2411/Awkward Awakenings

Awkward Awakenings
Date of Scene:	10 September 2017
Location:	Mercy's Garage, New York
Synopsis:	Claire Temple awakens back in safety, after her harrowing experience. She and Mercy Thompson catch up on all that happens. Bucky Barnes is super guilty.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier, Claire Temple

---

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Claire Temple has been saved. The Hydra cell vanquished. The group returned to the garage and from there they either stayed or dispersed.

For those that decided to stay Mercy bunked them down wherever she could. For Claire specifically, she also added some extra clothes for the other woman. Bucky, well, he was stuck in whatever he wore to help rescue Claire. Mercy did offer towels though and her bathroom for everyone to wash up in.

Now several hours have passed and one has to wonder if anyone slept. Mercy's answer to that question would be a simple no. Or if she was really feeling it a 'hell no'.

But, whatever the case may truly be, the coyote has finally stopped pretending to sleep and is now within the kitchen. While others might try to tip-toe around Mercy doesn't. Not when there's a wolf-assassin-killer beneath her roof. So, the normal sounds of someone in the kitchen can likely be heard for those within.

As to the living areas of Mercy's, it's quite normal; entranceway, living room, kitchen and hallway that leads to the bathroom and bedroom. Perhaps the only surprising thing that can be found within is a tailless Manx cat. A mean tailless Manx cat. Bucky might have found those gold-green eyes of the cat focused primarily upon him for the majority of the night. It likely doesn't help that the cat might also have settled down near Claire.

Cat's are sensitive to a person's mood and emotional state; even mean cats like Medea.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Bucky was moments away from leaving. He didn't show it much, not outwardly, but being around Steve was the greatest source of his strain -- there was a smell of fear to him, more than anything else. A smell of fear that Steve would suddenly and abruptly see him for what he is, what he's become, and lose all love and faith in him.

Bucky didn't think that was something he could endure-- to lose the regard of the best man he's ever known-- and so at the very end of things, he quailed. He would have fled if not for Claire. One last look at her, wan and ravaged and broken by his hands, was all it took to keep him right where he was.

His own fears could wait. In fact, if Steve saw him for who he truly was now, that would be all the punishment he deserved. So he's lingered, as a result, seeming to make it a personal and silent duty to sentry Claire where she rests in Mercy's home. He's remarkably docile for a deadly killer, staying in a corner of Claire's room and watching her as she rests.

Well, trying to watch her. At some point, a cat came in and made no secret of the fact that she did not think very much of him at all. Already under enough strain, the disdain of a cat-- who, on top of everything else, took his job by settling down beside Claire and assuming sentry-- is the last straw.

Driven from her room, he wanders restlessly and a bit awkwardly down the hall. He walks very silently for a man of his height and weight, but Mercy doesn't exactly have the senses of a mere human.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire Temple never stops moving.

Even carried in Bucky Barnes's arms, she is constant, unarresting movement, the body's will to survival overriding all else: thought, feeling, expression, even the single moment a person would take to stagger and collapse and exult their own freedom.

Back at the garage, her eyes are still too-bright and wild, and every motion in her body steeps in the no man's land between fight and flight. She expects absolutely anything and everything to happen, whether it be a reprisal by the people who enslaved Barnes and tortured her, or even the possibility that sitting too long will wake her up out of a beautiful, false dream. Out of this and back on that metal slab, her limbs in restraints, and the slow dripping of --

Given privacy, given clothes, she accepts both without even speaking. She takes those gifts like a soldier takes orders, with frank obedience, because a refusal to obey in the field means death. She will listen to whatever any of them will tell her to keep them all alive.

It is too quiet after the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Claire shakes in silence. She takes constant, searching glances, and all of them seem to look for Bucky, checking he is still in attendance, still here. She asks one question of everyone, and it's a simple thing: what day is this?

And then, sometime later and without fanfare, anticlimactically so -- she falls asleep. The moment comes that the body cannot take any more. The moment survival can last so long, and when she sits down on a soft, safe bed, Claire passes out. She sleeps deeply, and for hours and hours.

She's still asleep when Bucky inevitably leaves the room, driven out by little more than a housecat. Minutes later, Claire stirs. She opens her eyes.

And she sees a room. Not the prison she was in, but still unfamiliar. Remembering everything, and no longer with adrenaline to hold her in the safety of not feeling, the woman slowly sits up, moving a blanket aside. She searches every wall. She even looks at the cat. She remembers she's supposed to dislike cats, always has.

Unable to sit still, Claire shifts her legs, and lets the soles of her bare feet touch the ground. Reality grounds her in an instant. Everything that happened. Everything that is. The tears roll free from her eyes, and she cups a hand over her mouth to hold in the sound.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy starts the coffee. That's the easiest thing for her to do. Something that's typically done by rote. After that, the coyote loses herself in thought for a few minutes. She stands there in her kitchen staring sightlessly, before that idleness is shaken away. With that the sounds of cupboards and drawers opening and closing might be heard.

