525/You Again--

You Again--
Date of Scene:	23 May 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	Winter Soldier needs his arm fixed. Claire brings him to Mercy's Garage for repair.
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Claire Temple, Mercy Thompson
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

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Winter Soldier has posed:
West Harlem isn't the worst part of Manhattan by far, but the students at Columbia tell one another not to go too far north for a reason. That same reason is what makes it easy for a certain Night Nurse to get supplies of a less easily-attainable nature, but after her last excursion went sour... well. What was a girl to do?

Press-gang the lethal Russian assassin, to whom she's given medical aid multiple times now, into doing her a favor in return, of course. If he wants to get fixed up, he ought to help her get the stuff with which to fix him up.

It wasn't a very eventful run -- at least, not to hear him bluster about it -- but his left arm did take a couple solid hits near the end that jarred one of the external plates loose. A bullet promptly got under the loose plate, and the entire thing is sparking and making a bit of a grinding noise.

It's late, and the very unlikely pair are walking back through the relatively empty streets still arguing about this. The Soldier is at least in street clothes and not his regular gear, so he looks marginally less out of place. "I can get it fixed eventually," he insists, though there's a skittishness that comes and goes in his expression that suggests he doesn't enjoy the thought of wherever it is he gets his arm fixed.

Claire Temple has posed:
This is certainly one of those days what makes Claire Temple question what is happening with her life. She's a Harlem girl, born and bred, and just a short trek back on the periphery of her old stomping grounds brings back a host of memory. She /should/ be back here to check on old friends, or visit her mother --

-- and yet she is dutifully avoiding both, and in good cause, because today's trip involves absolutely-illicitly-gained medical supplies, a grumpy assassin with a metal arm whom Claire's determined won't kill her but will still happily kill /everyone else/, and a surprise gunfight.

At least very, very expensive, and very /very/ precious pharmaceuticals are in her possession, carried along innocuously inside a duffel bag at her side, and as for the forementioned grumpy assassin: still grumpy, though that metal arm of his seems to have broke, or malfunctioned, or something after a blitz of too many guns and too many bullets.

"Can you just work with me here?" she asks, flashing Bucky a glance equal parts terse and exasperated. Claire gets moody when she gets worried, though she'll never admit it. She places a hand on his arm, more to ensure he's not going to run off, because she has a plan. "I've heard of a place among my contacts. Most of them are under the poverty line, and are the types that need secrets kept, so it might work. Let me vet, OK? I'll negotiate something."

She guides them on the way to a certain mechanic's shop.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Odd hours. It seems like many in New York City tend to keep off the book hours; Mercy Thompson included.

While most of the shops around the neighborhood are closed one still has a light shining within the darken streets. An auto repair shop by the name of Mercy's Garage.

The sign upon the front door still states in bold type print: YES, WE'RE OPEN and a quick peek inside will show the antiquated front office all but deserted. Within the front office is a desk, an ancient computer upon said desk and several plastic chairs for customers to sit in. The formica countertop that surrounds the receptionist's desk holds a small silver bell and next to the bell is a small taped note that states: Please ring for service.

Behind the desk is a second door which likely leads into the garage proper where Mercy might be found.

And while that front door is how customers typically enter Mercy's places of business if one goes around the building they'll find the actual garage door that leads straight into Mercy's work area. The garage door is currently open and from inside the soft strands of music might be heard along with the rhythmic clang of hammer hitting metal.

That's Mercy, working in her shop on a rather rusty, hole-infested, not quite drivable Volkswagen Rabbit.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Can you just work with me here? Claire grumps. Equally grumpy, the Soldier fires back, "What've I been doing all night? You're already lucky I agreed to this at all."

He doesn't actually turn and leave, however, nor protest the path on which she steers them both. What does bring him to pause briefly is the hand on his arm -- his right arm. The flesh-to-flesh contact makes him stiffen, tensing up like he expects some pain to immediately follow, or like he just isn't used to physical contact anymore. The touch makes him go silent, though not because he's soothed by it.

Soon enough, they reach the garage. Due to the late hour, there's no one in the front office, naturally. The Winter Soldier contemplates the environs, head tilted. His sharp senses can hear the strains of activity from the garage in the back.

"Let's just go around," he prompts, trying to lead Claire away from the worrying official-ness of the front desk and its bell for service. If he can take a more oblique route where he can retain just a little more control over who sees him and when, he'll certainly try to do it. Though of course, there's Mercy's own sharp senses, and the fact his scent is unchanged from the last time they met.

Claire Temple has posed:
"Lucky," Claire echoes dryly, tasting that word in her mouth. "Yeah, sure, that's an interesting way of putting it."

Her words are short, but her leading hand on his right arm is gentle. If there is one, strange consistency in all the world, it's that there is no pain that comes because of Claire Temple's hands. Whether innate to her nature or habituated over years of her work, she knows how to be careful. His tension does not deter her either. Claire knows nervousness and distrust, feels it through her hands every emergency shift, and she soldiers through it patiently.

Set on this shop, she however concedes to Bucky's request about bypassing formal entrances in. Claire's eyebrows knit briefly, but she's no stranger to those who prefer their secrets. And knowing this strange man, he's far more versed in the entire process.

The scent of the Winter Soldier is unchanged. However, this time, it comes with an accessory. A second scent joins it, with nothing mistakable about it: nothing unusual, nothing supernatural, and only a mundane human woman. She smells earthy like a recent jaunt through the train tunnels and flinty like fresh scattershot, and beneath it, hanging notes that ring of hospitals. Sterile, medicinal, astringent.

