[ Nearing the end of November in 1945, the dust is still settling from the largest war in recent history. Business is booming. Troops are returning home. Families are reuniting. A large part of the population finally remembers what it feels like to breathe again.
Of course, breathing easy has always been a problem for Billy Prior.
Doing nothing to nurse the wheeze playing from his chest, the young man clenches his cigarette and glares pointedly across the waiting area. Smoke curls in front of him and his sharp gaze wavers as his eyes begin to water. That certainly won't help to get the damn asthma under control.
Curiously enough, Prior hasn't had an attack in over a year. In the thick of it, with mortars and ash and gas, gas, gas, the young lieutenant had somehow completely shed the title of battalion canary despite his documented history of breathing issues. Naturally, Prior finds he's still at war with himself long after the enemy has declared defeat. He can't help but think that the timing of this respiratory attack is particularly telling, but being in America, far away from anyone who knows better, Prior has an easier time lying to himself. ]
Not to be a bother— [ Another lie. He excels at being a bother when it's convenient. Unfortunately, this scenario doesn't seem to qualify. ] —but I've been waiting hours to see someone...
[ It's not an exaggeration, which is why Billy feels justified in halting the first person he finds that looks like they might actually belong in the research facility. He'd agreed to come by and share his experiences, to talk about the mutism and his subsequent return to active combat, but the waiting is beginning to weigh in his nerves. ]
If you're any bit merciful— [ He squeezes in a breath, his skin slowly turning sallow with the continued strain. ] —you'll let the doctor know I'm here.
Prior. To see... [ The young man pats at his pockets until he finds a sheet of paper. Even strained, his accent is clearly British, as is his uniform. ] Feinald. Dr. Feinald. I was— He's expecting me. ...Probably.
[The war had affected everyone in one way or another. In many respects, it had been a suspension of conventional rules--like many other doctors, Clyde had been fast-tracked, breezed through an abbreviated version of his training and dumped into the fray. It was there that he had come to understand the strange things trauma did to people--Freud's old hysterias, now manifest in otherwise healthy young men--as well as his own relative helplessness as a professional. There is no silver bullet for these cases, not like the magic of that new drug, penicillin, in formerly fatal cases of neurosyphilis. Shock won't always do the trick, the drugs they have are apt to sedate more than treat (and kill, he knows acutely, with an ache that feels embedded in his bones), and so he's here, trying to learn, trying to understand.
He's at the nurses' station, taking neat notes on another patient's file when he's notified of Prior's presence. An irritated conversation ensues--how long has he been waiting? When did you say his appointment was? Where's the schedule?--and then he's headed out to the waiting room, breathing back his anxiety. He can't stand disorder, can't stand leaving a poor impression on one of his--]
Mr. Prior. [He extends a hand.] Dr. Feinald. Thank you for coming; I am so sorry for the delay.
[And it may be unprofessional to cast a critical glance at the receptionist as he turns to lead him back, but hey.] Follow me, please.
[ The cast of the doctor's gaze is more than enough to change Prior's approach. His attitude turns cold, his body rigid. Icy eyes drift away from the accused receptionist and follow Feinald. Billy doesn't much care for the American accent, but it's not entirely unpleasant out of this guy's mouth. ]
Your research must keep you very busy, doctor...
[ Pure pleasantry. As far as Prior's concerned, the problem with ineffectual staff can almost always be traced back to a disconnected management. But then, he's not here to offer his opinion, is he? ]
Think nothing of it.
[ A pause. ] Can you tell me what I'm to expect? Just questions, or are there tests as well?
[The attitude is clear, but at least Prior's response wasn't an angry tirade. Though, Clyde reflects, reserved patients can be a challenge unto themselves. He's not sure which he'd prefer, given the choice.]
We'll be starting with questions today. Nothing too complicated.
[The room is that minty shade of hospital green, furnished with a table and chairs in lieu of the stereotypical couch, with a window looking out across the facility's lawn. Clyde shuts the door and pulls out one of the chairs for Prior, seating himself across from him and adjusting his posture so that he can jot notes on his clipboard without having them within Prior's view.]
So. [The flip of a page, his dark eyes darting over the typewritten text.] How about we begin by talking about your symptoms? When did you first notice that you were having difficulty speaking?
[ They say that war never changes. Soldiers, by extension, are like bricks in a wall miles high and hundreds of years old, faded in different colors as time and weather has shaped them, but all shaped the same, molded the same, placed the same, patched the same, supporting the same system. War has changed from bow and arrow to gun to nuclear weapons, from hand to hand combat and trenches to technologies so advanced and mind-bogglingly complex Bucky can't even begin to comprehend some of the more abstract aspects to it.
But he will always recognize another brick.
New York has evolved since his time there as a young man, before the draft, before he served, before decades moved it and aliens shaped it. Skyscrapers now feel a little more like star scrapers, and elevators? Well, they play the same lounge music they always have, but it's a little clearer and there are... a lot more buttons. The one he steps into has over thirty, and only one other occupant. Regardless, he keeps the brim of his hat low and his collar high to hide a face that was a mugshot only a few months ago, still technically on the run though the pressure has faded.
He presses 28, and slips silently into the back corner, collapsed in on himself as casually as he can manage. Years of paranoia and a weaponized mind won't let him keep his eyes to himself, though, and he scans the other occupant keenly, subtly.
Another brick in the wall. He can spot them, he's been trained to, and it puts him on edge. Something else, though, something else in his countenance seems familiar, unsettling. He drops his eyes, a part of him tries to tell himself that it's all a product of PTSD, another part tells him he needs to bolt.
