Not A Safe Space [OTA]

[worthallthis]

Who: B and OTA
Where: Various, see prompts
When: First half of August
Warnings: PTSD reactions, some disassociation


I. Arrival

The first thing B does upon arrival is check his cabin. Sure enough, there are dogs, cats, goats, a dinosaur egg, and his goddamn left arm in there. The arm's connectors no longer work, but hey, the Nurse thoughtfully left him the arm itself. At least there's a promise he might be able to use it again someday.

He sits on the bed for a little while, hugging confused dogs, petting cats, shoving goats away from his blankets dammit, and trying not to cry. He's not back home. There's a chance the Authority will change their mind. This is temporary. It's temporary.

Then he shoves his backpack and some of those afore-mentioned blankets into his closet to keep them all safe from the animals and treks out to explore his now (temporary) home. He's relatively okay, giving the soft and rounded furniture a look that's more amused than disturbed, until he finds sickbay, and hears about the padded rooms. The forced sedation. The button on his wrist-band that paralyzes people.

Then he disappears for a while into his room to panic.


II. Goat Removal

Okay. He's okay. He'll manage. He's managed with worse. First things first, find somewhere else for the goats, because they cannot live in his tiny cabin room. B spends a while knocking on cabins with doors, looking for one that's empty. If he hits yours, you'll get a sheepish smile, and, "Sorry, just looking for an empty one."

When he finally finds one on his floor, then it's time to remake it all over again. He hauls a mattress out and down the hall to his own room. He requisitions some ratty blankets and some dirt and the closet thing to hay he can get from the Nurse, and turns the spare cabin into at least an approximation of the room they had on the Barge. Then he can be found guiding the goats out of his room and into the new one.

And then doing some cleaning on his room, because, y'know. Goats.


III. Custodial

B enjoys cleaning things, so being put on custodial is fine by him. He spends a solid chunk of his time quietly using his single remaining arm to scrub something, or polish something, or do laundry. He oversees any patients who want to show up for their allotted time leniently. He'll encourage work, but won't force it.

B won't force anybody to do anything. He won't. That's not how you make people happy.

But he does play music sometimes, while he works. Anyone working with him on any given day can scrub to the sound of 30s jazz or 90s pop or occasionally a bit of 70s glam. None of the songs that mention violence remain among his CD collection, but that still leaves a lot to choose from.


IV. Pet Project

The rest of B's time he spends in the common room with two dogs, two cats (the kennel cat came, as well), and two goats, hemmed in with some of the furniture to make a pen that the goats try to climb out of (but B stops them; this is why there's only two of them, so he can keep an eye). "Daily animal time's still happening," he tells anyone who comes by, with a small but friendly smile. "It helps. Promise."

Surely the Nurse can't complain about something that makes people smile the way animals make people smile.

The cats can be found anywhere in the common room, not trapped by the couches and over-turned tables, but B keeps an eye on them regardless. It wouldn't do for someone to snatch one or anything.


V. Falling Apart

B has seventy years of putting on a mask at his disposal, for his public face. Of course, HYDRA didn't want him smiling, didn't want him showing emotion of any kind except occasionally fear, but the skill isn't really much different when you're masking with a smile than a blank face.

It doesn't mean he's not a complete wreck inside. He only uses the big public showers late at night, when hopefully no one else is in there-- and if someone else comes in, he hurriedly finishes up and grabs a towel to wrap himself up in. It's not that he has problems with nudity, exactly... it's that he cannot be naked in a big open space like this without his brain trying to throw HYDRA images at him.

People coming up behind him make him visibly flinch, though he quickly brushes it off with the same small smile he wears all the time and an apology. "Just kind of jumpy today, I guess."

He spends more time staring at the buffet-style meals than he should, tray in his single hand and trembling a little with his tension, stymied by choice again for the first time in years.


VI. Communication - for the Clipper

The Barge was a living, feeling creature, B knows. She communicated. She found ways. B has to wonder if this ship speaks, too, in her own way. Some evenings, he'll wander the halls and tap on the walls in Morse code. Hello, are you there? Will you speak with me? He has no piano, here, but he'll organize the scrabble letters into the same message, or play songs from his CDs in the hopes of conveying the message.

Will you speak, Clipper?

Comments

Custodial

[wildguardian]

"So," Yunlan says, lemon-scented furniture polish in one hand and rag in the other, looking at B with a twist at the corner of his mouth. "I don't actually know how to do this. Tips?"

He's not in a good mood, but he's been -- not-quite-hiding it himself. His usual insouciant smile is missing, and even if he keeps his expressions mostly neutral, there's a storm brewing somewhere deep in his gaze.

He's also emphatically refusing to participate in singalongs. At least B's music tastes are better than that.

[worthallthis]

"It's not complicated," B says with half a smile of his own. He's hiding his own disquiet with this place... better. Not completely, but a lot better than Yunlan is.

Of course, he's also putting more effort into it.