It's only as Mercy scrounges in her fridge for appropriate breakfast food (bacon, eggs, toast) that those nearly silent footsteps are heard. That brings the mechanic's head up and causes her to straighten from her casual slouch. The carton of eggs in her hand is now set aside, as Mercy moves to the doorway.

She already knows who she's going to see when she gets to the kitchen doorway - not Claire, or Loki, or Fred, Sam or Steve, but Barnes. That thought brings an automatic tightness to her features and while she mentally berates herself for that immediate response, Mercy can't quite stop it. Either way, silence will greet Barnes for a few seconds when Mercy appears. It also might not help that Mercy's gaze shifts off of Barnes and to the hallway behind him; as Mercy looks to see if a certain nurse is there, even if she already knows Claire isn't. It's only when the silence crawls toward awkward that Mercy returns her attention back to the Soldier. "Come on, I'm making breakfast." Are the polite words from the mechanic and then, she turns to move back into the kitchen. The few steps it takes to bring Mercy back into the kitchen give way to several thoughts at once - This isn't-wasn't his fault. None of it really is-was. He's just as much a victim of circumstance as any of them are.

So, while there's still a certain look about Mercy, something within her attitude shifts ever-so-slightly. That microscopic unbending is enough to cause the mechanic to finally say something more. A question this time. "What name do you prefer?" She asks, and while Mercy strives to make that question sound natural, it just doesn't. Instead it sounds stiff and hesitant.

And while the coyote doesn't yet hear anything from within the bedroom, at least when it comes to crying, that doesn't mean the Night Nurse is all alone in her pain and despair. Medea is there and when Claire sits up, the torty Manx likewise rises with a lazy stretch and yawn. It's only as Claire Temple stifles her tears that the cat moves. The four-footed feline walks over and with very little fanfare sits down next to her. Then, like any good cat would, Medea begins to clean her front paw with intent purpose.

Perhaps not the typical definition of solidarity, but solidarity defined in the way only a cat can - with disinterest.

But Claire isn't alone.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Claire looks constantly for Bucky. He was her only grounding in that place, even if he was simultaneously her jailor, and she has acclimated to thinking of him as safety.

Now that he truly is safety, he does not leave her side. Every time she looks for him, there he is. Though his own urge to cut and flee and never stop running is almost overwhelming at times, he remains so that she has him to look at any time her eyes search for him. It is his penance for doing what he did to her. It is her needs that are important now, not his.

He can see to his own needs once she is recovered. He still has a cache of weapons. He knows where he can find more. His grace period before he is discovered to be missing, by the many other heads of Hydra, is very short, but he knows where to supply himself even if the Hydra caches of which he is aware are moved. He has contacts with which he dealt, as the Winter Soldier -- contacts in the Middle East, in the former Soviet Bloc. Just a matter of getting out there.

For now, he sits by Claire's bedside until she falls asleep. Her question of what day it is shines his eyes too-bright with emotion. He remembers asking her that himself, once, what feels like a long time ago. How easily the mind can be divorced from its grounding in the flow of time.

He stays with her a while, even after she's asleep, up until Medea unceremoniously evicts him with the judgment of her grumpy face. A little adrift, unaccustomed to idleness and freedom after decades spent living a life of extreme, targeted purpose, he wanders vaguely down the hall, at a complete loss to understand quiet. The smell of coffee eventually hits his senses, and he turns unconsciously towards it. He only stops when Mercy appears in the doorway. His eyes immediately avert, gaze dropping to the floor, a bit ashamed and a lot awkward.

I'm making breakfast, she says. That prompts an odd reaction. His expression freezes up brittle-taut, as if he were trying to prevent some sudden and unexpected well of emotion from breaking through to become visible. It's been decades, in both of his lives and both his incarnations, since he heard anything so simple and domestic as a call to breakfast. Not since he was a child--

Her question about his name surprises him enough he finally looks at her. She has previously only seen them when they were those of the Winter Soldier: focused on her with predatory intensity, frosted with the utter coldness that his title implied. In color and shape they are unchanged, but the look in them speaks of an entirely different man behind the wheel. He looks like he doesn't really know what name to call /himself/. He looks apologetic about his own confusion.

"...My name is James," he eventually says, his voice rusty with disuse. He says it like he's uncertain of it himself, a man rediscovering old forgotten things in a dusty box. He remembers the name 'Bucky' -- but he also remembers that 'Bucky' has baggage. "James Barnes. Call me whatever variation you want."

He shifts his weight a little, obviously uncomfortable, but follows her into the kitchen. His body turns a little as he moves, so his left side is farther from Mercy: whether to hide his arm, or protect her from it. He holds the arm stiffly, probably not wanting it to make its whirring sounds. "I... should see if Claire is awake," he finally says, in an apparent agony of embarrassment.

Claire Temple has posed:
The last seven weeks pour out of her.

Unable to stop it now, those tears, Claire only focuses on desperate mitigation, curling in on herself and covering her mouth as her body racks with sobs. She's not going to survive torture and near-death and thank the people who got her out by calling them in with her wailing and forcing them to see her this way.

