ataraxionlogs | [closed] underneath the skin

[ That the space between Tony’s text and Bucky gracing his treehouse doorstep is more than a matter of seconds is a testament to the reason for the visit — the chalkboard screech of metal digging into metal announces his ascent up the ladder, which

is probably worse than a low-oil situation.

But he’s not exactly eager to bear it to the world yet, either. ]

Oil. [ he says to Tony when he gets up there, like Tony might have somehow forgotten what he’s here for, or that he doesn’t want to be here at all. ]

[ his eyes briefly widen, almost dropping the stupid mirror thing he'd been communicating with the other man through. it only takes him a second of scrambling however before bucky is being handed a canister. ] Here. But you should let me... [ take a look. his expression goes from wide surprise to wide concern just as quick, processing the noise as indeed something more serious than a lubrication problem. ]

[ Bucky takes the canister with the quick, tense motion of an animal used to having good things snatched back last second, and it takes a beat beyond that to register that Tony— one, isn't actually trying to take anything back from him, and two, looks worried about something. His arm. Oh.

The arm screeches again as he retracts it. Bucky pauses midway. Oh. (If Tony's worried, Steve will be worried.) ]

If you— [ You know. Look at it, fix it, whatever, words are extra hard right now, so he starts over. ] Can you look without changing anything?

[ Without his permission, he means, as if that is very much not a given. ]

[ tony tries to keep his own movements as smooth and even as possible, telegraphing them so bucky won't have cause to think of him as a threat. ] Of course. Come here... Let's. Sit. [ he gestures to the corner where there are a few makeshift stools waiting to be crafted into something a bit more chair like. they'll hold weight, however. ]

I'll just fix it. We can talk mods later. [ he offers a gentle smile, gesturing for bucky to sit first. ]

[ It's good, actually, that the stools are more like works in progress than chairs, that this is a tree house in the middle of the jungle and not a lab in a basement vault, and he tries to focus on those differences. Still, his shoulders are tight as he moves to sit. ]

No mods, [ he says, almost questioning and maybe just to say it, to try establishing a boundary and see if it holds.

But either way, he move to pull his shirt up over his head.

The arm is not HYDRA's finest - it's not even the 29th century postapoc cybertech future's finest, more like their second or third tier above useless hunk of scrap metal, but when he bares it, the mechanism beneath is what's worth looking at. Even with junkyard quality materials, the connections to the metal port in his deltoid and the leads to his muscles demonstrate an intricate understanding of mind-machine interface beyond even fancy comic book movie tech.

Basic engineering, however, hasn't seen so much progress, and not even the best engineering can stand up to human error. There are raw, angry marks still healing along Bucky's skin where the straps and pads that support the arm's bulk have rubbed too long, and new marks where he's instinctively shifted said straps away from where it hurt, which probably didn't do wonders for the arm's motion mechanics.

Somewhere along the way, he must have given the elbow one too many off-balance yanks - a strut in the back of the elbow has buckled and stuck into the joint, where it's busy grinding up a gear.

Just needs some oil, right? ]

[ he smiles, though it's wan. tony nods though as bucky removes his shirt he's wishing instantly he could take it back. this is like a horror show. he can't actually expect him to fix this the way it is, can he? he hasn't exactly taken a hippocratic oath by any means, but his own person morals do prevent him from harm, despite recent oversights in his history. ]

Let's just, take a look here. [ he swallows, hands reaching out for the arm. it truly is amazing, at least the way it's connected. everything else seems painful and unnecessary to tony, and he knows a thing or two about prosthetics. his fingers skate along the metal surface, one hand holding the joint steady while the other feels for the socket. he meets bucky's eyes carefully, knowing he has to give him some sort of preamble. ] This might take a little while. [ and more materials than oil, though thankfully he thinks he has enough scrap in the treehouse to suffice. ]

[ It wouldn't be the worst prosthesis, maybe, if Bucky maintained it properly or replaced the padding or even took it off as regularly as he's supposed to; he doesn't, and won't. He doesn't tense up at it being handled, though, at least not any more than he already is, but that weird blankness starts to creep into his eyes again, like he's closing off and pulling back - until Tony keeps talking to him. That gives him a beat's pause. The techs usually talked around him, not to him. ]

I'm patient, [ he answers simply, a little wry. He appreciates the warning, though, and the care Tony as seems to be taking, even if he doesn't quite understand or trust it. He watches the other man work out of the corner of his eye. Eventually: ]

Your suits. They're myoelectric too?

...Yeah. [ he didn't think bucky was going to say anything else, and now he's distracted. the metal has been peeled back so he can peer into the joint and he's meticulously shifting things until they click (or don't.) it's gratifying to get things done the old-fashioned way, even if he misses his workshop. ] They're more... efficient than this, no offense. Do you know what this material is?

[ There are people here with the same faces, but different personalities. Different identities. He knows. She speaks with a different accent here, in a different language, even answers to another name - Svenja, he's heard her called, sbrandt. But there are little things that still feel familiar to him, the way she steps sometimes, or leans to keep her hair from her face, and he has long since learned to trust his instincts. (Maybe a part of him wants it to be her, too.)

In the end, he doesn’t seek her out in any distinct, conscious way, at least not at first. He drifts. Their lives in camp are close, and their water supply is communal, and if sometimes, more times when the camp is full of chatter and yet more after Stark arrives, he washes his extra shirt at the same time as her, and happens to stand nearer to her end of the trough because she doesn’t talk to him any more than he talks to her, it is not much more than coincidence — but it is not coincidence. ]

You're a doctor? [ he asks one day like it's some small betrayal, a detail he can't rectify.

—Which he pulled from her network chatter nearly a month ago and only now decided to ask about, yes. ]

( this motherfucker.

he's saved her the time of having to follow him about, at least; plausible deniability on her lingering suspicion about the level of conviction with which he'd been so sure he recognised. she has demonstrated no visible interest in him since then; conscious to remain a little skittish, early on, for how he'd startled her after that first jump. to relax, over the course of weeks. it is not much more than coincidence - it could be coincidence, she doesn't know him to be sure that it isn't - and her reactions could be natural.

but it isn't.

and they aren't. )

Yes, ( she says, after a slight pause, glancing up from what she's doing. methodically cleaning her usual outfit of sports bra and leggings; there is blood. ) Emergency medicine - surgery.

[ There's a small shift in his demeanor at that answer, a slight drawing in at the shoulders that seems genuinely involuntary; he isn't precisely the type to feign weakness, let alone show it, but there it is. It's fleeting. He nods, acknowledging, considering, his eyes fixed on his laundry. ]

You fight better. [ And he's sounds sure of that. ] Than most doctors, I mean.

[ And he's fought a lot of doctors?? Yes. ]

( in the context of washing blood from her clothes and routinely carrying a crossbow, benevenuta weighs how much she can and cannot argue with that assessment. she doesn't think he's seen her do any such damn thing, but she's upright, so she can clearly handle herself to some degree.

it's all a balancing act. always. )

I have good aim, ( she settles on, modest, reserved. ) It is not so unusual, I think. My father teach me.

( her mother. actually. )

[closed] underneath the skin

tony.

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"""svenja"""

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