"Get a little of the polish on the rag," he explains, "then rub it on the wood, one stroke over each piece. Generally I just put the rag over the top, tip the polish over for a second, then tip it back. That gets just about enough on it."

[wildguardian]

"Huh. Okay." It's a fumbling effort, but Yunlan manages to decant some polish onto the rag without spilling the polish everywhere or dropping anything. He re-caps the bottle, sets it aside, and turns his attention to the brightly stained wood of the table.

"Good thing they want us to do some stuff that's actual work," he says -- he'd meant to say shit, but he'd very quickly discovered the swearing restriction and is forcing it to earn its pay on him -- "between the sing-alongs and storytimes."

[worthallthis]

"I know, right?" B would go nuts if that's all there was. He's got some self-appointed work, of course, in the animal-petting time, but even that gets old pretty fast if he has nothing else to do but supervise goats and people tugging on their ears. "Storytime's not. Terrible, I guess. I used to read aloud to my sisters, and Steve, way back when." He shakes his head. "Maybe we can convince the Nurse to let us have The Wizard of Oz or something. It's not too violent."

II, also CW for anxiety and PTSD

[just7seconds]

After making a mistake of going into the infamous sickbay and then dealing with a few overly-pleasant encounters, Cloud also isn't okay. Unfortunately, for him, he can't quite grasp exactly what it was that got to him, regarding that sickbay... But, he's on his way back to his room, his body outright rigid, his hands a bit shaky as he slow jogs there. Cloud just needs to go... think. Or, no... more like stop thinking. His breathing is a little off, a little too shallow.

(A lot of classic Panic Attack signs, basically.)

It's bad enough that he doesn't even stop to look at the one he nearly slams right into, though his awkward almost-stumble is enough to slow him down. With clenched teeth, he grips the railing next to him and forces out a slow breath. He's not even giving B a passing glance, but it's glaringly obvious he's nearing a point of snapping.

[worthallthis]

Well, fuck. (At least he can still think it, ugh.) B is not in a great place for dealing with somebody else's panic attack, even as he expertly twists out of the way before Cloud can actually hit him. That would have gone... badly.

The goat is still right there, though. And tries to reach out and nibble on Cloud's shirt hem.

"Aw, no. C'mon, leave the kid alone," B groans, and pulls back on the loop of fabric he's using as a makeshift halter and leash for the goat. "Sorry. Are you. Hey. Can you look at me?" At the very least it might break Cloud out of his spiral for a second.

[just7seconds]

Fortunately, it does snap him out of it. He's quick to look over at the source of the sound... Much less quick to answer.

"... Fine," he says, but it's so tense and very obviously defensive, "Sorry, I'm... fine."

But the repeated word might feel akin to a balloon deflating. His shoulders even sag a little as he settles on simply looking at the goat for a moment.

"I don't know what happened. There was just... a lot. That's all."

There isn't exactly an abundance of psychiatrists where he's from. He very genuinely doesn't know what was happening - only that it felt like a lot. Too much.

V

[whippersnapped]

"Have the potatoes if you're not sure. They'll keep you going a long time, and they're pretty gentle on the stomach," Marsh says quietly, pointing out a tray of out-of-the-box mashed potatoes. He doesn't get too close - he doesn't even look B in the eye. But his wrist is skinny with old hunger; he'd been overwhelmed when he first got here too, albeit for very different reasons.

[worthallthis]

B's just going to take the suggestion. It's easier than figuring out what he wants, himself, and the kid's not wrong. Mashed potatoes are filling, easy to eat, and stay down well. (Also, the kid looks painfully like a very young Steve Rogers. He's not about to ignore that, either.)

So he swallows, nods, and drifts over to the right tray to start dishing some out. Carefully, with one hand, onto a plate held between his hip and the counter. "What are you getting?" he asks, voice quiet.

[whippersnapped]

"I like the fruit," he says, taking one green apple and one reddish-pink one, although he gets a scoop of potatoes and another of green beens as well.

IV

[goosethief]

Over the edge of the couch, B can see the edge of a straw hat, followed by two very round eyes, followed by a delighted, awe-struck child with a thick accent very like a Texas Twang wriggling over the barrier.

"You got goats. How'd you get Nurse to let you have goats? They never let me have chickens or sheep or goats or cows or nothin."

[worthallthis]

"They came with my from my last place," B says, somewhere between gentle and a little sad. There are so many kids on this ship. There shouldn't be kids here, not a place like this, so maliciously fake. "I couldn't leave them behind, because that would be cruel."

[goosethief]

"I had sheep in my last place. I told'em, Mama's busy and Ro likes nerd stuff and Nids is too small, but they said when I left I could go back to when I got et, I mean not right then so it don't happen again, but right after I guess, so they won't miss me takin' care of 'em. But I miss'em. Oh you're a sweet summer cabbage, ain't ya?" he coos letting one of the goats nibble at his shirt, stroking gently over its ears and neck, the steady ease somewhat in contrast to the mile-a-minute pace of his chatting.

vi

[thenurse_tlv]

It doesn't notice he's trying to do anything at first; it's quite bad at words, and it doesn't often pay attention to the little friends aboard as individuals. But at some point, some of B's intention comes through.

