silentspringlogs | Part Four: The Encounter

Entry tags:

Part Four: The Encounter

Who: Arthur Lester and PEOPLE
When: April/May catch-all
Where: All over Sweetwater!
Open/Closed: OPEN
Applicable Warnings: Discussion of torture and missing persons, general malaise and paranoia.

Solo
It's been... difficult in a way Arthur can't quite elaborate on.

Or, well. He can. It fucking sucks. But it's something he doesn't, because he doesn't want anyone pitying him more than he already has to fucking deal with. Because he knows (feels incredibly strongly) that everyone already sees him as useless - or worse, helpless. And he can fucking take care of himself, he managed it before Parker decided to hitch his cart onto this dead fucking horse.

Washing and drying his clothes, he can manage: he and Helly had to learn how to use the machines together to begin with. Ironing, he can't - he's not even going to pretend he won't burn himself, or set something on fire somehow.

Sorting is right out. So the meticulously matched suits of months past are gone completely; Arthur's new look, as May stretches on, are completely mismatched. At least to some degree his suits are still fine; all of his suit colours work together, so instead he just looks visibly rumpled, his tie is slightly but visibly uneven - at least he can shave and style his hair alone, but it's a rather disparate and unbecoming image, especially with the whispers he keeps leaving in his wake, about being constantly arrested and kidnapping that poor driver and maybe he's faking that he's blind--

It's difficult to keep up a foul mood all month, but by God is this place making him want to try. At least the other Book Club members (or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves) at least know that he's still up for a conversation if they find him in the diner, or the library trying to keep up studying Braille. Or even just on the street, having finally mastered his cane by sheer brute force.

With John

...and then he's not alone.

Because there's a teenager with him pretty much constantly from then on. A golden-haired youth with brown eyes that hangs out nearly exclusively on his left side, talking incessantly. It's not like it's a one-sided discussion, Arthur is clearly engaged and listening, replying even, but most of the time it's just the teenager talking at him about - pretty much everything, but a casual listener will definitely notice that it's mostly about the things around them, describing what he's seeing for Arthur.

And it's not subtle how John is staring down anyone who tries approaching them, to the point of glaring when people get too close, but there's the definite impression that if anyone wants to talk to Arthur in private - yeah, that's not happening. The child is coming too.

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"Huh?" Remarks Bucky obliviously. He glances over to the empty sleeve and seems to recognise that he only has one arm, the way that people can sometimes forget they're wearing their glasses, and gives Arthur an unhelpful grunt.

"I lost my left arm in the war." He might have given a more graphic description purely out of spite, but there is a child present. Or a child-looking angry and wary small person, at least. Bucky doesn't necessarily care for the attitude, but he's not the particularly talkative type to begin with. He has no interest in talking about what anyone did to him, let alone with Arthur's 'partner' present.

"Why does it matter," he adds, pressing his lips into a thin, flat line. "I still made lasagna from scratch." And he can still shoot, maim, dismember and mutilate someone else better than just about anyone else in the vicinity. He figured Mr. 'I'm blind, not helpless' would be the last person to give a shit.

"I came to ask about book club. Missed it." Smells like they tried to get rid of a dead body here so, you know, he doesn't feel the need to explain why he's armed.

Partial credit to Bucky identifying a problem he's having, but it's sadly not the problem right now.

"I don't care about your competence, Bucky," he practically snarls, "I care that I've known you for nearly five months and no-one saw fucking fit to tell me about it because it was so incredibly obvious to everyone fucking else!"

It's just one more strike against Arthur, one more piece of this fucking place making him useless when he's the only person who can't operate at full capacity around the people he's supposed to trust, because no-one sees fit to tell him even the most obvious fucking details.

John and Arthur have had and did have their share of shouting earlier, which is why John is just a wee bit glad that the fire isn't landing on him at the moment. But John is still John, which is why he keeps his eyes on Bucky as he says quietly:

"I'm guessing everything here, all the rules and the dangers... they're new to you. That this place, the things that happen here, even your presence here... it's terrifying.

