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

[ 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.

[The Soldier stills its hand on her shoulder at the tension. She's going to make it worse if she's not careful, and the Soldier's not really that great at making people relax. This is probably not the best topic of conversation for a wounded person.]

There's always someone worse. And people who just take what they want. Elena's not so bad, though. She was nervous and I had to cheer her up by telling her I was scarier.

[It was pretty cute.]

Edited (reread the scene, and Bucky wouldn't misrepresent it, so had to fix, oops) 2019-10-01 03:46 (UTC)

[ And yet she only tenses further at his words, Scarlett's fingers curling into the palms of her hands as she struggles to keep her temper in check. ]

Why? Because she was nice to you? [ A hardness creeping into her tone. Maybe Elena wasn't as bad as some, but she was still a Vampire and Scarlett struggled to believe she didn't have blood on her hands. ]

Everyone has two sides, depending on whether they see themselves as Predator or Prey. Just because you see the Prey doesn't mean they're not still a Predator.

[Oh, she's got the wrong idea. Not surprising, really, most people aren't like the Soldier in how it relates to actual people. It shifts its hand, squeezes the good part of her shoulder tentatively, and says,]

Scarlett. I don't trust anyone. Too many handlers.

[It stops there. (Fucking HYDRA. One thing we agree on.) The plates in the metal arm ripple with a metallic sound, then settle, and the Soldier gets back to the wound, putting the washcloth aside to get the clean bandages.]

That doesn't mean I don't like people, anyway.

[ One of these days she was going to probe when he says things like that. Handlers makes him sound like a spy and the thing is? She believes he could be just that, but it's hard to focus on the questions she wants to ask when he's squeezing her shoulder. It's such a small show of affection that it could easily be dismissed by most, but to somebody who has rarely been touched in her life? She can't help but stare at his hand. ]

That's how you wind up dead. [ Her voice pitched low. Almost like she's reminding herself of that fact instead of telling him.

She grows quiet for a time, letting him work in silence as she stares at his metal arm. Scarlett focused on whatever dark thoughts that are running through her head before she speaks again. ]

What happened to your arm?

Edited (Phone tags are hard ) 2019-10-01 05:05 (UTC)

Maybe.

[The Soldier's pretty sure its died a few times, though. It's less worried about dying than it is about getting through everything on the way there. And now it's giving its first ever friend (that it can remember, anyway) a comforting shoulder-squeeze while explaining it doesn't trust anyone (that's probably weird). It's not even really sure why it did that. It felt good, though.

It lets things go quiet, then, until her question.]

It's always been like that.

[(Come on, you know that ain't true. I don't remember it. You don't remember any damn thing. Neither do you.) Expression briefly frustrated, the Soldier corrects itself,]

As far as I remember, anyway.

[ She's the one who insists she trusts no one, while allowing the man who shot her to tend to her wounds after suggesting he can spend time with her because he wants to. There's not a lot about this friendship that makes sense, except perhaps, for the way that it feels.

Her eyes narrow at that reply, at the frustration in his features and she shifts, pulling her shoulder out of reach as if to try and encourage him to focus on her instead of his wound. ]

Is that what those memory malfunctions are? You're remembering things you didn't before?

[Now that's an uncomfortable topic. For a moment, the Soldier is silent, unsure. (She's not a handler. She can know these things. Besides, the other handlers aren't punishing you for remembering shit, either. So far. Look, you want me to tell her? ... no.) So the Soldier finally answers, itself.]

I think so.

[It stares hard at her half-bandaged shoulder, finding itself annoyed and antsy that now it can't keep its hands busy. The metal one clenches and whirs a little. But the words keep coming.]

It's happened twice now. With you, and then later when I was asleep. Two different sets of memories. Both of them fucking awful.

[ She regards him silently, her expression serious yet thoughtful as it adds another piece to the puzzle that has been her - friendship? She supposes that's what this is - with him.

She shifts again, offering him her shoulder again but not quite ready to let the subject go. ]

Why do you call it a malfunction? [ Like he's a machine, not a man. Like it's an error and not simply a suppressed memory that's rising to the surface. ] Because they're shitty memories or...

[At least with something physical to focus on, it doesn't feel quite as much like it's being interrogated for things it's not fucking supposed to even have. (Like with Crowley. Jesus, why does everybody wanna talk about our feelings?) The Soldier gets back to carefully trying to get the bandage in place without jostling her injury or mussing her shirt too much.]

I'm wiped before and after every mission. Memories coming back is a malfunction. They interfere with proper functioning.

[Still not a person, after all. Its face makes a grumpy expression, but its hands are still gentle.]

Them being shitty just means I don't know if I want any more of them.

[ It's just one piece of the puzzle but it steals her breath away. Parts of what she'd been thinking but hadn't fully understood, making sense. What was a person but a collection of experiences and emotions, layered over the spread of time? ]

Shit...

[ But he'd said it himself. It wasn't that he had no memories. They were still in there, somehow, and they were coming back. She just didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

She allows the silence to stretch out for a while, letting him focus on her wound as Scarlett instead allows his words to turn over in her mind. ]

Maybe... it's not a malfunction? [ Her words tentative, half because she's still trying to piece it together and half because she doesn't want to push. ] Maybe this is just, how you function now?

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