"Hello?" comes a voice at the garbage door.

It's Claire Temple standing there, dressed down in jeans and blouse and a hooded coat, tired-eyed and armed with a friendly smile. Her eyes veer straight to the source of that hammering sound. "I see you're still open?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Normally Mercy's senses alert her much sooner to someone entering her domain, but tonight they don't. It's a combination of being wrapped up in her project, the music, the bang of her hammer and her own internal thoughts. As such, her ears will only 'prick upward' when Claire and Bucky are nearly upon that side entrance. The clang of the hammer pauses mid-swing as Mercy frowns; already her head is turning towards the open garage door and there's a faint narrowing of her brown eyes.

She doesn't immediately think they're a threat from the small tidbits of conversation she can hear, but she's also not stupid. Assumptions aren't something you should bet your life on.

Keeping the heavy hammer in her hand, Mercy will step away from the work bench she was using to shape a small piece of sheet metal upon. She was intending to get to the garage door before her 'visitors' arrived, but Mercy finds herself too slow.

While her gaze is vaguely wary there's still a friendliness to it, especially when her gaze moves to Claire. "I am. Mercy Thompson, what can I do for -"

- you. That's how the sentence should have ended, but finally both of their scents reached her nose. Claire's is an unknown, nothing overtly suspicious about it, curious yes, but not something that screams danger. It's Bucky's scent that's different. It's remembered and it's enough to cause Mercy's eyebrows to crimp together ... she knows that scent, but from where.

Where.

And then just like that, the memory reveals itself. There's a sudden widening of Mercy's eyes as her gaze goes from Claire's figure to Bucky's, "/You/!" That word isn't said in any type of hiss, or shout, instead it's a flat exclamation thanks to her surprise and shock.

She wasn't expecting him to arrive upon her doorstop and while the enormity of it reverberates within her, that doesn't stop her from raising her hammer upward in a defensive gesture.

Now all they need is for Loki to pop up and the circle will be complete.

Winter Soldier has posed:
That gentleness continues to strike discordant chords in the Winter Soldier's mind. He cannot ever recall hands being gentle with him. There's only ever been the cold, and the harshness, and the pain. A touch that does not hurt is completely outside the scope of his understanding. Yet at the same time, he almost thinks it feels familiar, despite the fact he has no recorded memory of kindness --

He shakes away the thought. Or something shakes it away for him.

Leery of front doors, he insists on going around, hanging back slightly as Claire -- much more equipped to actually interact with other humans -- takes the lead. He looks around as he addresses the proprietor, presumably someone referred by some contact of hers. His blue eyes study the environs in one assessing sweep, noting the projects being worked on, paths to viable exits and entrances, routes to safe places in case of any danger.

Except, in this case, it seems he is the danger.

He realizes where he remembers this woman from at about the same time Mercy does. He lapses into a somewhat defensive stance of his own, backing up a step, his aspect attaining the skittish look of a wolf about to bolt. "Claire--" he starts, warningly, almost as if bidding her to back up in case Mercy uses that hammer. Or as if he's going to add, 'I can totally explain.' Except he really can't.

Claire Temple has posed:
This escalates quickly.

Far too quickly for Claire to do anything than what comes reflexive to her, and on pure instinct, does exactly opposite to the caution bled through the Soldier's voice. She steps forward, not aggressively, but enough to try to insert her own body between a war brewing, that between the assassin at the back and the mechanic they just met.

She tries to think, but what crosses her mind is mostly rabid cursing. Shit, shit, shit, this changes everything. What was going to be hopeful convincing to get someone to fix /a man's metal arm/ and then not say a damn thing about it has somehow become a /oh so she knows already knows him and not in the good, how-do-you-do-neighbour variety, and now she has to do something before cops get called or he thinks he has to -- no, no, not an option.

She offers up both hands in the air, palms open and empty in a universal gesture of surrender, and immediately blurts: "Woah, woah, woah -- it's all good!"

Most people would have their eyes focused on the hammer clenched in Mercy's hand. Claire Temple, however, focuses only on the woman's eyes, her own steady, imploring. "It's all right. Nothing's going to happen, I promise. We can leave right now if you want. I swear to God there'll be no trouble."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The coyote and the wolf both feeling skittish right now. There's some type of irony here, perhaps when things settled, or after they leave, Mercy will be to find it. As it is, her figurative hackles have been raised and wariness lines Mercy's movements.

That step backwards of his is seen and if Mercy were in coyote form she'd offer a little edgy growl, but she's not, so instead, she'll simply keep her eyes focused upon the man. That hammer of hers is still raised, but thankfully it has yet to be used, so that's something. Right?

Right?

When Claire speaks, Mercy will automatically move her eyes away from Bucky and towards the nurse. "Good?" Exclaims the coyote, her voice rising up slightly, "He killed a person! Tried to kill /two/." While her voice does rise in pitch it isn't shrill, nor is she shouting. That's something at the very least.

"Two!" States the coyote again, as her gaze flicks back towards Bucky a moment, then it's back to Claire and her pleading gaze, "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't call the cops on you both."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The assassin emits something in Russian that sounds like a spit curse. Especially when Claire moves forward instead of away, as he's trying to get her to do. She pleads that it's all good, that nothing's going to happen, but they can leave right now and cause no trouble --

Mercy exclaims that he's killed. Killed someone. Tried to kill another on top of that. The man goes still. There is no particular remorse or reaction he has to her shock at the people he killed. But Mercy asking why she shouldn't just call the cops on both of them --

The Soldier's response should be to kill her instantly. But he doesn't reach for a weapon. "Not on her," he interjects suddenly, instead, and he means Claire Temple. "She's not part of it."

