sixthiterationlogs | Nosferatu WW2

It wasn't exactly a long walk down the hall for Sam, but she dragged it out as long as possible, debating just how stupid she was going to be. Probably very stupid. It was also kind of her brand, right up there with prickly and irritable. Stupid was how she'd ended up a vampire in the first fucking place. And stupid was her decision to just have done with it on the group chat.

A year had gone by. She was tired.

The thing of it was, she liked Bucky. He had the worst sense of humor ever and he tolerated her better than most people.

She didn't want to give up on human contact. And she was absolutely sure she was about to, even with the best of intentions.

But what the hell?

She tapped her fingertips on the door and pushed it open a few inches, but didn't walk in. People found vampires creepy. Go figure. She didn't want to push her luck. "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto."

The thing is, Bucky spent most of the cultural development of the mythology of a vampire on ice. Granted the folklore started hundreds of years before he was born, but Nosferatu was about as culturally relevant as things got until after he was knocked out. He missed Twilight, he missed the lost boys, fright night, brides of Dracula. All of it's lost on him, apart from the general concept and the few random pop culture things he's absently absorbed since his regaining of consciousness. The thought's weird, just like the thought of what Wanda can do is weird, just like how Thanos is weird, but he's not creeped out. Maybe he would be, had he had a traditional life.

As it stands, he just levels her with a flat and unimpressed look; lacking in references as he may be, he's heard domo arigato mr. roboto at least a dozen times from various Wakandans, avengers, and strangers on the street. Neither of them are good at jokes, apparently.

He's just going to jump right into it, "It's been weird since I got here, like it's not quite as potent, but... who knows, maybe it'll be better than regular blood? Or maybe not, but either way I'm better equipped to handle it than most of the people here."

She let out a sound, halfway between a yelp and a laugh. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." She held up her hands, walking into the room and kicking the door shut with the back of her heel. "Slow down, cowboy. While I appreciate the offer for take-out, that's really not why I'm here."

Everyone was being really, eerily cool about her 'coming out,' as it were. It was difficult for Sam to process. Not because she underestimated the kindness of people, or whatever.

It was just that she wasn't exactly a picnic. She wasn't used to people just...being nice to her.

She'd spent way too much time around Kindred, the last couple of years.

Folding her arms, she leaned against the door, digging her fingers into her skin because the hunger had been starting to get real recently. "Let's start with the fact that you're a genetic experiment?"

Truth be told, Bucky feels like he owes her one. She made transitioning here easier, she was a nice (albeit weird) girl, and starving to death is a hell of a way to go. There were times, he vaguely remembers, at the beginning of his brainwashing. Withholding food for days breaks the strongest of wills, leaves an aching in your stomach, a pounding in your head, a weakness and an apathy that break people. It's stupid to let someone go through that when he can easily step in and solve the problem.

He closes the book, gently flexing the paperback between metal and flesh fingers. "Yeah, it's... kind of a long story, but basically, yes."

Not something he's going to volunteer, but if she presses him for details he might be more inclined to share.

"In my experience," Sam said, whetting her lips, trying for something that sounded vaguely gentle, "Anything involving genetic futzing is kinda a long story. Definition in terms."

Then again, his world had cryo. Maybe the context was different.

But she doubted it. You needed extreme levels of batshit to screw around with someone else's DNA.

...or your own.

She cleared her throat. "Voluntary?"

His lips purse for a long moment, but figures he's been honest up until this point and there's no reason to change that now.

"No." he answers flatly. "Neither was the arm."

He doesn't seem to be interested in pity, and he doesn't seem to carry any haunted PTSD agent orange gaze with the admission either. It's just flat facts, ones he's long since come to terms with and started moving past. Wakandan therapy is a miracle worker, not that he wasn't blunt about his mental state before that. Before she can press too much, he derails her with: "What's so bad about drinking blood that you'd rather starve to death?"

Sam let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Involuntary. That sucked. But it also meant that he wasn't a complete psycho. Like her entire family, for starters.

Family.

That probably wasn't the right term. But what did you call the Looney Toons who cooked you up in a test tube?

She shook her head, grateful that he'd derailed that particular train of thought. "The possibility of accidentally killing someone is pretty bad," she said. "Do you need more of a reason than that?"