"But Arthur can't see. He's facing all of this blind. Think of everything you know about this situation. Then cut it down to a third. That's probably twice as much as Arthur can get without help, especially because he usually had me to help him. To tell him everything he should be seeing."

He looks to Bucky.

"And now five months later, he learns something I found out from a glance. Can you imagine all the other doubts and fears and concerns that are rising up right now? All the other things he has to wonder about not knowing?" His lips press flat and shakes his head.

"Describing things isn't just to keep him from falling into holes."

"When would it have been a good time to tell you I lost my arm in the war?" Bucky snips. He's not raising his voice but he's clearly mildly annoyed. It's perhaps more frustrating from Arthur's point of view that Bucky of all people should be compassionate and understanding of what it's like to have to struggle with things that other people don't have to, to be kind and more forthcoming, but Bucky has always been 'super' ever since he lost his arm. He's never really understood half of what being in Arthur's shoes might be like.

He doesn't correct what John has observed even though he doesn't think the kid is entirely right. This place isn't all that foreign to him. And it's not fair to bring up what else Arthur might not know. Nobody here knows so many things about anybody else. He hasn't pressed Arthur for too much information and part of the reason Bucky spends time with Arthur is because he doesn't get pressed for information in return.

"I don't want to be the guy from the future with one arm. I'm just Bucky." He can't be just Bucky with anyone else who makes their assumptions with one glance. Can't he have that much?

John giving his own words on the matter gives Arthur time to pace - he knows his own kitchen well enough not to crash, at least - and the motion, the doing of something beside stewing in his own head, helps a bit. Helps get himself on a more even keel, even when Bucky pushes back on- on the wrong fucking point.

He turns towards the soldier's voice. "Bucky, I don't care about how you lost it. That isn't my business. But-" he sighs heavily, running his hand through his hair. "Look. Everyone else knew that it was missing. It doesn't matter how it happened, but they look at you and- they know. It's obvious."

He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture, and lets them drop. "Do you understand that everyone not telling me something that visible can completely hamper my ability to plan, to- to believe that people are telling me everything, anything, when they couldn't even tell me that?"

"Arthur's been without use of his left arm before," John notes very quietly, "it definitely changes how you have to do things sometimes. What if he made a plan, or took a leap, thinking you had two hands?"

But he's not going to leave it at that, because guess what happens when you're in a teenage boy's body?

You have a teenage boy's appetite. They can probably all hear the rumble from his stomach. With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, John is refocusing on an important question.

"...do we still get to eat the lasagna?" Then a pause. "Wait, do I have to pay for it? Arthur, how does this work?"

"No, you don't." Bucky moves into the kitchen and pulls out a plate and some cutlery from the cupboard and drawer, seemingly knowing his way around Arthur's place. He sets the plate down and pulls the bag downwards to expose the aluminum tray. Peeling the lip on each side back, the smell of melted cheese and oven baked tomatoes and ground meat fills the kitchen as he pushes the plate over to the teenage boy's side of the counter. He can cut some and serve himself, can't he?

"Maybe it's not the same where you come from, but there's some things we don't point out about other people. Missing limbs and disfigurements and. Body size and skin colour and stuff. Nobody was deliberately hiding it from you."

"That is not--"

He aborts, and sighs crisply as he runs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few seconds. The smell of food is distracting, but he can ignore the noises of serving up for a moment.

"Bucky, my partner before I went blind was a man named Peter Yang."

You know, that incredibly white name in the 1930s.

"There is a world of difference between being a racist piece of shit to him because he's half-Chinese and acknowledging that there are certain circles of Arkham that will. And that I would be the one at fault if I dragged him there ignorant of the fact and got him hurt, or worse." He glares flatly in the direction of that familiar density of presence. "How the fuck am I supposed to be mindful of those things if I can't fucking see them? How else am I meant to fucking learn about why people react badly to someone if no-one fucking tells me?!"

Sorry about the eyeroll, Bucky.

"You don't talk about it because you can see it. He can't. Jesus fucking Christ. Unless you stumble around in the dark all the time, you understand the need to see people. He's just doing it with words."