A split second later, he himself seems surprised at his own defense of her. His brows knit like he has no idea where that came from. His eyes shut as if a stab of pain went through his brain, his head lowering and his stance loosening in confusion.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire Temple, stepped up into the middle of a proverbial pair of scissors, doesn't even flinch. For how normal she looks and smells, there's a studied deftness to the way she holds herself, the way she keeps her dark eyes level, the way she weathers all of this with the timeless patience of falling snow.

She takes no further forward steps toward Mercy, simply standing there, both providing some sort of safeguard between the woman and whatever the Winter Soldier represents, as well as keeping her upraised hands in an unspoken waving of a white flag. No trouble wanted whatsoever.

Her mouth tightens pensively when the mechanic speaks of two lives the Soldier took, and for that offers them, whether rhetorical or not, /one reason/ to keep their asses out of hot water. Her lips part to speak --

-- and he interjects first, with words so surprising that Claire takes her eyes briefly off Mercy to glance back over her shoulder, eyes on the Winter Soldier. Her eyebrows knit, momentarily struck silent. Goddamnit, she's going to make another stupid decision, she just knows it.

"Sure," Claire answers Mercy, her eyes returned on her. The look in them cringes with something between pleading and tired apology. In the face of this, she can only offer one olive branch, and it's an extension of trust to someone never before met. Few people know what she does, or can tie a name to her face and trade. She's so careful about that. She /protects herself/. And yet...

"I can do that. My name's Claire Temple. You might have heard of me by another name though. I'm the nurse in Hell's Kitchen. If you've heard of me, then you know what I stand for, and what I don't bring to people's doors. His name is Yasha, and he's with me. Please. Things aren't always as they seem, which is a shitty explanation, but probably the only one I can give you. I just... I can promise you that I'm not here to bring any sort of shit to your doorstep." Her eyes pinch in concession. "On the contrary, I was hoping for your help."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That Russian curse is heard, not necessarily understood, but definitely heard. It's enough to cause a frown as Mercy's gaze shifts to Bucky again.

His defense of Claire causes Mercy's eyes to linger upon the assassin, a flicker of surprise flaring within them. The coyote hadn't expected him to protect Claire, most killers wouldn't, and his defense is enough to give Mercy pause.

The scents rolling off him also seem to help, as her nostrils flare and catch the faint motes of surprise and then confusion.

A second later Claire's own scent brings Mercy's gaze back to the other woman; the one who's pleading with eyes and now words for sanity within this crazy situation. Mercy can understand that. She's played similar roles before. She has. She's even begged for understanding in very difficult situations and because of that there's a vague softening of Mercy's expression. Mostly around her eyes and lips as she listens to what Claire says.

'The Nurse' brings instance recognition from the coyote and while she doesn't say anything, yet, she will look from Claire to 'Yasha' and back again. Almost against Mercy's will the hammer lowers, "I've heard of you." She finally admits, those words sounding reluctant even to her own ears, "And I know what you stand for."

And while she'd like to stay on her high horse, she can't, not when Claire asks for help. Bleeding heart here and while mistrust is still evident when she looks at Bucky, the coyote will ask, "Help? What sort of help do you need?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
The so-named 'Yasha' cuts Claire a subdued, but rather surprised look when she reveals her own identity in order to help him. Her continued altruism is... difficult for him to understand, to wrap his mind around. There is no algorithm in the mind of the Winter Soldier to allow for basic human kindness, and every display of it is another assault on the caging brainwashing keeping him compliant. He visibly struggles to understand it. The smell of confusion off him intensifies.

It spikes in the wake of his own unexpected, returned defense of //her//. It's plainly not something he expected to come out of his own mouth, something that seemed to well up from somewhere deeper in his mind. He shakes his head, his eyes closing in bemusement.

They only reopen when Claire reiterates a need for help. Now Yasha smells of wariness, wariness and a fearful desire to run. But he doesn't. What sort of help does he need, Mercy asks?

"Wasn't going to ask for help at all," he grunts. "There are -- I get the maintenance I require. Sooner or later." He speaks of himself with the indifference of an object. "But Claire insisted -- "

He hesitates. Then, with reluctant slowness, he pulls his left arm from its sleeve. Revealed is the reason he smells so strongly and distinctively of metal: the entire thing, from shoulder to fingertips, is solid steel and titanium, a marvel of engineering which seems to have sustained some damage to one of its external plates. More notably and nauseatingly, a hint of where the prosthetic joins to his body, at the shoulder, is visible: an ugly mess of savagely scarred tissue. Whoever put the arm on him did not care for cosmetics -- nor for his comfort.

Claire Temple has posed:
It's that unexpected, returned defence of her that makes up Claire's mind.

Not the smartest decision of her life, but her own heart -- as easy-to-bleed as Mercy's -- ratifies it. The Winter Soldier is now with her, officially part of her weird little protectorate. And the night nurse of Hell's Kitchen is willing to put both her identity and ass on the line.

It's a dangerous gambit. And Claire seems to know it, because when Mercy lowers the hammer, relents, and actually asks the most beautiful question of the entire evening, the nurse visibly deflates with tired relief. Oh thank Christ.

