worthallthis | IC Inbox: In the Night

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.

"No, don't apologize, that's fine - if anything it'll make me appreciate that more. Important you pace yourself, nothing's worth burning you out too fast. You went to a special effort, and that's all I care about." And is continuing right on fussing, which is pleasant to watch. "You won't have to do anything like that for awhile. Having you around is...a lot. More than I'm used to already.'

Keeping busy is really the only tried and true method of dealing with brain issues that Soldat has ever found useful, even if the "busy" is just making origami animals or cooking someone dinner. Hands and eyes and thoughts at least partially occupied seems to quiet things down.

So they bring over a damp, warm towel for her eyes, or any other part of her face that hurts now, while the pan and water heat up, and return to the kitchen to butter bread and slice cheese. And they ask the dumbest of dumb questions, because it makes no sense to them. "Why. You're a great person. You'd think you would have plenty of friends."

Ever striving for high impact with low effort, the towel is draped wholecloth over her face as she reclines, head back. It reminds her distinctly of Steve Irwin, blindfolding alligators. Blankets over birdcages. It actually does help a little.

"Not a one. Not ever. You and Matt are probably tied for the very first, actually. Something in my blood, I think, that people can snuff out."

"Where the hell did you even live, that nobody thought you were great," Soldat says more than asks, baffled and frowning at the innocent slices of bread, tone bordering on indignant on her behalf. Even they, even it, as the goddamn Soldier, had those... poor kids who looked up to them. Who they trained, who sang for them because they learned, somehow, that their teacher liked music.

"Louisiana." A non-answer, because she understands how useless any answer will be. Would that it were so understandable. "Disliked, pretty much. Weird. Didn't much bother with people when I was little. Snowballs from there, until-"

Well.

"Only one common denominator. Something with me."

Soldat may have been to Louisiana once. Maybe. If they did, it was with the American branch, which means it was during the worst days, and most likely some kind of internal execution. Probably for the best they don't remember it.

They stop to lean both hands on the counter, looking in her direction and saying firmly, "Well, you have people here. Sora and Aziraphale, and Matt. Crowley too, probably, even if you two don't get along at first. More people, too, if you got out more."

She can hear the stance and change in projection, and lift enough of the cloth to peer at him from beneath it. Seems serious.

"I very seriously doubt I have Crowley," she gently retorts. And that makes Aziraphale something of a mid-tier risk. Makes Soldat himself something of a low-tier risk, actually - the lone outlier. Can't knock himself, Sora, or Matt, at least. A tilt of her head that just might be general assent to this is followed warily with, "Doubt it'd increase, too. Place is a powder keg. Everyone'll seem nice right up until you're between them and something. I've been in it before, and it's always me that gets thrown under the tires for traction. Ain't happening here."

Can't happen here. She's so tired.

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