She can barely see herself this way.

But she girds down and holds herself together as it bubbles up, the fear and helplessness and shock and adrenaline and humiliation and /relief/, the sickening, knotted relief that she's still here, she's still alive. Tears squeeze free from her closed eyes.

Minutes later, it ends, not because of any resolution but that there's simply nothing left, no energy left in her fatigued body to fuel the stress needed to cry. Certain she will no longer make any unwanted sounds, Claire takes her hand from her mouth, and breathes in deeply.

Somehow, her eyes end up finding the shape of a cat seated at her side. A cat of all things. She's always hated them, never got along with the things, because her mother always said she was too much of a cat herself.

Her mother, Claire remembers, with a painful twist of her heart that has her reaching out to the first and only thing she can, her hand light on the manx cat's fur. Allergies be damned, it feels good to touch something warm. It was so cold in there, always so cold --

Shock centers her, and lifting her eyes, it hits her she's alone in a room empty of Bucky. It bothers her too much, too fast, not to be able to see him.

Wiping the last tears from her face, she stands free of the bed, no longer settled and able to keep still. If he's no longer here, then she needs to start moving again. Start moving toward something.

Some seconds after Bucky's last words, to both his and Mercy's keen hearing, there are the soft, careful sounds of footsteps, light in the way of someone deliberately not wanting to make more noise than she should. Dressed in one of Mercy's borrowed long-sleeved shirts, and a pair of clothy sweatpants, Claire is definitely awake, and up, standing there in the hall.

"Hey," she says through that first awkwardness.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That unexpected swell of emotion from Bucky earns a subtle side-eye from Mercy. Her glance, however, might not be seen as she tries to carefully disguise it in the distraction of getting mugs from an overhead cupboard. From the cupboard several mismatched mugs are retrieved; 'I 'heart' cats', 'I'll be in the garage if you need me' and finally 'Don't torque me off'.

Apparently there's only so many types of mugs Mercedes Thompson typically receives from people. All of those silly seeming mugs are set upon the island that sits in the middle of the kitchen. Along with those mugs are several plates and silverware.

The stove already holds several pans while next to it upon the counter a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs and a package of bacon can be found.

That uncertainty of his, at his own name, causes the mechanic to pause. That pause gives her the chance to meet his eyes and while they no longer hold the sharpness of the Winter Soldier, there's still an uncomfortable shift from Mercy.

"James." Mercy states and while Mercy is normally the one who facilitates the flow of conversation it just doesn't happen today. Instead she turns back to the food and busies herself with dropping the bacon into the skillet, turning the flame on, readying some bread for the toaster.

Within Mercy's bedroom the cat sits there as she continues to studiously clean her paw. It's only when Claire reaches for the tortoise patterned fur that the feline will pause. The touch upon soft fur garners a slow blink from the feline, but that's about it.

Back in the kitchen the silence continues to weigh heavily within the room. It's only when James speaks again, offering to check upon Claire, that Mercy pivots back around. She sees the way he holds himself with his arm away from her, and now perhaps the coyote gives off a sense of shame, "Wait." She begins, "Look, I know it's not -" Your fault. That's what she was going to say, but those words never finish, not when sensitive ears pick up the sound of a second set of footsteps. Softer than the assassins, but equally as familiar. When the other woman appears Mercy can't quite contain the look of relief that colors her expression. Though perhaps the question remains what sort of relief is Mercy feeling? Relief that the woman is awake? That she seems coherent? Or possibly that Mercy is no longer alone with Bucky? Perhaps it's a combination of all those things, it's hard to say. Even Mercy might not know the answer to that one, but all of that is pushed aside, as Claire is here. Seeing her friend, Mercy steps away from the sizzling bacon, the bread and the eggs and steps toward the nurse.

"Claire - how are you feeling?" Is the immediate question from the mechanic her tone full of worry.

Winter Soldier has posed:
James, Mercy decides. So-named, he nods awkwardly. A long silence descends, as Mercy busies herself with cooking, and Bucky tries to decide whether to stay or to quietly flee. Ultimately he sticks around, though his discomfort worsens even though Mercy is no longer exactly paying attention to him.

Finally hitting a bit of a breaking point, he determines to flee. He wants to check on Claire anyway, a fact he relays and which causes Mercy to finally turn around. He registers the sudden shame in her eyes, the words she starts to say which he knows are going to be some sort of absolution, and he doesn't think he can hear that right now--

--and the sound of steps silences them both. Bucky turns to look, and his eyes gentle a little to the sight of Claire up and moving around. "Hey," he says back, equally as awkward.

He doesn't try to go to her, his eyes only able to hold hers a few moments before they lower in obvious guilt. He figures Mercy will be better for her right now than he ever could be. Retreating to try to give the two women space, he finds himself idly studying the three mugs instead.

The three options are considered. The garage one does not even merit a glance. The other two are pondered. Finally, Bucky seems to decide 'I 'heart' cats' to be the safest option, and reaches for it. Perhaps subconsciously he's aware that it's much too soon for 'Don't torque me off' to be funny.

Claire Temple has posed:
That first glimpse on Claire Temple's face is to see the relief there, her eyes on Bucky -- who is still here. Who hasn't taken off, who hasn't turned back into whatever program they put him in, who isn't lost again to the night like so many times before.

He can't hold her eyes for long. She looks after him, something unspoken in her face, weighed down with questions she wants to ask, but she lets him go. He's been forced too much.

Then Mercy has Claire's attention, looking at her with that question spoken, a question so simple that she doesn't think she can answer true for the life of her. "I'm good," she settles on instead, the words empty on her own ears, though she tries to gentle it with a softening of her eyes. It's so good to see her, and what she really wants to do is touch her, hug her, but she's certain all it'll do is bring the tears back.

So Claire instead goes for any hospitable place she can sit, finding a chair and settling with a heavy gravity of a body that still hasn't her strength back. Back stooped, shoulders forward, her hands curl loosely in her lap.

Exhaling her eyes track between the two, her brain needing more time than usual to do a mental count -- to realize the pack has thinned since last night. "Is everyone OK?" she needs to know.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There are layers of smells within Mercy's kitchen; the sizzle of bacon predominant, but beneath that heavier things, emotions that most are trying to deny. To ignore. To pretend don't exist. The byplay between Soldier and Nurse isn't lost on Mercy either, though it's the scents that tell her the most.

The coyote's gaze drops for a few seconds as she tries to give the illusion that she can't read what both of them are currently feeling. Thankfully, Claire's attention turns to Mercy and the nurse answers her question. That answer of hers earns the slightest of frowns from Mercy; hearing and smelling the lie within Claire's words. She doesn't push, however. Nor does she offer a hug, perhaps sensing some of the fragility Claire is currently feeling. Wounds need time to scab over, terrors to lessen, and so the coyote watches Claire sit down.

Now it's the coyote's turn to move. She steps back to the stove and the frying pan full of bacon. She'll flip what bacon needs to be flipped, before she spies Bucky reaching for the cats coffee mug. That's enough to jar the coyote into moving and grabbing the pot of coffee. "Coffee." She says, setting the pot of coffee in the middle of the island, easily reachable by either Bucky or Claire. Eventually sugar and milk will likewise be pulled from the fridge. It's only when everything sensible that can be put upon the table is down that Mercy pauses.

Her worried gaze is back upon Claire and it's from this concern that she'll actually voluntarily look at Bucky. A sort of 'what now' question held within her expression.

It's Claire that breaks the awkwardness for Mercy, as she asks that question of hers. "Yes. None of the group was seriously injured. Most of them went back home for the night. I'm sure they'll come and check in. Make sure you're okay, that we're all okay."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Bucky doesn't see those questions in Claire's face, but he can feel them in her gaze on his back. He knows he should turn and face her, but coward that he is, right now -- he just can't. Mercy will be better for her right now. Yes, a lot better than he would be.

Instead, as the two women speak, he recedes into a corner and busies himself with the mugs. Mercy, quick to notice what he's up to, grabs the pot of coffee and sets it down on the kitchen island. After a moment of consideration, Bucky slowly moves towards the pot, taking it upon himself to pour all three cups, together with whatever milk or sugar both Mercy and Claire want.

Mercy's, he leaves on the counter, as she's already standing nearby. Claire's he takes to her, something apologetic and ashamed about the way he avoids letting his hands touch hers. About the way he pulls back out of her space afterwards.

Mercy finally glances at him. The fact the gesture is finally volitional is not lost on him. The question in her eyes is also plain to him, and though his head bows, he does not reject the responsibility that comes implied with her wordless query.

"I can't say that none of you are on Hydra's radar by now. You are. You took the Winter Soldier from them," he admits. "Among other things."

He looks down at the coffee in his mug. "To the best of my ability I'll protect all of you. If it means I have to tear Hydra up by the roots." Between blinks, his eyes are briefly those of the Soldier. "I was going to do that anyway."

Claire Temple has posed:
With Mercy tending to the cooking food, and Bucky seeing himself to pouring coffee -- Claire can't help but stare, bemused at the strangest picture of domesticity between the two most unlikely people.

In another life, it would almost look like a bunch of friends arranging a social breakfast together. It's almost absurd to see.

Her head lifts when Bucky crosses the kitchen to ultimately deliver her one mug of coffee, and Claire, in a strange bout of bravery, tries to meet his eyes. Hers are searching.

But she says nothing, accepting it silently, looking on passively as he removes himself from her proximity as if one or both of them were as scalding. Scalding-hot as the drink in her lap. She looks down at it, cradling it in her lap, having some trouble even holding on to the ceramic with more than her fingertips and nails. Like her hands are unused to having warmth back on them.

Everyone's OK, Mercy confirms, and her eyelids hood with relief. She listens as Bucky gives both his warning and promise as what can and may follow -- that no one in this kitchen is out of the woods yet.

