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

At least he knows his attitude about the situation transcends his memory; he may be spotty but at least he's consistent. Except for, you know, when he's a mass murdering serial killer robot. He nods in approval, and seems to let the issue rest. Whether he's happy about it or not, she's okay at least, and he lacks the levels of emotional attachment his past iterations might have had.

The spring itself isn't remarkable, at least not to him. Hot springs are a slight novelty, but there's hardly a magical aura hanging about the place. No wise shaman sits in the middle, no fairies float about it, it's just a bunch of rocks surrounding a pool. Wholly unimpressive, and he says as much with merely a look leveled at her.

Peggy doesn't have any hurts to heal apart from a lingering grief that she's been doing her best to shake, aiming to step out from the shadow of before and start fresh. It doesn't help that it's such a small community, of course, one that you can't escape from. She's distracted from her thoughts by the look Barnes is giving her.

With an eyeroll, she gestures for it. "You can't judge it by its cover," she notes with a touch of irritation. "At least dip something in and see if it helps, though I do think longer exposure improves the use."

Dip something in, huh? That look doesn't exactly fade from his face, and he ambles forward to inspect the water. Dips down into a crouch so he can get a better look, and tentatively dips his metal hand in. Lifts it up, wiggles the digits at her.

"Still metal." He announces in deadpan.

Sorry, Peggy. He's just being an asshole that thinks he's funny at this point. He's got nothing that hurts now aside from his shoulder, which he'd have to do more than dip to submerge into the spring. He's not really feeling a hot bath in front of her now, but he'll discreetly try it out tomorrow.

Can you tell she's unimpressed, Barnes? Can you? Maybe it's the hands on her hips, maybe it's the icy glare, but she has to hope that he's getting the picture.

"You're a laugh riot," she deadpans, half debating simply pressing her heel to his chest to kick him in the rest of the way and see if the healing springs can't do something about that awful sense of humour he's working with right now. Shaking her head, there's also a fondness there, because she has missed him. "I'd take you to the peach trees, but that's a bit of a hike."

It might also make her feel like she's repeating history from the last time she took Barnes out there to pick peaches for pies.

Truth be told her ire is more entertaining to him than any laughter might have been, and a sly grin ghosts over his mouth. Something about the icy glare and deadpan from her's just god damn funny.

He stifles the smile quickly though, standing upright and shoving his hands into his scrub pockets. Shakes his head in gentle dismissal, not because he's adverse to peaches but rather because he's not exactly in the right place for a hike quite yet.

"Think I've got enough to digest for one day, we can save the peaches for later." He muses quietly, sort of a flat humor tinting the sentence. "Not a bad tour. I'd tip you, but..."

"Don't worry, I don't accept coins," she jokes in turn, with a pointed look at the arm, though it barely registers. Not only has she seen him here with it multiple times, but she'd grown so used to Sousa's artificial leg that any prosthetic barely sinks in for her, anymore.

She does feel a touch better for having shown him around, even if she's more worried for her own sake than for his to let him go off. What if he vanishes again? What if she's left without a friend one more time? "I should let you get some rest, I imagine it's been quite a day."

The jokes between them, as they often do with their personality types, aren't quite humorous enough to carry themselves. Deflecting emotions with wry commentary is a necessary coping mechanism for the type of lives they lead, but he finds they often leave too much stuff left unsaid. He's always made it a point to try and find the time to say those things, even at the risk of making the situation uncomfortable or a little too blunt.

So he clears his throat softly and steps forward, settling a hand on Peggy's upper arm somewhere just above the elbow.

"I'm glad you're here." He starts earnestly, though his voice doesn't waver from it's baseline, only just managing not to sound flat and dark. It's only the tilt of his eyebrows and the unguarded look in his eyes that belies his genuineness. "I don't know what- how we were before, you'd think I'd be used to that by now but..."

He shrugs a shoulder. Strange how you never really get used to the knowledge that you forget entire relationships and people.

"You took the time to show me anyway even though I'm not... Whoever that was. Means a lot."

She's not expecting the sincerity of his words and they actually catch Peggy off her guard for a moment, her lips parted as she stares at him, wondering what it is that she should say in turn. Still, the mystery of what she says is solved quickly when he compares himself to the other man.

"You're still James Barnes, as far as I'm concerned," she tells him bluntly. "The same funny, stubborn, brave, courageous, handsome pain in my arse," she guarantees, because she doubts that anything could change so wildly as to make him become a different man. "And I'm glad you're here, too, even if I find myself needing to earn your friendship again."

His lips twitch, because he doesn't feel like he's been James Barnes in a long, long time. He barely feels like a Bucky on bad days, but he'll accept the sentiment and try to keep himself from circling into dark thoughts about his own identity. He's done enough of that in the past, and had a fair share of therapy to keep his mind away from it.

Funny. Stubborn. Courageous. Handsome. The growing list of adjectives pulls a sort of grin from him, something that echoes the ghost of James Barnes. If she'd have said that a lifetime ago in a bar far, far away.... "You keep saying stuff like that and it won't take long."

"You see, my charm offensive works on some," she counters, like he'd been the one to tell her that she couldn't when it was really an office full of agents that she didn't even like or respect that much. She had meant every word of what she'd said, of course, because it's not hard to be honest when you have such a good friend.

"Here I thought perhaps I'd need to dig out my weapons to earn a little more favour," she notes, starting back in the direction of the main area. "Lucky me that I don't."

mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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