worthallthis | IC Inbox: In the Night

They are so not okay it's not even funny. But they can keep a lid on it. The walk here helped some. They hold up the metal hand, showing her the little bundle of fabric, but keep the metal fingers curled around it so she can't take it herself. Not yet. They don't want her to have to relive that unless she insists. "I. Saw the frogs."

Their voice is hoarse, and the grim expression can't hold, it's turning into something that looks like it might cry, but they can't feel tears. It just feels pained. "I'm sorry. I'm. I'm sorry, Misty."

There's a more innocent 'oh' on the tip of her tongue - it's easy to deduce from the raised cloth it's an opal, perhaps something upsetting about the history of the town - but then he speaks, and all the air leaves her in one steady, seemingly endless exhale. Her legs want to give out from under her, but fittingly, the memory makes rest uncomfortable. Cannot sit down, or she may never stand up again. A step back is taken, and her weight shifts from one foot to the other without cease.

"No one was supposed to-- I-- Um." She's livid someone else has been subjected to it, on some level bruised that anyone else has so much as seen it, but it doesn't stick. Her chest hurts and her eyes are shining, and she can't hope to hold a flame right now. It's every effort to not cry immediately.

"You didn't do it." Didn't seek it out. Shouldn't feel any responsibility. "It's just what-- ah. Ain'tyourfault."

They can't do anything. For a long moment, they can't even say anything, just watch her move away, look stricken, look like she's going to cry. Really cry, not just hurt like they do.

What comes out is the flat question: "Do you want me to crush it. I can crush it for you."

She's wary to so much as look at it, which is something of a help. When she finally does cry, she was at least already looking at the floor. Just the nod is all she can manage at first, and after an embarrassingly rough clearing of her throat, "Please?"

They unwrap the opal, tuck the fabric back in a pocket, and roll the opal at optimum crushing position before closing their metal hand into a fist with a hum and buzz of servos. There's a loud crack, then a crunching sound. They shake their hand free of harmless crumbs of stone and dust over the snow outside, then crouch to wipe the plates off on with in cleaner snow.

Then, finally safe from that memory-- it's never leaving their brain, but at least neither of them can relive it-- they step inside and. And. Fuck, what do they do, Misty's crying and it's their fault and she can't cry, that's what they do not her, and it hurts to see tears and hear her breathing wrong and--

--and what they want or need doesn't matter, they have to make that go away. They have to help. They take two steps up to her, steel themselves for a beat, and wrap the flesh arm around her shoulders to pull her in. Misty, you get your first Soldat hug. Apparently what it takes to push past the horror of that much touching is seeing her cry.

An immediate danger removed, for which she is indescribably grateful. It's a lose-lose situation, but over means it can be put far from their minds once the initial shock subsides. No one was ever supposed to see that, especially, particularly him. It isn't beyond her imagining that it might rouse unpleasant experiences from his own life, and she doesn't ever want to be an accessory to that. And it hurts, the whole of it, this ugliest most haunting affair dragged to the forefront when so much of her time is carefully calibrated to keep it at bay.

Nor is it beyond her imagining that he is making a concession on her part, right now. She does what little she can in return - what would undoubtedly be a set of arms coiled around him for god only knows how long is tamped viciously down. One hand pressed into his chest, adjacent to the face she buries into his shoulder.

It's the first anyone's done this that was about That, and nothing else. Perhaps it's that fact, or normal reactions to being reassured in general, but after one great shuddering breath sobs. Once, twice, and then that too is tamped down. The whimpering might be more pathetic. Lose-lose situations. She sets about muffling herself as much as she can against him, to mitigate this all around.

"'m sorry."

Christ, they manage to actually hug her, and she's not even going to take advantage of it. But the lack of arms back is... better. They can keep this up a while if she's only clinging to their front-- that's almost familiar, like shielding a target on the rare protection detail mission, or a partner they don't want to get shot up. So they add the other arm, tucking her right up, both arms to their chest, shielding her from the world, and. Rock a little.

