sixthiterationlogs | mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: spawn fountain, inn, butcher shop
WHEN: 05/27 & 05/28
OPEN TO: all
WARNINGS: A:IW spoilers in the first section, adult language and potentially traumatic themes referenced.

a. arrival;

It's a jarring transition, a sudden awakening from nothing to drowning in a microscopic instant. It's only through the sheer control he's got over his own body that he doesn't gasp or inhale, his eyes bug out and his limbs flail, kicking upward with the fury of a strong survival instinct. He'd been dust only a moment ago, he thinks. Phantom limb sensations in the wrong arm as they spread like ashes in the breeze, and then darkness. The weight of his arm is like an anchor, pulling him down, aligning with gravity, and it feels heavier than usual despite the fact that water is meant to make people feel weightless.

After a desperate eternity he breaches, heavy metal arm flinging over the coarse edge of the fountain and gripping. Then he gasps, lips parted, hair sopping, floating and breathing and nothing else at first. The water around him stills before he begins phase two, hauling himself over the ledge and onto dry land.

It's an ungraceful roll, his back against the raised edge and a grunt when he falls off of it and onto the pavers below. His hair falls like seaweed around his head, collecting grit and dust from the ground beneath him. His heavy arm lays askew to his left, but he doesn't seem to care. His chest rises and falls, and if he were to be attacked right now he'd be the most vulnerable, easiest target on the planet. He doesn't care about that either, he just breathes, trying to process what feels like two minutes and a lifetime all at once.

b. the inn - later that day;

Several hours and a fair bit of scouting after his arrival, his mind sets a few goals he needs to accomplish for basic survival. secure shelter; gather rations are the orders from a deeply mechanical, deeply russian voice that he now recognizes as fragment of himself from a darker time. It's right this time, so he doesn't alienate it and instead pairs it with a more normal human alternative. He heads for the inn, hoping like hell he can convince them to put him up and feed him for the night. Luckily, it seems like there's a sort of lackadaisical economy here, a sort of socialist provide what you can, we barter, nothing costs money Wakandan style that suits his current predicament.

He settles at a table in the farmost corner, eyes sharp and alert, hair falling on either side of is face like it'll keep him from being recognized by anyone too familiar with the FBI's current wanted posters. Crappy disguise, but wherever this place is, it seems out of touch. It's a gamble, he thinks, and everything about his posture states he's expecting to have to bolt any second. He even startles uncomfortably when someone comes around to take his order. Not exactly the most inviting visage.

c. soap up - the butcher's, day 2;

On the second day, when the ceiling doesn't cave in around him and no federal agents burst in to have him put down like a dog, he starts to settle down. The utilities are worlds away from Wakanda or even his time in Chechnya, but they ring in a nostalgic feeling from Brooklyn a long time ago. Sadly, they're lacking in things like shampoo and basic necessities, so he packs his bag, dons his scrubs, and heads out in search of a rumor he'd heard about soap being stored at the butcher's.

The bell tinkles behind him as he enters, lips parted, curious. It's bizarre, this whole place is, and he's doing his best to take in every piece of it. There's a part of him, too, that feels bad for taking and not giving, but the only thing he has to barter with are the clothes on his back that aren't even his. As such, he does his best to slink silently toward the soap stock in an effort not to be observed taking something he can't afford to replace.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He'd protest- after all, he knows where he just came from- but he bites his tongue instead. She's been here longer, she knows more about the comings and goings of people, she's seen it first hand, he supposes it isn't his place to try and correct a veteran. He's not going to jump onto the train of thought, though, he'll wholeheartedly retain the hope that when he leaves he's going back to Steve's side.

He huffs a little at her wistful-sounding joke. He can't answer it either, to be honest, he's not a regularly optimistic person so he lets the sadness ride for a moment. It's a comfortable, quiet sort of lapse in the conversation, a natural lull that he doesn't feel any urgency to fill.

In that moment he realizes what she's done, what she's managed to do to his nerves. He's not stiff anymore, not tense, alert, ready to spring at the next threat. He's calm, satisfied in the knowledge that he's just had a full blown thorough conversation with a stranger without the world ending, so with something of a kind smile in the corners he decides to express a simple but genuine, "Thank you."

The silence felt funny to Sam. Not like other silences she'd known. Silences she'd caused. They were usually way more awkward. But Bucky didn't seem...well, she couldn't think of the right way to describe it. But it was like she was a person to him. Rather than a nuisance.

It was a nice change of pace.

Until he thanked her and completely threw her off.

She blinked rapidly a few times. "For what?"

"The company," He replies with something of a dismissive shrug, unphased by her confusion. Time spent in Romania and Wakanda both taught him that gratitude was one of the easiest forms of payment he could offer, twice as valuable when sincere. "And the conversation."

Helping someone adapt to a new place is no small notion, Sam, so take it.

Sam stared at him. Openly. Honestly.

And completely puzzled.

"Wow," she finally said, clearing her throat. "I'm not sure how to take that. I don't think I've ever made a good first impression before."

Like. Ever.

But when she thought about it, really, she was the one who ought to be thanking him. "You know, I think this is the longest conversation I've had with another person in about six months..."

She's not the only puzzled person in the room anymore; a look of confusion settles across his features. If anyone is going to deserve the mantle of 'having the longest conversation in 6 months' it definitely shouldn't be him, he's a socially awkward shell of a man with a history of saying smartass shit and looking generally unapproachable. Sam's really got to get out more if this is the case, because he can't fathom it's any positive attribute of his own that lead to this.

Still, Romania and Wakanda also taught him not to reject a thank you, so he replies with an uncertain, "Any time?"

It would have been an interesting contest. But Sam had never developed the Kindred ability to read minds.

Thank the fuck.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. "Listen," she said, "I'm sure I'll ruin that good first impression eventually. But until I do..." She traced out her room number on the tabletop, in faded, charcoal lines. "Here's my number." She gave him a half smile. "I'm just upstairs."

A lot of people lived in houses with people they liked here.

No one liked Sam.

"If I'm not there, I'm usually in the kitchen, working on my still. Either way, I'm usually somewhere in this building, if you need anything."

He huffs a soft laugh at her self-defeatist attitude, if only because it rings so similar to his own. It's hard to ruin a good impression with an accidental mass murderer with a low sense of self worth. With something of an amused look he nods at her. "If I come across any genetic abnormalities or space candelabras, I'll give you a knock."

"Hopefully not on the head," she said, swinging her leg over the chair and standing up. "But who knows? I'll probably deserve it."

Sam and self-worth weren't exactly great friends either.

Still, she gave Bucky a slight smile, trying her best to be a person. "See you around, Bucky."

mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject