networkinthenight | [text] @helsing; I've always liked to play with fire [open]

[ Scarlett lifts her hand to rub the heel of her palm over her eye. Dragging her fingers down her cheek as she struggles with how to explain this to somebody who doesn't think the way she does. He talks like he's out of a spy movie and he's still living that life, even here. ]

You - You're not an Asset. That was your life before Beacon.

[ But she doesn't get that he believes he still has his handlers here. People to give him orders. ]

And I'm willing to bet those people looked after you because they wanted something from you. [ People being people. ] I don't want anything from anyone and I don't want people wanting things from me.

[Dying didn't change what the Soldier is. And all the strangeness just keeps it clinging to what it knows, at least for now.

But that was its last attempt at changing her mind. Arguing isn't its strongest skill, at this point, and if she doesn't want anything from it, then it's not going to force anything on her. It nods, finally, and pushes up from the bed.]

If that's what you want, then, Scarlett.

[It's going to leave the supply anyway, though.]

[ There's this small part of her that wants to stop him. That wants to ask him to stay to look at her shoulder and fix her up. To let somebody else take care of her for a change. A part of her that wouldn't mind if he just, hung around for a while, to distract her from the pain and discomfort of her wound. ]

Look - [ What Scarlett wants and what she's willing to do, however?

She shakes her head, rubbing her hand along the back of her neck before gesturing vaguely towards the now boarded-up windows. ]

Thanks for - ya know. Saving me the trouble.

[That's a familiar motion. Someone else used to do that. The Soldier watches her for a moment, not sure if it wants to try and place that familiarity. Memory malfunctions seem to come with violence.

So it pointedly doesn't think about it. Instead it nods.]

You're welcome. It's getting cold, and the windows were my fault, too.

[Though now it can't climb out them to leave. That's almost funny.]

I'll have to use the door this time.

You get used to the cold. [ Dismissive of the concern.

It had been years since she'd slept in an actual bed every night. She could be living in a dilapidated shack with nothing but a mattress on the floor and it still would have been better than what she'd been doing the last few years. ]

Oh, do you actually knock on those or should I expect to find you here again in the future? [ Her voice lacking the hard edge that usually accompanied her barbs. ]

[She actually gets half a smile at that. It's amazing. Even if it looks a little bit sad, too.]

I do remember knocking.

[Now, anyway. It took a little while. Also, it's boring, and if you knock, someone might actually say you couldn't come in, and the Soldier can't exactly go against that kind of thing.]

Coming in the window is more fun, though.

Yeah well. I probably wouldn't have answered a knock anyway.

[ Letting himself in was probably the best approach where she was concerned and for all the sarcasm she'd directed his way? She's never actually asked him to leave. ]

Maybe you shouldn't have done such a good job of fixing them, then.

[ The sadness to that smile of his isn't lost on her, Scarlett running her fingers back through hair that honestly? Looks in need of a wash. Self-care is a lot easier to maintain without a hole in your shoulder. ]

You know you're not responsible for me now, right? I've done worse to myself without trying so - you don't owe me.

[The comment about the windows makes it start to feel better-- it did a good job with her windows; she didn't just thank the Soldier because it did work for her, she's saying it did a good job, that's a warm and pleasant feeling-- but then the last comment bomb ruins it. The Soldier stares at the level of her shoulder (to the side of her good one, so it doesn't look like it's staring at her wound), and the briefly pleased expression falls off into a slow blink that leaves the Soldier looking too much like a lost puppy for a guy who claims to just be a murder machine.

The Soldier finally says, in a very poor attempt to explain something it doesn't entirely understand either,]

If I'm not helping. I don't have any reason to be up here.

[The Soldier can't actually imagine anyone wanting it around for company. It's a weapon. Who wants a weapon just kind of hanging around? And it certainly doesn't have the words or, frankly, the emotional experience to convey how patching her up had been the most natural and non-terrifying interaction it's had since the last wipe.]

[ He gets this look sometimes, like a wounded puppy and every time she feels like shit but half the time she doesn't know what she did to put it there, and the rest? She's pissed at herself for even caring that it is. Maybe it's because those simple human emotions like happiness were so rarely seen in their encounters so far. Or the fact that he kept driving home how bad she was with people. She didn't have Axel or Julius around to soften her hardened edges with their easy personalities. No Doc to have the expertise that made putting up with Scarlett, worth the bother. Here she just had herself and he kept reminding her how fucking bad she was at this.

Right now, he has that puppy look and she hates not only that it gets to her, but that she was the one to put it there. ]

You come up here to... I don't know. [ Her hand moves back to her neck, fingers pressing her long her spine. ] Because you want to or - whatever, just. You know.

[ Though if he takes anything from that sentence it's a miracle because even Scarlett's not sure what she just said. ]

I don't really do - this? [ Her hand gesturing between the two of them. ] I'm not good with people. I'm used to being alone.

[ That was true, once. She always thought she preferred it that way and that it would be better to do the same here. She'd been finding that she missed it though, having somebody around and while most people here wanted to push the whole, getting to know you thing? He (Bucky) was content to just - exist. Not wanting things from her, just being around in his own, strange kind of way. ]

But I don't hate having you around, so. [ She looks, something close to grumpy over the fact that she's had to say that out loud. ] So if you wanna, come up here, that can be the reason.

[ Why is she doing this?! ]

Or whatever.

[If it hadn't been the Soldier standing there listening intently to every word and visibly not judging any of it, if it had been anyone else, this might have been the most awkward conversation in the history of Beacon. As it is, said Soldier takes it in stride, and the kicked-puppy expression turns into a kind of hopeful bafflement. What does any of that even fucking mean beyond "I don't hate having you around" and "if you wanna come up here, that can be the reason", which seems to say at least it's welcome in her presence for no reason at all.

Who does that.

(Think it's called a friend, pal.)

It doesn't even tell that presence to shut up, too busy calculating something that doesn't actually have variables. Maybe Scarlett has more insight.]

What does one do with people if one isn't helping or watching over them.

[Because it's never done this, either, that it can remember. Even if apparently some part of it at least knows what it is. (Not sure that part is even right. I'm right, you dumbass. How do you know? I just fuckin' do. Which means you don't know how you know.) That gets silence. More research may be required.]

[ It's not a question that should stump her, but at his question she does her best impersonation of a goldfish. Scarlett trying to speak then stopping before the words could come out. She'd never had a friend, not in the true sense of the word. The people you spent time with in the middle of an apocalypse didn't really do normal 'friend' things. ]

I mean you... I don't know. Hang out? Watch me sharpen my weapons. [ Her small grin suggests it's a joke but the reality is? That's more or less what being friends with Scarlett would entail. ] Maybe I'll make food sometimes.

[ She's not doing a great job of explaining this and the fact that she isn't, helps to distract her from the strangeness in having to explain it at all. ]

Honestly? It's like what you do already, except, instead of watching me do things you do them too.

[That actually sounds like something the Soldier could, in fact, do. Huh. Is it really that simple? If so, why is interacting with other people so much harder? More research is definitely required, maybe with Handler Misty, or Mary, who was so insistent the Soldier have friends.

For now, it nods thoughtfully.]

I do have a lot of knives to sharpen, and guns to clean.

[And now that she's made it clear she doesn't actually want the Soldier to leave, it circles back to its original reason for being here, with more resolve this time.]

And you can't sharpen weapons or clean guns without help with your shoulder. So let me see it.

[So there, Scarlett. If they're going to be friends, the Soldier is going to help you whether you like it or not. It might even look a tiny bit smug. Just a tiny bit.]

[ That elicits a huff of laughter, a real smile touching her lips for a change. ]

That you do.

[ She could have had this conversation with just about anyone else and she might have earned her childhood nickname of 'Scary Scarlett'. With him? There was something to be said for people who were a little left of center. It made talking to them less like a trip the the dentist.

Her smile drops as he turns the tables on her, Scarlett wanting to throw something but the only thing in easy reach happens to be sharp and pointy. ]

That - [ Shaking her head as she struggles to find a good argument. ] That's some bullshit right there.

[ She lets out a shuddering breath, running her fingers through her hair before finally motioning in a circle with just one of them. ]

Turn around. [ Now with context. ] Unless you want an eyeful.