[ Americans. Always staring. That's how he can tell. That and the fact that he's in New York where it's already a safe bet.
Prior leans heavily against the railing of the elevator and tries to ignore the other occupant. His eyes focus on the buttons — the many multitudes of choices — and much to his dismay, he sees that they're heading for the same floor. Wonderful.
The car shudders into life and Billy feels an unpleasant tug on his guts, one that suggests that he's going to say something when he very pointedly knows he shouldn't. His short time in this city had been fraught with confrontations and while one more might not make a difference in the long run, he tries to remind himself that these people aren't the enemy. Not any more than anyone else, at least.
Sighing, he turns and presses his back to the wall, blue eyes shifting to look to the other man. He's nothing if not intense in his need to fade away. ]
The incognito look's popular, I hear.
[ Prior's accent is strong — too strong for him to have been in the United States very long. In fact, everything about him suggests he's not at all acclimated. A sigh slips out and he takes a cigarette from an inside pocket, placing it between his lips. With a thin smirk, he tips his head toward the "no smoking" sign. ]
Do you think they really mean it? I could go for a deportation right about now.
[ Truth be told, Bucky's not the best at going undercover. The man walked through broad daylight with all the confidence in the world because he'd been wearing a hat, hell, he hadn't even bothered to cut his damn hair since the last time he was seen. Incognito was not the middle name of any of his aliases. He'd never had to worry about it at his other job (a pleasant if bitter title given to a gruesome time), and it was a skill he never practiced, which figures because it's the one thing that might actually be useful in his everyday life now.
Bucky's eyes snap up warily when he's addressed, narrow suspiciously, an undeniable wariness in his posture. Bolt and Attack are at odds, and with such equal force that they cancel each other out and for a moment he stands tense and frozen, waiting for the scale to tip in either direction. In this tentative moment of control, he doesn't glance at the sign. Doesn't take his eyes off of his cell-mate.
Relax, says an authoritative voice in his mind. This is smalltalk. It sounds like someone he used to be, once upon a time when he used to be charming, an unfamiliar characteristic now that he's trying to tap back into. He was a person once, and a pretty good one at that, however long ago. ]
New York not welcoming enough for you?
[ He responds dryly, his voice flat and decidedly uncharismatic. Take a deportation, then, says the New Yorker in him, but he keeps that inside. ]
[ The elevator stops and the doors open again. A man joins them, presses the number for a few floors up, and then adjusts his suit as he settles in the middle of the elevator just a hair too close for Prior's comfort level. They exchange a look — the newcomer's expression of disdain meets with Billy's challenging lack of concern — and then the moment passes.
Moving away from the door, away from the buttons and the stuffy suit, Prior settles nearer to Barnes. ]
Not welcoming enough? [ He laughs. ] No, it's great. Did you know they'll deliver prossies right to your room?
[ Their new companion looks back over his shoulder, sneering in offense. Prior merely shrugs at him. God bless America. ]
He dips his head to look at his cigarette as he rolls it between his fingers, his intention to smoke it already gone. It's all an act, isn't it? A way to hide those parts of him that aren't comfortable anywhere anymore. This time, when he looks at Bucky he's holding on to an apology, but it's not as well-hidden as he'd like. ]
My name's Prior. [ He offers his hand. ] Billy Prior.
[ The elevator door opens, the man in the suit leaves, and they're alone once again. ]
[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Prior has no such thoughts of potential aggression, no striking instinct to question motives, but it's not exactly because he's a trusting individual. What he senses in Bucky is familiar, at least at the roots, although he'd never outright accuse anyone of having pedestrian origins; being from near the bottom himself, it's not hard to recognize. ]
I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]
[ May 1918. A droll Thursday, if such a thing can be imagined. Unlike every other Thursday in London as of late, this one proceeds along tentatively, unmarked by the air raids for the first time in what seems like so long. Months? A year? The sound of the klaxons are fading away in everyone's mind, their haunting whir like a distant echo.
How soon they forget.
The world continues to go to hell around them, but London's just fine. People are returning to the streets to shop, to head to the pub, to live again — and Billy Prior feels a bitter taste over all of it, particularly for those that don't get to choose to live on during this war. He's never understood this particular brand of stiff upper lip, the sense of national pride people seem to feel by going on in light of (or in lieu of) those who cannot.
As an agent for the Ministry of Munitions, he spends his time as a domestic spy for the government, his (albeit narrowed) eye turned toward those protesting the war efforts, specifically those trying to funnel conscientious objectors out of the country.
Prior's been on this assignment for so long now, he worries it might be his every Thursday for the rest of his natural life. However long that happened to be. It's late evening when he slips out of the pub to follow the man he'd been watching all evening and every Thursday for weeks.
The collar of his long coat upturned to fend off the dampness of the fog, he's a black figure moving through darkened streets, maybe fifty paces behind the person. He gets the sense there's a conversation ahead — something he'll want to hear — but until they reach the park where the intelligence had said the group in question would meet, he can't be certain that tonight's the night he gets the evidence he needs. ]
[Their agents are going missing, one after one until it was a clear pattern. There was either a mole in their midst, or perhaps one of their own had went rogue or mad and was lashing out. Lorraine had seen both, more times than she cared to count. There was something about being a spy that made one paranoid, to the point where it became difficult to trust even oneself. Fortunately, Lorraine had never had that problem. She knew what needed to be done, no more, no less.