Claire doesn't look particularly shocked by the threat of Hydra lingering too-close. He vows to destroy them, and rather than look relieved, it seems it's her turn to look guilty.

"It won't be -- " she replies, "they found something. He found something. It's bad."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That coffee mug set near her by Bucky earns a nod of thanks from her, even if the majority of Mercy's attention stays upon the Nurse. Crispy bacon will be transferred from pan to a paper towel lined bowl. Another bowl is readied to whip up a slurry of eggs, milk and cheese for scrambling. Several pieces of bread are likewise moved from back to toaster, though the lever is not yet depressed to activate the appliance.

Not when Bucky states both that warning and then his promise. Those words pull forth a sharp look from Mercy Thompson and an equally immediate knee-jerk reaction from her, "NO." And realizing how vehement that might sound, Mercy quickly adds, "No. This is no longer about one person taking responsibility for everyone. We all have a part in it, we will all help take them down and we will all protect each other against Hydra."

Much more could be said, extensively so, but the coyote pauses when Claire speaks.

Shifting her attention back to the Nurse the mechanic listens. He found something - that causes her expression to turn grim with understanding. While she might guess as to who 'he' is, she doesn't. Instead, Mercy asks, "He meaning Volkav?" And then, "Something with magic, right? There was something in that room. Something magical and old, ancient. Something terribly powerful. Did they say what it was?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
The oddness of this domestic scene doesn't escape Bucky, but rather than be weirded out by it, he almost seems soothed. No wonder. It's probably been decades since he experienced something so... normal. Decades of bloody work and cold imprisonment. Decades of living an austere life as a weapon of the state.

That calm breaks a little when he brings Claire her coffee, though. She looks up to try to snare his eyes, and she catches them before he can look away. Her searching gaze will catch the vivid guilt and shame in them, before his eyes tighten and he averts his eyes. He leaves the cup with her and retreats.

Mercy, incidentally, got the 'Don't torque me off mug.' Perhaps it was an intentional choice on his part. Especially given her reaction, a moment later, to his determination to wage one-man war on Hydra.

The response is vehement enough he blinks before swiveling a stare at her. For a moment his regard is lupine-- the stare of a wolf perhaps deciding whether to challenge another-- before he blinks that vestige of the Winter Soldier away, and looks appropriately embarrassed. "You all have lives," he mumbles in vague protest. The unspoken implication is that he doesn't.

He pauses, too, when Claire speaks up. His gaze remains on the floor, but his expression tightens with concern. "I only knew they were working on something," he says, looking to Claire for her elucidation. "But not what it was."

Claire Temple has posed:
Thankfully, Mercy speaks with far more ferocity and vehemence what Claire just lacks the energy to repeat -- and she agrees fully.

One person cannot bear the sins for others, especially a person made a victim for far longer than she can imagine. It astounds her just to see Bucky Barnes, here, apparently returned -- that they were able to do what she couldn't. Claire's mind churns with thoughts, and she knows she's owed a long story to catch her up. What matters, however, is that he's here. And whatever happened worked -- worked well enough that even someone as reticent as Mercy is fine to share a room with him.

He won't meet Claire's eyes for long; she looks quietly down on her coffee, watching it steam, not yet daring to take a sip.

Her thoughts are elsewhere.

"She's right," she says of Mercy. "You should listen to her. And you have a life --" Claire's voice falters. Perhaps she, too, isn't sure what name to give Bucky; what name he prefers. "Just spent a hell of a time trying to get it back to you."

Tired humour warms her brittle words. But it doesn't last, not when talk goes back on Volkov. Bucky admits not knowing what it was.

"I don't know either," she concurs. "Only they dug something up. It was small. It looked like glass. And it --"

Claire's hands tighten around the mug. The fall of her dark hair hides her face. "I helped him," she confesses.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A lupine look. That's something the coyote is quite familiar with. And while Mercy would typically drop her gaze in deferment today she doesn't. She's quite serious with what she said and it allows her to stand firm. His protest doesn't seem to help his case either; it just earns another sharp look from the coyote, but whatever words she might say stay silent.

The fact that Claire backs her up doesn't seem help his cause either, as Mercy turns a grateful look to Claire. There is definitely a story there to tell the Nurse, but for now other matters take precedence.

The description of the magical artifact is considered by Mercy, but really nothing comes to mind. In the magical artifact world Mercy is still the novice and that vague of a description doesn't immediately trigger any real idea as to what it was. "Glass-like and small - did it have any runes upon it? Or symbols, sigils or writing in general?" The coyote asks, her voice thoughtful, "If so, we might be able to figure out what it is from that. Where was it dug up -" Mercy begins to ask, though her question doesn't quite finish. Not when Claire admits that last part. At this point, Mercy abandons her post at the stove and steps to the island that Claire sits at. The mechanic will finally reach for the other woman, a tentative touch to her shoulder, if allowed. "You had to." Mercy states firmly, "It was the only way to survive while we figured out how to rescue you. Any of us would have done the same thing if we were in your place."

