sixthiterationlogs | mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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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.

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At his smile, the teeth stand out as well. He's seen a lot of what the world has to offer in the modern day and age. He's been to black tie events in New York and underground raves in Hong Kong, he's seen the subcultures of Tokyo all by way of mission locations. He's seen everything pierced and everything tattooed and he's built a certain profile in his mind for the types of people who make those aesthetic changes to their person. Benedict's other features seem to contradict the personality type for someone that invests in contact lenses and teeth alterations, he seems older, more tame with regards to fashion and accessories than what Bucky might expect. If this is a trend, if this is normal, it's outside of Bucky's scope. He scans the other man again to reassemble a picture already put together and, nope, still doesn't add up. Maybe they're not add-ons. Maybe they're not fake.

Or maybe he ought to mind his own business and focus on the information being passed to him.

It causes a gentle knit in his brow as he processes it. It's not the strangest thing he's ever heard; alien invasions and infinity stones top it, but it may be the strangest thing he's directly been affected by. He chews the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed, considering.

"You wake up there too? The fountain?" And then, more importantly, a threat assessment, "How many others?"

"Indeed I did, over a year ago now. There are few of us early residents left. The others have either disappeared or have arrived later on."

It takes him a moment to calculate just how many people live in this habble now, a number that is constantly fluctuating. Eventually, he feels he has made an accurate enough tally to answer: "Between forty and fifty."

Bucky's focus on Benedict's teeth and eyes hasn't exactly gone unnoticed, although the newcomer has done an admirable job in not staring at him, a far better job than some others have managed. At the beginning, when they were relocated here and his features had returned to what they had been his entire life previous, he had been terribly wary of the reactions of those around him, absolutely terrified that they would be frightened of him and think him monstrous. But now, he has grown much more comfortable with the whole idea, and it is what allows him to give Bucky a knowing smile and extend a hand in something like an invitation.

"Go on, ask." He uses that hand to gesture at his face. "I can see you are trying not to."

Forty or fifty people; what are the odds that they know him? What are the odds that he'll have to stay in hiding? Push comes to shove, forty or fifty is a number he can probably handle, perhaps not all at once but should the need arise it's not an inescapable situation.

His lips twitch a little, perhaps the ghost of an apologetic smile. Hypocritical, isn't it, for a man with a metal arm to point out the unusual features in another person. He'd at least put in a token effort not to bring up the obviously stand-out features, but since he's given the window, what the hell. Might as well.

"You- uh-" He nods vaguely, gesturing to Benedict's face but more specifically meaning his eyes. "Those real?"

The metal arm, at least, is more obvious for what it is. Clearly Bucky lost the use of his arm in one way or another — Benedict would bet combat of some sort, based on the man's general demeanor and size — and has been given a replacement. That it seems to move and function the same as an actual flesh arm and isn't just a placeholder is certainly noteworthy, but Benedict is not mechanically-minded enough to understand any explanation of it were one given, so he doesn't ask.

For what it's worth, he doesn't seem to mind. Either Bucky's arm, or him asking about his own eyes and teeth.

"Very much so. I've had them since I was born." Minus a little over a year where he had appeared just as normal as anyone around him, a year where he had the chance to pretend to be fully human, ordinary. And then the simulation ended, and they were placed here, and he was back to his version of normal. "I take it the warriorborn are not known where you come from."

It's not really a question. Bucky wouldn't be staring, otherwise.

Good to know at least part of his assessment was correct; let it never be said he lacks the skill of basic deductive reasoning. He's not as uncomfortable with these features as a civilian might have been, he's seen what Wanda can do, he's heard about Bruce Banner's shape transitioning and he knows about the heart shaped herb that T'Challa uses. The world is a bigger place than it was in 1940, with bigger people and bigger possibilities. The things that define him now may be synthetic, but they might be just as bizarre as this stranger. The reservations he has over this situation aren't impacted one way or the other by the eyes and teeth of the man who fed him.

Warriorborn isn't a term he's familiar with, but if he breaks it down into two words the sentiment seems familiar. His mouth twists a little more, a painful approximation of a smile, something almost wry. "Not exactly."

The but go on is implied, and he anticipates making connections to things in his own history. The Wakandan warriors, the members of the 107th or the soldats of Hydra. Warriors themselves are nothing new, at least.

"I gathered." Bucky isn't the only one wry at the moment.

