( OPEN ) I hope you're comfortable in that quiet plastic grave.

[oorah]

WHERE: Fountain Park, The Inn, wherever
WHEN: June 18
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: tl;dr (sorry), near-drowning, sad bro times, panic attacks idk

---

it's only water

He comes to with cool water rushing all around him and his heart immediately seizes with panic. The last thing he remembers is stepping through his apartment door after four long months in a city that shouldn't exist. Reims - or was it Rouen? It says something about him that as he looks around even deep underwater he isn't sure whether New York or that silent place was the dream. In a fucked up way, he's banking on New York. It was a kindness he wasn't owed, to see his friends go home after their shared nightmare.

It's taking him too long to get to the surface, he can see the light, he's so close, but he's afraid to splash. What if he's back? Or in another Sound Eater haven? He's trying to remember the list he had compiled. Perth, Yokohama, Bogota, Tehran, Karachi, Moscow, Bangkok, Frankfurt... With every city, he's getting closer to the surface but he's losing oxygen fast in trying to stay silent. However he got here, he doesn't have to get everyone nearby killed because of his fuck up.

Eventually, and it feels even longer than the reality, he spills out of the fountain with a loud slap against the stone, his body hanging over the edge, prone for entire moments. Suddenly - involuntarily - he sputters, puking up water from his lungs and slowly coming back to full consciousness. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes too, trying to remember dying, but also knowing it never works that way. This isn't the Reset Room, and there's no red dust. Something that becomes all too apparent when he grabs a handful of dirt from the ground sprawling out in front of the fountain. The monsters aren't here yet, so he upturns himself and slips over the side of the fountain as silently as he can.

It's only then that he feels the weight of the pack on his back, missing the familiar shelter of his combat boots when earth sticks to the bottoms of his wet feet. He feels behind him at the backpack, but it's closed with a zipper. He'll have to find a soundproofed place to know what's inside. Hopefully it isn't a bomb???

He dutifully makes his way into the village on silent feet, scanning the area as he goes for anything that seems familiar. Istanbul, Lima, Rio de Janeiro... Nothing. This isn't France, though, not either version he's familiar with. That's honestly the most jarring part, somehow. There's no Constance to greet him, no one shushing him. Just wide open space. He doesn't think he's ever been so terrified in his life, and this coming from a guy who's seen combat. Who's waged it, personally.

The first person he sees will be met with the full brunt of his concerned stare, and it's a doozy. Fear is clearly reflected in his gaze as it darts around, like a wild animal who's been cornered. Similarly, he might bolt any minute, so approach with caution. Or don't, YOLO.

it's only fire

Some wandering and strategic shaking later and a dryer version of the Mayor finds himself inside the Inn where he makes quick work of opening the bag, doing it silently though there are sounds all around him. Soft talking and shuffling that assaults his delicate senses like a category 6 maelstrom. Socks and boots are donned in an instant, just as quietly as he continues to drip on the furniture. This place has to be soundproofed, he reasons, or somehow he's made it far enough away from the monsters...?

In something of a daze, he finds his way to the roaring fireplace and resigns himself to sitting by the flames until he's at least moderately less soaked. He doesn't turn enough to see who comes in, but every time the door opens his face moves towards the sound. It's so - normal. Maybe this is the dream, that would make the most sense of all. Frank pulls his teal scrub top away from his body to help it dry faster, closing his eyes for just a moment. Just one... He nods off, just like that, sitting in front of the fire with his expression deeply furrowed. His eyes twitch like he's dreaming, though it's only been a few moments. Not enough time has passed for REM, but his mind is supplying him images anyway, and if the twitches in his frame are any indication none of them are particularly pleasant.

If he's woken either purposefully by a second party, by someone making too much noise near him, or merely by his own cruel thoughts pushing him back to consciousness, he'll start awake, eyes flying open wide. Though his mouth opens into a gasp, that too is silent. He's dry and warm now, and it's time to move on. He gets to his feet one inch at a time, trying to avoid the crackle and pop of tired bones though one dislodges in his neck anyway and earns a grimace from him. It wouldn't have been enough to get him killed, even in Reims, but any sound is deafening now after over 100 days of consecutive silence.