And that's all he's saying about it. Instead, he's going to focus on serving himself lasagna. It's awkward, because he's literally never done anything like this before, but he's smart and he can figure out 'cutting implement' allows him to cut a piece and then he has to take that piece and put it on his plate. He's doing it with all the focus of a surgeon, though.

Eventually, he gets to the point where he can cut a piece off and carefully stick it in his mouth, at which point his eyes go very wide. He opens said mouth, then closes it, then puts a hand over his mouth and chews as quickly and as quietly as he ever possibly could, before he pops up again.

"Lasagna is delicious, Arthur!"

He still doesn't got it, never had anyone other than a handful of Wakandan elders try to accommodate him ambling around with one arm because he's far more soldier needing a non-physical kind of rehabilitation than he is a struggling amputee, but there's a certain weariness on his face that seems to have developed over years of not really understanding why other people have their hangups and beliefs and concerns that Bucky hasn't developed in HYDRA captivity. He accepts it without further question the way he almost shuts down and accepts far too many things at face value so as to get past the disagreement and arguments, and just shrugs. Mostly for the kid to see, it seems. He might not look a hundred and six years tired but he's fast feeling it.

Bucky manages not to scrub his face at least and breathes out an almost inaudible sigh.

"I have no other missing limbs. I don't know what else is relevant." The suspicious-looking kid can describe whatever Bucky sinfully left out in their last five months together.

"And you? Are you some kind of alien?" Not that he automatically assumes everyone on the planet will have tried lasagna by a certain age. He's got the rebellious teenage swearing down pat maybe. But it's also the questions - who pays a visibly non-food-delivery-service for food? - and the way he cuts into it. Nobody's real name is John Doe. A fully grown man wouldn't acknowledge a kid as a partner, let alone take them on any dangerous adventures where partners tend to venture. From where Bucky is standing their relationship looks more parasitic than anything else. Arthur is dependent on the young man's eyes. And John Doe needs an Earthly guide, or at the very least help him navigate the social environment and all their unspoken rules and customs that dictate their behaviour.

For all Bucky knows, they both had a hand in killing the lady of the house and that's why it smells like bleach in here. But he'll save his theorising until he figures 'John Doe' out. As long as they're not harming anyone, it's not his business to pry.

A more cynical part of him, jaded by the sheer lack of empathy and assistance he's received for his blindness, wonders why he bothers. Wonders if there's even a point to the efforts when it feels like Bucky consistently fails to hear what he's trying to say no matter how he rephrases it. It's... in a word, exhausting.

But he also knows, objectively, that it's only through other people, when (if) they do, giving him the same grace that he can function at all. And, more subjectively, he doesn't want to be the kind of person that gives up on trying to empathise and help other people.

So he just sighs, heavy and tired, and finds a seat to rest in at the kitchen table.

"Bucky, John Doe," he echoes. "He's from my world. Suffice it to say that whatever John was isn't entirely relevant when he's stuck in a human body now. He chose that name, for the record," he adds dryly, "and while I'll admit it's obvious he's not had much experience with humanity before he met me, I've been working with him as my eyes for long enough that I trust him explicitly. Anything you have to say to me, you can say to him as well."

John rolls his eyes a little, because he's either four months old or 300 million years old, very much depending on how you reckon his existence.

"'Alien' is fine. Wrong, but fine. Let's just say this is my first time having a physical body."

He looks over at Bucky.

"...how did you make the lasagna taste good? Numbers made food and it wasn't nearly so good."

"Right." So, his actual eyes or whatever. That explains a lot about the ill-fitting young meat suit and Bucky unconsciously adjusts how he might interact with John. If he can handle self-introductory trees and snarky raccoons, he can handle whatever white elephant they're dancing around.

"Velveeta. It's plastic sludge Americans market as 'cheese'." Bucky probably doesn't make it sound nearly as appealing as it tastes but if there's ever a good time for Bucky to impart pearls of wisdom like 'never trust anything American made', now might be it.

"So how does he know when to sleep and shit?" Bucky asks Arthur with John Doe in their presence. First time in a physical body and all. Bucky is expecting some... teething issues.

Arthur makes a face at the question. Purely because - what the fuck.

