trainwrecked | For ashyperfume

"What you just said. I - do not talk or act towards women differently than men." The implications of that did not even begin to occur to him. "I've trained both. I've eliminated both. It's..."

He spread his hands. That difference hadn't occurred to him.

Why, yes, Fuu, if the most imposing, authoritative man you know had been there in your place, and by some obscure chance he'd let them in as close as he'd let you in? He would have acted the exact same way. Hope this might help.

Her eyebrows shifted up as she stared at him. She almost laughed at the pure, inexplicable consternation of it, and at his determination to make it right. His mind did work in other ways sometimes; what she'd seen as a light, playful comment meant to detract attention from the subject connected to a larger pattern to him.

"You're the one man I'd almost believe that from," she remarked softly, the smile faint in her eyes. Her head tilted -- a light gesture towards the kitchen. "Come eat."

She didn't quite wait for a reply, turning back towards the kitchen, though the words were not a dismissal, either. Her movement invited him forward.

Edited 2014-09-11 23:59 (UTC)

It gave him insight, her light comment. So it was good in that way, at least.

He opened his mouth to argue that he did mean it, then realized, this time, that the remark was a tease. So he closed his lips, shook his head, and followed her instructions.

"All right." He frowns slightly at the food.

"I've seen people eat some of those."

And, by implication, I've never actually eaten any of these kinds of food that I can remember.

For her turn, Fuu busied herself spooning small heaps into bowls from the paper cartons, popping them into the microwave where they hummed and spun, warming. There was sauce on one of her fingers; absently she tucked it into her mouth to lick it off, motioning to him to pass the carton of rice.

"How does it smell?" She'd caught the implication; the question forced him to form his own judgement rather than stick to the emptiness of his observations. The aromas of the food lingered in the air, revived by the warmth. "Usually if it smells good, it tastes good too."

Edited 2014-09-20 19:24 (UTC)

He watched her quietly, his face kind of blank. Just going focused for a few moment, then he shrugged.

"It doesn't smell like any of the poisons or explosives ingredients I can identify by smell." A.k.a. you lost him at 'good,' Fuu.

But he recognized the question, and, after giving his technically correct answer, his mouth pursed a little. "I've come to the realization that I was intentionally kept away from any reason to make judgments like 'pleasing or not' that were not related to the outcome of my missions. I can't tell you if I like the smell or not, though I've been working on trying to decide about perceptions in that context for a few weeks now."

Her shoulders lifted, unsurprised by the reply -- and also completely unbothered about it. "That's why I'm asking. You start somewhere." Again, the gesture. "Rice, please."

He blinked at her for a moment, then followed the direction of her motion, nodded, and finally passed her the carton with the same subconscious focused attention as all of the other things that he did.

"Yes. There are a lot of things to get started on."

He hovered for another moment, then settled against the counter, in a pose that was almost identical to how he had been before she'd retreated. It was convenient and well placed, from his point of view.

The rice went into the microwave next, three other bowls pulled out and set on the counter between them, steaming. "Maybe a better question, then: Does it smell like something you don't want to keep smelling, or something that you're okay to keep smelling? Or, if I dare: Something you would like to smell more?"

Starting somewhere actually meant starting, after all.

He focused for a little more, then shrugged.

"Like I said, doesn't smell like the poisons I know with certainty, though this one, " he pointed at one of the bowls, "might share ingredients."

It probably had some sort of mushrooms or another.

"Doesn't smell burnt or rotting, either." He considered the bowls for a moment more, then raised an eyebrow at her. "Which one do you like best?" Only fair if questions went both ways, wasn't it? Besides, he was trying. But his reference was mostly about the things to avoid. Or use against targets or those in his way.

"I'll take that as an 'I'm okay to keep smelling it,'" was her wry reply as she leaned against the counter's edge, but it was coated with amusement. "But I'll give you half credit for your sense of smell. Not everyone can pick out ingredients."

One finger tapped the bowl he'd identified. "Mushrooms. Chinese food isn't poison -- unless you order from the wrong place, and then your life is in your own hands."

Reaching out, she broke a pair of chopsticks free from their paper wrapping, balancing them in her fingers with practiced ease as she reached out to take a bit of meat from the next bowl over. The meat went into her mouth, and her eyes half-closed as she obviously savored it. "Spicy, as far as I'm concerned, is best -- even just a little, like this, to turn up the flavor."

Her eyes flicked sideways towards him -- just a quick brush, playful. "Though I don't know; it might be too much for what might be a virgin tongue."

He paused for a moment. "I had training, and I'm not sure that's not among the enhancements that... allowed me to survive." He was pretty sure it was not the 'serum' that he'd read about when catching up on Rogers. But he was pretty sure there had been enhancements. Still were, for him not to reject the arm, most likely.