Her lips part, no doubt to explain on the Soldier's behalf -- but he speaks up, and somewhat surprised by his tentative sharing of information, Claire looks back at him. She watches on passively, her upraised hands finally lowering to her sides, and pays her own witness to how he reveals every plate and jointed detail of his articulated metal arm. Empathy, and not surprise, are plain across her face. She's seen it prior to this, and no doubt more than once.

"We need someone with the skill to fix it," Claire adds, her eyes back on Mercy. There's no smile on her mouth, not with all the adrenaline still kicking around in her bloodstream, but reflected against her eyes is bright hope. "I've heard stories that you're damn good. I've also heard stories that you accept non-traditional forms of payment. If you can keep this a secret, I'd be owing you a huge favour. A huge one. Like, of the 'no questions asked' variety."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
So many scents within the garage, but Mercy is a pro at sorting them out. Understanding the significance of them, however, is another thing.

She does understand that something is going on with Yasha, exactly what that is, however, Mercy can't quite say.

With those grunted words of his, Mercy will turn her attention away from Claire and back to the man. His mention of maintenance and that he himself requires it causes the coyote's expression to turn slightly puzzled. That vaguely mystified expression lasts for a whole second as his prosthetic arm is reluctantly revealed. With that revelation all the mechanic can do for a long silent second is stare. Then there's an owlish blink as Mercy's gaze traces the banded or rather plated appendage from hand to scarred shoulder. And while Bucky is a KILLER (a killer!!) a wince of something akin to sympathy flashes across Mercy's expression.

"Well, now I can see why you smell so strongly of metal." Is what the coyote says, perhaps odd, but it's what said. "Come further in." She'll add, even as she sets her hammer down upon a nearby workbench.

"Is the damage superficial? I think -" She'll look to both Bucky and Claire now, especially when Claire mentions /skill/, "- I can realign it for you and button it back up, but if the damage is internal that might beyond my abilities." And while this situation is still all shades of odd, Mercy will offer The Nurse a quirk of a smile, "Well, glad to see I have a reputation out on the streets too. A girl always wonders what it is." As for the mention of a favor owed Mercy will only nod; a little discomfited. Favors are such heavy things and agreeing to this secret is likewise hefty.

Still that wordless promise of Mercy's is a promise and so, a chair will be pulled over, "Sit." She'll state to Bucky, "Please." Because you can't forget manners, especially in tense situations.

Winter Soldier has posed:
That willingness to protect him, on Claire's part, is visibly beyond the comprehension of this mysterious 'Yasha.' His confusion has not abated at all during this entire transaction. It's only ramped up, an existential sort of deep puzzlement not unlike an animal trying to understand its own reflection in a mirror.

That confusion thickens when Claire offers a favor out to this woman, in return for aiding him.

Now she can see why he smells so strongly of metal, she remarks. His eyes flicker. "Guess that's how you found me," he says, obviously speaking of their previous encounter, which no doubt he's going to get grilled on by a certain Night Nurse later. "Not many do."

He glances down at his own arm, at her question. Something about his aspect seems to change when she starts to question about his arm, his demeanor triggered into compliance. "...This external plate is damaged," he says. "A bullet got under. I don't think the internal functionality is affected." There is an odd passive quality to his voice now, as if he is reporting obediently to the commands of another. That sense is only reinforced when he immediately sits docilely at her order, not even waiting for the politeness of her 'please.'

He offers his arm. That docility still hangs about him, but now -- inexplicably -- his expression and his scent broadcast heavily of tense apprehension. It's the way animals smell when they are bracing to be hurt.

Claire Temple has posed:
The first thing Claire does is to ensure that side entrance door is closed behind both her and the Soldier. She cringes while doing so, both internally and out, afraid of the implication that it might seem to enclose the poor Mercy Thompson with two strangers. One stranger who may be Hell's Kitchen's vigilante nurse, and one stranger who is definitely someone that's taken a life with his own hands.

"Sorry," she says, to try to mitigate that implication. "For privacy's sake." The last thing she wants is some hapless bystander catching a glimpse of that arm, and Yasha here getting it into his head about protecting himself -- she might not be able to talk him down.

But the nurse then lingers, relief and appreciation both sweat into her body language, as Mercy pulls out that chair and implores the Soldier to sit. Claire's expression and eyes gentle in quiet thank-you. Thank-you and --

-- wait, did the mechanic say something about someone smelling like metal?

It's an odd thing, but not wanting to pry, Claire lets the comment be. At least for now. She makes no move to approach, perhaps out of worry of crowding Mercy too much, wanting to give the other woman the full respect of a personal bubble in what has to be a screwed-up situation.

"It's a bullet from a bad man, I promise," she adds wincingly onto the Soldier's explanation. "Irish mob, if you wanna get specific. They're not a fan." She pauses. She pulls at her hoodie sleeves. "Is there anything I can do to help? If you need me to hold anything, or..."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"It is." States Mercy to Bucky; in fact, that's exactly how she tailed him. Of course, that thought causes unhappiness to suddenly darken her eyes. Touching upon their initial meeting leads Mercy down the rabbit path of the poor shipping clerk. The now dead shipping clerk. Her fingertips rub against her forehead now while she grapples with this whole situation. Nonetheless, she offered to help and so, Mercy will still start to gather what tools she thinks she might need. Several wrenches of various sizes, pliers, and a slim hammer will be brought over to a nearby bench. Anything else that might be needed will be found later.

That sudden docility in Bucky isn't lost on Mercy. She can see it with her own eyes, as well as smell something within his scent. It's enough that Mercy will focus upon Bucky for a second, before a questioning gaze shifts to Claire.