He shoulders his pack and makes his way back out to the square, and the cacophony of villagers gathering outside causes bile rise up his throat in dread. The wheels on carts and the soft stomp of trudging feet carrying the louder din of voices and laughter have his heart pounding fast all over again. Something is very, very wrong and he doesn't have the data to get to the bottom of it. He'll be frozen there in the middle of the causeway for some time before carrying on to find a quiet place to be alone.

it's only love

Frank will be wandering the 6I/7I village(s) for most of the day until someone directs him more specifically. Feel free to encounter him anywhere along the way.

Comments

outside the inn

[burn_with_us]

There's something about this man that reminds Katniss of a startled animal. He's like a deer, or something, frozen stock still - and she wonders if that's normal for him or if there's something wrong.

She's seen enough Victors to know everyone handles stress and loss differently so maybe he's just shocked from something he's seen. She hasn't seen anything in this place that has been remotely like the districts but if he has, it's worth asking about. She shifts her pack a little on her shoulders and calls out, quiet as to not spook him too much.

"Hey - did you see something? Out there?"

[oorah]

He's reminded instantly of Ellie though he can't exactly place why, and maybe that's what makes him stop when he'd been about to run. Frank freezes up, his whole body tensing when she speaks, though it's low. It shouldn't be low enough to keep them safe, but everything else around them is much louder and nothing is happening. Not yet, anyway. Frank looks through her, then all around before he can focus on her face, tightening his fist until his knuckles turn white on his backpack strap.

Slowly, he comes around, wild eyes focusing on her face as though it's a true hardship. She doesn't seem worried about making noise - then again, no one here does. He's slowly recognizing that she's using her indoor voice for his benefit and that alone is mortifying. After even another pause that stretches on several moments, he shakes his head. First just once and then in a more thrashing way. No. He hasn't seen anything - good or bad or even neutral. Nothing about this place is familiar including the faces. What's happening to him?

[burn_with_us]

Katniss spent a while not being able to speak properly so she knows what it's like - though she doesn't know if this guy isn't speaking because he can't or because he won't. There's a big difference between the two. While she's hardly one to put her trust in the unknown quantity of this place, she does know the village itself hasn't brought her any harm.

"It's safe enough right here," she says, motioning around to the cluster of buildings in the village. "I'm not as sure about out in the woods, though I've been and I haven't seen anything too crazy, but here? It just seems...like a town. Nothing more, nothing less."

[oorah]

Safe enough. Yeah, right. He doesn't believe her, but there's no recourse for him. She says the village is safe and the woods don't have 'anything crazy.' No Sound Eaters, period? Though there's no evidence of them, no taste of copper or red dust that clings to your clothes and coats your throat unpleasantly- it's almost impossible to believe. He takes a halting step towards her anyway, making sure his boots touch softly and silently on the ground.

Where? he mouths, gesturing around them. Where are they? His gaze is much more lucid than even a second ago, and he doesn't look as ready to run, at least. Small victories.

Inn

[theluckygirl]

The welcome wagon speech she gave someone else earlier called for some coffee. They had received plenty people from earth or versions of it, but Elrond was someone she had to explain the basics before everything else. She already made a note to herself to check up on him a couple times over the course of the next day.

So after arriving, Claire went straight through to the kitchen to make some, instinctively doing a quick sweep of the dining hall when she noticed the figure of someone sitting near the fireplace, though with the glow and how far back the nurse was, she couldn't exactly tell who it was.

While waiting for it to brew, she emerged once again, this time coming a little closer to the fire. It was cool outside, the clouds telling of a possible storm, which is another reason she wanted the hot drink. Once close enough, she realized the person was no one she knew. In fact..

"Another new person. Sorry, over there I couldn't tell."

[oorah]

The fire crackles and he slides back a few more paces, frowning at it. The fire in Reims was made from a special chemical he would carry in his camping pack. It kept the flames silent even on the driest days. He too is noticing the overcast nature of the day, and even if he just got dry he's hoping it'll rain soon. He's never been good at sitting idle, even if he doesn't know where he's sitting idle just yet.

When he hears her voice, his head whips around in recognition. Unlike all the other voices and sounds that wash over him and mingle into one conglomerate source of panic, hers is like a beacon that cuts through the noise. He knows that voice and when he puts her face alongside it, a bit of the heaviness in his chest instantly begins to break up. He gets to his feet too fast, one boot hitting the floor too hard with a soft scuff. His eyes widen again, but he's already moving towards her, abandoning his backpack to get as close to Claire as he can. He meets her eyes fully, determined to connect to her gaze while he mouths her name Claire?

