment.

"Sure." Because he's still not quite sure what Bucky's looking for, but he's not opposed. "I'll just be a minute myself, then we can get going."

He has to make himself presentable, obviously. So when Bucky is done doing-- whatever he finds necessary, Arthur's properly dressed again, sleeves crisp under the suit jacket he's tugged on over his vest, and to complete the picture of a Modern (Sixties) Gentleman he's even got a damn ~~fedora~~ trilby on when Bucky finds him outside pulling open the garage door.

It is absolutely necessary to do a basic sweep of the house, check every ornament and behind every photo frame and over and under every piece of furniture. It must be nice being a civilian and not having to even think about all the eyes and ears everywhere. Or whatever was the equivalent of surveillance equipment back in the day.

"Can't you at least wear mismatching socks?" Bucky gripes when he gives Arthur a cursory once over and chuffs like an irritable husky. "You don't look like a man who needs a second opinion about his eyesight."

He won't have nearly as many complaints or comments or unwarranted feedback when he climbs into the car and pops the glove box open to get the keys and start the engine. They can have a long and really awkwardly silent drive if it was up to him.

"I also don't want to look like a man who draws any more attention to himself in this hell-hole than what I actively inspire," he counters dryly.

But when the car is clear of the garage he closes it again quickly, and hops into the passenger seat. "Right- let's get going." And there's a grim determination on his face as he says it, because he's trying not to be visibly excited about getting to fucking do something.

"It's not that bad," Bucky remarks softly as they take off. Yes, the time spent with Doctor Norman is really bad, and he's still convinced HYDRA is behind all this, but. The quiet suburban life? No near-constant barrage of threats to their very existence, the lack of world-ending events and alien invasions and killer robots and no need to check in with the therapist and get poked and prodded at? It could be a lot worse...

And speaking of things being not that bad, the ride itself is fairly uneventful. There's no discernible difference driving with one arm or two and although Bucky doesn't normally drive before coming to Sweetwater, it hasn't been difficult picking it back up. He doesn't seem to bother with the radio though. Or want to talk much.

Arthur's not of a mind to say much either, if Bucky won't. His cane sits between his legs, left hand toying with its wrist strap as he leans on his right, staring out the window he can't fucking see.

But Christ, he misses John. Misses knowing what the world looked like as it passes by, with his quiet, sincere enthusiasm and appreciation for all the mundane sights he'd come to ignore. Not this endless, useless black. He can't help but wonder how far they might have gotten together already, if he didn't need to fucking ask for help with every single goddamn thing.

Trapped in his own thoughts, with no indication of where they are besides the gentle shifts in gravity when the car turns, hits lights, eventually gets closer to the edge of town, he has no idea what's happening outside.

So he has no idea, as they start to drive closer to the border, that the car begins to slow down like it's stuck in tar, like it's being prevented from going forward like there's a giant magnet pushing them away. The wheels certainly keep moving, the odometer stays steady, if Bucky doesn't let up the gas, but they simply stop going forward.

Until he frowns, when the change in momentum is too much to ignore. "Why are we slowing down?"

He's noticed it long before Arthur, but hasn't said anything. His jaw is tightly clenched, eyebrows furrowed deeper than usual. All the signs are there, but they're all visual. He might be able to hear a few taps on a pedal, but it'd be easy to assume that Bucky hit the brakes rather than the accelerator.

Eventually, rather than risking any harm to the vehicle or to his passenger, Bucky pulls over and yanks up the handbrake, kills the engine.

"Stay here," Bucky says rather unhelpfully as his seatbelt unclicks. And then, two seconds later, a weight is placed on Arthur's lap. The back of Bucky's cold hand nudges Arthur's wrist over until his fingertips brush against the grip of the knife.

"No one around, but. Just in case. If one of the doors open again and you don't hear 'purple mermaid' in the first three seconds - even if it sounds like my voice - start stabbing." A firm reassuring squeeze on Arthur's shoulder, and Bucky gets out of the car, door shutting behind him. He has no knowledge of magic, how it works, no real understanding of what happened in Westview with Wanda beyond what coverups and conspiracy theories trickled in through the news.

