mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

[freightcars]

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.

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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.

Comments

[freightcars]

Bucky's own cooking has been decidedly rusty since his awakening, he's in no position to judge. Mostly he subsisted on fresh produce, protein bars, and canned or preserved goods that withstood a lack of refrigeration. Wakanda was a slight improvement, some of the communal dinners the village put on was the best food he's ever eaten. They called it an all hands pot, meaning everyone contributed something. Everyone cooked, everyone cared, literally everyone's hands were involved in the making of the food and everyone got to eat, they say that half the flavor comes from the salt of the hands of the people who contribute. Metaphorically or literally, he wasn't quite so sure. He thinks if it were literal things would taste a lot more like copper once he started helping.

He accepts the bowl with the same humble appreciation as in Wakanda, a bowed head and a quiet murmuring of thanks. "It looks... really great."

Because paying in compliments never really hurt either.

[collaronhisneck]

The response draws a quiet chuckle from Mulcahy, but it's not one laughing at Bucky. "If it does, thank Miss Kelly - we'd be in much more trouble without her, since almost none of us knew what to do with food in its most basic form before we came here. It seems like we're all too used to having our food supplied to us from the outside. If you need anything else, there's always more stew, and you simply fetch it from the pot there." Turning a little, Mulcahy points to the "buffet" area, where further plates and bowls are stacked along with the stew and more of the bread.

"I know it's a shock to have turned up here so suddenly, but you can depend on the other people here to help you when you need it."

[freightcars]

Mulcahy isn't wrong; even in 1940 he hadn't exactly lived on a damn farm, and then afterward they'd had their rations in the army. He never worked the kitchens. The most amount of time he spent cooking for himself was in Romania, and even then there's been an admittedly excess amount of protein bars and cereal bars. Supplementing them with fresh produce did not constitute cooking.

His fingers wrap around the bowl quietly, studying the contents with something akin to relief in him. It's warmth, comfort, it's a gesture of good will in a strange place and Bucky's intimately familiar with both sides of the spectrum.

A little guilt rises in him, though, as Mulcahy speaks and he can't seem to find words to carry out a polite conversation. Small talk isn't his forte, not when he's rattled like this, and it's all he can do to give a sort of wary looking nod of understanding.

"I- um. I will." Distantly, he realizes Francis gave his name and Bucky never gave anything in turn, so he removes a hand from the bowl and holds it out. It's the decent thing to do, he thinks. Shake hands. "Bucky."