He hadn't seen her in months, but he owed her his life. Relief is slowly taking over for panic, steadily eating away at his confusion. She isn't afraid to speak, which means... what? She's been here for a while? Or maybe she knows a secret he doesn't. The one person in this whole village he might be willing to listen to had haplessly stumbled upon him either way.

[theluckygirl]

With his quick movements and approach, Claire was able to make the vague realization of who he was. It was hard, however, given the fact his face isn't marred with cuts and bruises that make it a little harder to recognize him as Frank Castle, the guy that was all over the news and recovering in her hospital at one point before setting out and doing what Matt did in a far more blood way.

Was she frightened? Not at all. This isn't her first rodeo. Not even with his eyes holding hers so intensely in what feels more like a protective, rather than aggressive, way, does she show any kind of uneasiness. And even as that frantic stare ebbs away into something a bit more relaxed, Claire doesn't move.

"You're Frank Castle." she starts quietly, nodding because she's sure enough now that he is. "Did you just get here?"

7I Village - Peach Trees

[3ofswords]

When he'd joked about prison wine with Karen, he'd been--well, joking--but the fact remained that booze ran out fast in a place like this, and didn't show up very often to even run dry. The joke keeps sitting in the back of his head, something to incubate until a real idea hatches. In the meantime--it's summer, he has a very young and energetic dog, and there are fresh peaches and a beach only a short hike away.

He's returned one of Mark's planters to bucket form, packed a lunch, and taken Aurora across the river. Mark will probably scold him later for climbing trees barefoot like a child, but--

Fuck it, honestly. It's warm, insects are screaming from the trees, and he's tired of boots. When Aurora stops gnawing on a dropped peach and points her sticky nose back toward the path, Kira's down to shorts and tank, barefoot, hanging himself upside down from bent knees and curled hands to get a look. His powers of observation note: some big fucker staring at his dog.

He swings one arm down in a waved greeting as he says, the futility perpetual and unsurprising: "Aurora, stay--"

But she's off in a shot, her peach carried like a terrible prize to this complete stranger. "Sorry," Kira calls, reaching down to the next branch to brace and lower himself, body moving with more understanding of its leverage than any sign of strength.

[oorah]

The bugs are the most notable difference to him now, listening to them chirp and buzz with something like wonder on his face. There were no bigs in Reims, a seemingly impossible feature. It's still a mystery to him how plants were pollinated or how his patch of peonies survived and even flourished, but it wasn't his priority at the time. Survival had been his sole focus, naturally. His pack is still strapped securely to his back as he walks along row after row of trees, reaching out to touch each one as he passes idly, lost deep in thought about where he'd ended up and how. About where everyone else is if they're not here with him.

That's how Aurora manages to sneak up on him anyway, and he's startled out of his fugue by the soft thump of her dropping a peach at his feet. Just looking into her sweet puppy eyes makes the stress a little dimmer and he crouches down to see what she's brought him as if he doesn't know. He points to the peach and then to himself. Is that for me? A lopsided smile slowly makes its way across his face as he holds out a hand for the dog to sniff before trying to pet her. With his other hand, he signs Thank you.

The dog's owner is registered a full moment late, despite his shouted apology. Uhhhh, excuse me are you interrupting dog time???? Rude af. Frank casts him a glance, but there's no heat behind it. The kid is highly unthreatening and Frank already has half a mind to steal his dog, so. Hey, kid. But also he's too immersed in doting on Aurora to pay him much mind.

[3ofswords]

People preferring the dog to him isn't new; he wouldn't have apologized if not for the sticky state of her mouth and her tendency to say hello in a very abrupt and bodily way. She's a good dog, as far as he can tell--her faults come out of friendliness, high energy, and not an ounce of malice. Someone had trained her, and he's sure it wasn't him: she's the first dog he's ever had a claim to.

Whoever it was, Aurora remains loyal and confident, especially out of doors. Kira doubts he could truly get lost with her to point them back at the village when she finally wants her bed.

He isn't quite as trusting as she is, so he can't just leave her alone with the stranger--but he can follow at a slower pace, keeping a sight-line to calm his own nerves. No one here has ever hurt Aurora, but--there was that goat, over the winter. The Observer pressure to sacrifice and harm.