And while the next question should really have been 'what did you help with' Mercy doesn't even think it. Not yet. Not when offering comfort to a friend.

Winter Soldier has posed:
There's still aspects of Bucky Barnes that look like the Winter Soldier, and one of them is the way he regards Mercy, equal parts astonished and considering, when she grows so bold as to forbid him from going it alone. He almost seems liable to argue further than his initial mumbled remark, but when Claire gangs up on him, he lowers his gaze.

Bucky subsides, but from the stubborn line of his jaw, it's not necessarily in agreement. That, too, is familiar... but the rest is so alien as to seem another man entirely. Which, in honesty -- he is. Bucky Barnes isn't Yasha Morozov in any way but shared body, shared patriotism, and a broadly similar history.

You have a life. That's Claire's argument. Bucky smiles, but the expression is so profoundly bitter as to barely count for any levity at all. "I'm grateful," he says quietly. "But if you knew what kind of man you gave a life back to--" He chokes os his own words. "I mean... you already have an idea. But if you really knew what else--"

He shakes his head. The thought seems to mire him back into silence, his own thoughts overtaking him. The self-loathing comes off him strongly enough Mercy can smell it.

He only seems to come back out of his thoughts when someone else tries to give him a run for his money in this department. He affords Claire a slightly sharp look as she confesses helping Volkov. "You were being tortured," he says. "If you didn't he would have killed you."

There seems to be something else he wants to ask. He hesitates, and holds his silence.

Claire Temple has posed:
"I /know/," Claire answers Bucky, softly, firmly. She says no more, but her voice brooks little argument. Whatever doubts may plague her in others ways, she stands in fierce resolve over the nature of who he is: and believes she knows him.

Or at least believes him to be someone she would like to know.

Her dark eyes study him, insistent he understand she means every word, though Mercy's subsequent talk about what happened, and worse -- what Volkov may have in his possession -- sits so heavily down on Claire's shoulders that they fall to bear the weight.

"No writing on it," she recalls, though the doubt is back on her voice, the unease of someone who isn't certain what she may or may not miss when it comes to the world of magic. "It looked like nothing. Something you'd find in a landfill. I'm not sure where it came from. They didn't tell me that much."

Just enough for Claire to lend assistance, it seems, and that confession shares the guilt to overlay her face. Though both Mercy and Bucky speak quickly to absolve the woman of whatever she may be thinking, she doesn't seem to look convinced, her fingertips pressing absently into the hot ceramic of her mug. She was being tortured, he says --

She looks up at that, question written across her features. How did they know? Did they /see/? Were they in there for that long?

Looking up helplessly, Claire doesn't miss another question on Bucky's face. He does not say. She is silent a beat, and looks back down.

"They told me they would. Until someone changed their mind, and they wanted to try that thing on me. It -- hurt. Just to touch. He kept saying it was going to turn him into a god, but he couldn't use it. He couldn't hold it. They were using me to see how long a person can take it, how much time --" her words falter, and her jaw tightens briefly. "I fixed it for him. I'm sorry."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That burst of righteous outrage from Mercy cools as the reality of what Bucky was-is returns with those words of his. That self-loathing is likewise picked up and while platitudes could be offered, Mercy can't quite make herself say them.

Besides, what's the right platitude for this type of situation? Nothing fits good, but thankfully Claire is here. In Mercy's mind it'll likely be the Nurse's words that have the most impact. To hopefully help convince Bucky that yes, he's worth saving.

The further description of the shard is listened to and then absent-mindedly memorized by Mercy. And while she could have asked further questions she doesn't quite yet. Not when Claire looks up at the two of them. It's only when Claire lowers her gaze again that the coyote shifts her attention from the Nurse to the redeemed assassin. There's an oblique looks given by Mercy now, though that look only lasts a moment, before the coyote looks back to Claire.

Listening to what the other woman describes, Mercy's own expression turns uneasy. Several questions war within Mercy Thompson's mind, but before she asks any of them, she says, "No. Don't be sorry. You /were/ the prisoner. You did what you had to do to survive. There is /nothing/ wrong with that."

"Nothing." And while Mercy would like to leave it at that and sweep it all under the rug so everyone can heal, necessity doesn't quite allow for it. As such, the coyote asks another question quietly. "What was broken with it? It might help us identify what we're dealing with."

Winter Soldier has posed:
I know, Claire cuts him off. Bucky trails into startled silence. He regards her a moment, head canted a bit, before he drops his gaze to the floor and drinks his coffee in silence.

He listens as Claire and Mercy discuss the Thing that Volkov found, though he makes no contribution of his own. He has none to make, so he must admit: he was a tool, and tools are not told of their masters' grand designs. What Claire reveals about the object is as novel to him as anyone else.

When he does speak, it is to sharply dispel the guilt that wells up in Claire's voice. If she's not going to allow it in him, he's not going to allow it in her.

But as she describes what they did to her-- describes how they /hurt/ her and experimented on her to figure out how to use the thing he found-- his newfound expressiveness slowly leaves his face again in favor of the implacable blankness of the Winter Soldier. His eyes go cold. His left arm has flown under the radar, /somehow/, up until now-- he found clothes with long sleeves to cover it up-- but now for the first time it makes itself fully known.

