( closed )

[mangled]

Who: bucky ( dislocked ) + val ( mangled )
When: backdated to a few days back aboard the ship after island/time shenanigans.
Where: medbay
What: visiting hours.
Warnings: graphic discussion of organs and organ harvesting. it might get gross. i'll warn for anything else.

[ Books become boring when space exists just outside your window. Pages are just numbers, they no longer become fantastical worlds or fountains of knowledge. At this point, the gentle hum of machines taking care to breathe for him, siphoning fluids in and out, has become a nuisance, to the point where a slow-growing headache has taken root in his temples. The rest of it doesn't hurt anymore, he thinks, but that may be the medication's doing. The only other thing he could think to complain about, machines aside, is the persistent itch inside of him.

Texting Bucky is impulsive, a product of the slow ooze of this cabin fever, and there are a handful of seconds that sit icily in the pit of his stomach when Bucky tells him he's coming Regret, fear, nerves.

He sorely misses the company, though, and Andyr has hobbled out for now, doing what Andyrs do best: bothering people with fish and violence and out of place ceiling tiles.

(These kinds of thoughts only seldom cross his mind, and when they do, he smiles privately at them. Andyr. Bothering people. Doing what he wants to do. It's... good.)

When the door to the medbay announces someone's presence, his fingers instantly reach up to the fabric, adjusting it self-consciously as he leans forward from the small post-op ward to see who might be coming in. The patient gown hides most of his condition from the front, but closer examination or observation does reveal a seam coming up just atop the breastbone, slicing left to right and revealing the beginnings of a glass pane soldered into skin. ]

Hello?

Comments

[dislocked]

Hello.

[ Bucky greets quietly, the hum of machines working away in the background is both unsettling and comforting at once. The room is enclosed with just one exit -- and he supposes that one of the sentiments of this room's design had been privacy, and somehow that fell by the wayside and evolved into cold isolation (just you, and the vast fullness of space beyond that window).

Bucky observes Val absorbs even the most minute details -- fingertips and cloth, the beginnings of something that looks like glass because it's too smooth and shiny and translucent to be skin. His mind works, whip-quick and thorough as he assesses the situation, his neutral expression betraying none of his thoughts. Val looks miserable, small and organic amidst the things that function tirelessly around him. He recognises most of them, is curious about others, and brings in a worn paperback. Dog-eared and yellowed, but well-thumbed; he'd picked it up in one of the worlds they'd ended up in awhile ago, and had felt a strange affinity for it.

War of the Worlds. The book had quickly found itself counted among Bucky's scant few possessions. It's anyone's guess as to whether this is prime reading material for someone who's recovering, but he's sure there's some rule somewhere that says only assholes of the highest order visit people empty-handed.

He steps closer, footsteps silent on the floor as he regards him, the night's memories in the back of his mind. This is infinitely more concerning -- he knows a little about Hapsburg from Andyr, as well as what they do. It's the specifics that escape him. He's not entirely sure he wants to know, but Val looks fragile and lonely, and he can't help but ask. ]

What happened?

[mangled]

[ He smiles as best he can when Bucky walks through the doorway, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets. He feels about as awful as he looks, body chilled just under normal, fingertips prickling here and there, but nothing denoting any danger, just a pull back in efficient circulation. It's all apart of the process. He straightens a bit, trying to make sense of all the thin tubing pressed into his skin at this or that point so he's less likely to tangle himself up in front of company.

(Embarrassing, really.)

But once he's settled, he leans back. ]

Contents. [ He clears his throat ] Past their expiration date. We spent a year on that island...

[ That's more than he's ever been without Alva's, or anyone's, diligent care. There was no monitoring of caloric intake or alcohol blood levels or the general acidity of his body. No maintenance checks on the ports in his back or on the seams of his casing. It shows in Val's face--a sick kind of look behind his eyes, though no longer teetering on the edge of going irreversibly septic.

He puts a thin, somewhat bruised hand on his chest and knocks three times, a soft and deep, distinctly glass-like note ringing between them. ]

And I'm, unfortunately, a little high maintenance.

[dislocked]

[ Contents.

He talks like he's canned meat, and Bucky can't help a chill down his spine at the thought of it. That Val is little more than chattel, a thing to be owned, grown and cultivated. It turns his stomach the way little else does, this knowledge that despite the difference in their worlds the way people exploit others is still largely the same.

Bucky looks into his face, drawn and haggard with illness of one that's been neglected by their keeper, and he feels a dull, dull sort of rage that simmers deep inside, the way he looks back at him, sallow and used. The glass-like, hollow ringing is the most sickening sound he's ever heard, and he doesn't need to see it to come to his own conclusions.

This Val is ill, he's not the one he had met and kissed; the one who clings so fiercely on to life and to freedom, to the desperate, burning light of independence. ]

You're still you. [ He says at last, his jaw set but oh, how he works to be something reassuring, something that isn't broken. They're all broken toys here, but they're working to mend -- and in this that is all that counts. His hand, cool metal, comes to rest lightly over where Val's is, over his glass chest.

He wonders what they took out, if this makes Val feel better. ] Nobody owns you. Not here.