Empathy for Samantha Moon goes up two points at her reservations, and he holds his hands up defensively, one of them loosely gripping a novel still. "I get it."

And he does, he's accidentally killed a couple dozen people over the last fifty years or so, it's not a great feeling to say the least. He shrugs his shoulders, drops his hands. "What I'm saying is it's not a problem with me."

Whether his blood is potent or not, whether or not he's got the same level of serum coursing through him, he's got a big fucking metal arm and decades of combat experience, if things go too far he can definitely stop one girl, vampire or not. "I just wanna- you know- give back. Do something good. There's not much I can do here, but I can do that no problem."

Well, there was a lot to parse out in that. And Sam, frankly, wasn't the most qualified. Especially with her disdain for the social sciences. And her inability to understand...people. She frowned a little though, tilting her head to one side. "I'm not sure helping me out is all that...good," she said. "I'm mostly just a drain on people's resources and patience here."

Unless you counted the fact that she was brewing moonshine. Which she didn't.

Sam took a few hesitant, awkward steps into the room, finding herself in the nowhere land between the bed and the rest of the furniture.

"Look," she said. "I was a vampire for three years. And then I get whooshed to this clown rodeo and suddenly I'm not. For a whole fucking year. Then the next thing I know." She snapped her fingers. "Our Overlords...somehow...switched me back again. Somehow. With some kind of power I can't even begin to measure. But I'm...wrong. And I don't know what that means for my ability to stop."

It made no sense. She knew it made no sense. But Sam couldn't find a better way to put it.

She felt a surge of frustration in her stomach.

He huffs out a soft and sardonic noise; preaching to the choir. He feels like a drain himself, he's got no real contributable skills aside from muscle and dry wit. He can sympathize. That doesn't mean either of them deserve to suffer or stave though, he's garnered a pretty decent perspective on the human experience and the worth of a human life. Even if it's... vampire-human. He's not a hero by any stretch, not like Steve or Stark, but he still has that deep desire to be good when he can.

This feels like a situation he can be good in. Feels like a little something he can do to redeem himself in the eyes of the universe just a little.

He pushes to his feet then, tosses the book absently onto his desk and strides over to her. A good head taller and probably another sixty pounds of muscle separate their statures, and he settles a solid metal hand on her shoulder as if to drive the point home. "You can't help what something else made you to be, all you can do is use it to try and do something good. Not exactly an option if you die like an idiot."

No offense. He's projecting a little, he knows it, it's transparent, but he's a sucker for a cause like this because he understands. Knows what it's like to be turned into a monster that acts on instinct or by something with a greater will than his own. He'd hate to see someone else lose that fight, because it means there's a chance he might, too.

As for her ability to stop, well, having missed the cultural formation of the vampire mythology, he has no idea the kind of toll feeding can take on a vampire's self control. Whether it has any impact or not, whether it'll be like trying to keep a drunk guy from grabbing his ninth beer or whether it'll be like stopping the winter soldier from completing a mission, but either extreme he feels more than well-equipped to handle.

A tiny smirk played on her lips at the suggestion that she was dying like an idiot. It wasn't exactly the first time the accusation had been tossed her way. Deserved or not. Sam knew she was an idiot. The world's smartest dumb person. Or dumbest smart person. Either way.

"Can't help what something else made me to me," she said. "You have no fucking clue the layers of complicated involved in that shit." Which wasn't to say that she disagreed, necessarily.

But she was a damn matryoshka doll of complications.

She buried her face in her hands for a second, massaging her temples. This was a conversation that was spiraling for her. She should have expected things to get weird when she outed herself.

But she'd been thinking more of 'torches and pitchforks' weird.

"Look," she said carefully, "I don't know what 'vampire' means in your world. But I think I should explain it for mine. We're...basically dead bodies." Feeling a little self conscious, she took his hand, pressing his fingertips against her pulse point. Well, her lack-of-pulse point. "For reasons that are...not entirely clear, we're still animate. But only so long as we have human blood in our systems. We need it. Like a junkie needs a fix, only...to keep us alive." She sighed. "And I haven't fed in...I don't know how long. I don't know how much that hiatus as a human even counts. Or...anything."