That's familiar too. Not going to chase down how, just yet, but it is.

Instead, they murmur, maybe a little more Brooklyn than usual, "S'okay. Ain't your fault. You cry if you gotta. Okay? I know. I geddit. S'fine, whatever you need." Okay, maybe a lot more Brooklyn than usual. That is some fine New York mangling, right there.

Edited (dammit sorry XD) 2020-02-24 05:28 (UTC)

Soldat isn't a person to take advantage of, however coveted hugs are. However tempting, her comfort cannot be his discomfort. However nice this is. Which isn't to say she doesn't all but fold in on him once the extra arm is added.

Actual output is balancing into merely a steady cry. Every breath is a shuddering effort not to become a sob, but she manages. Encouragement makes it both better and worse. He's going to have an incredibly oddly placed damp spot on this shirt.

"You weren't -- supposed to see that."

Hey, Soldat's got like four layers on. She's just getting their coat wet. It's fine, it'll dry. Her tears oddly make them feel less like crying, themselves, more like they got to be steady for her. Apparently Soldat is not a sympathetic crier-- thank god. It takes enough self-control to stay put and keep their muscles relaxed. This isn't bad, but it's not easy, either.

One hand rubs on her back, the flesh one, since it's the one that they presume is nicer to feel. Warmer and with more give to the fingertips and palm. "Not supposed to see a lot of shit. Still did. Still ain't your fault."

A wise call, as it's very nice. She'll be going another few minutes at minimum, as is simply the law of tear conservation. Next to no indulgence in a cry means dam breakings are...dam breakings. As comforters go, however, he's top marks. No better time to confront some things.

"None of it had to happen. They just-- left me there."

"Fuckers." Oops, did that slip out? That absolutely slipped out. Whoever did that to Misty deserves all the invective and, in fact, all the shooting. "Anybody tries to send you there again, I'll put some bullets in them. You're mine. My handler. Nobody hurts my handlers." That tone of intense certainty come with a couple plates shuddering in the arm, the sound of a few gears tightening, as if they be preparing to shoot someone right the instant.

The flesh hand stays gentle on her back, though. That's the joys of having one arm be a machine: it does shit entirely independent of the rest of Soldat's body, sometimes.

"Thank you."

It's soothing to the substantial parts of her that are, remain, absolutely enraged. There's no room to express it around the pain of sudden focus and the confusing, dizzying pull toward actual comfort, but it's there. The gratitude is indescribable.

Perhaps it's what emboldens her enough to mumble, quietly, "I don't know that I ever left, sometimes. Don't know if it just changed, waiting to spring on me."

Everything out of his mouth thus far has been good. If ever she could voice this, it's now.

You know what. It's not even something Soldat can begrudge her feeling. Every now and then, it still jumps out at them that maybe they're hallucinating, that this is some new kind of cryo, some new kind of torture, that they're going to defrost and it'll be HYDRA all over again. But those moments are getting less and less frequent.

In no small part because they don't think HYDRA could dream up Misty and Sora and Crowley. Or music and food and origami. "Would that place give you somebody who dances with you? Threatens to shoot people for you?" They duck their head to... to press their lips to her hair, just briefly. That's okay. They can do that. "That place was. It was. All horror, all pain, all the time. We get. We get downtime here. And even if it's horror, you still got support. You ain't alone. Yeah?"

Where does he get off, being so perfect.

"Probably not." A begrudging mumble meant more for the him-specific prompting that ultimately answers both. Rest assured, the additional contact is felt and met with remarkable restraint so as to prevent sudden clutching. "'M not used to that. Never been the case before."

Never had a Soldat before, clearly.

"And you've got your own troubles."