The man will get a few solid minutes with her, as Kira puts dropped peaches into the bucket and finds his shoes. Aurora snuffles his hand, getting a scent but too excited not to smear peach juice on and lick it off of the hand while she does it. When Kira approaches, her short, excited wuffs are only interrupted by trying to lick her lips. "She's a mess today," he says, the real apology. "The plumbing should work out here, you could wash up while I get some water."

[digging]

Seated on the front steps of the cottage she shares with Claire, Karen settles her backpack between her feet and takes stock of what she'd packed inside the night before. Typically she'd go through the ritual inside, but it's the sort of aggressively beautiful morning that insists she forgets how trapped they all are here, how instrinstically vulnerable, if only for a little while. She still doesn't like it here, but moments like this are what keep them all from going insane.

Aretha's in the yard, idly sniffing at a few weeds while she waits. Karen glances up at her, thinks maybe she hasn't done too completely awful with keeping the dog's training up. They make a sloppy duo more often than not, probably a far cry from the sharp military precision Frank intended, but they do alright. She should ask around, maybe, see if anyone knows much about training a bloodhound.

Karen's just finishing replacing the last of her supplies in the bag when Aretha abruptly brays and bolts from the yard. "Aretha—" Karen calls after her, then hisses out a low fuck — When she jumped up and surged forward to follow, the strap of the bag caught on her foot and now all those well-packed supplies are scattered across the lawn.

"Aretha," she yells again, voice fringed with irritation as she dashes into the road. When they go on hikes, it's not unusual for the dog to sniff her way into the underbrush and have to be called back, but this is a whole new level. "I swear to god, if this is over a squirrel..." Karen mutters, fully prepared for it to be exactly that, and then halts so suddenly that little puffs of dust rise from the dirt path.

Maybe thirty feet away, Aretha is prancing excitedly around a man's bare feet, and that man is Frank Castle.

All of Karen's breath leaves her in a rush, her shoulders hitching forward, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

[oorah]

He takes in a sharp breath when he sees the hound appear on the path up ahead from him, heading straight towards him like they're old friends. Though usually Frank wouldn't look a gift dog in the mouth, he's suspicious of his arrival here - that maybe it isn't all someone else's dream. It isn't the way that usually goes, though, there's no strange cast to the surroundings; the sound all around them unmuffled, perhaps most notably the way the dog calls out to him. Except that isn't what's happening, is it? She's trying to get the attention of a human, steadily appearing over the ridge as well, and when he fixates on a toss of sunshine hair he can't help but to immediately recognize her. The fear behind his eyes intensifies, but it's for Karen this time. And maybe it's partially a conditioned response, he only ever shows up when she's in danger after all.

Frank might look a little different from when they last saw one another, his hair months grown out and soaked through, finger-combed back out of his eyes so he could see but there's a stubborn piece that keeps falling into his face. A face that's as stubbled and scarred as ever, though there's no hobo beard this time; and somehow free of current bruising though he'd never gone more than a few days without a fight in Reims. Even if they were mostly friendly sparring matches, his face still always seemed to get in the way.

Stalling for time, he stoops down to greet the dog, rubbing her soft ears as she sniffs him insistently. His false memory shows him leaving Max with Sarah, David, and the kids, but did that really happen? He hopes his dog is safe, after he took away one of his main defenses to keep him safe in that awful place. He has to smile softly when the bloodhound laps fountain water off his wrists and nudges her face against his chest. He might be the dog whisperer on a good day, but this dog knows him. It gives him pause even if he would never deny any dog love.

With his hand still on Aretha's head, and his other making sure the backpack he's carrying doesn't make any noise, he looks up at Karen at last. She looks good - safe. Or as safe as she ever is. Something breaks inside his chest and is reflected in his gaze, trying to even out his breathing as he slowly straightens back up. He's anticipating a hug, honestly, and it wouldn't be unwelcome, but he doesn't think he has it in him to initiate it now. And he's also still dripping wet, so. He's mostly just staring at her expectantly.

[digging]

She doesn't care about the the state of him, a little water better than other things she's seen him covered in; it's simply the matter of making her feet move, making her mind focus on more than the sheer, overwhelming sight of him, her pulse beating a staccato in her ears like a drum.

Something finally gives way, another little breath pushing from her throat — The first step is the hardest, but all the others come in a rush until she's got her arms around his neck. Fingers curl hard into the damp fabric of his shirt, a soft, desperate sound muffling against the solid slope of his shoulder.