Of course, at the sight of the garage door being secured downward Mercy will frown. It's not a frown of fear, per se, just a frown. "I understand." Mercy will offer courteously, even if she doesn't really understand the whole situation here. Or the way Bucky might react to being seen in such a vulnerable state.

The part about the Irish Mob earns a flash of interest from Mercy, but nothing more can be asked, as Claire offers that assistance of hers. Actual amusement can be seen upon Mercy's expression, as she says, "No, I think I have it covered, thanks though." Which brings Mercy's attention back to Bucky, their reluctant patient.

Pulling a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, Mercy will center herself. "Okay. Let's get this done." That deep breath of hers also afforded her the man's scent and that apprehension thick within it. That emotion is something she's familiar with. Something she's dealt with. As such, it's enough to cause the woman to say gently, "I'll talk you through each step. No surprises, okay?" She'll offer, even as she glances at the popped plate, at Bucky and at Claire, "The bullet has to be removed first."

Winter Soldier has posed:
It is, Mercy confirms, when he guesses at how she found him before. He cants his head a little, transparently cataloguing the information, though he says nothing and does nothing actually threatening.

In fact, he seems to undergo a sea change in demeanor as the women start to go about a process that clearly reads as 'maintenance.' Even his scent changes. All hints of aggression vanish, replaced only by an easy compliance. He sits before she even has to tell him to, his left arm laid across the rest for easy access.

That ready cooperation stands in sharp contrast to the heightening tension and anxiety she can smell off him the closer she gets to actually working on his arm. She can practically smell him bracing. The combination connotes a man trained to sit through things he does not like -- which cause pain.

It brings her to reassure him. The Winter Soldier looks up at Mercy as she promises that she will talk him through each step. There's a furrow to his brow like he doesn't understand why she's saying this. He glances to Claire, bewildered, as if seeking explanation.

"You'll do what you need to do," he says. His gaze unfocuses a little, and he looks down. His expression twitches like some thought wants out of his head, but can't make it all the way. "That's what they always do."

A soft click heralds the plates of his arm unlocking, allowing easier access to get under the one that's damaged and already partially-pried up. Under the raised edge, the bullet can just barely be seen.

Claire Temple has posed:
Crossing her arms across her chest in a gesture that's partially nervous, partially self-assuring -- everything will be all right -- Claire hovers curiously in the background.

Not wanting to distract or disturb Mercy much from her work -- that is a professional respect, because she sure hates it when it happens to her -- the nurse watches on with undisguised interest. She's the farthest thing from a mechanic, can't even fix her own broken toaster at home, but she gives the old college try in attempting to figure out what /even/ to do -- just in case there's a situation that may require her own unskilled hands to do this. Mechanics are not Claire's thing, but she's visuospatial enough to give it a shot. Plus, she's actually fascinated to know what the hell is actually under those plates.

How in the hell a sensorimotor prosthesis even /works/ to that sort of enhanced strength and fine-tune control.

She takes quick, constant glances up at the Soldier, because his discomfort is prospectively very dangerous, but to witness it: he's gone back into that weird zen of his. Not even zen, the way he gets when she's tending to one of his wounds; more like forcible docile, doll-like, soulless. She hates looking at it then, and, right on cue, hates seeing it again write across his body language and face. Claire's eyes squeeze at the corners.

He glances at her, and her gaze mollifies, recognizing that too-familiar look. Patients give it all the time, faced with so many weird tests, terminology, procedures, pains. The fact Mercy offers to talk him through the procedure earns Claire's approval and respect. She likes that in people: the patience to educate. Trust me, says her quiet nod. This is all good.

That's what they always do, he says, and her mouth tightens with the question she wants but does not ask. Not the time for it. Not the place.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Bewildered? That wasn't exactly the expression (or scent) Mercy was going for. She was looking more for a lessening of tension, his apprehension, or at the very least some type of understanding. It's enough that Mercy will automatically look to Claire, to see what the other woman is doing - so now, Claire has two sets of eyes upon her, looking for answers. When Mercy spies that subtle nod that Claire gives Bucky, the question within her own eyes is answered.

Or (at least) mollified.

His mention of doing what she needs to do will earn another look and the mechanic can't help but add, "Sure, that's true, but not without your okay first." She'll flash a quick smile to both of them now, "Otherwise my business would fail. You never start work without a customer's okay." And speaking of work saying that seems to re-focus Mercy upon the task at hand.

Her attention turns once more to Bucky's banded arm and as she gazes at it the coyote will have the brief thought of 'I have no idea how to fix this thing, but that thought (thankfully) stays inside her head. It's only when the plates unlock to allow her easier access to the innards that Mercy's expression turns to something akin to surprise. Maybe a little amazement too. His arm is something far more advanced than even the newest of cars.

"That's handy." She'll say, even as she leans down slightly to peer into the damaged plate. "Definitely a bullet. I can just see it." She says, and automatically her hands reach for a tool that sits near her. A small set of needle-nose pliers will be picked up and brought closer to Bucky; then Mercy pauses. "I'm going to try to remove it, try not to move, okay?"

A quick look is turned towards Claire now, as Mercy waits to see the other woman's reaction. While she doesn't know these two very well Mercy can already tell Claire has some type of influence upon the assassin and his reactions.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Mercy promises she wouldn't do anything without his okay first, regardless of whether it's what she needs to do. The Winter Soldier's confusion doesn't abate. He struggles visibly with the concept a moment, before he appears to give up on understanding. "Ya ponimayu," he mutters, a little helplessly, and lets his arm open for her easier access. "Understood." He speaks like a soldier, trained and bred to suffer without question.