"I would... hope that a human body comes with the instincts related to basic upkeep?" he comments with a befuddled frown. "Regardless, he was in mine for some time, so the, er. The tasks themselves are... familiar."

John glares over at Bucky, but this is much less actually angry and much more 'huffy teenager'.

"I'm also right here. You can just ask me."

And jokes on you, Bucky: he doesn't know that plastic or sludge are bad descriptors for food. Especially when it's delicious.

Bucky sideeyes the kid. The lack of trust goes both ways. Also he can't help but flash Arthur a dirty look that thankfully goes unseen.

"Too much info. I don't need to know," he remarks curtly. After all, why overshare when they've been so vague with their arrangement thus far?

"So can you tell me about book club or are you still pissed off?"

Arthur can't see the dirty look he got, but he's definitely sending one back. You literally asked him. Fucking Americans.

But he forces himself to simmer down a bit, because he can at least give a status report. "After we investigated the barrier together, I got Numbers and Wrench to help me investigate if there were other ways out of town - if we're trapped here, then there has to be a way supplies are coming in."

He sighs, less crisply now. "The other two learned that there are delivery trucks that do just that, and we tried tailing one, but we weren't able to follow it, suggesting it's not something like a gateway that opens. So, to follow, we hijacked one of the trucks and forced its driver at gunpoint to drive us out of town."

There's no shame in the admission, just a sort of pragmatic resignation.

"We were caught, of course, and, er." It's only now he hesitates, glancing towards the sound of John's cutlery, but his mouth sets into a grimace. "We were arrested, and... tortured."

"He's side eyeing me, as if you and I are going to give him different information," he says with a roll of his eyes, "and he gave you a dirty look afterwards."

What part of 'his eyes' did you miss, exactly?

But the mention of torture makes him go very very still and look very very young for a moment.

"Torture. Arthur, what do you mean 'torture'? What did they do to you?"

The tone is quiet, aching, and the undercurrent is a desire to murder every last one of them.

He listens in silence, to the point where it might seem like none of what Arthur had said actually registered. But Bucky is just processing. He's familiar enough with barriers that only certain people can cross. He didn't see any evidence of that kind of familiar tech when they went investigating though. And he's not really sure what the hell the three of them were thinking. Did they think they were going to find the answers to everything as soon as they rolled out in a delivery truck?

"Did you learn anything crom the driver then?" Bucky seems wholly unconcerned about the torture talk. Like it's a normal part of their existence here - which it sort of is - and it's a fairly uneventful thing that happens to everyone.

Oh - he didn't expect John to sound so affected by it, and his face pivots towards the too-young voice with a look of concern.

"It's- I'll explain later, John," he says quietly, trying to go for soothing and probably missing the mark, given the content. There's nothing gained in upsetting him more now by going into it when they're trying to report something.

To Bucky, then, his tone goes back to level and closed off. "Not from the driver himself, but we were able to discover that using a vehicle from outside the town, o-or even being in the same vehicle as a local doesn't work either. So there's got to be something marking us, independent of the locals that prevents us from leaving no matter what."

John looks absolutely livid, but the knowledge that he can't talk inside of Arthur's head and say everything he wants to say about that-

No! Not later, Arthur! What the fuck do you mean, torture!? Who tortured you!? I will fucking kill every single one of them I swear to fucking Christ-

The (silent) litany will continue as wide brown eyes stare hard enough Arthur might feel it.

He's jamming lasagna in his mouth before he screams.

"What, like a chip or something?" Bucky isn't above cutting himself in a few places to satisfy his own paranoia - maybe he'll even find whatever supersoldier serum inhibitor they might have planted in him - but they're probably not at that level of investigation yet. Besides, it doesn't necessarily have to be something physical. It could just be a waste of random stabbings.

"Guess they want something from us the locals can't give." Only, as far as Bucky's concerned, he can't see any common thing that they might have that the locals might not. Everyone came here from different places and times with different abilities and knowledge.

"How's the driver?" It was a pretty shit plan and Bucky's not sure anyone came out unscathed.

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Part Four: The Encounter

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