[mangled]

I know.

[ His eyes look downwards, mouth no longer upturned in a smile as he watches the way their fingers overlap. He's thankful, really, that Alva is here, that he knows what to do, that he cares enough. He's thankful enough that the House can't get any of them, far away from home as they are.

He remembers, on the island, the very gentle sway of the music, the feel of hands and the gentlest touch, the way he'd been made to feel like he was more than he'd been created for. Val reaches up a pair of fingers now, tugging softly at the material of the gown so that the fabric inches upwards a bit more, covering the seam up. No one needs to see what's inside--an old heart, dark with age, muscles tough, trying to carry the weight of three others left behind. Sutures replaced with fresh, new threads. A body reached into and torn apart, reassembled. ] Back home, I make... hearts.

[ Val turns his hand gently to curl fingers around the metal of Bucky's hand, touch hesitant and soft as he brings both of their hands down to his lap. It's cool, but solid, grounding and he traces the lines of his fingers, his palms with all the care of the dancing they'd done before. ] I know that no one owns me, [ he says, using both hands now to hold Bucky's, running thumbs slowly along the seams of metal, voice strong, but soft ] and I'm grateful here for that. No one will... pick and choose which cut of me they want because there are no customers here to ogle and point and wave their money around and-- [ his grip tightens, white knuckled on metal as his breath catches a moment and he holds it, feels the flutter of a warning beat from his heart: slow down, slow down, slow down.

So he slows, but his grip never wavers. He looks at Bucky, at the honesty in his eyes.

He clears his throat once he's managed to catch his breath. ]

But it's difficult, on days like today, to stop feeling like I'm just... spare parts. [ Even with Alva's love and Andyr's rage that making him feel strong. ]

[dislocked]

[ He makes hearts?

Bucky's brows raise -- there are so many things that are new and strange to him, so much to learn about people and their worlds, but everything about this makes him sick to his stomach. Val is bred to be harvested, everything inside him grown to be extracted and taken away eventually. He doesn't take long to wrap his mind around it, silently taken aback by the idea of it.

It's chilling, horrific, and he swallows hard, anger simmering inside him despite best intentions. Bucky shouldn't do another person's time for them -- he's too worn thin and raw to take on another's burden, but as the days pass he realises he's come to care just a little more for people. And Val, Val is someone he can't help but instinctively feel for. There's nowhere to run and hide on this ship, no place he can disappear to. Hell, he's tried, and now what's left to do is to make the best use of it.

He threads his fingers through his, metal slotted with flesh, and he leans down to meet his eyes steadily. ]

I'm here to remind you that you're not.

[ He's a medic, a dancer, a boy that's kissed him back with a warmth Bucky will never forget. He thinks of the other night again, how Val had seemed so full of life, how he seems but a shadow of it now; but that's the way it goes, isn't it? Sometimes you lose, and sometimes the way out is hidden from you, and all that's left is... this. Bucky shifts to perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to take up more space than he ought.

He's not any comfort, he knows, but he wants to try. Val deserves at least that. Bucky hesitates, then asks: ]

Do you want me to read to you?

[mangled]

[ It takes him a bit to meet Bucky's eyes. There's a moment where he's afraid. Afraid that if he looks up, they're eyes that will be disappointed, maybe disgusted, taken aback, but instead...

They're oddly soft. Pained in their own way, but... kind in the quiet method that Bucky possesses and he presses his lips together firmly in response to the fingers sliding further through his, keeping them close together. Somehow, back home, perhaps he might have had more emotional control over this. This is business. It's what he was there for. Nothing else, really. Here... it's a complication, but no one wants them. No one needs them for whatever frivolous reason they might give back home.

Frightening, really.

The bed dips and Val pulls back a little bit, drawling his knees up to loop his arms around them, sitting straighter at the head of the bed. It's... good. Bucky isn't leaving, and for that, Val is grateful, smoothing the blankets a bit aimlessly and looking up at him again. I'm here to remind you that you're not. They're words that Val hasn't heard. Ever. And it feels good. He's not any of that. He's not just cargo and it helps to be told so, even if he still doesn't quite yet believe it. ] I'd like that... what'd you bring to read? [ He cranes his head a bit to look at the book in Bucky's other hand. ] Anything good?

[dislocked]

[ Bucky is not kind. He's only trying to figure out a way to continue living on, to survive because it's what he does -- he tells himself this every single time; especially when people get to him and he can't quite help but reach out in turn. He wonders, sometimes, if he's saving them or saving himself, but abandons that thought just as quickly. He has much to make up for, and if he digs too deep he's not sure he'll like what he discovers.

But Val, see, he seems to like Bucky's awkward quiet overtures just fine, and something in him is relieved that he's at least managed to bring the younger man some measure f comfort.

This is not business, not here, and Bucky is happy to remind him that he's not a commodity, a plant to be nurtured and pruned, to have what's his stolen from him without regard. The horrors of his world is steadily apparent to Bucky, and he stays close to him, showing him the worn, tattered cover of the old, old book. ]

War of the Worlds. [ Bucky tells him. ] It's about an invasion. [ He gestures to the pillows behind him. ] Settle in.