hostileworkenvironment | do you want cyborgs?

do you want cyborgs?

[barry or cyril-- those were the two choices archer had for this stakeout for a JUNO executive. it's a simple mission; shoot him in the head and tank their stocks so malory can get their own agency a step up and dug further into the (presumably) legal espionage operations they're running like some kind of hellish tick filled with alcohol. it's morally questionable, but sympathy only goes so far when JUNO agents have spent so long trying to drop all the...

...what's the new agency called? archer, unsheathing his combat knife, realises he doesn't know. people seem avoidant on the topic, the same way they were about lana when he'd first woken up.]

God damn it, we better not still be the Figgis Agency, [he mutters to himself, twirling the blade around for a moment before driving it into the motel's shitty plaster wall. figures malory had skimped on lodging-- she seems to be very fond of the excuse that barry being a cyborg means that they technically only need to pay for one room. archer's inclined to agree.

they may have bonded on that factory mission, but that doesn't erase literal years of being terrorized by a criminally insane cyborg. that, and... he's actually pretty sure barry literally doesn't even need to eat or sleep. archer makes a mental note to kick the guy out before he inevitably blacks out drunk-- don't need to wake up to barry standing over him with those red eyes glowing in the dark. he's had enough nightmares that ended like that.

archer pulls the knife up through the wall, idly starting to leave his mark while barry's in the other room doing all the work. it's kind of annoying how hard it is to get a rise out of him now. not like cyril, who'd practically had a mental breakdown at the idea of spending more than ten minutes alone in a room with him. he smirks at the memory, completing the gigantic dick on the wall in a minute or so.]

Hey, dickhead! [he calls out, sauntering into the kitchen and grabbing some scotch out the fridge. god, at least this place is stocked, though... that box of take out probably shouldn't be opened.] Have you calibrated the...

[pop goes the top of the bottle as he twists it off.]

...Whatevers yet?

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[he probably sees archer flinch back at the sight of those eyes, before he remembers why they're like that.]

I feel like... the how is pretty obvious, Barry. [archer staggers over to the bed, flopping down on the edge of it. it never occurred to him that it was bad to see him treat himself like this when he's just spent three years in a coma. he never really thought or wanted people to care.] No, I'm--

[he pinches his nose for a moment, head swimming. his hair is sticking up all over the place -- possible evidence that he at least tried to lapse into unconsciousness earlier.]

--not going to puke. I'm fine. It, listen. I'm... shit, this carpet is cleaner than mine... [he shakes his head again, struggling to concentrate.] Asshole! Listen. I'm, I'm sorry for being such a dickhole earlier. Really! I'm not-- this isn't a joke. We're friends now, right? After Russia?

[god and it's a good thing he's too hammered to hear the desperation in his voice there.]

I'm not mad at you! You're my... non double crossing buddy, defier...er of Asimov. I am going to puke.

[look, he can still walk without his cane for a short time but his bad leg is clearly not taking a lot of weight and maybe help him before that carpet is nastier than the one in the agency's mainframe?]

[ It's everything Barry's wanted to hear for the past two years, all at once, but any joy it would've elicited in another context is largely overshadowed by the fact that his sudden houseguest (room...guest?) is about to vomit and may actually have alcohol poisoning. He's quick in bringing over the little hotel trashcan and setting it down in front of him, because it's a walk to the bathroom and he's not too sure Archer has it in him, then leans into his side and drapes an arm over his midback, under his far arm. ]

Okay, Buddy. Easy. You should sit down before you lose your balance and mess up that leg. [ Especially because leaning forward while blackout drunk and caneless seems like it couldn't have any outcome other than falling. ] Can you do that for me?

[ His friend. They're friends. Archer sees him as a friend. ]

[oh god, barry was my friend. this coma thing's been hard.

he'd said that offhandedly when he'd thought barry was dead, that he'd made another connection just like he had with ramon only for them to fucking drop and leave him behind like they always do. like malory did when he was young, like woodhouse and lana did--

(maybe one day he'll be more consciously aware of how he drives them away, instead of lodging himself into denial and pretending they leave him out of spite.)

it's an old song and dance for him, to have a bucket shoved into his hands as he empties his stomach contents into it. predictably, it's all alcohol -- when did he even last eat, anyway? figures he'd be lucky enough to be able to maintain his muscle mass without needing to care about it. everything always works out for archer, doesn't it? he slumps a little towards barry when he's done, plopping the bin back down onto the carpet for now. upright! he's being that considerate at least. or maybe it was just another little perfection for the man who gets everything he wants.

