If his expression had been blank before, now it was completely shuttered off. There's a small spark of anger that this person he's never met has been told something so personal, but he can deal with that later.
Bacall looked thoroughly pleased, and pecked at Mycroft's shoes. "Let's go."
"Wait, let me explain first," he held his hands up, the umbrella hanging on the crook of his elbow. "Sherlock spoke to me about the possibility of this, and that perhaps you could help me. See, I'm considering doing it, myself."
The vulture screeched at Mycroft, tugging at his pant legs, trying to make him turn around.
Was this some kind of disgusting joke? Surely no idiot would actually think severing their Heart would be a good idea, so he had to be here just to poke at Bucky, right? But why?
"Let me get this straight," he said, deceptively mildly. "Someone I've never met before, told you that I would help you sever your Heart? What the hell do either of you know about it?"
John has been telling people about his patients? Even knowing how close he is to Sherlock, that doesn't seem right. Still, he can't deny that anger is rising and he'll be paying a visit to John to get to the bottom of this later.
"Are you an idiot?" Genuine question. "Why would you not think that was an awful thing?"
Is this guy for real? Surely not. He shifts a little in the doorway, uncomfortable discussing this out in the open, but not about to invite this stranger in.
Mycroft looked surprised, and pointed at the vulture, who squawked at him.
"Because of this, obviously. I can't be expected to be going around with this thing following me, telling people what I really think. It's dangerous, for one thing, having something that could potentially endanger me should it be touched, not to mention the things that I know that are for no one's ears to hear. The side-effects of not having a heart sound thoroughly manageable, which was why I wished to speak with you, and to ask how it was done." Even if the vulture disappeared after a week, he could easily be forced to wish her back. Or she really might figure out a way to stay and where would he be then?
Bacall bristled. "I'm here because you need me, Mycroft. What you just said proves that."
There's something about this man that's all of a sudden terrifying to him. To be able to ask about something so horrific in so casual a tone, as if he's asking someone how to wallpaper their front room instead of how they sever a huge part of themselves, it's so reminiscent of Armin Zola.
Just a machine, after all, not a person.
He's shaking from head to foot, just slight tremors that might only be visible to someone very observant, and he's honestly teetering on the edge of slamming his fist directly into that smugly polite face over and over. Instead, he opens the door and barks out a command, not a request.
Mycroft's not expecting that reaction, but at least he has an in. Perhaps some side-effect? No matter. He steps inside, with Bacall close on his heels.
Once inside, he quickly looks around, both hands clasped tightly on his umbrella, taking in as much information as he can. It...certainly tells a lot about the man, from the sparse furnishings to the bars to the way the left wall comes up short, possibly hiding another room.
Bucky closes the door and slides two of the bolt locks back into position. His back is tense, ramrod straight, and he remains facing away as if to look at this insensitive asshole would be to give into the desire to beat him into the ground.
"What you're asking to do to yourself, would you do it to other people too?"
Not knowing anything about the actual characteristics of these sorts of birds, or any birds really, Bucky just thinks that a vulture is an appropriate sort of Heart for this man based solely on what it represents. Cold, impersonal, greedy death.
"Why would anyone ask that?"
He finally turns and walks towards man and bird, bending as if to touch the vulture and stopping just short.
Bacall blinks, her wings extending, ready to fly in that small space if he got any closer. Even when he stopped, Mycroft's nervousness was evident in her body language. He didn't like enclosed spaces, and neither did she.
"...it depends. Not to an innocent person. To someone particularly wicked that's endangering Sherlock? Perhaps. To someone who asked? Perhaps. But he doesn't understand what it means. You must tell him how terrible it is," she said, her red-and-yellow eyes staring straight at his.
He's not sure if that's a good reasoning path, someone who wants to sever their Heart might not care about anyone, but wanting to stop someone who might endanger him is a fairly good sign.
"If you sever your Heart, you won't. You might not even remember him, you might even kill him if you were told to."
"You're not a person any more if you don't have a Heart."
His eyes are hard and intense. It makes his shoulderblades prickle with danger to talk about this stuff even with people he trusts, but he's not about to let someone potentially this dangerous just walk away without knowing what he's doing.
"The Nazis took mine over months of torture, conditioning, and brainwashing. You want to start now, or later?"
Bacall suddenly flaps her wings and squawks in alarm. Brainwashing, conditioning, torturing. Mycroft freezes and turns a ghastly shade. His mouth opens and closes, his words failing him.
Half of it was shock and disappointment, not that he was expecting James Barnes to actually do anything to him, and the memory of only a few days of that, which this man clearly had to endure.
That's what he had to say, that's the strongest reaction to possible torture and to being no longer able to recognise his own kin? This man is evil, soulless, and Bucky can't hold himself back any longer.
Mycroft might be able to notice, just before it flies towards his face in a fist, that one of the hands sticking out of the bottom of his hoodie sleeves is shiny and metal.
He's not used to putting himself in situations where he himself is vulnerable to attack, even after Norfinbury, and only a panicked cry of alarm from Bacall at the last millisecond was his only warning as she tried to take flight, but it was too late. He manages to register something shiny and metal before pain, then nothing at all.
