makinglies | Throwing stones at the window

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Throwing stones at the window

It had been his suggestion. The idea for having moles in the Capitol was no a new one and, already, they'd started contacting people they knew they could trust and planting the ones they still needed. Most of them other people took care of, this one Bucky wanted to handle himself. He didn't have time to think about the Capitol or anyone else in it, once he'd snuck into the city, it was about going unnoticed as he went through the streets and located her building. Security was nonexistent as he climbed the stairs to her floor and easily found himself outside her door. None of that was the hard part.

Now he had to knock.

Dressed in dark clothes with a long jacket that had a hood he could pull over and hide the top part of his face, he probably looked fairly sinister, so standing outside a single woman's apartment probably wasn't the best idea long-term, but his arms suddenly felt like lead, like there wasn't enough force in the world that he could dredge up to knock.

Three years. He wondered how much she'd changed, if she'd punch him or hug him upon discovering he was alive...or would she simply slam the door back in his face and refuse to speak with him? He supposed he deserved any reaction from her. Hell, if she pushed him out her window to his death he'd probably deserve that too. He'd ruined both of their lives...he wondered if she ever found out it was his fault. He'd barely been in District 10 five minutes before he found out they'd taken Steve and he'd gone running off to get some answers with his fists, resulting in his imprisonment. Did she see him punch that Peacekeeper? Did she know the real reason he'd been locked away? He knew one thing: she thought he was dead. Just like Steve was.

Sometimes he wished he was. Right now, it would be kinder than what he was about to do to her.

He pushed his hood off his head and raised his hand, hesitating only once before knocking. Very carefully, he schooled his expression into neutral, hoping to spare her the fear and hope and concern and care that rushed in him at the thought of her.

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Well, at least that meant she wasn't intending to turn him over. He'd hoped and a part of him felt disgusted it was even a thought he'd entertained at one point, but it was nice to have that confirmation that she wasn't ready to throw him under the bus even with how mad she was.

When she asked about the wine, he felt his chest tighten and he answered a little faster than was necessary. "No. Thank you, though." He didn't drink. Once upon a time, he'd been known to enjoy the drop of booze the people in 10 could get their hands on, never drinking too much but enough to make a good time even better. Then his games had happened and that final night before he was to be sent back home. Too much alcohol was what had ruined their lives. One glass wasn't likely to do anything to him, but he'd decided a long time ago he wouldn't touch the stuff as long as there was someone else there with him. These days when he drank, the mess under the stoicism shined through and he couldn't afford for anyone to see that.

He motioned to her kitchen. "You go ahead, though and I'll answer your questions, but first I have one of my own: what do you know of District 13?" Probably what everyone else thought they knew, but it was a good way to measure if any rumors had started up since the rebel activity had been kicked into motion two years ago. If anyone was going to know, it was probably Peggy.

She would never throw him under the bus, no matter how furious she was. The thought would make her sick. Even now, after all he'd done to hurt her, she loved him, even if she would pretend she didn't.

She noticed how quickly he refused. It didn't really surprise her. She had learned the story in the years he had been gone. She had learned a lot of stories.

The thought made her need the drink all the more. Her neutral mask did not waver at all, even when he asked that question. She walked to her kitchen instead of answering immediately, gesturing for him to follow her as she took out a glass and a bottle of red wine. "Well, I know what we learned in school," she started coolly as she poured out her wine. "District 13 was part of the original uprising. It was destroyed as an example." She kept the bottle open, leaving it on the table before picking up the glass and swirling the liquid slowly. She was stringing him along delicately, the way a Capitolite or a spy would. It was far less direct than she once had been in the simplicity of District 10 and life before the arena.

"But one hears rumors." She took a sip of the wine, leaning her hip against the counter. "Little things. Some people like to spin stories implying that our dear Capitol might not have been as effective with their destruction. And that, perhaps, not all of the people who disappear from the districts have fallen into Capitol hands." She arches one eyebrow at him, still completely and utterly neutral. "I suppose you didn't fall into Capitol hands either when you took your leave."

She knows. It's a reflex now, to dance around topics carefully. He wasn't in a Capitol prison cell, and he wasn't in the wilderness fending for himself for the past three years. The rumors might not just be rumors.

He could tell the differences in her behavior, how her tone made him uncomfortable for how impersonal and distant it was, but he didn't question. He couldn't afford to right now. Besides, he wasn't being completely direct either.

"No, I didn't." He should have. "What if I told you those rumors were true? That there was still something left and that, over the past couple years, that something has been building itself into a force that wants to fight and change things? What would you say if I told you that's what I've been doing?"

It'd been all he could think about when he got to 13 to find it a struggling little district. Then he'd met Coin and her desperation matched his to a T, giving them the building blocks they'd needed for what was now hidden in that forgotten forest in the northeast corner of Panem.