His opened arm gives her a glimpse into the inner workings -- highly advanced -- and also gives her clear line of sight to where the bullet's burrowed under the bent plate. Mercy explains as she goes -- what she sees, what she plans to do, what she needs him to do -- and all the while, he just waits with that same timeless, glacial patience, making no response or objection.

He looks at Claire once, as if for reassurance, or perhaps for some explanation of why this procedure is so tentative and gentle. His attention returns immediately to his arm when Mercy picks up those pliers and brings them in close. Something almost like fear appears in his scent, spiking periodically as she moves the instrument; he tenses up, waiting for whatever is to be done to him.

Nothing happens. The Soldier almost grows impatient. Almost -- he isn't quite fully allowed to, by whatever conditioning is in his head. "Whatever is required," he says, through gritted teeth.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His muttered Russian phrase is heard by sensitive coyote ears, but since Mercy doesn't speak a lick of Russian, the phrase is lost upon her. She's just going to assume it was Russian for understood, since he echoed that phrase in English.

Even as Mercy keeps her attention upon the bullet, she can't help but catch a glimpse inside his arm. Seeing all of the advanced technology inside that arm is almost enough to cause her to almost whistle in astonishment. The whistle never manifests, however, thanks to the spike of fear her sensitive nose picks up. It's easy enough to tell when the fear gets worse, it's when the pliers draw closer. Kind of like the same sort of fear many people have for the dentist. That idle thought causes the faintest of frowns to mar her features, as she follows the thought to completion; most people fear the dentist because of the implied pain one might feel -

- a slightly sobering thought there. A tentative touch will be felt upon Bucky's arm as Mercy reaches for that bent plate. She's going to hold that plate steady while she reaches for the bullet with her needle-nose pliers. "Stay still." She mutters more for herself than Bucky, as she focuses intensely upon the slug. "Almost there. Okay! I got it."

It'll take two tries for her to get a secure grip upon it, but when she does she'll move to pull it out as quickly as possible.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Stay still, Mercy says. It's more for herself than him, but he seems to assume it's a command, because he goes dead still. Only his eyes follow her as she moves, the blue of them intent and wary in the way of an animal.

His stillness makes it very easy for her to reach in and find that lodged bullet. Her free hand touches down on the bent-up plate of his arm as she does, holding it steady; he stiffens slightly at the physical contact, unused to being touched without pain, but he doesn't move or try to shake her off.

He doesn't move at all, in fact, up until she gets ahold of the slug and pulls it out. It's a 9mm, flattened from its impact against the steel, and once it's out some mechanisms in the internals of that arm seem to click back into place. There's still some damage, both exterior and interior, but with the bullet out, those unpromising grinding noises have stopped, and the rest can be taken care of easily.

He examines his arm afterwards, apparently puzzled at how easy the process was. "Good," he finally says, a monosyllabic sound of approval, though he doesn't yet stand or try to leave. It seems his enforced passiveness has not quite run out yet. His handlers need time to get clear after working on him, after all, so the conditioning must call for extended docility.

Claire Temple has posed:
The Russian is similarly lost on Claire, though she doesn't look surprised to hear it coming out of 'Yasha.'

For her own part, the nurse is silent, dead-set on not back-seat driving the mechanic's careful work, though her eyebrows lift against the first peek into the technological innards of that metal arm. It's like a scene from a sci-fi movie for Claire, who has no idea what any of it is: circuitry? Electronic parts? She can think in terms of human anatomy, but even these mechanical facsimiles of bones and muscles and nerves escape her. So much gone into it just to give a man back his left arm.

Or perhaps to force a man back his left arm. The idea of it makes Claire feel sick.

She can't smell fear, but the way the Soldier stiffens up and goes dangerous still speaks tomes to her; she lingers closer, a careful, mitigating presence, with enough confidence in herself that she reaches to touch a hand on his right arm. It's a brief, automatic, warm press of her fingers, a rote habit from work: a wordless promise that no pain will come. After which she recrosses her arms again, fingers fidgeting in the crooks of opposite elbows, head tilted animal-like as she watches.

And then the bullet comes out, care of Mercy Thompson.

Claire lets go a low sound of relief and appreciation, unable to help but let one of her rare smiles soften her mouth. "You really are good at this," she tells her, and with no small amount of awe.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Once the bullet is free Mercy will inspect the flatten slug held within her pliers; she's making sure the bullet is still intact. "Good." The mechanic says even as her gaze moves to Bucky and Claire. "It didn't shatter on impact. I was worried it might have -" - which means they'd have had to go in multiple times. Not something Mercy would have looked forward to.

And while she noticed his deathly stillness and his odd docility Mercy doesn't ask any questions. Instead, those questions just linger in her gaze as she places the slug upon the wooden surface of her workbench. Turning back to the duo, Mercy will direct her next question mostly to Bucky, "Do you want me to try and re-align that bent plate?" In any other situation she would just assume /yes/, but this isn't a normal situation. At all.

Claire's praise earns a look of surprise from Mercy, as she offers with the vaguest of grins, "Which part? The mechanic part or removing a bullet part? I hate to say this, but I've had practice with both." And with that little bit of humor interjected, the coyote will follow it up with, "But thank you. Though I think it should likely be me saying that to you - nursing is far harder than being a mechanic."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The process ends. None of it hurt. It was not impersonal and rough and brutish. The Winter Soldier seems at a loss to parse a procedure where he is not treated as an object, and it gets his programming stuck in a loop where he keeps waiting for the pain to start and stop, thus indicating when his 'maintenance' has concluded.