She was on her way to meet a man who claimed to have information about the last agent that had went missing, James Gascoigne, but first thing was first. Lorraine wanted to rid the man of his tail, a thin blonde man who wouldn't attract any attention at all on these London streets if it wasn't for the fact he had been following her informant.
So, as he was getting closer to the park she was supposed to meet her informant, she made her move. She bumped into him, hard enough to spill the contents of her purse out onto the sidewalk.]
My apologies, oh I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly.
[She knelt down by her purse, hoping he was a gentleman. If not, she had other means of subduing him, but they wouldn't be as kind.]
[ The impact causes him to grunt, to stop, and while his eyes continue to follow the target for a few seconds more, he doesn't maintain his pursuit. If Prior tipped off the mark, there was little chance he'd have a case left — better to regroup now, because he hated the idea of starting over more than waiting.
While he wouldn't typically be considered a gentleman — not in proper company, at least — Prior finds he does a decent job playing at it. He dips down to help gather some of the items, the darkness making it slightly more difficult. ]
I wouldn't imagine thinking clearly and looking where you were going would be mutually exclusive. [ A little snark, but nothing meant to harm. More a reminder of how ridiculous the statement sounds without any additional context. ] Are you all right? I'm sorry, too.
I'm fine, I'm sorry, I should have looked at where I was going.
[Lorraine took that small barb with grace, ducking her head down almost shyly, hair falling in front of her face. She was glad that he had stopped to help, quip or no, and it made it easier for her to press the muzzle of her gun against his kneecap, tipping her gaze back up. Her demeanor had changed completely, face expressionless and neutral, her stance solid and confident.]
Don't make any sudden moves. I have a few questions for you, and I'd prefer this go smoothly and peacefully as possible. If you understand, nod once.
[ Well, that certainly went south quickly. Prior's so busy wondering about the feeling of the gun pressing against his kneecap, he's taken entirely unawares. His blue eyes focus sharply on her face and he gives a short, curt nod. Better to follow directions than limp the rest of his bloody life. ]
Is there a reason a gun needs to be involved? It seems counter intuitive to this going smoothly and peacefully, but only for me.
[ She hadn't said he couldn't talk, and honestly, he'd be tough to stop even with a gun pointed at his knee. A couple inches different, it might be another conversation altogether. ]
Couldn't take the risk of you being uncooperative.
[Throughout the exchange, Lorraine's face was neutral enough, her gaze meeting his as she studied him almost indifferently. When it seemed like he wasn't going to disobey, she nudged him into a nearby alcove that was more secluded.
She slipped her gun into her pocket, but never let go of it. Better to lose a jacket than the upper hand.]
[ A total and utter lie, of course, but it comes out so smoothly, it might as well be the truth. Prior's feeling his demeanor shifting, senses that even with a gun pointed at him, for it to be in her pocket, she must not be that interested in actually shooting him.
A conversation, then. He thinks he can handle that. ]
My condolences. What were your plans for him once you got him alone?
[Unfortunately, the mark's dossier didn't mention anything about who he was sleeping with, which was undoubtedly sloppy work. She had no reason to mistrust this man's words, but her profession allowed for little else.
She gave him a small smile at the question, tilting her head to the side.]
If I am, it would seem we have similar interests. How long has the affair been going on?
[ Prior imagines all sorts of things he might do if he'd gotten his target alone, but none of them revolved around questioning. It felt better to get his evidence elsewhere so there's as little talking as necessary. ]
It's been a couple months, at least. Sara hasn't been the same...
[ It's the tone that's supposed to convey his frustration with it, but he doesn't seem all that bothered. Trouble at home, perhaps? Other than the obvious lie he's trying to play off. ]
[Whoever this man was, he wasn't a very good liar. Lorraine was tempted between just taking him out altogether just so this wouldn't become a mess later, but this area was still far too public. And if she didn't have to, she'd rather not kill an unarmed and potentially innocent man.]
I suggest then you take this up with Sara, and leave him to me.
[She didn't relax her stance or her expression, but her demeanor was more dismissive than dangerous, like it had been before.]
Whatever you had planned for him would have been kinder than what I have in store for him.
[ Prior likes to believe he's inscrutable, that there's no way to see past his lies. Like the stories say — a powerful and ghost-like man who has no secrets when asked. It's not the image he's presenting, though. He'd be bloody stupid to let himself assume anyone would be fooled. It's better to approach with caution under the assumption that this woman isn't buying it, than give up his game and ensure it. ]
Would it be too much if I asked for a taste of that? [ He looks darkly into the distance. ] I'd been planning to propose, but she got herself pregnant. Not my child, you see — can't be — but she keeps telling me it is and—
[This one really was persistent, and Lorraine wasn't sure whether she should be irritated or amused. It was difficult to tell his actual intentions, lying aside, and she supposed if she took precautions, it might be best to play along in order to rule him out as a suspect or not.
She spent a few careful moments looking him over, before nodding.]
On a few conditions. You turn out your pockets of everything, you don't leave my sight, and I do all the talking. Understood?
[Most men wouldn't have approved at the tone of her voice, commanding and unimpressed, but she wanted to know how badly this one wanted a 'taste'. Was it enough to go along with something he might find tasteless?]
[ How fortunate for Prior that he doesn't have anything on him. Working for the Ministry of Munitions, he isn't exactly cleared to carry a gun, which is hilarious (oh ha ha) all things considered. Of course, heading out to the Front, a hundred guns would be shoved in front of him. A thousand, maybe.
He gives a curt nod and starts doing exactly that. A billfold, some Woodbines, a condom or two — nothing of consequence. ]
Lead on.