It's true, he doesn't know the complicated layers that make her up, he doesn't know the implication of vampirism, and frankly he doesn't plan on getting into some deep discussion about their histories or their traumas. He doesn't even really want a biology lesson, not because he's minimizing who she is or what she's been through, but because he doesn't think it'll change his decision.

It's simple: She's been kind to him, she seems good. She's a victim of something she can't help, and without some assistance she's going to starve to death. He's in a position to prevent that, so he's going to.

Although, he'll admit that the lack of pulse coming off of her wrist is a little unsettling. Still, what little he knew of vampires did in fact include them being lifeless corpses that survived on blood. That isn't exactly new information. Her ability to stop herself is only something of a slight issue, in that he'll have to step in and restrain her if it comes to it.

"Unless you have a couple decades of combat training, super strength, or the ability to shoot lasers out of your eyes I should know about, I can handle it. What's the worst that could happen? You go a little too hard, I stop you until you snap out of it." Maybe he's naive, maybe if she starts she'll go into some kind of psycho frenzy killing machine, but if all it takes is holding her down until she snaps out of it? That's well within his skill range.

The way he said 'ability to shoot lasers out of yours eyes' made her wonder just how ironic the statement was. His world seemed to be up several levels from hers.

Enough that she wondered if he should have known better than to ask 'What's the worst that could happen?'

Sam cleared her throat. "No super strength, no lasers, and the only combat training involves weaponry which I'm not exactly able to access at the moment. But forgetting the whole 'I don't know if I can stop' thing that could leave you super dead, there's also..."

Oh, how the fuck did she explain the Kiss?

"...side effects."

Now that's relevant to his interests. He's more than willing to donate blood to a good cause, but if it means turning into one as payment for his good deed he's going to have to retract the offer. He's had plenty enough nonconsensual modification to his body for a lifetime.

He arches a wary eyebrow, vocally hazards his guess, "It's contagious?"

"What?" Her eyes widened. "Oh, fuck no. Homey don't play that." She barely understood the basics of Embracing. Largely because she never ever ever wanted to be tempted to try it.

Hell, she couldn't ever stand the fact that they insisted on calling it 'the Embrace' instead of what it actually was: Murder. No amount of euphemism could really change that.

But, of course, that wasn't what she'd been talking about.

Sam suddenly became aware of just how close they were standing. She took a step back, turning around under the pretense of examining the room.

His hands drop away as she turns, something of a guilt rising in him as he realizes just how long he'd been standing there over her. Pressuring her into something she clearly felt uncomfortable with; it may have been under the idea of doing something good, but he checks himself. Backs down a little, settling hands in his pockets contritely.

He clears his throat, "I'm- not trying to make you feel... If you're uncomfortable with it, it's your decision. I respect that." A pause, just to let that settle in, and he can't help adding, "But if there's a chance I can help you, trust me when I say I can handle some serious shit. I think you should let me try, or tell me about the side effects at least."

"Oh, no," she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder at him. "I'm not mad at you or anything. It's sweet. I don't get a lot of sweet in my life. It's just that...you need to understand what you're signing up for. And there are certain things a girl just isn't comfortable talking about while the hot guy is standing over her."

Sam had had some practice with the 'I'm a vampire' conversation. But when it came to feeding, she had a certain system. Largely a system of lies, really.

This whole honesty jag was harder than she'd anticipated. Mostly because how the hell could she have anticipated morons lining up to offer up their veins?

"Look," she said, deciding to go for a clinical approach. "When I bite someone, it activates a physiological response. Releasing certain endorphins..."

Now that seems to slow his roll, his eyebrows shoot up when she calls him hot. Not exactly something he's been called since he resurfaced to the general public these past few years, not a trait he attributed to himself since sometime in the 1940s. Not because he considers himself unattractive, just because the sentiment never really came up for him to think about.

He brushes past that, though, in favor of focusing on the bigger issue at hand.

"Endorphins," he echoes slowly, skeptically. He knows what they are, what they do, but he's trying to imagine the extent of them in this context. He'll enjoy it, he guesses, which doesn't seem like much of a drawback.

He was going to make her say it. And for the life--unlife?--of her, Sam couldn't exactly say why that was a problem. Why the hell would she have any shame?

She shrugged.

And scrubbed her face for about thirty seconds.

"It makes you orgasm, Bucky."

And now she could just...die.

