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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He recognizes the names with a bit of a start; both of them had helped him escape Berlin, he owes them more than his life for helping Steve smuggle him out. Though he may not be the biggest fan of Sam personally, he recognizes an ally for what it's worth. Especially in unfamiliar terrain. Any hope he may have felt is promptly eradicated, though, crushed with her next statement.

Lips part absently, a gentle disbelief that he doesn't actually bring himself to voice. He'd protest, but he's far too intimately familiar with the fact that his memories aren't really all that intact. His eyes drop down to his scrubs for an instant, like seeing them will spark something, but only blankness follows. Great. Another gap, another hole he has to fill and another bottomless bucket of opportunities for him to have fucked up here already and set himself up for contention. Just when he was starting to come around to the idea of a clean slate.

"No," he says with definite undertones of resignation. He clears his throat, working out the falter threatening to rise in his follow up question. "Did I..."

Do anything? Hurt anyone? Kill anyone? That kind of information is at the top of his priority list and can dictate his next moves.

She tips her head to the side, looking at him curiously, because when he doesn't finish that sentence, she's left to fill in the blanks. She hadn't been aware of every one of his actions, but she'd known enough. "The first time around, it was the James Barnes that I met once upon a time in a bar," she says, not mentioning that it was before the other incidents.

"The other, though, you were very kind," she assures. "Delivered me food when I was recuperating, were an excellent confidante." She doesn't know what he'd gone and done in those long spaces of exploring and wandering, all that she has is her own frame of reference, because Barnes hadn't been a job and she hadn't been tasked to keep an eye on him.

He'd also helped her drag herself out after Steve had disappeared the last time, but she says nothing of that. "Is there something specific you're worried about?"

If the blanks aren't something she can easily fill in by making an accurate guess, that's a good sign. It wouldn't be hard for someone to assume that he meant did I go on a murder spree had something akin to that actually happen. It's a relief, he supposes, in a way, but it's simultaneously unsettling. Forgetting coming here during his days as a howling commando would make sense; most of those memories were burned out of his brain for a long, long time. Some of them haven't come back. Forgetting something during a time that sounds like it was after? He hasn't been reset since his escape. He doesn't want to start losing things now apropos of nothing.

He's less concerned about having been here and more concerned about having been here and it's just gone. Having made memories with Peggy and not having them. Making an impact in any sort of positive fashion but being able to only store memories of the bones he's broken along the way is a curse.

His head ducks at the question eyes falling and shifting to the side. If she doesn't know, he doesn't want to tell her. She's a ghost from a time before he killed for anything other than his country, she's a beauty in a red dress, she's a symbol. And he's a bastard, so he mutters a dark and obviously untrue, "No."

It's clear as a bell that he's lying to her, but his expression and his tone seem to carry a note of finality. He won't elaborate, and he shifts his eyes back to her to pin her with a scrupulous gaze. After a beat, he opts for a subject change. Clears his throat to unstick it, but it still cracks on the syllable when he asks, "Steve?"

Her brow raises pointedly at that utterly unconvincing 'no', wondering if she ought to call him out on it, but she settles on giving him a pointed look that epitomizes hands on her hips and an annoyed disbelief that he would even try to lie to her. It's a look that Howard and Steve had seen plenty of times, even Barnes himself, and it almost feels nostalgic to get to use it again.

Of course he has to go for the jugular, cutting her off from diving in to find out the truth behind that lie. "Not here," she says, her voice steady, though her face falls without her approval. "He was, though. Twice," she admits, her stomach roiling to think of the grief she's gone through twice already, each time thinking that she had a new chance for closure.

She still never has had that dance.

Yet, this is almost as heartbreaking. Barnes had been her friend, to the point that she knows she's only using his last name because she needs to put that space between them. "I don't know where he keeps going, but that stubborn man is probably off saving the world, so I can't even be that angry."

To his credit, he does seem to look appropriately chastised by her look. His eyes duck, head bobs downward for a moment, and he's no stranger to the twinge of guilt that accompanies the motion. He stands by it, though, fiercely determined that if he can hide being a mass murderer from her he's going to do so by any means necessary. Until the truth comes out some other way, it'll stay hidden as far as he's concerned.

His head stays low when she answers his inquiry about their mutual friend. If he's been twice and Bucky's been twice, what are the odds that they'll align for third time? They seem to follow each other through impossible odds; he needs to know Steve survived. He needs to know he hasn't abandoned his friend on a battlefield only for the other man to die alone, wondering why Bucky wasn't there for him.

"He was," Bucky rasps, an affirmative mutter. "From something... big."