a deep sigh escapes him and he shifts his arm a little in a way that could be construed as trying to put his arm around barry's hips while they're sitting on the edge of the bed... or just trying to get more support so he doesn't fall forward. could even be both. his head lolls onto barry's shoulder and he slips forward slightly, languid enough that it seems for a moment he's passed out sitting upright.

whatever line of thought that had pushed him to go from laying around in the other room feeling sorry for himself and up into breaking into barry's room is less clear and more like a fly catcher that's been swung around into everything in the room and tangled up on itself. a little groan escaping him indicates that he's come back to reality from wherever he went.]

Ugh... [he's still seeing double, triple, feeling like he's whacked his head real hard, maybe he did, maybe he's just coming down to an uncomfortable level of lucidity after throwing up most of what he spent the last few hours drinking.] Some idiot puked in your bin.

[attempt at a stupid joke or is he genuinely that out of it? unclear.]

I dreamed about you, [he says after a moment, snorting a half laugh.] God, you stole some biker's get up and looked so fucking stupid in his leather cap.

[ He lets Archer have that one, both because he probably needs to laugh and because it takes him a moment to process that the guy was dreaming about him. Was it because Archer heard him, somewhere deep in his unconscious brain? Did it actually make any difference? Or was it just that he already occupied his thoughts as a villain- Was I the bad guy in his dream? Was he having nightmares about me?

Barry pushes the thoughts to the side, though he knows already that this isn't the last time he'll be seeing them. It's nice to be touched, to have human contact to ground him in his own body, though he's less focused on that than he is on keeping Archer conscious and talking, two things which sort of go hand-in-hand. ]

Yeah?

[ The nearest hospital is what? In like, Denver? Jesus, this is just like The Shining. Well, at least the book. ]

[fortunately, he seems to be showing less signs of alcohol poisoning and more signs of just... being really drunk. he'd done what he'd done to try and avoid his problems, and look where it got him.

leaning on one of his problems and kind of... vaguely fascinated with the firmness of barry's muscles right at the back of his mind.]

Yeah. Krieger fixed you up. Did you tell me that when you visited?

Uh- Yeah. I think. One of the times.

[ And then he had to do it all over again when Lana sold him out like he was a nonsentient piece of scrap metal, but he doesn't bring that up because it's not about him right now, it's about Archer. The betrayal still stings when he thinks about it, granted— but at least Archer seems sincere in his clumsily worded, still kind of off the mark assertion of "robot" personhood. ]

It was good of him to do that. He didn't have to, and I didn't deserve it.

[ A beat. And then, though he doesn't know why he mentions it— ]

I can breathe. Eat. Feel pain. I have a pulse again for the first time in... three years? I think?

[ It's hard to really place that period of his life on any sort of coherent timeline; it's all more or less just a depersonalized, deeply unstable blur, one long episode of psychiatric instability. Sometimes he wonders how much of it he doesn't even remember, but with effort he chooses not to think about that either. Instead he turns the palm of the hand that isn't supporting Archer's side toward the ceiling and extends it across his chest, in Archer's general direction. ]

You can feel if you'd like.

[ Partly because it might make him less fearful. Partly because it might make him acknowledge that he's leaning against a human being, the kind of validation he still finds himself thinking even after three years of therapy. ]

[he reaches out a little hesitantly, not unlike a kid being given a new toy and told if they lose it then they'll get their tiny bare ass slapped with a ping pong paddle. archer also doesn't deign go into more detail about dutch dylan and some of the horrific things his subconscious put forward the cyborg was capable of.

he ends up sliding his palm over barry's, fingers awkwardly resting on his wrist like he's already forgotten what he was doing with it.]

Warm, [he mutters, then starts to slightly tilt forward again.]

Hey, hey, don't do that. You have to stay up, okay?

[ Yes, he was in a frat and yes, he does have experience with this exact situation. Barry would honestly prefer to just... stay like this for a while, feeling the movement of Archer's shoulder against his in time with his respirations (which he's been keeping a figurative eye on since his mission partner sat down), the slight weight of someone else's hand on his arm, but he doesn't, instead sliding his other hand under Archer's near arm to straighten him up a bit. He's more likely to stay alert that way. ]

Do you think you can hold down some coffee? Maybe some water?