What he was saying should floor her. He was telling her there was a rebellion. There was a chance to fight. A chance that was a little more directed than playing nice until she had an opportunity to murder a high-ranked Gamemaker in their own home and die in a shoot out with the peacekeepers sent after her--which had been effectively her plan for the past three years or so.

Yet if there was anything the Capitol had taught her, it was how to play with her cards close to her chest. She kept her breathing even, her face neutral, and opened her mouth to say--"I would tell you that that 'something' really needs to improve its postage system."

Maybe she wasn't quite at her best "show no feeling" game right now, if the pointed coldness was anything to go by. She knew it wasn't so simple, that Bucky would have put them both at risk if he tried sending her a letter or get into contact in any way, but it still hurt that he'd only now deigned to let her know that he didn't kill himself (and the thought of him killing himself had been especially horrible: as if she and his family hadn't been worth sticking around for, that Steve had been the only one he had really cared about, and what do you say to three girls when they ask you why their brother left them?). She took a bigger sip of wine than she really should have. She was going to end up drunk tonight, she decided. It was the only way she could really deal with all of this.

It felt like her scarf was choking her. She pulled at it, a nervous habit she had developed a long time ago, but she didn't take it off. Bucky, Steve, and her parents had been the only ones she had ever felt comfortable taking her scarf off around outside of a sparring situation, but now, the expression of trust and intimacy felt like it'd be showing vulnerability instead, like they were animals and he could rip her throat out if he saw her scar. It was a stupid notion, and she knew it was stupid, but he wasn't showing his cards so she wouldn't either. Childish, yes, but she believed she had earned the right to be petty in this case. Even if every moment felt like the scarf was turning into a tighter and tighter noose.

"I would also say I wanted to be involved," she said shortly, professionally, as if she hadn't made that jab at him.

The jab stung, but he took it. He deserved it, he deserved anything she was going to give him. He looked away from her, his teeth scraping his bottom lip as he thought; it was an old nervous tick he'd started up when he'd been a teenager.

"I'm sorry. If I could have written you, I would have, but I didn't exactly have messenger birds to use and coming here was impossible until only recently."

He looked back up at her, his hand darting to his coat's pocket a moment to ensure what was supposed to be there still was. "We want you to be involved. How do you feel about gathering intel? What we need right now is to establish as many ears and eyes as we can in the Capitol so we can know what they're doing."

He looked away again. "I don't want to ask you to stay here, but we have no choice."

She hated how familiar it was. She hated how well she could still read him, how she saw the way his teeth touched his lip and she wanted to gently tap his head with her knuckle, the way she used to whenever he seemed to be worrying too hard.

But things weren't the way that they used to be.

"Yes, yes, you were too busy for the past few years to let anyone know that you didn't kill yourself. I completely understand." She didn't completely understand. She was furious. Did he have any idea how much he had hurt her?

But there was work. Work to be done. She could admit to herself that she was disappointed at the thought that she had to stay--a part of her had hoped he would take her away--but she kept it from her face.

She knew how she could get information from them. She knew exactly how, and she couldn't help but wonder if he knew too. Did he know what he was asking her to do? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that question. "I can do that. How do I give you the information I find?"

Edited 2015-06-13 03:35 (UTC)

"It wasn't like that..." It was all he got out before he cut himself off. He hadn't been able to come here, not because he wasn't busy, but because they'd only found out about the safe passageway into the city a few weeks ago. They'd lost a few and got others back severely maimed from trying and failing to find one before. The paths under the city were treacherous. But that wouldn't make her feel any better and he didn't want to defect any of the venom thrown his way.

His hand went back to his occupied pocket and rummaged for the paper that was tucked in there. When he found it, he held it out to her. "It won't be me, 13 feels we're too close and we're more likely to be caught if it's us. Besides, I'm still dead. This is the name of your contact here, it probably doesn't sound familiar, but he's another plant, just a shop keeper. He'll get the information back to 13, whatever you need to say. He'll also be delivering untraceable letters that will have any specific instructions that need to be given, like targets."

His eyes fell away again as the subject went back towards something more personal. "I know you're clever and you're charming and you've got a silver tongue like no other, so I'm sure you won't have much trouble. Schmooze with them, get in under the defenses, make 'em think you're their new best friend, but don't put yourself in danger. No information's worth it, you're too important." Too me was the underlying sentiment but he buried it in silence, he didn't deserve to have her after everything, he couldn't even say that much.

"It wasn't like that," she repeated coldly. She wanted him to deny it. Wanted him to make excuses so she could get even angrier and lash out more. Instead, he just trailed off and started talking about business like he should, and it just made her more upset. "You have no idea what you did."

The pain. The tears. The aching loneliness. Her parents died of sudden illness brought about from years of malnourishment and poor working conditions not even a month after he 'died'. She had been left with no one, and so she ended up asking her questions to empty space and beat up gym equipment. Why? Why would he kill himself when he still had her and his family? Why was she not enough to make him want to live?