Actually he doesn't know how the Wakandans do it either, even though he's crossed that barrier several times before. Technology or magic, he doesn't approach the invisible barrier with too much trepidation. He's just hoping - although realistically he's not holding out too much hope - to find... something. If it's a device, he could maybe dismantle it. Who knows.

Bucky none of that is reassuring.

"Wh- h-hold on-!" But the car door is already shut behind Bucky, Arthur can hear his muffled footsteps moving away - and immediately there is a flash of anger in him, so hard and fast that he's fucking trembling.

No. Fuck this. He's not being left fucking behind because another person thinks he's a fucking liability just because he can't see.

He drops his cane so he can all but kick his door open, and strides out with just the knife in hand and an utterly furious scowl cut across his features - the cold, calculated demeanor of someone not to fuck with - and slams the car door so hard that the whole vehicle audibly rattles.

"Bucky, what the fuck is going on?!" The anger is perhaps outsized for the situation but this is three months and three kidnappings of being patient, of waiting for anyone to feel so inclined as to tell him what is going on and he is sick and tired of waiting.

Bucky, much as he tries to engage his rusty, broken, tampered, refurbished old brain from time to time, is oblivious to what he's done, how he's made Arthur feel. He's singularly focused on the task, and he's utilitarian in his thinking. Where Arthur can contribute, like getting them into the hospital even though Bucky could have gotten himself in if he made something up about wanting a consultation about a prosthetic or whatever, he would let Arthur take the lead. But where he perceives a blind man stumbling around potentially drawing unwanted attention to them, somebody he has to babysit rather than being able to provide value added services, Arthur has to sit in the car like a sulking teenage boy. And obviously Arthur understands this transactional way of viewing the world, the way everyone who has used and abused and activated and discarded their Siberian asset has always viewed the world, so it's definitely nothing personal, and there's no hard feelings.

And Arthur, unfortunately, is stuck with someone who has gotten beaten when he questions orders, has come to expect that orders will be followed when they are given. Someone who has operated on a need-to-know basis for 80 years and had his curiosity and most of the other quirks of his old personality systematically burnt out of his rusty, broken, tampered, refurbished old brain. And someone who has over the years figured out that if something is happening to him and whatever his warped sense of understanding of agency is, whether it's an intimate violence cut and carved into his body or being a pawn trapped in someone else's chessboard with restricted fields of movement, he doesn't actually want to know what's happening to him, or why. It's psychologically and emotionally safer this way.

To Bucky's credit, he'd make a great Uber driver. But he's a poor companion to an inquisitive blind man. He tilts his head to look over Arthur's shoulder in case he missed something, but the car looks intact and there's no one else around. The headtilt sort of stays locked in place and his eyes narrow a bit as he tries to figure out why his passenger is so pissed off.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car."

Nailed it. Complete with calm-but-lowkey-patronising dad voice and everything.

Arthur pauses, and his face goes slack for a moment, like he just got slapped.

And then the outrage comes back twice as hard, so intense that his cheeks immediately colour from it and his voice is an instant snarl as he approaches Bucky's voice.

"Fuck you! I am through with fucking waiting! I have tried being patient, I have tried being polite, and none of you people ever fucking do anything!"

He gesticulates violently as he talks, seemingly unaware of the white-knuckle grip he has on the knife. "Do you have any fucking comprehension of how goddamn small my world is when I am fucking blind?! Do you even understand how- h-how fucking isolating this is?! To have to- I have to beg people just to know what the fuck they're talking about in any situation because they don't care that I cannot see it!! I don't know what a single goddamn item in my house looks like, I don't know what any of you bastards look like, I-I don't even know what colour my fucking clothes are! The amount of trust I am forced to give you people, time and time again when nothing you have ever done grants me the same! You all treat me like a fucking invalid when I am one of the only ones of us who is even remotely familiar with this point time, who knows how to act in fucking public-- I am blind, I am not fucking helpless!!"

Edited 2024-03-18 20:56 (UTC)

What feels like an unprompted but perhaps long overdue outburst catches Bucky by surprise. He himself melts down by shutting down, and his occasional outbursts are usually much more violent than they are verbal. He's not familiar with this, nor does he know how to deal with this, and the silence that he usually seeks refuge in starts to become uncomfortable and awkward the longer it stretches after Arthur finishes.