[ He's assuming everything's okay, of course — that she's going to give him the all clear. ]
[For a murder suspect, he was rather helpful and quick to comply. But perhaps he was under the assumption she couldn't or wouldn't hurt him. It would be interesting to see what it was exactly, so she nodded when he turned out his pockets willingly and nothing seemed to be amiss. She didn't let go on the grip of her gun on her pocket, but she let it drop slightly so it wouldn't be so obviously, gesturing with her unoccupied hand for him to lead along.]
I caught the bastard coming out the window on my way home. I was due and... Sara had said she was expecting me. I had expected that meant she was ready and waiting, not that she was preparing to hide her indiscretions.
[ The lies feel like they're coming easier now and Billy almost wants to believe them himself. Too bad his Sara was the right amount of pure that she never thought to sleep around even when Prior wasn't giving the same accommodation. It's different for men, after all. Particularly those in the military. ]
She acted as if she'd been waiting for me all day, of course, so I knew they had no idea.
[It was an idle comment, just to keep him talking to see if there might be any inconsistencies in his story or if he might trip himself up. So far, while it was flimsy, it seemed like he was crafting his lie well enough.
When they got to the main road, she pulled closer, keeping a heavy eye on him.]
[ He glanced up and down the main street. It was quieter than expected, an overall eerie experience despite being entirely coincidence. Prior thought she might shoot him and no one would notice. They;d find him, of course — there's no hiding a body in London these days — but to put a pin on this woman as the assailant would be a challenge even in a more aware city.
Billy frowns. ]
I thought to ruin her. Telling her mother would do it. [ A sigh, then, as he tries hard to sound resigned. ] But calling off the marriage ought to do just fine. An unwed mother isn't seen as anything but rubbish where she's from.
[It was more a means to keep him talking, if this Sara even really existed, but she was also curious to how elaborate his lie would go.
Besides, she didn't have much time left with him. They weren't too far from the park, and as soon as they were upon her target, she'd know all she would need to.]
[ Prior affects annoyance. Honestly, he has to be detail oriented for his job so he expects everyone else to be the same. Instead, he's finding himself repeating himself. Either she's testing his story — looking for obvious errors — or she's distracted. Either way, it's a piece to this puzzle Billy didn't have before. ]
No, they have a child together. Or they will soon enough. And I'll tell you now, there'll be no pretending when the baby comes. It's not going to look a thing like me.
Returning to consciousness is not the most pleasant of experiences and as light floods Prior's vision, he squints against the assault like he's expecting the muzzle of a rifle and a bullet behind it.
He's dead. No, there's too much pain for that (and like Hell would be going to a place filled with sunlight and warmth). Beneath him, instead of mud and blood and all manners of muck, is a bed. Soft (but not too soft), warm (but not too warm) — it's the kind of thing that a person should welcome after what he's been through, but Prior is far too used to the setting to find any comfort here.
Sitting up, it's obvious he's still suffering from something, although what eludes him. He remembers moments — bits and glimpses of the ends of lives — and when he closes his eyes, they only get stronger (and for that matter, he swears he sees his own death in the reflections in the water, but that can't be, it can't possibly be...
Pok, pok, whizz—
Maybe an hour has passed and Prior, who hadn't realized he'd slipped back into the arms of sleep, awakens again. The light's changed and this time there's another figure moving about the room. He watches, warily observant, forehead dappled in sweat from restless dreams and what is probably an infection hounding at the bullet hole he barely remember receiving.
"Bloody Christ," he groans, voice nearly devoid of volume. "—this better not be Scotland again..." Fitting, perhaps, that Prior would use his first few words to complain: truth be told, he's so afraid of what's to come he doesn't dare let his mind wander far enough to wonder.
Aching movement is applied as Prior checks against himself. He finds two arms, two legs, and upon cupping his groin area, a cock and balls of familiar enough proportions that he realizes he's well enough in one piece. Thank God for that, he thinks, but there's little real sentiment behind it. For all he cares, God can bugger right off for what he's done and allowed over the past several years of the Great War.
Shoulder bound, he fumbles at the gauze bandage probing for the bullet wound beneath. It's not quite where he expects it and the sear of heat caused by the brush of pressure nearly blanches him. The wound is just north of the heart, so close he can't imagine how he's still alive.
"Are you my nurse?" Even strained and confused and in pain, the urge to snipe against the universe is too strong. It's obvious this man is a doctor but Prior doesn't mind emasculating the uniform beneath the white coat, especially not after he'd just led countless men to their deaths while doctors and politicians and philanthropists stood by smoking their cigars and postulating on anything but actual toll of the war on their brethren.
Well now, this is certainly a departure from the usual. Warrick would know; he’d created ‘usual’, after all. Momentarily disoriented (and God, he'd forgotten how much he'd enjoyed that, in the beginning), he allows himself a few moments before even opening his eyes, those first few deep, steadying breaths and the accompanying flood of information already threatening to overwhelm even his carefully controlled senses.
The smell grabs his attention before anything else. Scents that he ought not to know, but somehow does, and quite a few which he’s sure must be the result of a conflict between memory and data. Curiously, even so, there’s a moment where he— Warrick himself— has to struggle to understand where he is; a novel experience indeed for the man who spends his days assuring disbelieving visitors of the unreality of their surroundings...
It’s all rather thrilling, really, so much so that the all too familiar sounds of an unpleasant awakening are almost a disappointment, pulling him out of his reverie and toward the task now at hand. Oh, well. He’ll have time for all of that later, he supposes.