She couldn't dwell on that right now or else she would start to cry and punch him again. Instead, she tried to focus, taking the offered paper delicately and glancing at the contact information inside while she listened to his instructions.

Schmooze with them, get in under the defenses, make 'em think you're their new best friend.

Her eyes flicked to his face, searching it. She didn't know if he was implying what she thought he was implying. She never told him what happened behind closed doors, and it was possible that District 13 didn't know about the bidding system. It's generally kept secret outside of the Victors, their Escorts, and the privileged elite who could afford it. "I'm a Victor, Bucky. I'm always in danger," was what she chose to say. "I can do this. They love spending time with Victors around here. At least the Victors who aren't hooked on morphling."

She probably had a point there, this was just making it worse and he knew it. He shouldn't have involved her, maybe she was better off before he'd knocked on her door, but she'd been the only person he felt he could trust to be a reliable plant right now while the movement was still so weak.

He reached into his pocket again and this time the object making it heavy came out. It was an antique radio, one that likely hadn't been seen by the Capitol in decades, it was even old by 10's standards. But it was safe. "Take this. 13 doesn't know I have it." He'd found it on his way to 13 and had used it as a project to keep his skills sharp and his mind from slipping away to grief and longing and the fear that, once they got there, they'd find only ruins and death. He'd never thought it would be useful until a few days before this mission.

He turned the only knob so the little dial read to a particular frequency and showed it to her. "Keep it on this, I'm the only one who knows about this frequency, it's unused by the Capitol or 13." He pressed it into her hands and allowed himself a moment where rough and calloused hands gripped her wrists gently but insistently. "Please, whatever you do, don't lose this or let it be found. It doesn't send a signal, but I can send you a message through it. If there's something important and secret I need to tell you that I'm not willing to put in someone else's hands, this is how I'll get it to you." He let go and pulled away again to give her her space.

She looked down to watch his hands when he reached into his pocket again, and her eyes widened a little. She felt a lump in her throat as she accepted the old radio, as his hands touched her skin all over again.

Peggy wanted desperately to believe that this was a sign that he still cared about her, that he wanted a direct line of contact that no one would be able to tamper with. She couldn't know that, though. Maybe he was just covering his bases.

"I'll take good care of it." His hands were warm, but then they were gone again. She avoided looking up, instead keeping her eyes on the radio. Her heart hurt with the thought that he would be able to talk to her, even if she couldn't talk back. But why would he feel like he would have to do that? "Do you not trust District 13?"

The look he gave her was a little blank at first, as if he couldn't understand why she had asked, but then it seemed to dawn on him and he shook his head. "Oh no, this isn't about not trusting 13, this is about not trusting everyone I meet or need to work with."

And then there's something else there in his expression, in his voice, a pride and spark of excitement that lights his eyes and would have brought a smile to his face if he thought he could remember how.

"God, Peggy, I wish I could show it to you. 13 is... it was this little hole in the ground when I got there, they were trying to manage resources, but a sickness had just cut down their numbers and Alma...she was so mad when I met her. Her anger and mine, we turned it into something better 13's so much more than what it used to be, it's everything." Now determination slid into his tone, the same determination that had fed him in his arena and put all the blood on his hands.

"Through 13, we will end all of this, we'll bring down Snow and the Capitol and the Games and bringabout a Panem that's worth fighting for. Just you wait...it'll happen before you know it and then...then things'll.." and just like that all of it was snuffed out in half a second. 'Things will be better.' What a bold faced lie. How would they be when taking down the Capitol wouldn't bring the dead back to life?

It would be better for Panem, that was true, but he couldn't look Peggy in the eye and say it would be better over all.

He turned away and pulled his jacket back around him and the hood of the reaper's outfit down low over his face.

"I'll go, just remember to keep that hidden and to talk to that guy. And keep your head down, Peg."

It was strange to hear him, to see him, get so animated over something. He wasn't happy, exactly, but he was proud and seemed to be the closest thing to cheerful she had seen of him since before Steve's name was pulled out during the Reaping.

Peggy heard him speak. What she heard was a story. A fairytale. What she heard was idealism bringing about the final extinction of their species.

She didn't care. Any species that had to depend on this kind of suffering to survive deserved to burn. She would be happy to help light the match.

"I'd like to see it one day. District 13." She doubted she would be able to, though. The Capitol would kill her when they found out what she was doing. If it took this much effort for Bucky to even talk to her, she doubted they would have the resources to save her life. That was okay. She would be glad to die for this.

Just like that, he was ready to go. Ready to waltz into her life, turn it upside down, and to waltz back out without so much as an answer to the question why. Why hadn't he stayed with them?

Why had she not been enough to keep him there?

She stared down at the radio. It was easier to look at than his back turning to her. A part of her was crying inside. Another part wanted him gone as fast as possible. There were questions running through her head, but none of them made it to her mouth. Instead, she just said, "be careful on your way back."

She forced herself to look at him when she said that. She owed it to herself to look at him.

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Throwing stones at the window

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