If it seems like he's staring blankly at the word orgasm, well, it's because he is. It takes a full minute for the word to penetrate (ha) his brain, and for a second all he can do is blink stupidly. Of all the shit he was expecting, all the potential side effects, all the problems that could go along with this-

Well, it sure as hell wasn't that.

His lips part dumbly, he mutely searches for words, studies her face incredulously like he can't tell if she's serious or if she's not. A sort of small clicking sound comes from somewhere in the back of his throat, an aborted syllable of surprise doesn't quite round out but definitely scrapes its way out of his mouth.

And that's it. That's all he's got

Are you fucking joking?

Suddenly, the Masquerade felt like an actual good idea. Sam had never been a big proponent of it. She understood the fear of torches and pitchforks and all of that, but when the motion was passed to drop it, she'd been a supporter. No Masquerade meant that--hopefully--what had happened to her would never happen to anyone else again.

But there was a certain appeal to secrecy.

It meant not having to explain that.

She sighed. "It's an evolutionary survival mechanism, I think," she said, going back to clinical, where she was more comfortable. "There are a few rare vampires left who can't do it. So when they bite, it causes agony and it makes it harder for them to feed. Whereas your average vampire can subdue a victim pretty easily because they don't fight back. And then rely on various methods to make them forget it ever happened. Or think it was all a dream." She wiggled her fingers, Wayne's World style.

She receives something of a blank, incredulous stare as she explains. It just... takes a few minutes for him to process the whole thing. He's not really a prude by any means, he had his fair share of encounters when he was young, before the army and occasionally during leave. Since he's been back, though, since he's been conscious? He hasn't so much as tried with another person. With himself is an altogether more private and complicated affair, and though he's not a prude, there was still a little less openness back in the 40's than today. He understands her reluctance about the situation.

He supposes, technically, it's better than agony. The real issue is the supreme awkwardness of doing that in front of a stranger, caused by a stranger. That feeling like somehow even though it's to her benefit it would be taking advantage of her, or that there would be some kind of intimacy he isn't comfortable with involving himself in quite yet, puts a bit of a damper on his enthusiasm.

Finally, eventually, his lips purse in discomfort. Crosses his arms, and rasps out an uncomfortable, "There's a chance that might not... work. On me. Just because..."

Of his problems in the bedroom, or the potency of the serum in his blood. Since they're apparently on this level now, unintentionally. Maybe they won't matter, and the Kiss is so potent it'll overcome his issues. Or maybe the Kiss works in a way that circumvents physiology. He doesn't know, he's just throwing it out there.

If it were happening to anyone else--characters in a movie or something--it would have all been hilarious. But the fact of the matter was that Sam had her own complicated feelings about sex. Sex was good. It was enjoyable. But for her it had always been kind of an impersonal thing. That went double for feeding. Now she had the problem of actually liking Bucky, compounded by the fact that his face looked like...that. She usually fed on people she didn't find even remotely attractive.

Or interesting.

But that was her problem. Not his. No, apparently he had his own...stuff.

She smiled weakly, rubbing the corner of her eye. "You don't have to finish the sentence. That's none of my business. I'm just trying to be up front, I guess. I normally don't have to have this conversation. Back home I have resources and stuff. This is the wild west."

He's pleased that he's relieved of spelling out his internal conflicts, and he shifts back into a quiet, pursed-lipped reflection again. Did it really change the principal of the matter? The fact that she was going to starve to death? Seems like an immature issue to kick up a fuss about objectively, but personally?

He chews the inside of his cheek, throws out an uncomfortable sounding, "Offer still stands. If it's not... too weird for you to... I mean, it wouldn't mean anything other than..."

You know. The surface level objective.

More than anything, Sam wanted to turn down the offer. She wanted to believe that she'd resigned herself, convinced herself she was okay with starving. But a part of her knew that wasn't true. And not just because Kindred refused to go gentle into that good night.

For fuck's sake, she was still well within the span of her mortal life. She deserved to live, didn't she?

Well, that had been the logic that got her into this sticky situation in the first place. Sam liked to think she knew better than she did back then. But the truth of the matter was...not so much.

She folded her arms. And then unfolded them. "I'm afraid of hurting someone if I do," she said. "But I'm afraid of hurting someone if I don't..."

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