He remains quiescent in his chair, as a result. Mercy asks him if he wants that plate re-aligned, and he starts and looks at her as if he's never been asked a question in his life. "...Yes," he hazards. "That would be optimal for performance." It's an odd choice of words, and phrased oddly as well; as if he were giving a report so Mercy can make her judgments on what to do to maximize his capabilities.

He glances automatically at Claire. Her reassurance is a foreign thing to him, but he is coming to find that he enjoys it, in some way.

Claire Temple has posed:
"What he means," Claire adds dryly, to the Winter Soldier's automaton approval of Mercy's request, "is that he's deeply appreciative of anything more you can do."

Seriously, optimal for performance? The fool can get so sharp-tongued with her -- with everyone, really -- that this passive return-to-formality is weird and unwanted. She'd much rather prefer him be running his mouth than this.

Either way, this all seems to be going amazingly well, and she tries to encourage and reinforce each of 'Yasha's' glances with one of her gentle, half-crooked smiles. What he's doing is absolutely perfect, and she's proud of him.

In fact, it all convinces Claire to pull up a chair of her own and find a place, seated somewhere at his right side which (she hopes) allows Mercy room to work. She meets the mechanic's question with a wry laugh. "How about the 'all of it' part? I wouldn't even know where to begin. Either way, I appreciate this too. A lot. You have no idea how much you've helped. Or maybe you do."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Both of Mercy's eyebrows raise upward at his optimal for performance -

- that's not exactly what she was expecting him to say, but it's what's said.

She likewise didn't miss his surprise at her question when she asked. If her eyebrows could raise any further upward they'd be well past her hairline, as is, all Mercy can do is flick a look between Bucky and Claire, before settling her gaze upon Claire when she translates. That dry tone of Claire's will earn an answering grin from the coyote, as she turns back towards her workbench.

"You're both welcome." She'll finally say, even as she holds up a body hammer for Bucky's inspection, "I'm going to use this to put the plate back down. The round end only." The hammer is slimmer than a regular wooden stock and steelhead hammer and the whole thing is cast in metal, with only a bit of cushion along the grip.

Telegraphing her movements, Mercy will step closer to Bucky again, even as she offers a flash of a smile to Claire, when the other woman pulls a chair over. Her next words bring another quick smile from the coyote, as she says, "I'm glad I could help." Which brings her back to reality in some ways, as she realizes (once more) who she's helping. It's enought o cause that easy smile to falter slightly upon her face.

"All right." She begins, as she reaches for the bent plate, "Let's see if we can realign it quickly." She'll increase the pressure of her fingers upon that specific plate to get it lined up and once it's lined up she'll ready a strike, "On three -"

"1, 2, 3 -" And like she said, when three is said, her hammer will be struck downward towards the plate. While she doesn't exactly understand Bucky's arm and it's articulation, she does understand metal and she's putting what she thinks is enough strength behind her blow to straighten the errant band.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Claire translates for the mechanical answer the Winter Soldier gives. He shoots her a puzzled look, and a hint of his more usual fire comes and goes in his gaze in the form of a sarcastic glint.

Then he lapses back into that trained calmness. He tenses briefly when Claire draws up a chair and sits at his right, drawing in on himself as too many memories of being penned in and crowded on all sides by impersonal biomedical engineers, torturous doctors, and hard-handed mechanics flood briefly through his mind.

The tension doesn't abate when Mercy shows him the hammer and explains what she intends to do, but after a moment he offers a tight sort of nod -- it seems to be what both women are expecting -- and relaxes incrementally, though his gaze is still watchful. It's so hard, in these moments, to remember what he //did// -- the circumstances under which Mercy first met him -- but one look at the cold appraisal of his eyes and those memories come back.

They might abate again, however, at his reaction to Mercy touching him again and lifting the hammer in preparation. He braces, watching in the way some children insist on watching the needle go in. It doesn't seem to hurt him, and the plate straightens back out without incident, but perhaps he's remembering other occasions where people made similar motions around him and it //did// hurt --

He exhales a breath. With the plate straightened back out, it seems to slide properly on whatever rail it's mounted on again. He looks at it quietly, before repeating what he said earlier: "Good."

He looks between Claire and Mercy. "Concluded? I have... work to do."

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire Temple doesn't miss that cornered-animal twitchiness in the Winter Soldier, something that earns a significant, pensive look of her dark eyes. He acts like a moment like this has never happened to him before.

And seeing, more than enough times, those scars on him -- it seems a likely story. A sad, sad, likely story that makes her heart hurt. So even as he stays tense, she acknowledges but doesn't recede. She's handled fearful people before, and it's patience and walking a fine line between allowing them their boundaries but not giving them the false safety of solitude. All she has faith in is he trusts her in some way -- at least trusts she can't hurt him -- and she stays calm, stays placid, leaned back in her chair, imparting her nearby presence as a hopeful balm.

There's no denying what caged animal conditioning stalks the Soldier's blue eyes, but Claire tries to negate it best she can with her own hopeful smiling.

She's got a damn good poker face. And that's why when 'Yasha' admits he has 'work to do' that Claire's reaction is little more than an indistinct twitch of her left eye. She just got down putting her ass and entire REPUTATION on the line, and like hell home skillet is going off to --

"Yeah," she agrees briskly, looking away from the fine repairwork on that left arm to angle her eyes between the Soldier and Mercy's two faces. "/We/ have work. You're going to help me home with all my supplies before more trouble finds me."