He studies the dead man impassively for a few beats, well aware that the question had been intended to rile him. Those...quirks, for lack of a better word, had been in the file, of course, among many other things, and Warrick can't help but allow himself a moment of private amusement at the man's expense. It will take more than that, I’m afraid.
And then, mildly:
“I'm afraid not, no. I could fetch one, if you like.” A simple offer, or a challenge? Warrick waits to find out which interpretation the man decides upon, wondering if his hypothesis will be proven correct.
Is this France? It doesn't feel like it. It's certainly no field hospital, which Prior counts as both unlucky and unfortunate; he'd worked so hard to get back to the front and there are only so many times a board will be stupid enough (or desperate enough) to send him again.
But if it's not France, then it's worse — either he's a critical case or he's outlived his usefulness.
Staring passively for longer than polite or necessary, Prior grasps for something — for anything — but gets little more than a whiff of disdain towards himself for his lack of effectiveness in riling this man. He doesn't want a nurse. For that matter, he doesn't want anyone at all (except Rivers, perhaps), and that includes the smooth-faced man standing before him.
"Why don't you fetch me a fag instead?" The sneer is made of both attitude and pain as Prior makes a more concerted effort to sit up and take in his surroundings. Strangely enough, the private room unsettles him all the more after weeks and weeks of sleeping in mud holes along side his men; this reeks of clinically impersonal in a way the trenches never could.
"—Actually," he amends with a soft huff of an exhale, "something for the pain first." He's barely sat up and his muscles tremble with effort while sweat gathers at his furrowed brow. Lucidity doesn't exactly have the same appeal as a Woodbine (although it's truly a close enough call that Prior thinks it rivals the bullet that's brought him here).
Warrick keeps his expression unreadable as Prior forces himself upright, taking stock of the man’s condition. Or rather, his reaction to his condition: sweat darkening the hair at his temples, a shivering, jerky quality to the pull of taut muscle beneath fresh bandages, and beneath that something else, something enticing, intriguing… Dangerous.
Pain, Warrick realizes, allowing the notion to fold into his understanding, to intrude upon the vision he’d had for his perfect creation. Pain in his sim… How had he let it come to this?
Best not to dwell, he reasons firmly, dismissing the thought to focus on the present, immediate, (mostly) concrete request in front of him. It perplexes him for a moment, ‘a fag’, but he recovers quickly as the most probable meaning of the term pushes past the dominating, up-to-date definition; nicotine has been illegal since before Warrick was born, but somehow, distantly, the knowledge is there when he reaches for it. Had it come from something he’d heard or read, or directly from the man before him? Warrick decides to file that question away for later— as intriguing a line of inquiry as it is, it won’t do him much practical good now.
Back to the task at hand.
“Ah, yes,” he says as he moves toward the nearest cabinet which he finds stocked with an assortment of bottles, jars, and other primitive— though still unmistakably medical— paraphernalia. “Of course.”
He selects one of the smaller bottles, narrowing his eyes at it in brief consideration, then strides toward the side of the bed. A glass of water which may or may not have been there a moment ago now sits atop the makeshift nightstand, and Warrick passes both it and the tablets he’d taken from the cabinet to Prior. As he’s learned from vast experience, there’s little sense in calling attention to the minor inconsistencies: the mind is capable of filling in the gaps all on its own, and quite instantaneously to boot.
That ought to cover the sudden-but-not appearance of the chair Warrick settles into as he waits for Prior to take the painkillers, too.
“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Best to establish a starting point, and the sooner the better…. Both to preserve the organic quality of the data provided and, naturally, to satisfy Warrick’s own curiosity.
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Of course, breathing easy has always been a problem for Billy Prior.
Doing nothing to nurse the wheeze playing from his chest, the young man clenches his cigarette and glares pointedly across the waiting area. Smoke curls in front of him and his sharp gaze wavers as his eyes begin to water. That certainly won't help to get the damn asthma under control.
Curiously enough, Prior hasn't had an attack in over a year. In the thick of it, with mortars and ash and gas, gas, gas, the young lieutenant had somehow completely shed the title of battalion canary despite his documented history of breathing issues. Naturally, Prior finds he's still at war with himself long after the enemy has declared defeat. He can't help but think that the timing of this respiratory attack is particularly telling, but being in America, far away from anyone who knows better, Prior has an easier time lying to himself. ]
Not to be a bother— [ Another lie. He excels at being a bother when it's convenient. Unfortunately, this scenario doesn't seem to qualify. ] —but I've been waiting hours to see someone...
[ It's not an exaggeration, which is why Billy feels justified in halting the first person he finds that looks like they might actually belong in the research facility. He'd agreed to come by and share his experiences, to talk about the mutism and his subsequent return to active combat, but the waiting is beginning to weigh in his nerves. ]
If you're any bit merciful— [ He squeezes in a breath, his skin slowly turning sallow with the continued strain. ] —you'll let the doctor know I'm here.
Prior. To see... [ The young man pats at his pockets until he finds a sheet of paper. Even strained, his accent is clearly British, as is his uniform. ] Feinald. Dr. Feinald. I was— He's expecting me. ...Probably.
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He's at the nurses' station, taking neat notes on another patient's file when he's notified of Prior's presence. An irritated conversation ensues--how long has he been waiting? When did you say his appointment was? Where's the schedule?--and then he's headed out to the waiting room, breathing back his anxiety. He can't stand disorder, can't stand leaving a poor impression on one of his--]
Mr. Prior. [He extends a hand.] Dr. Feinald. Thank you for coming; I am so sorry for the delay.