Because the truth is, Bucky doesn't know how small Arthur's world is. He hasn't really... cared. Getting out of Sweetwater, dealing with Doctor Norman, retrieving his vibranium arm, destroying-- whatever they extracted out of him so nobody else gets hold of the supersoldier serum - these things are high up on his agenda. Blending in with the civilians and figuring out his limitations without the serum are about as close to empathy as he's getting. Walking a mile in Arthur's shoes is definitely not in the mission brief.

The only thing that Bucky knows about making the world a better place is what Uncle Sam and HYDRA had drilled into him. Put enemies in his crosshairs and get blood and dirt on his hands. He doesn't-- really understand that he's supposed to start one person at a time. One neighbour who deserves more dignity and respect than he's been accorded at a time.

Bucky breathes out a quiet sigh, which at least signals that he's still there, but he doesn't really know how to respond. He's just as familiar with this time period as Arthur is; if he thought Arthur was genuinely helpless he wouldn't have given him his knife; and to him, Arthur needs protecting. Even with no serum, no metal arm, and his knife currently in Arthur's possession, he could disarm and kill Arthur in a dozen different ways right now if he wanted to. He didn't think being entrusted with his knife and told to wait in the car would be a point of contention.

Given some time to reflect, Bucky might eventually figure out what Arthur is trying to say. He might be able to understand what he has been taking for granted and adjust his own behaviour accordingly. But at the moment he can only see Arthur yelling at him waving his knife around. He can't really see Arthur right now. Not the way Arthur wants to be seen.

"How do you want me to treat you." Bucky keeps the defensiveness out of his monotonous voice and doesn't try to justify what he's said or done, even though he doesn't think he's in the wrong.

Arthur is breathing too heavily as the silence stretches on, enough to make him feel uncomfortable and overdrawn, enough to swallow that down to fuel the heat of his ire, that even when he's just fucking explained himself that Bucky isn't giving him anything.

The knife gets switched into his other hand so he can run his fingers through his hair, correcting the flyaways he can feel when the light breeze changes.

"Tell me things. I need you to tell me what is going on so I can see." It's almost as much a command as it is a despairing plea. And then another flicker of irritation as he snaps, "When was it going to occur to you to fucking tell me anything, in fact? Why the fuck did we stop?"

He won't pretend to understand the rest of what Arthur had gone on about, and he sure as hell isn't going to just start telling Arthur things that he isn't comfortable telling him, but if they're not going to have any heart to hearts and Arthur just wants him to describe things out loud? He can do that.

"I can be your eyes," he confirms with the surety of a trained sniper. He won't just give bearings of course, but he'll need to figure out what's important, what's not, if there even is such a thing as too much information.

"I don't know why we stopped. The car... it was acting up. Think we're at the edge of town. Can't cross over on foot either. There's no-- nothing physically here, but. Something's preventing us from leaving." Apparently the grunting and groaning man-shaped yeti is capable of speech, and a lot of it. He just needed a heck of a lot of effort to get there.

"If I figured this out, I would have told you once we got back on the road," Bucky says simply. "Or if I was spotted, attacked, or arrested, either way you would have been safer in the car. I'm supposed to get you to the hospital. Do you care how I get you there?" His fetch quest said deliver the package to the hospital, extract information about the victim and return the package to point of origin. Not give a sitrep every five minutes or every time they encounter yet another strange Sweetwater anomaly.

Finally, something useful to know about the situation. And apparently Bucky has an entirely incorrect perception of him, one that apparently needs remedying immediately if they're to make any progress as a team. Even one as slipshod and useless as this.

"I'm not safe if I don't know what is happening," he says. His voice is low and even now, but every syllable is stressed like he's speaking to a child that tried to stick a fork in a power socket. "I can't make informed decisions if you lock me in the fucking car without telling me anything." He takes a deep breath, and manages to sound fractionally less irritated. "And if I cared about being safe, Bucky - I wouldn't have broken into the doctor's house, or into his safe. I wouldn't antagonise him to try and get information out of him when I was under arrest, I wouldn't-"

His jaw shuts so hard something audibly clicks, and his scowl returns. "I have done things you cannot possibly imagine, things that have threatened to harm or kill me time and time again, all while blind. But the difference is, I had someone telling me what was there. I can't help," he stresses, again with those long syllables in small words, "if I don't know what is happening." And a sudden furious bark: "Do you understand?!"