It's bullshit that works, though.

[Throw your sharp and pointy things, Scarlett. The Soldier has a metal arm and superhuman reflexes. It'd be fun.

It does, however, obligingly turn its back on her so that she can do what she feels she needs to without an audience. Smiling a bit before and after it does so, because for some reason it feels. Good. About all this. It's new, but it's nice.

While she presumably gets her shirt off (rather than flees the scene, which the Soldier hopes she's not planning but wouldn't put past her), the Soldier collects one of the washcloths and tips some water onto it from the canteen in its pocket, and rubs a little soap into the wet spot. Even if it can't offer antibiotics, it can at least get the wound clean for her.]

[ She can't even say that she's mad, that huff of air sounding more amused than irritated as she catches his small smile. Scarlett waiting for him to turn before she allows the pretense of being fine to slip away. She knows it's not so bad that she's at risk of going into septic shock, no feeling of poison going through her veins but it's bad enough for the pain to be a constant thing. For her to feel like her shoulder is radiating heat.

Though she tries to cover the sound, air hissing through teeth can be heard as she slips the flannel shirt from her body. The shirt a little more difficult for Scarlett to manage, but she does so slowly and with gritted teeth. The fact that it's taking so long confirms she's not as fine as she insisted that she was - but she gets there, mostly because she refuses to admit defeat with him standing there waiting for her. ]

You can save the lecture. [ Finally breaking the silence as she gets the buttons on the flannel shirt up enough to provide her some modesty. The sight of her in color - black and red though it is, somewhat jarring after wearing only black since she arrived. ]

There's nothing you can say I'm not already aware of. [ Her wound still hidden by the shirt though at least now, easily accessible. ]

[At her voice, it turns back and pads over. It's surprisingly quiet despite wearing combat boots. It uses the metal hand to pull her shirt aside a little and undoes any remaining bandaging, and though it sighs a little at the sight of the wound, it says,]

I won't lecture.

[It's just going to quietly feel bad that it caused this, that's all. Especially if her getting her shirt undone caused it to reopen, which it could well have done.]

This will be cold.

[And it lays the washcloth over her wound, first, to soften any blood or seepage before attempting to actually clean. The water hadn't exactly been warm, and resting on the Soldier's other hand hadn't warmed it up much. Cold is probably good for infected skin, though, even if it feels uncomfortable.]

Have you been cleaning it? Changing bandages every day?

[ She can't quite shake her unease, not at his presence, not his closeness but at letting him tend to her wound. In the beginning it was different. He'd shot her - the least he could do was remove the bullet, right? This was different somehow, like it had shifted from him owing her one to him helping her and while she was trying not to cut off her nose to spite her face, this still didn't feel natural to her. ]

Good, cause I'd ignore you anyway. [ Her smile tight as she lifts her chin, turning her head away to allow him better access to her wound.

Her flannel shirt is large enough that she can pull it to the side, the open neck slipping over her shoulder to allow him to work and while she does hiss as the cold of the damp cloth soaks through the bandages, it's quickly followed by a look of relief as it cools the infection her body is struggling to fight off.

Her eyes dart towards him at that question, the answer telegraphed by her features as she presses her lips into a thin line.

Clearing her throat. ] Mostly.

[ She looks away again like if she meets his gaze he'll read exactly what mostly means, her jaw rocking from side to side as she wills herself to speak again. ]

I'm right-handed, so. [ It makes cleaning and dressing a wound on her right shoulder, easier said than done. ]

[You know what, the Soldier can't even really blame her for that. Self-treatment can be difficult, and she doesn't have a metal arm that makes handedness irrelevant. And she might move like a Widow, but she's still technically a civvie, and so not really expected to be able to ignore pain the way the Soldier does. So it says,]

I'll come back tomorrow. Keeping it cleaner will help with the infection.

[Which will wind up unnecessary if one of the other people in Beacon winds up healing her, of course. Probably to Scarlett's relief. The Soldier lifts the washcloth, checking underneath, and starts gently cleaning around the wound.