[And it may be unprofessional to cast a critical glance at the receptionist as he turns to lead him back, but hey.] Follow me, please.
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Your research must keep you very busy, doctor...
[ Pure pleasantry. As far as Prior's concerned, the problem with ineffectual staff can almost always be traced back to a disconnected management. But then, he's not here to offer his opinion, is he? ]
Think nothing of it.
[ A pause. ] Can you tell me what I'm to expect? Just questions, or are there tests as well?
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We'll be starting with questions today. Nothing too complicated.
[The room is that minty shade of hospital green, furnished with a table and chairs in lieu of the stereotypical couch, with a window looking out across the facility's lawn. Clyde shuts the door and pulls out one of the chairs for Prior, seating himself across from him and adjusting his posture so that he can jot notes on his clipboard without having them within Prior's view.]
So. [The flip of a page, his dark eyes darting over the typewritten text.] How about we begin by talking about your symptoms? When did you first notice that you were having difficulty speaking?
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But he will always recognize another brick.
New York has evolved since his time there as a young man, before the draft, before he served, before decades moved it and aliens shaped it. Skyscrapers now feel a little more like star scrapers, and elevators? Well, they play the same lounge music they always have, but it's a little clearer and there are... a lot more buttons. The one he steps into has over thirty, and only one other occupant. Regardless, he keeps the brim of his hat low and his collar high to hide a face that was a mugshot only a few months ago, still technically on the run though the pressure has faded.
He presses 28, and slips silently into the back corner, collapsed in on himself as casually as he can manage. Years of paranoia and a weaponized mind won't let him keep his eyes to himself, though, and he scans the other occupant keenly, subtly.
Another brick in the wall. He can spot them, he's been trained to, and it puts him on edge. Something else, though, something else in his countenance seems familiar, unsettling. He drops his eyes, a part of him tries to tell himself that it's all a product of PTSD, another part tells him he needs to bolt.
He stands rigid and silent and aware. ]
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Prior leans heavily against the railing of the elevator and tries to ignore the other occupant. His eyes focus on the buttons — the many multitudes of choices — and much to his dismay, he sees that they're heading for the same floor. Wonderful.
The car shudders into life and Billy feels an unpleasant tug on his guts, one that suggests that he's going to say something when he very pointedly knows he shouldn't. His short time in this city had been fraught with confrontations and while one more might not make a difference in the long run, he tries to remind himself that these people aren't the enemy. Not any more than anyone else, at least.
Sighing, he turns and presses his back to the wall, blue eyes shifting to look to the other man. He's nothing if not intense in his need to fade away. ]
The incognito look's popular, I hear.
[ Prior's accent is strong — too strong for him to have been in the United States very long. In fact, everything about him suggests he's not at all acclimated. A sigh slips out and he takes a cigarette from an inside pocket, placing it between his lips. With a thin smirk, he tips his head toward the "no smoking" sign. ]
Do you think they really mean it? I could go for a deportation right about now.
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Bucky's eyes snap up warily when he's addressed, narrow suspiciously, an undeniable wariness in his posture. Bolt and Attack are at odds, and with such equal force that they cancel each other out and for a moment he stands tense and frozen, waiting for the scale to tip in either direction. In this tentative moment of control, he doesn't glance at the sign. Doesn't take his eyes off of his cell-mate.
Relax, says an authoritative voice in his mind. This is smalltalk. It sounds like someone he used to be, once upon a time when he used to be charming, an unfamiliar characteristic now that he's trying to tap back into. He was a person once, and a pretty good one at that, however long ago. ]
New York not welcoming enough for you?
[ He responds dryly, his voice flat and decidedly uncharismatic. Take a deportation, then, says the New Yorker in him, but he keeps that inside. ]
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Moving away from the door, away from the buttons and the stuffy suit, Prior settles nearer to Barnes. ]
Not welcoming enough? [ He laughs. ] No, it's great. Did you know they'll deliver prossies right to your room?
[ Their new companion looks back over his shoulder, sneering in offense. Prior merely shrugs at him. God bless America. ]
He dips his head to look at his cigarette as he rolls it between his fingers, his intention to smoke it already gone. It's all an act, isn't it? A way to hide those parts of him that aren't comfortable anywhere anymore. This time, when he looks at Bucky he's holding on to an apology, but it's not as well-hidden as he'd like. ]
My name's Prior. [ He offers his hand. ] Billy Prior.
[ The elevator door opens, the man in the suit leaves, and they're alone once again. ]
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[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Sarcastic understatement of the century. ]
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I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]
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How soon they forget.
The world continues to go to hell around them, but London's just fine. People are returning to the streets to shop, to head to the pub, to live again — and Billy Prior feels a bitter taste over all of it, particularly for those that don't get to choose to live on during this war. He's never understood this particular brand of stiff upper lip, the sense of national pride people seem to feel by going on in light of (or in lieu of) those who cannot.
As an agent for the Ministry of Munitions, he spends his time as a domestic spy for the government, his (albeit narrowed) eye turned toward those protesting the war efforts, specifically those trying to funnel conscientious objectors out of the country.
Prior's been on this assignment for so long now, he worries it might be his every Thursday for the rest of his natural life. However long that happened to be. It's late evening when he slips out of the pub to follow the man he'd been watching all evening and every Thursday for weeks.