Well, at least she's still got something in her pocket when it comes to keeping people in line. She watches him critically as he reacts, her own fears kicking up. That awful feeling in her stomach isn't going away, but rather grows worse.

"How big?" she asks, because she'd thought that dealing with Schmidt and the tesseract had been big enough, but Barnes looks genuinely wary and she knows that it would take a lot to make a soldier like him feel that way.

Yeah, the tesseract was a big one, except this one's about five times the size of the problem. His eyes flicker up to hers, lock in her gaze to both illustrate his solemnity and to gauge her reaction at his answer.

"Universal." It's not an exaggeration; if the gauntlet is as powerful as it's made out to be he's not sure if it abides my the limitations of just their universe either. Knowing what he knows now, knowing the way Samantha's Earth is on a whole different plane of reality than his, he can't say with absolute certainty they're not at risk too. At any rate, wiping out half of all life not just on Earth but every planet? Everywhere? "Half the population. Gone. Everywhere."

She hadn't known that her stomach could plummet like this, the terror gripping her. It's a problem that she can't even begin to hope to solve, and worse, it's one that she knows is happening and can't even help. "How?" That's the only word she can eke out of her mouth, but there's more concern, because...

Is Steve all right? Is he fine? Had he been one of the half, or worse, one of the ones left behind with the guilt of not succeeding. Those are the things rattling through her mind, and she's sure Barnes sees it on her face.

If he seems incredibly calm about the whole thing, he's not, really. He's just gotten exceptionally good at internalizing things, he's gotten accustomed to compartmentalizing stress and distancing himself from it, it can make him seem aloof and unattached to things that would drive a well-functioning human to emotional distress. As such, he's nearly apathetic sounding when he explains.

"There's this... this guy, this... being, I guess. Thanos." It's not exactly the best introduction to a long story, and he only really got the abridged version of himself. "Basically he's been... hunting down these things, these stones. One was in the Tesseract, I guess they're... spread out, or they were, but they're all powerful. All-powerful, actually. Anyway, he... pretty much decided to wipe out half of the universe. Something about finite resources and culling for survival."

The last part delves into a sort of bitter mutter, monotone dipping a bit into disdain. "We didn't... we couldn't stop him. He did it. I'm... The thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm..."

He stops himself, because it had happened so fast. One minute there, and then vague memories of watching himself fall apart like a thousand ashen butterflies. He doesn't know for sure that's what it was, but it's the only thing he can logically infer.

She pays attention like she's in the middle of a briefing room, even though there's clearly nothing that Peggy can do from here about it. It ought to be frustrating, but a part of her is simply happy to have information again, because it's been a very long time since she's had that. Paying attention, she wonders how he could have been stopped, because she can't accept that sort of loss.

When he talks about himself being one of the ones gone, Peggy's instincts kick in, still thinking of the Barnes before, which is why she reaches out, a hand on top of his to squeeze gently, not even paying any mind to which of his hands she's reaching for and touching the right only by luck.

"James," she exhales, hoping the familiarity will be forgiven. "I'm so sorry. I know that once, it was someone's theory that perhaps we were all..." Dead, she doesn't say, but that had been disproved. "Perhaps this is only temporary. Did he survive? Did Steve?"

Because if he did, Peggy has every bit of faith in the world that he's going to find a solution.

She calls him James, and for once in his entire life he doesn't correct her. Something about the name coming from Peggy's lips sounds right. Hopefully she can't read minds, but something about it almost reminds him of his ma; a firm class and strength that bodes no arguments. It's only furthered by the way she grabs his hand- it's startling, if only because he's not used to touching. Steve is about as much as he gets, the occasional hug or pat on the back, but aside from that physicality typically always means violence.

It's an interesting change of pace, it takes him aback, and for a second he doesn't know how to react. After a beat he chances an awkward attempt at a reassuring squeeze.

"I think so," He admits uncertainly. Steve seemed still in tact as he was falling apart, but it's been a disorienting affair. He can't say with any certainty that it's true. "I don't know."

And it's been eating him up inside since he woke up here, usually he's excellent at compartmentalizing these things but for once that rawness shows through. Probably because she called him James.

She'd have pulled back if not for the squeeze of her hand, a tacit bit of permission that makes her feel better for taking such a chance. This Barnes isn't the one that had taken care of her after her injury or picked peaches with her, but she's beginning to understand the man, even if she thinks she'll never truly know him.

"If he is, then he's going to find a way to fix it," she vows. "I would have done the same in his place and he's at least twice as stubborn as me," she jokes, her eyes glimmering with mischief, because on a good day, she's neck and neck with him in that department.