He watched her work with the chopsticks, eyebrows just a little raised, then he rolled his eyes.

"I don't expect it'll be much of a challenge. I know for a fact that my pain thresholds are... difficult to believe, for most people."

Famous last words.

Especially paired up with the fact that he wasn't reaching for utensils, himself.

Edited (Last sentence added.) 2014-09-28 17:42 (UTC)

Her eyebrows rose in turn as she failed at looking suitably impressed. The glint of humor was in her eyes; he was taking himself completely seriously, and she was enjoying it. (And furthermore, he'd raised a challenge.) Her head tilted coyly as she reached out and tucked another bit of meat between her chopsticks, dangling it in the air between them.

"But has your tongue been fully trained against the ravages of Chinese and Indian food?" The chopsticks hovered close to him. "Impress me."

Edited (perfectionism playing with last sentence.) 2014-09-30 02:05 (UTC)

Of course he was taking himself seriously. Any attempt at humor was, clearly, not ready to be aired. Not even humor at himself. He learned, even if not necessarily the right things, fast.

His eyebrow cocked up at her, then he shrugged. And opened his mouth, though he didn't lean closer. The chopsticks were weird enough, his reflexes suggested he should be able to pull away quickly if they should start poking into his throat or his nostrils.

Little did he know that the closest danger was in the meat itself.

He was too trained to take things in, including pain, to scream, or try to spit it out. Though his chewing did slow down, somewhat (it looked a little awkward to begin with), and he was swallowing heavily. His eyes teared, though he didn't let those tears fall, but that meant that he was trying to stifle sniffles a moment later.

He didn't make faces. Or complain.

But his eyes did grow even larger. Not frightened, but that was the only part of him that in any way betrayed that the hot was too much. Even his mind would have denied the 'too much' part, anyway.

"I... see," he managed to gasp, eventually.

Fuu had plucked another bite for herself in the interim, nibbling idly at it as she watched him attempt to mouth his own. The laughter was in her eyes again, and in the small, tight corners of her mouth. Yet she was complete innocence as she queried,

"Does that mean you'd like another piece?"

"Why," he asked, still trying to get his breath properly, "would anyone want more of it?"

She couldn't quite hold it in then, pealing with short, almost explosive bit of laughter. Reaching out, she tugged the bowl of sticky rice towards them both.

"Helps kill the heat," she proffered. "I don't recommend water. You'll just have to trust me."

But there were no forks in sight. Only the chopsticks in her fingers, and another set on the counter, wrapped in paper.

Excuse him, but he wasn't taking any more of the food in front of him, after that. He crossed his arms, leaning back a bit with a shrug.

"I'll live."

Edited (icon) 2014-10-04 19:06 (UTC)

She watched him a long moment at that, taking in the set of his jaw, the cross of his arms. It was a pose all too familiar.

In some ways men really were so alike.

Shifting away, she slipped towards the cupboard, reaching up again for a glass. The refrigerator door opened and shut; she poured a measure of creamy, white liquid into a glass before she returned to him, placing the glass down near his elbow.

"The rice kills the taste," she said again, crossing her arms against the counter, looking upward at him half-through her lashes. "So does milk."

More quietly, "I can see we're going to have to be a little more careful about teasing each other." A pause. "Though, for the record, you led yourself into that one."

No judgement in the words -- just statement of fact.

It wasn't stubbornness, even. He didn't move, other than his eyes following her every motion. His face was... neutral. He was watching, and listening, but the actions - they weren't about him. (They were never going to be about him.) She had a task, and assignment for him.

When she was ready, she would get to it. He could wait until then. (Something was not right about this, but he couldn't remember what. There was so much he couldn't remember...)

By this point, the burning heat in his mouth was nothing but a memory, stored with the rest of the pain he'd known and filed away for further reference. There was no judgment in watching her, no question. Only readiness, in case there's more pain coming, and readiness to do what the next mission is.

Nothing but waiting.

She was quiet too, continuing to watch him. Watching the shadow settle across his face -- that shadow that she didn't quite yet understand, impermeable, unfathomable. Behind it, he was concealed. Hidden.

Silently, she reached for the milk near his elbow. Took a sip . . . and set it back where it was.

"James." The word was soft. "Sometimes we're really going to piss each other off. Make mistakes. I'm sorry in advance. I'm not always the easiest person to be around, and not even the nicest. I tell things as they are, and I don't play with words so they're the easiest to hear. But if I've made a mistake -- and plainly I have -- I need you to tell me what it was. Sometimes I don't know how to be gentle unless I'm told."

Her fingers nudged the glass ever so slightly closer to him. "Talk to me."

Like a command . . . but without any power behind it. A request.

A depression appeared between his brows, when she called him by that name, concepts that he'd been working on for months struggling to take up the places that he'd made for them (such shallow places, compared to the deep, bruised tracks in his mind).