That familiar, slithering grind of metal plates sounds from his general vicinity, an unconscious locking of the mechanisms of the arm in an audible cue of his building fury. Metal fingers claw in longing to have something to close down upon.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he grits out. He steps towards the door, as if ready to leave right this minute to find someone, to beat some answers out of them, to /act/. But Mercy asks some important questions, and-- his jaw tightening in frustration-- he hesitates, seeing the value of the knowledge. He about-faces and heads towards the forgotten food.

"At least eat while you're at it," he says, and one of the world's most lethal assassins starts plating.

Claire Temple has posed:
Her rebuttal tightens like a tourniquet on Bucky's further arguments -- his de-valuation on whether he is technically a man deserving of a life -- and he goes quiet.

Claire should count that as a win, but does not. She looks him over, with concern, with a searching sort of dread, knowing right here and now won't be the end of that sort of self-hatred. The loathing she heard in him. It pulls her briefly out of her own head, to think of the troubles that must be courting his. What would she do, waking up after decades and decades of doing horrible things --

-- and appearing to remember it all?

Put a gun to her own head? Put a gun on the heads of the people who did it? Someone would be dying.

There is hope, however, that he's /here/ with them, her and Mercy both, and apparently listening. Claire keeps her eyes on the ex-assassin, in any case.

Her gaze only flicks away to Mercy's words -- Mercy, who knows how to ask the right questions. Right questions are the kinds that cause Claire to have to think, to remember, and she can do this easily now -- while the memories are fresh, while the shock is still going strong that she can dig into facts without the trappings of emotion. She and Bucky both refuse to the idea that she did anything intentional to help Volkov --

Claire believes it too. But it still hurts. She sets her yet-untouched coffee to the table, twining her fingers together. What was broken with it? "I'm not sure. I think the broken thing was us. Being human, and -- when it touches you... My memory, I don't... It wants to burn through you -- and explode." She exhales noisily. "That's where the next idea came. The glass was inert on dead tissue, on a body. They had this -- liquid. It was black. He called it media. They were using it to suspend the reaction of that glass, so a person could hold it. Ingest it. Something screwed up."

She looks down at her legs. "That shit -- that media -- it was a poison. They put it in me. I helped refine the dosage. It was killing me. It felt like fire. I'm not sure how, if that's what magic does, but it stabilized the glass. I could touch it. It means he can too. He has the recipe to. That thing -- that glass -- I don't know, it felt like it was going to rip me /apart/, so if he turns it on any of you, or uses it, I don't think --"

Something cuts off her rambling words. It's the noisy shifting of those plates, in a sound all-too-familiar to Claire, as her eyes turn on Bucky, on the way he recoils like some animal released from its fetters. He steps to the door, and she freezes, one hand tightening on the table, looking ready to push herself up to go after him.

But he doesn't, even though Claire still implores him with her quiet staring. Watching as he plates food. "You too," she directs lightly.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
What Claire has to say about the artifact turns Mercy's uneasy expression to something close to horrified. That doesn't stop her from listening intently to what Claire has to say, it just means her expression can easily be read. Especially at the mention of the potential of ingesting it; that causes the emotions found within Mercy's features to worsen. The only respite to those terrifying experiences that Claire went through is that sudden sound of metal against metal. There's a flare of nostrils from Mercy at that familiar, somewhat hated, noise. The coyote can't help the silent stare that's fastened upon the man - wariness now found within her gaze.

That emotion doesn't seem to dissipate even as he offers those words of comfort to Claire, nor when he moves towards the door. Instead Mercy pivots slowly to keep him in her line of sight. It's only when he does the about-face and begins to plate the food that Mercy's expression turns from wariness to something close to bewilderment.

Her brain can't quite align itself to what its seeing. The Winter Soldier, Hydra assassin, plating breakfast as if it's something he does every day.

Mercy stares for a silent second, before she drags her attention back to Claire. "Whatever this artifact is it sounds dangerous. Too dangerous to allow Hydra to keep it. I'll talk with Liam - he might know what this thing is, or possibly how to figure out what it is. Possibly even locate it for us. It just depends on what magical defenses Hydra has put around it now that they know we're aware of it. That could make it harder to locate."

With that the coyote falls silent for a handful of seconds. It's only as she shakes herself from her own reverie that the coyote lastly adds, "I don't think you should return to your apartment alone, Claire. They likely know where you live -" An apologetic look shifts to Bucky with those words of hers, though it doesn't stop her from finishing that thought, "It might not be safe. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want. Both of you."

Winter Soldier has posed:
There is much to be read in the former Winter Soldier's silence. His features are still youthful, ice-preserved in a snapshot of the young man as he was decades ago, but his eyes as he regards the floor are deep wells in which decades of atrocity reflect. He has woken from an eighty-year nightmare to find that everything in said nightmare was very real -- and most of the things that were horrifying were wrought by his own hands.