For now, though, they have to deal with what they've been dealt. She can see on his face that perhaps she's pushed too far. "Do you want a tour?" she offers. "I can show you a few of the main areas, where I am, where some of the others from your time have settled."

She's right, if Steve survived the culling then surely he'll fix it, or at least find Thanos and put an end to him to avenge those who have been lost by his hand. He's not sure if he should feel comforted by that last part or not, truth be told it may be better for Steve's own personal well-being to let sleeping dogs lie, lest he wind up spread like ashes into the wind himself. It's a train of thought he doesn't want to pursue right now, and she gets a reluctant sort of half-smile when she changes the subject.

He appreciates the consideration and the sentiment. It works, as a matter of fact, if only because she mentions from his time. His brow furrows. "Others as in from our world?"

Because Sam was from earth as well, but not theirs, and he feels it's worth the distinction.

"Yes," she agrees with a nod. "There were more before," she confesses, "but it seems that apart from a select few unlucky of us, myself included, some people have managed to find a way out of wherever we are." That, or their captors have been taking them and putting them elsewhere, which is also a possibility.

"Clint is still here," she says, given that she'd seen him in her daily rounds. "Some others from New York in the future that appear to know me. There's a boy named Peter, a woman named Claire and one named Karen who seem to know each other." There used to be so many more, but she's trying not to think about that for very long.

"Do you want to walk a bit?" she offers. "Or is it best to distill the information here, first?"

It's a little contradictory, he thinks, that everyone's been pressing the no escape point and yet evidently he's been here twice, other people have come and gone. It's possible, then, it's just that no one's sure how. Something he'll have to think about, analyze, because if there's any way to get back to Steve...

Most of the names he doesn't recognize. Clint, however, is familiar; the man was an ally Leipzig and ended up getting arrested for his troubles. Last he heard, Steve broke him out of prison, so at least he wasn't incarcerated for Bucky's sake. He's going to have to give the man a proper 'thank you' soon, and so he nods finally at the offer. Wordlessly pushes himself away from the table to stand.

Lead the way, Peg.

She gives a nod, finally withdrawing her hand and standing, not entirely sure where she ought to start, seeing as they're in a brave new world, but she thinks that maybe she ought to begin with the main areas. "Are you hungry? We can swing by some of the fruit trees if you are, find something before we set off."

"I won't take you to the far reaches just yet," she adds, over her shoulder as she opens the main door, "but there's quite a bit of land out there to explore and discover."

By the time all is said and done, Bucky Barnes is going to owe Peggy more than a sizable debt of gratitude. Whether she intended to or not, she's made herself a quick and loyal friend. In part it's due to the history, of course, but largely it's furthered by her kindness and her optimism in their mutual friend.

He shakes his head, pushes the hair back out of his face with a metal hand. "I'm fine. The man who runs this place- Benedict- he brought me something earlier."

Another quick friend, though he's got less of a standing in Bucky's heart right now. No, mostly he's just curious, ready to adapt, ready to learn, and he slips out the main door right behind her. Settles at a place to her left, hands stuffed into scrub pockets, shoulders hunched a bit to compensate for their height difference. "How big is this place?"

At the mention of Benedict, Peggy smiles warmly. "Did he talk to you about his bees?" she asks, seeing as she knows that there's quite a bit of pride therein. "I'm glad to hear that you're being well-fed," she adds, because the last time Barnes had been here, she'd made it very clear that her cooking skills were non-existent, so she's happy she isn't responsible for making him anything.

"Large enough that we could be gone for weeks discovering everything," she says. "That I have gone days out there searching and exploring. We were somewhere else, recently, just like this, but it had a canyon. Then, one day, we woke up here, as though untouched." She reaches back and lightly touches her hair, which is longer than she's let it become in recent history and while she'd cut it up to her shoulders, it's still a sign and a reminder. "It was like we were in stasis of some sort," she says. "Woken up to be put through the fountain again."

It's not long before she stops them, gesturing to the house before her. "This is where I've been staying with a woman named Stella, ever since the first version of you vanished and I found rooming alone quite lonely."

Judging by the look of surprise and confusion that ghosts across his features, Benedict had indeed not mentioned anything about bees. It's something he'll file away in the back of his mind to ask about later, in the meantime he lets the subject slip by in favor of learning more about their area and what it used to be. A canyon, a total topographical shift. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised; if the entities that brought them here were capable of interdimensional kidnapping they sure as hell should be capable of changing land masses or drugging and moving an entire population.

An unhappy furrow settles into his brow. It rings too closely to the things in his recent past that he's been running from; memory tampering, a sleeping stasis, mental and physical experimentation. From the fire to the frying pan, it seems.