[ Because he is going to be insanely hung over come morning. ]

You don't have to act like this is my first time, you... Barry. [he says petulantly, hand staying where it was over barry's arm even after he's retracted it like his brain is still processing it's not there anymore.] I'll take coffee if it's coffee liqueur.

[barry still thinks archer can get hungover, or ever sobers up enough to be hungover. that's cute. archer burps into his hand.]

Lemme just get a quick power blackout into the mix and I'll be good to kill some idiots.

Archer, no. And it is your first time getting blackout drunk in three years, and while I think we've kinda passed the point of your liver returning to its natural state, at the very least your tolerance has clearly gone down.

[ God, it's hard not to get irritated at the guy, even knowing he has a disease, even knowing he just woke up from a coma and is probably just trying to cope in the only way he knows how. Barry can't imagine Mallory's parenting was particularly hands-on. Or loving. Or... parenting, really. ]

Look, why do you want to get drunk right now? Be honest with me.

[it kind of throws him for a moment to be asked why. he doesn't have some deep, self-reflective answer ready even if he is vaguely aware of why he does it. there is a huge collision of multiple concepts in his brain right now; barry being his friend (big one, underlined, lots of question marks around it), barry giving a shit about him, everything he's dealing with on waking up (imagine sparkly poop emoji stickers around that one) and the fact his usual bullshit isn't working. the fact he doesn't actually really want his usual bullshit to work.

realising that last one is... sobering. he doesn't want to fuck this mission up not because he cares about it but because he doesn't want to upset barry.

that in itself is pretty hard to reconcile. he never even really felt like that when he was on missions with lana.]

I'm already drunk, [he mutters a little lamely, clearly uncomfortable, clamming up now it's all going beyond surface level. archer runs a hand through his hair, suddenly very interested in not looking at barry at all.] It's not because of you, or anything. I mean, shit, Barry, not everything is about you.

[the insult falls extremely flat, and archer is all too aware of the fact he doesn't actually have an answer to the question. he taps his hand on his knee a little awkwardly, cogs in his brain almost audiably grinding away to try and find something to fill the silence with.]

Wasn't saying it was, Buddy. I think there's some underlyin' problems here.

[ It's not like he intends to force Archer into talking about them or anything, because you don't really achieve anything with force, emotionally speaking. They're probably dealing with a lot more than just the aftermath of the coma here, honestly. This has clearly been building up for a while. ]

I think it's about how much you're going through right now. The world kept moving but you're still the you you were three years ago and that's hard. And the physical therapy- look, I know. When I shattered my femur it took months for me to be able to walk properly again, to say nothing of how long it took to return to the field. [ He gives Archer's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Thank you, Krieger, for making sure the fine motor skills on this factory model got returned to what they were when he was residing in a purely organic body. ] I know you're doing the best you can.

[no shit, he thinks. he'd spent those three months after he'd woken up doing nothing but "void stuff" and hating himself for not being able to walk properly. drinking all day and awkwardly shuffling around his penthouse-- it was like a glimpse into his damn future that he didn't care for.

you're not ready, is the thought that keeps echoing in his head, even though that's not a concept sterling archer should recognise. he always bounces back. he's the world's greatest secret agent. if he can't do that then--

his shoulder is tense under barry's grip and something flits across his expression for a moment, something like he expects barry to keep squeezing until the bone splinters under his fingers like it was a matchstick.]

I'm sorry, [he says.] about your leg. I should've just pulled you up.

[he's said sorry about the femur before, when trexler tried to snipe archer into odin employment to piss malory off, but archer never really seemed genuine about anything. he sounds it now-- with all the weight of actually coming closer to understanding how much barry had suffered with the damage he'd done. for no reason.]

I. [ That's some major character development. Barry doesn't really know what he expected - that they'd just move forward and disregard it? Did he think Archer was incapable of feeling remorse? Either way, he's... caught wildly off guard, because Archer's different, too, now, and he hadn't expected to get this kind of treatment. ]

Thanks, Archer. I'm sorry about... everything that came after that.

[ He doesn't bother to elaborate, because there's no need to, and also because listing out all of the evil shit he did would probably take all night. ]

Huh.

[an extremely small step, maybe, but it felt good.]

Guess we're both pretty fucked up.

[he snorts at that - humourlessly but not derisively - like it's some serious food for thought.]

I'm, uh. I'm gonna pass out now.

[it's a controlled descent; he shifts so he flops down face first onto barry's bed, breathing evenly and snoring slightly.]

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