"I understand. But I care about you being safe." If they can't keep going down this road, they have some other alternatives they could try to pursue, but if Arthur gets grievously hurt, this whole thing is over. Not to mention, the fact that knowing less is actually more dangerous is still counterintuitive to Bucky. He comes from a time and place where the only people who survive are the people who cower, the people who run away, the people who don't investigate and don't try to find out more about the things they don't know about, the people who lie and cheat and steal and betray and genuinely don't know anything or pretend they don't know anything. He hasn't yet learnt enough about the 21st century to know how much more dangerous ignorance can be.

"I will give you every detail about anything you want. But I'm not going to be your eyes so I can watch you get hurt or killed." Arthur doesn't get to put that guilt on anybody else, even if that's not how Arthur sees it.

"That is not your call to make," he snaps back immediately. "Letting me make my own decisions means giving me the ability to make bad ones, regardless of your opinion of them!"

God knows John had hated him going off on his own course, had more than one pointed out that his stubborn determination bordered on idiocy. But yet. Yet. Every time he would always choose knowing more, no matter what the cost was.

"And if that's not going to work for you, then none of this is going to work at all. We are trying to break into a hospital and ask after a secret fucking murder victim, what part of this strikes you in any way as a safe expedition? If Pollock finds out about any of this we are both getting re-educated!"

You'd think that, after everything Bucky had been through, he would understand better than anyone how important it is to be able to make your own decisions, good or bad, smart or stupid. He should appreciate it - even be honoured that he's being a part of it. Maybe, if he sleeps on this, gives it more thought, he'll come around to seeing it that way. Right now he's-- just thinking it's kind of stupid to be standing here arguing like an old married couple. They're going to get caught like this, and for nothing. They're not even anywhere close to the hospital they needed to get to.

"Well you had a plan. It was going to be discreet." And discreet doesn't mean safe, he knows, but screaming at the obtuse, clueless one-armed guy in the middle of the road is definitely not discreet, and by that token, not safe.

"Can we focus on leaving town now, and argue later."

But Arthur has more argument left in him now.

Still, he can concede that much, and the anger can be tucked neatly back away for later, to tear the throat out of some other unsuspecting bastard.

"Fine. Alright." It's with a heavy sigh, but he tucks the knife into his inside jacket pocket for now, and walks cautiously forward, trying to draw level with Bucky. "Now- what exactly is happening with this- barrier, the town edge. You said you can't cross it, what happens when you try?"

Bucky might be stubborn too, but he is too old and too tired to want to argue, and all things considered he's a fairly well trained pet terrorist. They don't make punching bags to be a lot more patient than they made him. If it gets them out of here, he'll let Arthur tear as many new ones in him as he wants.

"Here." Bucky brushes his hand over Arthur's lower back - he'll get better about warning before touching - and tries to turn him to follow the road straight to the barrier before giving Arthur a nudge to move forward.

"Feel that?" He doesn't expect that Arthur can get more than two steps towards what he assumes to be the edge of town before he starts feeling the physical effects of the barrier keeping them in. Or, actually it feels more like something on the other side pushing them out than something on this side pulling them back in. He's not sure he could break through even with if he was... his usual intact super-self.

The hand on his back makes his skin crawl, which is largely because he has to physically refrain from startling and slapping the hand away, but he'll allow Bucky to turn him in the right direction.

His frown deepens, still feeling like he's being played, but he steps forward cautiously with both hands extended. "Feel..." And his eyes widen, the tension from his anger melting all at once as his entire mood shifts to surprise in an instant. It's kind of hilarious how abrupt the shift is, actually. "Oh, right, I-I feel that."

Nothing physical, but the sense of- of repulsion, like a magnet, metaphorical oil on water because there's nothing to touch but the sensation is very much real. His head tilts, altogether too reminiscent of a dog with a scent, and he leans into pushing against the barrier, gradually putting as much of his meagre weight as he can into pushing before he has to relent, stumbling back a little with the microscopic progress he made.

"...a-and the car- how long were you trying to break through it?" If that much force wasn't able to break it, then...

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CW ableism (blindness)

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