(You realize you ain't touched anybody else on purpose since you got here? What does that have to do with anything? Don't know, it's just weird. Even Mary touching our hand freaked you out. But this doesn't. Right. Huh.) The Soldier frowns a bit, still working. Yet another weird thing to think about. It doesn't think it will ask Scarlett, though; she seems uncomfortable enough.]

Have you never had anyone else treat your wounds? Before me.

[ She lifts her gaze and gives him a flat look, but notably doesn't tell him no. Her face expressing her displeasure at needing help, but her brain keeping her tongue in check because unfortunately, she knows, she does need it.

Her features tighten once he starts on the wound itself, Scarlett breathing slowly to try and control her reaction. Infinitesimal ticks of muscles showing her pain, but otherwise, she keeps it internalized.

His question momentarily stumps her, Scarlett trying to remember a time when it had been different. When there'd been somebody around to take care of her the way a person needed sometimes. ]

When I was a kid? I guess. [ Her Mom - birth-mom - had been the caretaker of the family. ] But my Mom died when I was twelve and my Dad wasn't much for that sort of thing.

[ But nothing since then and given her age and her obvious combat experience? That was a long time to go without anyone helping you. ]

Edited (I can words) 2019-09-30 14:07 (UTC)

[No wonder she's shit at accepting help. The Soldier has just enough tact not to say that out loud, no matter how comfortable it's getting with Scarlett. Instead it asks, half out of actual curiosity and half because some instinct says keeping her talking will distract from wound treatment,]

Why were you getting wounded at twelve?

[Because that seems awfully young to be needing to be bandaged up, by one's parents or not.]

[ She tries to get a better look at her wound as he cleans it, the grimace more from the state it's in than any actual pain. She could practically hear Charles Harker now, berating her for being so stupid.

But then he wouldn't like her being here at all, standing with the person who had technically done this. He would have wanted her to kill him. To keep killing him until he stopped coming back, so there was no chance this could happen again. ]

My Dad was preparing me. [ It's said casually like she hasn't just admitted something that would be jarring for most. ] For as long as I can remember he was training me in combat, weapons, hunting. That kind of thing.

He was... [ Despite what she's said, there's something of a fondness in the curve of her lips as she continues. ] He was pretty intense.

You really are like a Widow. They train from very young, too.

[Not that the Soldier exactly approves (Little girls shouldn't have to kill people. Period.), but it didn't really have a say in the matter of Widows, and her history is long past so disapproving now serves no purpose. It holds her shirt aside a little so she can see better, when she looks, then swaps the soapy washcloth for a clean one and a little more cold water to rinse.]

What was he preparing you for?

[Since she's not a spy. The Soldier thinks she's not a spy, anyway. A spy would probably be better with people than she is.]

[ She still doesn't fully understand what a Widow is, but she doesn't comment on them training young. To Scarlett, that was normal. She had no doubt there were plenty of people that wouldn't agree with how Charles Harker had raised her, but he'd given her a fighting chance. That's more than most of the world had. ]

The Rising.

[ It's funny how two words could define a horrific situation for one, while to everyone else they held no significant meaning. ]

A few years back, the world I'm from went to shit. Yellowstone blew, blanketing the sky with clouds of ash. That's when the Vampires came. Society collapsed. Most of the human population was either killed or turned and those who were left have been hunted ever since.

[ She doesn't even know if he knows what a Vampire is, if any of this makes the slightest bit of sense, but she talks like she's relaying facts instead of describing an apocalypse that saw hundreds of millions of people killed. ]

I hunted the hunters.

[Sounds pretty fucked up, all right. The Soldier isn't bad at imagining things, and it can picture that pretty clearly from what little Scarlett says.]

Vampires. Like Elena?

[That's all the Soldier knows about vampires, what Elena's told him.]

[ Scarlett tenses at that name, her expression difficult to read as the young Vampire in question continues to be a source of confusion for Scarlett. Either she was the Unicorn of Vampires and was all that she claimed to be, or she was one helluva liar. Either way it was clear that Scarlett wasn't entirely comfortable with her. ]

Worse than her, but yeah. Like Elena.

[ If she hadn't seen somebody she now trusted, fight their nature, she might never have believed what Elena was saying was possible. ]

They don't need to ask for Volunteers in my world. They just take what they want.

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