It takes a second for the implication of their prior domesticity to set in, and maybe it's the old-fashioned roots that still take place in his mind, but for a second truly startles him. Lips part, and after a beat he summons up words, "We were- were we...?"

Together? It's not that he isn't wholly aware that people of the opposite sex coexist completely platonically or something, it's just the first question that pops into his head and he can't help but ask it. He regrets it as soon as he starts, so he doesn't finish the sentence.

Her eyes widen instantly and she realises that without context, that might have come across rather improperly. "Friends," she says bluntly, perhaps a little too quickly, but she wants to head off Barnes before this gets inappropriate (not that it hadn't crossed her mind, on lonely nights when he'd been staying at hers, watching over her, but that doesn't matter).

"We were friends, supporting each other through Steve's loss. The first time," she amends, thinking of that large, lonely house. "And then you went as well, and I've been living with Stella ever since. She's lovely," Peggy praises. "I think you'll like her."

Don't react so quickly, Peggy, you almost act like he's not a valid romantic candidate. Like somehow mental instability and the potential to accidentally snap your partner's neck if someone goes into weird details about trains isn't an admirable quality in a significant other. Not to be insulting in turn, but there's something of a relief that spreads across his features at friends; he made a pass in the past but now? It would add an unnavigable layer of complexity to a situation that's already difficult to decipher.

He grants her with an understanding nod, evidently not offended by her swift correction.

"Guess if I can trust anything it's your taste in people," Is his neutral answer, and he settles his eyes on the house before them. "It's nice. Do you just- do you buy houses here or do you just... move in?"

"Most of the time," she agrees, feeling a bit proud and smug about that, but with few exceptions, Peggy's barometre of trust in people does tend to turn out for the best, so she thinks that Barnes should listen to her opinion when it comes to these sorts of things.

"Well, I've had three since I've been here and no one's chased me down for rent," she deadpans. "The first flooded, the second was too big for myself alone, and now I'm in the third." She nods for Barnes to keep walking with her, intending to go by the stream next.

"So long as no one else is living in it, I think you'll be fine to claim whatever you like as yours."

Wakanda had a similar policy; you contribute to the community and the community contributes to you. The outskirts, at last, the villages where the elders lived and those who wanted space and peace farmed. He never made any formal arrangements or claims on the hut they'd given him, so it's something of an amusing relief that the same practices are being followed for nice homes.

He considers briefly moving into one, but realizes he's never owned his own before. In Brooklyn he'd had apartment after apartment, on the run he'd done the same, he's never had experience doing home upkeep before. Couldn't fix a busted pipe, didn't think the concept of pulling weeds or sweeping sounded all that great. More than that, much like Peggy, he can't really fathom living in a big house alone- strange for him, he knows, being as he's spent so much time warily eyeing strangers.

One can be alone without truly being alone, and Bucky Barnes has mastered that. He falls back into step behind her, expression contemplative. He murmurs, "Maybe I'll take a raincheck on that. One day."

She watches him thoughtfully, wondering if 'one day' is a firm concept, or whether it's a dream. For her, a home is something she likes the idea of, but back in Los Angeles, home had meant Mr. Jarvis and Ana's delicious meals and Howard's frustrating presence. Here, it means Stella's support and the knowledge they have neighbours who will support them, but it hardly means she knows what to do.

"We're going to the stream," she says, to break the silence and switch topics. "There are a decent amount of fish, so if you're not inclined to hunt or are worried about the populations, this is a good place," she says. "And it's a normal stop, considering I'm about to take you to healing springs, next," she says wryly.

If she hadn't used them so many times, she might not believe in them, but seeing as they did quite a good job with her torso injury, she's rather indebted.

Fishing is definitely not on the sad list that constitutes Bucky's contributable skills. He's never been the type to wander off into the countryside and hunt things, and afterward there had been little time for a recreational fishing trip. He understands the concept, could probably figure out how to put a worm on a hook, but 10/10 likelihood he'd end up with a hook tangled in his hair and zero fish to show for it.

His eyebrow does arch, however, at the mention of healing springs. He thinks instantly of the subtle ache in his shoulder, a symptom of his reduced metabolism and healing though he doesn't realize that yet. The weight of an enormous prosthetic arm constantly tugging down on an amputated shoulder doesn't make for comfortable muscles. "Do they actually do that, or is it like Facebook."

You know, a misleading name that is neither a book nor particularly devoted to faces. That might be one reference he gets that she doesn't, come to think of it.

Edited 2018-06-05 18:39 (UTC)

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these here be infinity war spoilers, shield your eyes if they're nubile.

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