Standing free of her chair, happy to drop that topic in conversation, Claire continues readily, "You got paper and a pen nearby, Mercy? I want to give you my number. It means -- it means thank you. It means if you ever need /anything/, anything I can do to help you, all you have to do is call it. I'll be there."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The various scents within the garage are almost overpowering to Mercy, with the predominant scent being fear.

There's also a measure of apprehension, tension and wariness.

All these smells are sharp astringent scents and sometimes acrid.

Still, when the plate straightens so nicely there is a moment for the group to breathe a sigh of relief. The world didn't end and no one entered a berserker state.

Specifically Bucky didn't.

However, that sigh for Mercy pauses, when Bucky mentions work. That 'work' brings it /all/ back for the coyote and the grip upon the hammer she just used tightens.

While she stands there for a few seconds it doesn't take long for Mercy to open her mouth, intending to say something to Bucky. Not Claire, because Claire is the good one here (in Mercy's eyes), her words are /all/ for Bucky. All of them. Before she can say anything, however, Claire immediately interjects with both scent and words and it's enough to cause Mercy to walk away from the precipice she was just about to jump off of.

"I do." Is Mercy's answer, her tone more exhausted now than icy or cold. Or angry for that matter. "But you don't owe me anything. Either of you." But the paper will be found along with pen and offered to the other woman.

And then because she can't quite help herself, she adds, "Let me know if you need anything too."

While the you in that sentence isn't necessarily emphasized, Mercy's eyes will be on Claire's face versus Bucky's. With that said Mercy will turn her gaze back to Bucky and she can't quite hide the conflicting emotions she's currently feeling at this whole thing.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Mercy starts to say something, but VERY MINDFULLY Claire interrupts both that and the Winter Soldier's thoughts about work. He looks at the nurse, bewildered, as she substitutes 'carrying my stuff home for me' for 'merciless killing.' This substitution visibly does not compute to him, but he's still in a pliant enough mood to accept it. "Uh," he says about the matter. "fine, but -- "

His eyes shut and his head lowers as a punishing spike of pain runs through it. He inhales a shaky breath, visibly disoriented, before he tries to continue with, "Fine, but if I don't get back, they'll be upset with -- "

His struggle to explain aborts again. He braces his right hand against his temple a few moments, as if trying to push the pain out of his head, or perhaps the lack of clarity. He has wandered far outside of the scope of where and how he usually operates, and the brainwashing is ill-equipped to adjust.

Eventually something seems to click back into place. His expression calms and goes deliberate again. "You didn't help me to get a favor," he says to Mercy, and his voice is even again. "but you are owed one. I'll pay it, and then owe nothing."

He seems to consider the maintenance session over. He rises, his docility gone, his cold assertiveness back in place like a mask. He waits visibly for Claire, his features impassive.

Claire Temple has posed:
Someway, somehow, Claire has the sinking feeling like she just stopped two trains from colliding. The Soldier's strange, passive mood is carrying him along into the realm of truthful hyper-literalism, and the mechanic seems to be coiling tighter and tighter like a spring.

A spring in a loaded gun.

Either way, something unspoken is hanging in the air like a nauseous New York City rain, and Nurse Temple has the hint to get their asses out of her before something goes down. Mercy Thompson loses one ounce of that saint's patience and calls the police, and 'Yasha' feels inclined to /do something about that/ --

Can only stay lucky so long.

"/I'll/ be upset if you break a promise, and you haven't seen me upset yet," Claire answers the Soldier quickly and conversationally, her threat of agitation superficial. "We'll discuss the rest later."

Her dark eyes veer back on Mercy's insisting they're square. Clare gives her a look flatter than a prairie highway. "No," she asserts, "I /owe/ you." Because SERIOUSLY.

She lingers in to quickly scrawl down a non-descript phone number, circling it once, backing away only in time to catch the Soldier promise a debt of his own. Honour. It's a start. She can work with honour.

"Thank you again, Mercy," Claire adds, rushed a little by the machine-like way the Winter Soldier waits. She's equally zealous to get the both of them out of poor Miss Thompson's garage -- and, for now, to stop impressing upon her charity and life. "Seriously. We'll get out of your hair as promised. Call if you need anything."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
They'll be upset? That earns a quick look from Mercy. Her gaze only sharpens when his struggle becomes apparent. When his hand reaches to his temple Mercy will risk a glance at Claire now, and while she'd like to ask the other woman if he's 'okay', she doesn't. Not when Bucky finally reasserts control over himself, or something reasserts itself there. His promise of fulfilling the debt owed doesn't seem to offer any real comfort to Mercy, as she starts to shake her head.

That head shake stills when Claire likewise interjects about the debt owed. The bit of paper with phone number will be accepted and even looked at, before it's tucked into a pocket in her coveralls. Then with a look between the two she'll say, "You're welcome." And then after a short pause, "And I will."

Call if she needs something, she means, but it'd have to be pretty life or death for her to call.

Really.

"Take care." Are her last words to both, polite as ever, thanks to be raised by very polite werewolves. Then once the two are out and the garage door closed, Mercy will turn her gaze back to the Rabbit that sits there. "Sorry, girl, you're going to have to wait a bit longer, I need a beer." And with that said Mercy walks past her car and towards the second door that leads into her living area.

Perhaps she'll have two beers, she's pretty sure she earned it.