He plainly remembers it all. And there is enough that is self-destructive, despairing, and /furious/ in his aspect to suggest that the thought of a gun to his own head must have been very tempting -- but a gun to the heads of all the others responsible for his slavery and misuse ultimately emerged as even more alluring a thought.

He hasn't left them yet, though, for whatever inscrutable reasons he may have -- though he's briefly tempted to. He gets partway to the door before something stops him. Angry at his own inability to take any action at the moment, angry at the fact his own anger-- and its accompanying steely audio cue-- seems to have unnerved Mercy, he turns abruptly around and does the one thing he /can/ do. He starts angrily putting food on plates.

A lifelong soldier first and foremost, before ever he was a Hydra assassin, James Barnes learned well that there are a few things you always take any opportunity to do: eating, sleeping, or taking a piss. He cocks his head to Claire's reminder that he eat too, but he doesn't seem to need it. He's already given himself a plate.

He listens to Claire and Mercy in the background as he does, though he doesn't offer any additions for the moment. He doesn't know any more than they do what the thing or the 'media' might be. "He's no god yet," is his sole comment. "Just a man. And I'm a great killer of men."

The deadly bravado of the comment is somewhat balanced out by the fact he hands the women plates of food a moment later. ...He seems to have put together two for himself.

"That's... kind of you," he adds haltingly, to Mercy's offer. He looks like he's only really half considering it, perhaps afraid of what he might do if he reverted back to the Soldier while under a roof with the two women. "Well -- any trouble comes to you here, I will take care of it." The calm assurance in his tone probably sways the scales back towards 'unnerving.'

Claire Temple has posed:
It doesn't take extra-sensory abilities for Claire to parse the transparent unease between Bucky Barnes and Mercy Thompson.

Whatever resolution happened to bring Bucky back from that winter they put him in -- and it seems they succeeded where she never could -- it doesn't mean things are squared. Or things are forgotten.

The coyote won't let him at her peripheries or anywhere that isn't a direct, wary stare, set off by the metal, and all Claire can wonder is -- what did she miss? Did more happen in her absence? And what?

She sets a hand on the table, either ready to be the peacemaker or simply to keep Bucky from disappearing off /again/ -- the thought of that is not something she can take, not after what happened the last time he disappeared on her -- but she never needs to stand. He changes tacks, and Mercy's wariness seems to fold into other things.

Talk of the thing they used on her, the think Volkov has now in his possession -- Claire can follow that more easily. Relief finds her eyes to see Bucky plating everyone food, even himself, as she answers, "Whatever you can do to help, Mercy. I wish I could tell you more. All I know is it was --" her eyes slip unfocused, remembering, " -- bad."

He's just a man, reminds Bucky, in a voice that sounds closer to the Winter Soldier. It draws Claire's eyes, the violent promise he makes -- and seems to soften them, like a quiet relief.

She takes up a forkful of egg, and eats it slowly despite her little appetite. It has even less taste, and not because of Mercy's cooking -- Claire knows well enough she's in shock. She swallows it, only pausing her slow eating to Mercy's very, very sensible -- and as Bucky says, /kind/ -- offer.

"I might take you up on that for a few days," she answers, quietly grateful. "But I should -- I should actually find out if I still have an apartment. Carl probably kept it for me. He owes me a lot. I know I can't hide here forever. I need to call my mother. I need to... I'll drive you crazy." Claire pushes back a heavy lock of her black hair behind an ear. "But I have to go back to the neighbourhood soon. I have a lot of people who rely on me."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Soon enough Mercy finds a plate of food in her hands and she can't quite stop her gaze from dropping to it.

Finally, when her manners reassert themselves, Mercy looks back up and gives a nod in thanks. His follow-up comment about being a great killer of men causes the coyote's expression to crease. It's like one step forward and two steps back for Mercy Thompson. There's one step of seeing Bucky as something other than an assassin, and then two steps of being so rudely reminded of what he was, or still is.

Still, that tension does ease somewhat for the coyote and it allows her to refocus upon the discussion at hand. Back upon Claire. "You've given us more to go on than what we previously had." States Mercy honestly and while she was just about to say something more, those words pause when Claire so obviously remembers the 'bad'. Concern flares within Mercy's own eyes as she watches the nurse. However, that concern eases a bit when the Nurse seems to refocus and pull herself away; even begins to eat the food Bucky plated for her.

That allows Mercy to refocus back upon Bucky for a moment. At what he says. That any 'trouble' that comes here will be taken care of, by him. That's enough to earn a remark from the coyote, "We." She states, her tone firm, "We will take care of it." And while she pins a hard look upon Bucky, that look only lasts a short time, as the mechanic refocuses back upon Claire.

"Stay for as long as you need." Now the Nurse will find herself on the end of that 'brooking no arguments' tone from Mercy. "People can wait while you heal and recuperate."

"And then -" Continues Mercedes Thompson, her expression flattening out with her next words, "- when we're /all/ ready we'll destroy Hydra."