Benedict take a moment to examine the man sitting in front of him, pleased to see him looking at least a little bit less wary now that he has been fed and offered hopefully pleasantly diverting company. He's not foolish enough to think that the man is relaxed, or that he has somehow assuaged his fears about this place, but hopefully he's made it clear enough that not everyone is a threat.

Nudging the tea closer to Bucky across the table, he launches into a brief history of the warriorborn, starting all the way back in the time of the Builders, touching even more briefly on their creation of Spires and the habbles built within them.

He's only slightly disappointed to have his suspicions that Bucky is not from his world confirmed. So many of those that arrive here know each other in one way or another, or at least come from the same Spire — country, he knows this, but it's still hard to avoid the instinctual usage of terms he is familiar with — but he hasn't met a single Auroran since the day he crawled out of that blasted fountain, half-drowned and terrified.

By the time Benedict is done, Bucky's made friends with his cup of tea and has settled a little more onto the table before him. More than the history itself, Bucky takes note of the subtleties behind the story, the way he talks about home sounds a lot like the way Bucky thinks of Brooklyn. Not just any Brooklyn, not of a place he can go back to even if he were still on earth, but a Brooklyn that's alien to everyone alive barring Steve. It's nothing if not relatable, and if Benedict hadn't passed the soldat's screening process with food, he cements it now. He shifts from potential threat to potential acquaintance and as such, Bucky's shoulders lose some of their tension.

"Not exactly something we had where I'm from," is a total understatement, and they both know it. "Which means that whatever brought us here... It's big. It's global- or... universal, I guess."

It's hard, not to let his pleasure show as the tension still cording Bucky's shoulders slowly loosens. Kate would be so proud of him. He'll tell her about this story, later, once they have retreated to their home and shut up for the night.

"Universal," he agrees, absently pushing a hand through his hair. "Almost everyone here is from Earth."

Apparently that's noteworthy, and not something that is a given.

"Mine was not a heliocentric world." Getting used to the passage of seasons was quite a fascinating and also incredibly frustrating endeavor.

He's not unfamiliar with the concept of completely alternative civilizations on other planets either, Thor from Asgard probably being the first example that comes to mind. Still, it's not an every day event- not for him, at least, being whatever the opposite of an Avenger is.

And not that he's adapted to the situation quite yet, but at least he has the added perspective of knowing it could be worse. He could be on some random planet where the population's made up entirely of hot dog people or something, and they could be revolving around a god damn toaster or something. His heart goes out to you, pal, sorry for your transition.

"Almost everyone," He echoes, musing. Obviously his new friend here isn't, but he thinks it's a good fact to keep in mind. Asgardians or whatever the hell those things were that attacked New York could be floating around. He sighs, releasing his tea long enough to pass a hand across his mouth. It's a lot to take in, all of it is, but thankfully his ability to internalize new and stressful situations is off the damn charts.

A quiet moment passes wherein he realizes he hasn't been searching the room for a threat in the last twenty or so minutes, and that in and of itself is an impressive feat of distraction on Benedicts part. With a sort of apologetic grimace he offers up a genuine, "Thank you."

For the tea, the food, the conversation. The kindness. It helped.

Leaning back in his chair, Benedict blinks slowly at Bucky like an overgrown cat, comfortable enough to present an opening for attack to an opponent who can very clearly be classified as a threat. But then again, of course Benedict is comfortable here, far more comfortable than Bucky could possibly be, he's been here coming up to two years, so he, at least, knows what he's doing and what is expected of him.

He might not know much else, but he does at least know that.

"No need to thank me," he protests with a little shake of his head. "My Kate would have my hide if she thought I had been inhospitable."

Not that she would have much to worry about; Benedict has taken to his place as an accidental innkeeper like a duck to water. He enjoys this. "Are you still hungry? There is some stew left, unless someone has been snacking in the kitchen. But if you are finished, I can show you to the rooms upstairs, you may take your pick of any that are unoccupied."

Wherever this man is from, apparently some expressions transcend the boundaries of space and time. A small smile curls around his mouth, and is accompanied by an amused shake of the head. Must be nice to have something like that, he thinks, a partner. An other half. Something he himself will likely never have, even if he wanted to.

"No. That's- it was good." He pushes the bowl forward, cutting himself off before he can say thanks again. One day he'll get back into the swing of having comfortable, normal human interactions, but today is not that day. Securing lodging seems to be the more pressing matter in the compartmentalized voice of survival he carries, and so he makes to stand. "A room would be great."