After several days of attempted communication, when he shakes letters one-handed out of the scrabble bag, a few of them land neatly beside each other.

HHIII

[worthallthis]

Well, that's the closest thing to an answer he's gotten so far. B considers, then lays out pieces of his own. HI CLIPPER HOW ARE YOU The Scrabble set doesn't have question marks, so punctuation has to be implied.

Then he shakes the bag lightly, and pours it out again, hoping for some kind of answer in the tiles. Scrabble divination to communicate with sentient ships. What is his world coming to?

[thenurse_tlv]

The tiles fall; many of them are upside-down, showing only blank backs. Some letters are in isolation. Near the center of the pile are a few clusters of face-cup letters, pointing the same right way up, in only slightly crooked lines.

II I

CLP

SSHP

OWRU

Pet Project

[packhound]

Mikodez is truly trying his best. The goats and dogs are fine for the most part, especially after getting some instruction about how to deal with the goats, which he follows carefully. The big problem is the cats. Or, more specifically, that his attempts to sit quietly to lure a cat over are stymied by the fact that after sitting still for a few moments he's practically vibrating.

[worthallthis]

B keeps an eye on the boy, amused, fond, and kind of sad that there are goddamn kids stuck on this boat. Finally, seeing poor Mikodez unable to get C's attention, he climbs out of the little enclosure and drops a bit of cheese into his hand. "C loves cheese. She'll come investigate that once she smells it," he says with half a smile.

[packhound]

"Thanks!" He drops his attempt to sit cross-legged, instead rolling over to lie on his stomach holding it out to try to tempt the cat closer. "I didn't know cats like cheese."

II Tags will probably still be slow, but I wanted to try.

[hisblueskies]

B comes upon Alfredo out in the hall; coming across someone handling quite the variety of supplies makes the boy snap to attention.

Alfredo hasn't been big on the Network here in a long while, but given he can't opt out of hearing it, he knows the news.

"Is it all right if I carry some of that with you, sir?" The Clipper hasn't cut away at all of his old behaviors; he still wants to help people.

Asking if this man 'needs a hand' seems the wrong idea, though.

no worries, I'll backtag if need be <3

[worthallthis]

Convincing people to be more socially-minded and to help other people is kind of one of the Clipper's main goals, so it's probably good he still has that one. B offers him a little smile. He can handle a bucket of dirt and a couple blankets, but he can also hand some off. "Sure. Wanna take those blankets folded up under my arm, there? And it's just B, not sir."

<3

[hisblueskies]

Alfredo's issues with the Nurse are rather more philosophical than behavioral, for both better and worse.

"No trouble, sir. B," he amends, reaching up to firmly-if-gently take those folded blankets.

"I'm Alfredo," he adds, once they're moving again. And, a little later,

"... Did anyone talk to you, before you got here? To offer a- deal, of some kind?"

The preteen's voice is quiet, heaviness behind the words like the memory of a storm.

"Or were you just brought here?"

V

[punched_hitler]

It has been a long week (has it only been a week?) and Steve still isn't sure whether he's getting used to this place or not. He's torn between thinking this is temporary and being sure that it's not, and ends up feeling like they're in some weird sort of limbo that's somehow pressing at the same time that it's not.

What he does know, though, is that B isn't doing great. It's little things, really: jumpiness, smiles that are just a little too bland. Showers at three in the morning.

It had taken Steve a few days to notice. He's kind of embarrassed and ashamed of that. But the lack of the serum and even its subtle effects had thrown him for a loop, and that includes his sleep schedule. (He always seems to forget what needing more than a few hours of sleep at night is like.) But tonight, instead of falling asleep like an idiot or letting B go off to shower alone, he waits until it's late and then suggests, "Want to hit the showers? Bet there's no one there."

He hesitates, but only for a breath. He wants to offer, hopes it doesn't hurt B too much when he adds, "I'll keep watch."

[worthallthis]

For that breath, B holds his, and then slumps down against Steve's side (where he'd been sitting close) with relief and exhaustion, shutting his eyes a moment. "That'd. That'd help a lot, actually. I don't do well in communal showers." He doesn't do great with showers, period, but the complete lack of privacy tips them simply from "uncomfortable" to "like a slice of hell".

[punched_hitler]

Well, cue a tiny stab of extra guilt for not mentioning it sooner, then.

Steve wraps an arm around him for a moment, running his hand over a shoulder and bicep. "Then let's make a habit of it. Starting tonight." He's sure he can either give B enough warning if someone is coming or, ideally, distract or turn said person away long enough for B to finish up. "Maybe I can start a new career as a bouncer."