The collar of his long coat upturned to fend off the dampness of the fog, he's a black figure moving through darkened streets, maybe fifty paces behind the person. He gets the sense there's a conversation ahead — something he'll want to hear — but until they reach the park where the intelligence had said the group in question would meet, he can't be certain that tonight's the night he gets the evidence he needs. ]
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She was on her way to meet a man who claimed to have information about the last agent that had went missing, James Gascoigne, but first thing was first. Lorraine wanted to rid the man of his tail, a thin blonde man who wouldn't attract any attention at all on these London streets if it wasn't for the fact he had been following her informant.
So, as he was getting closer to the park she was supposed to meet her informant, she made her move. She bumped into him, hard enough to spill the contents of her purse out onto the sidewalk.]
My apologies, oh I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly.
[She knelt down by her purse, hoping he was a gentleman. If not, she had other means of subduing him, but they wouldn't be as kind.]
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While he wouldn't typically be considered a gentleman — not in proper company, at least — Prior finds he does a decent job playing at it. He dips down to help gather some of the items, the darkness making it slightly more difficult. ]
I wouldn't imagine thinking clearly and looking where you were going would be mutually exclusive. [ A little snark, but nothing meant to harm. More a reminder of how ridiculous the statement sounds without any additional context. ] Are you all right? I'm sorry, too.
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[Lorraine took that small barb with grace, ducking her head down almost shyly, hair falling in front of her face. She was glad that he had stopped to help, quip or no, and it made it easier for her to press the muzzle of her gun against his kneecap, tipping her gaze back up. Her demeanor had changed completely, face expressionless and neutral, her stance solid and confident.]
Don't make any sudden moves. I have a few questions for you, and I'd prefer this go smoothly and peacefully as possible. If you understand, nod once.
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Is there a reason a gun needs to be involved? It seems counter intuitive to this going smoothly and peacefully, but only for me.
[ She hadn't said he couldn't talk, and honestly, he'd be tough to stop even with a gun pointed at his knee. A couple inches different, it might be another conversation altogether. ]
I am cooperating, you'll note.
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[Throughout the exchange, Lorraine's face was neutral enough, her gaze meeting his as she studied him almost indifferently. When it seemed like he wasn't going to disobey, she nudged him into a nearby alcove that was more secluded.
She slipped her gun into her pocket, but never let go of it. Better to lose a jacket than the upper hand.]
You've been following that man. Why?
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[ A total and utter lie, of course, but it comes out so smoothly, it might as well be the truth. Prior's feeling his demeanor shifting, senses that even with a gun pointed at him, for it to be in her pocket, she must not be that interested in actually shooting him.
A conversation, then. He thinks he can handle that. ]
Are you the wife?
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[Unfortunately, the mark's dossier didn't mention anything about who he was sleeping with, which was undoubtedly sloppy work. She had no reason to mistrust this man's words, but her profession allowed for little else.
She gave him a small smile at the question, tilting her head to the side.]
If I am, it would seem we have similar interests. How long has the affair been going on?
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It's been a couple months, at least. Sara hasn't been the same...
[ It's the tone that's supposed to convey his frustration with it, but he doesn't seem all that bothered. Trouble at home, perhaps? Other than the obvious lie he's trying to play off. ]
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I suggest then you take this up with Sara, and leave him to me.
[She didn't relax her stance or her expression, but her demeanor was more dismissive than dangerous, like it had been before.]
Whatever you had planned for him would have been kinder than what I have in store for him.
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Would it be too much if I asked for a taste of that? [ He looks darkly into the distance. ] I'd been planning to propose, but she got herself pregnant. Not my child, you see — can't be — but she keeps telling me it is and—
[ Have some mercy is the sentiment. ]
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She spent a few careful moments looking him over, before nodding.]
On a few conditions. You turn out your pockets of everything, you don't leave my sight, and I do all the talking. Understood?
[Most men wouldn't have approved at the tone of her voice, commanding and unimpressed, but she wanted to know how badly this one wanted a 'taste'. Was it enough to go along with something he might find tasteless?]
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He gives a curt nod and starts doing exactly that. A billfold, some Woodbines, a condom or two — nothing of consequence. ]
Lead on.
[ He's assuming everything's okay, of course — that she's going to give him the all clear. ]
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How did you first find out about the affair?
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[ The lies feel like they're coming easier now and Billy almost wants to believe them himself. Too bad his Sara was the right amount of pure that she never thought to sleep around even when Prior wasn't giving the same accommodation. It's different for men, after all. Particularly those in the military. ]
She acted as if she'd been waiting for me all day, of course, so I knew they had no idea.
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[It was an idle comment, just to keep him talking to see if there might be any inconsistencies in his story or if he might trip himself up. So far, while it was flimsy, it seemed like he was crafting his lie well enough.
When they got to the main road, she pulled closer, keeping a heavy eye on him.]
What do you mean to do about Sara?
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Billy frowns. ]
I thought to ruin her. Telling her mother would do it. [ A sigh, then, as he tries hard to sound resigned. ] But calling off the marriage ought to do just fine. An unwed mother isn't seen as anything but rubbish where she's from.
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[It was more a means to keep him talking, if this Sara even really existed, but she was also curious to how elaborate his lie would go.
Besides, she didn't have much time left with him. They weren't too far from the park, and as soon as they were upon her target, she'd know all she would need to.]
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No, they have a child together. Or they will soon enough. And I'll tell you now, there'll be no pretending when the baby comes. It's not going to look a thing like me.
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He's dead. No, there's too much pain for that (and like Hell would be going to a place filled with sunlight and warmth). Beneath him, instead of mud and blood and all manners of muck, is a bed. Soft (but not too soft), warm (but not too warm) — it's the kind of thing that a person should welcome after what he's been through, but Prior is far too used to the setting to find any comfort here.