Then the depression deepened at her request, and he had to pause a little longer before he could comply. Remembering what she'd said, trying to make it relevant so he could talk to her. (What was there to say?)

Eventually, he started. Slowly, his voice a little different. "It's not about gentleness. Or teasing." He knew that it wasn't, because he wasn't hurt or upset. In fact, he felt...

Right. This felt right.

But it wasn't what she expected of him. And the way she was talking to him, patient, attentive to him, matched up with that nagging feeling that it wasn't what should be, waiting for orders from her. It took him a moment, the question, what is it about, then? ringing loud and clear in his mind, and then he pushed the false sensation of peace back. Away.

Catching himself at what he'd just been thinking, doing, made his face twist in anger, the metal fist closing tight so fast the servos could be heard clearly even as his arms dropped to his sides. He turned away, chin tight. Watching her from the side of his eyes. Watching her in her reflection on the refrigerator handle, the reflection on the clean stovetop. It was better than trying to look at her after he had just been... that.

He still took a little more time before he attempted to speak again.

"Pain through food isn't what I can remember, but there was usually pain. Punishment. Experiments. Sometimes merely catching my attention. At least that's what I remember happening, doesn't mean it actually did." Though some of it had been real, he knew the scars. "Then there was amusement. Often satisfaction, at how I handled the pain." Mirth. She'd laughed. "After that, I was told what to do and why, whether or not I tried to tell them anything I thought might be relevant. After a while, I stopped trying, I think."

His right hand twitched, his palm flashing at him her for a moment as he relaxed from its fist, and then returned to it, again.

"This is how easy it is for me to go back. That's why I haven't attacked, yet. I don't want to give them back this asset."

She stayed where she was. Didn't touch him. Didn't move towards him. Let him work through the feeling, process. Probably she should have been afraid . . . But so much harder to be afraid of a man depositing a glass of water on the floor nearby, who then knelt outside the door and waited for her to speak.

A flicker of something darted through her face, unnamed, and she paused in turn, her brow furrowing, pressing in an echo of his.

"I can't promise not to hurt you. I will hurt you at some point; I do that. Angry or careless or god knows what else. I tend to do that, and I'm not sure I would know how to stop if I tried. I'll bumble into things, scramble things up, take them apart, and if no one tells me no, I'll take it all down."

A breath. "So tell me when I've gone too far. I don't pretend to know where you've been. And I don't pretend to know what I'm -- either of us -- are doing. I could mess this up still."

And words as soft as the breath: "I've never wanted to hurt anyone at all."

Edited 2014-10-05 02:31 (UTC)

"Hurting's a part of life," came his immediate response. He didn't even know how much of it was Hydra - or how different even the same words would have sounded, before he'd lost who he was.

And only after did it, slowly, dawn at him that she was apologizing to him for what'd happened. That was.

Nobody'd done that. Not even Rogers, well, not in words, at any rate. His expression softened, a little, and he slowly turned so he was almost facing her. Yes, the name helped, it mattered, even if he wouldn't have admitted it. Things like nothing that he'd been through.

Things like thinking about somebody else.

"Then you're a far better person than me, I think." It wasn't bitter or self-deprecating or anything of the sort, merely a statement of fact, addressing the last thing she'd said. Then he considered the rest.

"You... the hurt in this situation, it wasn't caused by you. I'm... not happy with how easy it is to suck me back in." Because he couldn't stop it, usually couldn't even realize it was happening. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "But if it's getting that way and I know, I'll try to tell you." He considered it for a moment, his head tilted slightly. "Maybe having a reason to look for it will make it easier to discover. That's... appreciated." A small pause, and he tried if another world would be a better fit. "Thanks."

For the opportunity. For the option.

"Hurting is a part of life." The words were quiet, whether they were agreement or reflection or some combination of the two, it was hard to say. The corners of her mouth turned up wryly, eyes still closed. "And whether or not I'm a better person is still out for the jury. Hurting because you want to, or hurting because you don't know how to do anything else . . . in the end, is there that much of a difference?"

Her lashes separated as her eyes came back to him in turn. Stayed. The wryness was still there, but it had softened, including him in the joke -- and in that, there was acceptance. "How many restarts do you think we get per night?"

He paused for a moment. "I am... reasonably certain I have hurt people because I wanted to." His memory was elusive, but he was pretty sure.

At her question, though, he tilted his head, more in confusion about the need for a reset than anything else. "I don't think anyone else makes the rules. Which should mean, as many as we need." It took him an effort to avoid the self-effacing 'as many as are needed.' If he was trying to become - real, realer - he had to claim responsibility sooner or later, didn't he?

"But I've no need for starting over."

Except he maybe did, if she expected him to actually... eat.

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