He's knocked clean out, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, a terrific, swollen bruise beginning to form on one eye. Blood trickles from cuts on his eyebrow and face. Bacall flops over in a similar fashion, her wings splayed out.
For all that Bucky knows he can be overly cautious, some would say paranoid, he's not wrong here. This is someone who talks about having a Heart or losing one as an inconvenience, and even a part of him would consider that he might do this to someone else if the circumstances were right.
He should kill him.
He almost does.
He bends down and even gets his hands on Mycroft's head preparatory to snapping his neck before he stops himself, this... this isn't him, he's not going to be a killer. Instead he pulls Mycroft up and over his shoulder into a fireman's carry, and picks up the vulture by the feet in his other hand.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Get the hell off my property."
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"Wait, let me explain first," he held his hands up, the umbrella hanging on the crook of his elbow. "Sherlock spoke to me about the possibility of this, and that perhaps you could help me. See, I'm considering doing it, myself."
The vulture screeched at Mycroft, tugging at his pant legs, trying to make him turn around.
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"Let me get this straight," he said, deceptively mildly. "Someone I've never met before, told you that I would help you sever your Heart? What the hell do either of you know about it?"
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"Tell him how awful of a thing it is and we'll leave you alone," piped up Bacall, staring up at the other man, in fascination and in sadness.
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"Are you an idiot?" Genuine question. "Why would you not think that was an awful thing?"
Is this guy for real? Surely not. He shifts a little in the doorway, uncomfortable discussing this out in the open, but not about to invite this stranger in.
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"Because of this, obviously. I can't be expected to be going around with this thing following me, telling people what I really think. It's dangerous, for one thing, having something that could potentially endanger me should it be touched, not to mention the things that I know that are for no one's ears to hear. The side-effects of not having a heart sound thoroughly manageable, which was why I wished to speak with you, and to ask how it was done." Even if the vulture disappeared after a week, he could easily be forced to wish her back. Or she really might figure out a way to stay and where would he be then?
Bacall bristled. "I'm here because you need me, Mycroft. What you just said proves that."
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Just a machine, after all, not a person.
He's shaking from head to foot, just slight tremors that might only be visible to someone very observant, and he's honestly teetering on the edge of slamming his fist directly into that smugly polite face over and over. Instead, he opens the door and barks out a command, not a request.
"In. Now."
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Mycroft's not expecting that reaction, but at least he has an in. Perhaps some side-effect? No matter. He steps inside, with Bacall close on his heels.
Once inside, he quickly looks around, both hands clasped tightly on his umbrella, taking in as much information as he can. It...certainly tells a lot about the man, from the sparse furnishings to the bars to the way the left wall comes up short, possibly hiding another room.
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"What you're asking to do to yourself, would you do it to other people too?"
Just how evil is he?
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"Well, no. Why would I? I mean, unless they asked, of course."
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"Why would anyone ask that?"
He finally turns and walks towards man and bird, bending as if to touch the vulture and stopping just short.
"You tell me, would he do it to other people?"
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"...it depends. Not to an innocent person. To someone particularly wicked that's endangering Sherlock? Perhaps. To someone who asked? Perhaps. But he doesn't understand what it means. You must tell him how terrible it is," she said, her red-and-yellow eyes staring straight at his.
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He's not sure if that's a good reasoning path, someone who wants to sever their Heart might not care about anyone, but wanting to stop someone who might endanger him is a fairly good sign.
"If you sever your Heart, you won't. You might not even remember him, you might even kill him if you were told to."
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"Surely, it's not...that severe."
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His eyes are hard and intense. It makes his shoulderblades prickle with danger to talk about this stuff even with people he trusts, but he's not about to let someone potentially this dangerous just walk away without knowing what he's doing.
"The Nazis took mine over months of torture, conditioning, and brainwashing. You want to start now, or later?"
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Half of it was shock and disappointment, not that he was expecting James Barnes to actually do anything to him, and the memory of only a few days of that, which this man clearly had to endure.
"I..."
He swallowed. "I'm admittedly disappointed."
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That's what he had to say, that's the strongest reaction to possible torture and to being no longer able to recognise his own kin? This man is evil, soulless, and Bucky can't hold himself back any longer.
Mycroft might be able to notice, just before it flies towards his face in a fist, that one of the hands sticking out of the bottom of his hoodie sleeves is shiny and metal.
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He's not used to putting himself in situations where he himself is vulnerable to attack, even after Norfinbury, and only a panicked cry of alarm from Bacall at the last millisecond was his only warning as she tried to take flight, but it was too late.
He manages to register something shiny and metal before pain, then nothing at all.
He's knocked clean out, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, a terrific, swollen bruise beginning to form on one eye. Blood trickles from cuts on his eyebrow and face. Bacall flops over in a similar fashion, her wings splayed out.
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For all that Bucky knows he can be overly cautious, some would say paranoid, he's not wrong here. This is someone who talks about having a Heart or losing one as an inconvenience, and even a part of him would consider that he might do this to someone else if the circumstances were right.
He should kill him.
He almost does.
He bends down and even gets his hands on Mycroft's head preparatory to snapping his neck before he stops himself, this... this isn't him, he's not going to be a killer. Instead he pulls Mycroft up and over his shoulder into a fireman's carry, and picks up the vulture by the feet in his other hand.