#between scenes

You check the names and faces of everyone you reassign. It feels akin to disappointment every time you don't recognize them. It's a ridiculous thought, because you've only ever worked in the Administration, they told you themselves. Everyone you know is here. Everything you were prior to the Administration, because surely there must be a prior, clearly does not matter, so you do not ask. But you check anyway.

There is something flickering within you. You learn this by accident when you blow up a toaster because it burnt your breakfast. You pass it off as the machine malfunctioning and hide in your manager-assigned office and test out the electricity skipping across your fingertips. You're surprised that you aren't surprised about this development, like it has been part of you for far too long to be anything but the norm. You spark a TV to life with a simple wave of your hand. You look at your own face in the mirror, grinning ear-to-ear, as lightning zips over your freckles. Something feels right.

Nothing changes. You continue doing your job. You secretly play video games when nobody is monitoring you and let the underlings handle most of the reassignment. You still check all the records, just in case. You catch yourself looking to your side like you expect someone to be there while you're mashing the controller. Nobody else in your section likes video games, you've asked. You don't feel as fulfilled as you thought you would.

You do some investigating. You didn't find what you wanted. You still don't like the results.

A weird tiger talks to you. He tells you the Administration is full of liars. You are beginning to believe him. He knows about your lightning, and he tells you that you are one of his own. You're getting rather bored of paperwork and clearly aren't finding anything of use here, so you go with him. Shaking his hand feels like you've walked into cold water, but you don't know what else to do.

He teaches you to fight. You find out you're already really good at it. You're stronger than you look and thrice as fast. You get struck by real lightning and it stings only a little. You are met each day with growling and they tell you nothing of your life before being a lackey. You suppose you aren't meant to worry about that, either. It must not matter.

You are handed a mask. You can feel the danger in it. There is something in your head telling you to stop. You've learned to ignore such voices, because Ras doesn't tolerate hesitation. You are nothing outside of the Administration. You are nothing without Ras. You know immediately you cannot handle the silence of being alone. Ras has warned you of these people you are about to face, said that they will try to trick you. You are beginning to think he's not being honest. It's been so long you wonder if the truth really matters anymore. 

You step up to the plate.

You see a woman staring at you, your opponent. She's pretty, you think, and it feels natural. Her eyes are dark and remind you of the deepest depths of the ocean. Something seizes in your chest when you think about her and the ocean, so you shake it off and put on the mask.

The gong strikes. Something shifts within you. You cannot name what it is. The woman is looking at you in horror, eyes like a stormy sea, and you don't feel that squeeze anymore. Her friends are looking at you the same, and you feel nothing. For the first time, you do not feel an empty hole around your throat, filled instead with something warm and bitter. You can breathe.

You fail. You are sent away, and you know for certain this is not where you belong. You begin to think you don't belong anywhere. Something angry is thrumming in your veins, fresh and alive. When the woman reaches for you, you snarl like a cornered animal. Her stricken face does not make you feel any better. You will not be lied to again, so you leave.

You cannot handle being alone. Your lightning thrums and vibrates inside your chest. You take on jobs. You become a mercenary. You invent. It feels good to invent, like something you've done a hundred times before. You wonder if you should trust this, that in a life you cannot recall you were an inventor. Machines can be trusted, you decide. A machine cannot lie to you when crafted by your own hands. You feel like a machine yourself.

You are miserable. You know this only because you remember the smug satisfaction when you worked in the Administration before you knew any better. The money helps, but it feels as empty as the rest of you. The joy you feel is tainted with something you cannot name. Something coils ugly in your chest, and sometimes you place your hand there and imagine it looks like a circle burning into you.

There is a scar across your eye and you have no idea where it came from. Your hands are worn and you have no idea what made them that way. You are stronger than a normal person should be and you have no idea how that happened. There has been something crying in your heart since you first opened your eyes and you think if you must bear it for a minute longer you'll smash your mirror and carve the stupid organ out of your own chest just to make it stop.

You do your job. It becomes white noise. You trust no one, and you say you will trust yourself, but the truth is you can't. How can you trust someone who doesn't even know their own body? You trust that you are alone. You think , if someone was waiting for me, they would have looked for me, even though you know that is unfair. The Merge was far too big. You know it could not be their fault. But it makes the white noise grow louder, and the hatred is easier than the fear of nothing.

You meet those ninja again. The woman's name is Nya, and you already knew that, but now you suppose you finally have to say it. The name quiets the white noise for just a second and you hate it. She takes your hand when your leg breaks and you sneer even when she lifts you.

She looks at you with something complicated, and you will not give in. You dare not meet her gaze. They say they know you. You have been told this lie twice before. They make no sense at all, but they offer a comfortable situation and you take it.

They try to convince you that you know them while you heal. You snap at them every time. They keep coming back. 

Two of them say you helped make repairs on them, and you know before they say it that they're nindroids despite the fact their models are wildly different. You tell yourself it was only common sense. 

One of them says you shared an intense love of Starfarer with him for a long time, and when you call him Greenie he looks at you like you've said it before. 

One of them insists he's your best friend, and your eyes go to a scar you realize is hidden by his hair. You convince yourself that you must have seen it during the Tournament, that was how you knew. 

One of them teases you like an old friend and when he sends a puff of fire to counteract your warning jolt, the tiny explosion almost makes you smile with him. 

Nya looks at you for far too long before she asks if you ever had a necklace, one that hung loosely over your chest in a shape similar to half a circle. You stare at her for a long moment before telling her to leave you alone.

Your leg heals. You stay and say it's because you are comfortable. They ask for your help. You agree only for the money. When you step out of that Monastery and onto the ship, you stumble. Nya asks if you are alright as you stand there with a hand on your chest.

You realize you feel empty. You realize that the empty feeling had dissipated inside that Monastery, and you hadn't even noticed. Natural, like you were always supposed to feel that way. You swear you feel the phantom weight of something around your neck and you cannot tell if it is a necklace or your own hands strangling this unfairness away. Nya is still staring at you, so is her brother.

The anger still thrums in your blood. You really don't believe you had any goodness to shatter in the first place, but you wonder what it would’ve been like if you did. Could you have been good, once? What kind of good? If it were true, you think you must have been selfless to the point of personal sacrifice if this many people were willing to lie to your face. Perhaps it is better that you turned into this, now nobody will do that to you again.

You shake off the Monastery and the stares. You get on the ship and you tell them to get moving already. You feel a pull in your chest when Nya looks at you and you feel every hair stand on end until she turns away. You cannot breathe.

You wonder when you stopped bothering to care about who you used to be. You suppose you learned it didn't matter anymore. You know that's a lie. The truth is there has only been one thing that has never betrayed your trust in all these years. Such a truth was terrifying, because that one thing you trust is this: 

Your name is Jay Walker, and you are missing something.

.

Back in his own room, Bucky spent the better part of half an hour trying to shove Tony into the safe place underneath his bed without words. All of his attempts were met with a swift and blunt, 

“Hell no.”  Until Tony simply rolled his eyes and climbed into his bed, quirking an eyebrow at Bucky once he was half-buried in the sheets. Bucky might’ve felt like complete an utter shit, but he was willing to focus his brain for at least a few seconds on such a beautiful sight (Tony looked tiny like this, tucked away in layers of fabric, the edges of Bucky’s jacket collar just barely peeking out from the plain linens -  just enough to remind Bucky that Tony wasn’t completely undressed).  The quirked eyebrow lifted a little higher as Tony wriggled himself into a more comfortable position (that shimmy was probably the most precious thing Bucky has ever seen).  “I know you’re not one for talking right now, Oh Silent Night, so I won’t ask what the hold up is. Instead, I’m gonna tell you: stop having a hold up. Get under the bed, Barnes, or so help me God I’ll shove you under it myself.”  Tony grumbled. Bucky’s exhausted mind barely managed to parse the good humour from the worry in his tone, hardly managing to shoot Tony a tiny smile before clambering into his hidey-hole.  A sleepless hour passed wherein Bucky focused on Tony’s breathing (unchanged - he was awake, too) and on the door. Then, suddenly, Tony muttered,  “Can’t fucking believe I’m doing this...”  And slung his hand over the edge of the bed, hanging just low enough to be within Bucky’s reach comfortably. He’d even picked the right side. But...there was no way it was what Bucky thought, right? As if he were reading his mind, Tony sighed, his voice suddenly seeming so much closer than before,  “The hand is for you, Bucky-Monster. I’m not dangling it here for anything else that hides under beds. C’mon, my palms are cold.” Hesitantly, head still pounding (how long had it been since he’d slept...?), Bucky intertwined their fingers. Tony’s hands were large. The tips of his fingers and much of his palms were rough with calluses, scraping against the ones on Bucky’s own hands. Tiny silvery scars peppered every square inch - Bucky found himself brushing the very tips of his fingers over them (Tony’s arm shivered in his grip, but didn’t pull away). It was soothing - having Tony here with him, actually present, focused on Bucky...it was nice. Nice enough to slip into a fitful sleep at last.