A room with locks he can turn and ten minutes of alone time to process it all.

Benedict still marvels at the fact that a woman like Kate has agreed to be his wife. It seems so bizarre, so aberrant. And yet, he wakes up to her hair in his mouth every morning, so it must be real.

Who knows, maybe Bucky will find something like that here, just as Benedict did.

"I will pass on your praise to the chef," he replies in an amused murmur, clearly talking about his wife and just as clearly debating picking up the bowl and taking it to the kitchen. In the end, he decides to deal with that later. Bucky's lodgings should take precedence over clean dishes, at least for the moment.

He stands and steps away from the table, towards the stairs. "Follow me," he says, turning on his heel and ambling away, stopping only for a moment to fetch a few keys and a towel from the front desk before leading the way up the stairs.

"Currently, we have only three permanent residents here, so you will have you pick of rooms." He indicates the hallway with all the doors leading off of it, most of them open to indicate how empty they are. In each is a bed, with a spring mattress, a small chest of drawers, and a small table that can be used as a desk or a vanity. He doubts Bucky would need such a thing, although his hair might require diligent tending.

Bucky's behind him by just a few paces, chancing the occasional glance over his shoulder out of sheer habit. They're not followed, though, obviously, and it leaves him staring down a hallway of nearly overwhelming options. A half dozen factors run through his head so swiftly that he barely registers Benedict's words, instead he focuses on length to exit, proximity to window, likelihood of survivability in the event of structural explosion, likelihood of bullet penetration through the thickness of the walls. He thinks about which rooms would be the most and least obvious were someone to tail him, and about which would be the backup to that room, and so on, and so forth, a roulette wheel of possibilities unfolding like the god damn matrix in his brain.

He ducks his head, forces himself to stop and be present in the moment again. In the end he opts for room 2, which seems to have an acceptable balance of all factors. He nods toward it in question, checking for approval despite the open offer.

Benedict watches curiously as Bucky surveys the hallway, quite clearly not listening to what he's saying. Instead of being offended, Benedict feels a touch sad for the man, for being on such high alert at all times even if he does understand why.

When Bucky turns his attention back to Benedict and indicates room 2, Benedict smiles at him and picks the key emblazoned with the correct number from the key ring in his hand.

"Here," he says, handing it over along with the towel. "The doors are easy enough to lock, and are quite solid. The bureau is also a rather effective blockade, should that be necessary." He doesn't sound judgmental about the thought that Bucky might need to block the door with furniture. He wouldn't be the first person here to do so, after all. "The washroom is at the end of the hall, there is a key inside to lock the door but often the easiest way to indicate whether or not it's occupied is to whistle."

He's joking.

The key and towel are held loosely to his chest, this time absorbing the words with rapt attention. Lips twitch at the suggestion that he might use the bureau as a blockade, not because it's a bad idea but because he'd been so transparent in his intentions and his mannerisms. It's an educated guess that hits a little too close to the truth of his thought processes. So rapt and solemn is he at first that he misses the joke completely, head turning and eyebrows knit in disbelief.

And then he sees the humor touching the other man's eyes, and his lips form an exasperated purse. Dad jokes, already? Steve 2.0 everybody, he gives Benedict a mild unimpressed look. It's followed by a slow shake of the head, as though he's deeply disappointed.

"Duly noted," is the flat reply, and he strides toward the open doorway to his new lodgings. Pauses at the frame and can't help himself but to turn and say one final and sincere, "Thank you, again."

The confused look Bucky sends his way after his pronouncement has Benedict worrying that his jesting had fallen flat, but then he gets to watch in slow-motion as Bucky's expression turns flat and disbelieving. Oh, good, he caught on.

He grins, showing off his sharp teeth, and lifts his eyebrows in mock-innocence. What's with the look, Bucky, he didn't do anything.

The grin softens a little and he inclines his head in a shallow nod-bow. "You are welcome." He takes half a step back, getting out of the way, and gestures down the corridor. "I'll be just downstairs. Holler if you need anything."

Congratulations Benedict, you now have a loyal new friend who owes you a debt. If you ever need anything punched into submission, he's your guy. Only partially because of your dumb dad jokes. He grants the other man a small nod in understanding, and slips into the room. The door clicks quietly shut behind him, and there he'll stay for quite some time trying to wrap his head around it all.

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mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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