"Yeah, maybe, but who wants it to be all about them, all the time?" That gets embarrassing. And exhausting. And-- "That ain't fair. Or. Or equal." She's technically a handler, so "equal" shouldn't measure into it, but... she's her own special category, at this point. They want it to be equal, to be balance, wants to help her as much as she helps them. They give her back a little pat. "I get to fuss sometimes, too."

"Too nice to be fussing," she murmurs back, commentary more than contrary. "Throws me off that you're real sometimes." Arm wrap is tempting. Nuzzle is safer. To his immense credit, flow of tears is steadily being stymied.

Are you ready for a very lukewarm attempt at humor?

"Everything we make for the next week is vegetarian."

(Except she's serious.)

Much safer. They're reaching the limit of their full-body contact time soon, here-- the internal static is getting harder to ignore, and the tension harder to keep at bay-- and arms around them would probably cause a jump and a rapid detangling. The nuzzle's cute, though, and earns her a hair pet instead of a back pet.

They're gonna take her comment as serious, though. "That's fine. I'll learn something new." They'll just have to get their extra protein from meals at the Invincible or Aziraphale and Crowley's house, that's all. Not that much of a hardship. Besides, maybe they can add nuts to things. Soldat hasn't tried peanut butter yet; they're in for a surprise, there.

"Were you okay, finding it?"

Any grip on his many shirts is loosening; worry not Soldat, you'll be released in very short order. Initial wave is passing, and it's followed by burnout. He will be permitted to fuss as needed, but it wouldn't - cannot - negate any serious blows it may deal in the short term. Violence is violence.

Violence is indeed violence. Soldat hesitates, looks vaguely guilty should she look up at their face, and admits, "It wasn't great. Lost more than an hour, after, like that time in the rain. It's why I was late."

And their voice has lost the Brooklyn, at last, which is probably a sign that yeah, they're hitting a limit here. The plates in the metal arm ripple with a little mechanical purring sound.

"Wondered if that was why you felt cooler than usual." Not enough to stray even close to danger, but not the usual warm. "You gonna be okay?"

Reluctantly, she steps back. Will have to curl up on the couch momentarily, but for now, a level if watery proper gaze.

"You ask me that," Soldat complains, just lightly, pulling their hands back too and finally divesting themselves of the coat to hang up. "Yeah, I'll be okay." Their brain continues to hurt, but thinking about someone else's problems for a while was actually a nice break.

Once the coat is out of the way, they give Misty a once over and turn the question around: "You?"

All she can honestly offer is a limp shrug.

"Old wounds. Made it this long. Not sure what I can say past that, really." Nothing that can be walked off or dealt with in any one go, however objectively great his hugs are.

They're just going to take that at face value, because if they don't, what are they even going to do about it? Their skin already feels like it wants to shiver off, now that they're no longer in the moment of the hug. Pushing verbally is not a thing they're great at, and they already said more words at once today than usual, between this, Sora earlier, and Rosinante even before that. It's been a very talky day.

"Okay," they say. Standard remedies, then. "Hot drink, warm food. Both of us. You sit. I'll bring you something for your face." Because crying leaves one's eyes hurting and nose stuffy, and she doesn't have supersoldier healing to get over it quickly.

"That was a help, though. That was better than I'd have hoped for. I really appreciate it." No cure-all, but god, a step up from anything sole conversation would realistically manage. The following directions are entirely reasonable, and met with a nod.

It's some doing to position herself comfortably on the couch, but she manages.

"Thank you."

While she settles, Soldat sets about getting the usual: cocoa since she doesn't need coffee when sleeping will probably be hard enough anyway, grilled cheese, and tomato soup this time because vitamins are important in times of stress. Also, then the grilled cheese won't have to have any vegetables in it, so there's less crunch, which seems like a good idea right now.

"Panicked," they admit. "Couldn't think of anything else to do. Not sure if I can do it again any time soon. I'm sorry." Feels like a terrible thing, not being available to give people you care about a hug, because you're a too full of touch-related brain issues.

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