Sitting up, it's obvious he's still suffering from something, although what eludes him. He remembers moments — bits and glimpses of the ends of lives — and when he closes his eyes, they only get stronger (and for that matter, he swears he sees his own death in the reflections in the water, but that can't be, it can't possibly be...
Pok, pok, whizz—
Maybe an hour has passed and Prior, who hadn't realized he'd slipped back into the arms of sleep, awakens again. The light's changed and this time there's another figure moving about the room. He watches, warily observant, forehead dappled in sweat from restless dreams and what is probably an infection hounding at the bullet hole he barely remember receiving.
"Bloody Christ," he groans, voice nearly devoid of volume. "—this better not be Scotland again..." Fitting, perhaps, that Prior would use his first few words to complain: truth be told, he's so afraid of what's to come he doesn't dare let his mind wander far enough to wonder.
Aching movement is applied as Prior checks against himself. He finds two arms, two legs, and upon cupping his groin area, a cock and balls of familiar enough proportions that he realizes he's well enough in one piece. Thank God for that, he thinks, but there's little real sentiment behind it. For all he cares, God can bugger right off for what he's done and allowed over the past several years of the Great War.
Shoulder bound, he fumbles at the gauze bandage probing for the bullet wound beneath. It's not quite where he expects it and the sear of heat caused by the brush of pressure nearly blanches him. The wound is just north of the heart, so close he can't imagine how he's still alive.
"Are you my nurse?" Even strained and confused and in pain, the urge to snipe against the universe is too strong. It's obvious this man is a doctor but Prior doesn't mind emasculating the uniform beneath the white coat, especially not after he'd just led countless men to their deaths while doctors and politicians and philanthropists stood by smoking their cigars and postulating on anything but actual toll of the war on their brethren.
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The smell grabs his attention before anything else. Scents that he ought not to know, but somehow does, and quite a few which he’s sure must be the result of a conflict between memory and data. Curiously, even so, there’s a moment where he— Warrick himself— has to struggle to understand where he is; a novel experience indeed for the man who spends his days assuring disbelieving visitors of the unreality of their surroundings...
It’s all rather thrilling, really, so much so that the all too familiar sounds of an unpleasant awakening are almost a disappointment, pulling him out of his reverie and toward the task now at hand. Oh, well. He’ll have time for all of that later, he supposes.
He studies the dead man impassively for a few beats, well aware that the question had been intended to rile him. Those...quirks, for lack of a better word, had been in the file, of course, among many other things, and Warrick can't help but allow himself a moment of private amusement at the man's expense. It will take more than that, I’m afraid.
And then, mildly:
“I'm afraid not, no. I could fetch one, if you like.” A simple offer, or a challenge? Warrick waits to find out which interpretation the man decides upon, wondering if his hypothesis will be proven correct.
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But if it's not France, then it's worse — either he's a critical case or he's outlived his usefulness.
Staring passively for longer than polite or necessary, Prior grasps for something — for anything — but gets little more than a whiff of disdain towards himself for his lack of effectiveness in riling this man. He doesn't want a nurse. For that matter, he doesn't want anyone at all (except Rivers, perhaps), and that includes the smooth-faced man standing before him.
"Why don't you fetch me a fag instead?" The sneer is made of both attitude and pain as Prior makes a more concerted effort to sit up and take in his surroundings. Strangely enough, the private room unsettles him all the more after weeks and weeks of sleeping in mud holes along side his men; this reeks of clinically impersonal in a way the trenches never could.
"—Actually," he amends with a soft huff of an exhale, "something for the pain first." He's barely sat up and his muscles tremble with effort while sweat gathers at his furrowed brow. Lucidity doesn't exactly have the same appeal as a Woodbine (although it's truly a close enough call that Prior thinks it rivals the bullet that's brought him here).
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Pain, Warrick realizes, allowing the notion to fold into his understanding, to intrude upon the vision he’d had for his perfect creation. Pain in his sim… How had he let it come to this?
Best not to dwell, he reasons firmly, dismissing the thought to focus on the present, immediate, (mostly) concrete request in front of him. It perplexes him for a moment, ‘a fag’, but he recovers quickly as the most probable meaning of the term pushes past the dominating, up-to-date definition; nicotine has been illegal since before Warrick was born, but somehow, distantly, the knowledge is there when he reaches for it. Had it come from something he’d heard or read, or directly from the man before him? Warrick decides to file that question away for later— as intriguing a line of inquiry as it is, it won’t do him much practical good now.
Back to the task at hand.
“Ah, yes,” he says as he moves toward the nearest cabinet which he finds stocked with an assortment of bottles, jars, and other primitive— though still unmistakably medical— paraphernalia. “Of course.”
He selects one of the smaller bottles, narrowing his eyes at it in brief consideration, then strides toward the side of the bed. A glass of water which may or may not have been there a moment ago now sits atop the makeshift nightstand, and Warrick passes both it and the tablets he’d taken from the cabinet to Prior. As he’s learned from vast experience, there’s little sense in calling attention to the minor inconsistencies: the mind is capable of filling in the gaps all on its own, and quite instantaneously to boot.
That ought to cover the sudden-but-not appearance of the chair Warrick settles into as he waits for Prior to take the painkillers, too.
“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Best to establish a starting point, and the sooner the better…. Both to preserve the organic quality of the data provided and, naturally, to satisfy Warrick’s own curiosity.
Clinically impersonal, indeed.