She never thought this would happen. Never ever. She and Claire have talked about it, about being the only ones from home, about it being a blessing and a curse.

only looooove (near the river)

[womanofvalue]

Despite the fact that Peggy's never going to be a master fisheress or fisherwoman or whatever name she wants to apply to it, she enjoys the routine of going down to the river and simply find what she can. It doesn't hurt that the gutting of the fish is a good way to get her frustrations out. Most days, it's a rather simple process of going there and back, but not today.

Today, she sees a familiar face while she's walking, one that takes her back. She's not sure that she's seen him in years and it even takes Peggy a long moment to place him. Frank, was it? She suspects that it was, though she'd want her notes to be truly sure. The way he's wandering makes her rather suspicious that he hasn't actually been in hiding somewhere and that he's newly returned.

Which, if that's the case, she thinks it's a better task than fishing. "Looking for something in particular?" she calls out to him, trying to gently grab his attention.

[oorah]

He had come out here to fish himself, or at least watch other people fish. Usually the only time they could catch anything worth catching was when it rained, but he had developed a system for netting the smaller fish mostly silently. He'll have to start over, on everything. It's such an insane thought, when no one else is watching their volume. He's felt like an island on his own for his whole life, but this is a whole new version of loneliness he's not sure how to cope with. He's thinking of Lavi now, actually, telling him about being a world hopper, talking about a world he'd been to where they would fish in a creek with no fish in it just to feel some normalcy for a while.

Frank swallows when her eyes meet his, and he can't help but feel like she looks familiar. Not familiar like someone he knows, but like someone he's seen. Like an actress or politician. But nothing specific is coming to the fore, so he just looks at her a little too closely to try and piece it together. He's still in his teal scrubs and hiking boots, the pack he'd arrived with strapped securely to his back. His hair is grown much longer than it's usual military style, but his shave can't be longer than a day or two old.

Starting at the question volleyed his way, he shakes his head, but it's a little too fast to really be an answer to her question. The real answer is he doesn't know what he's looking for because he still doesn't even know where he is. But the instant panic response to people speaking aloud has at least been numbed somewhat since this morning. Frank is still far too scared to speak himself, however, as though the moment he does the monsters will come out of hiding and strike them all down for his misstep alone. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head more confidently now, not wanting this woman to worry about him when she doesn't even know him (presumably.) He takes a moment to clear his expression and offers her a big ol' OK symbol 👌. He's okie dokie thanks so much.

[womanofvalue]

She raises a brow at the symbol, glancing around like she's worried a sniper is going to start firing. It's old habits, but that sort of hand language is something she equates more to the field or to being under fire and while she's always on her guard in this place, she also equally doesn't think that the animals surrounding them have been equipped with anything.

Stepping closer, just in case there is someone lurking, Peggy spins the knife to tuck it away in her belt, closing the gap between them. If this is truly the same man that she'd met before, she knows that he can handle himself, which means he wouldn't simply pretend there's a threat.

"Do I need to be worried about my six?" she asks, voice hushed.

it's only love;

[freightcars]

Bucky Barnes doesn't spend much time watching the news; certainly not the news for New York after his face had been plastered all across it as a terrorist (ironically after he stopped being a terrorist), so he doesn't recognize Frank from his reputation as a serial killer. No, what stops him is that look on Frank's face. It's intimately familiar, he'd worn it himself less than a month ago.

It's a lost look, a confusion, a sense of complete and utter displacement. Others stepped in to help him when they saw him, and he made a promise to Kira that he'd pay it forward, and it looks like he has the opportunity to do so. The scrubs are a little bit of a dead giveaway themselves.

Bucky approaches with caution, a gentle sort of hesitance, a nonthreatening posture as he flags Castle down to get his attention.


"Anyone show you where to get real clothes?" The second it's out of his mouth, he knows it sounds rude. Insulting, maybe, or judgmental, so he holds up an apologetic hand. "I mean- I can. If you need them. Hi."

[oorah]

Frank wouldn't recognize Bucky either, for the same reason, if not for the version of him he'd known. But like Claire, the man doesn't seem to remember him. They'd sparred once, shortly before he'd been sent home (if that really happened), and he had been reasonably sure Bucky was a veteran. Beyond that, he knew nothing about the guy really. But that's how it went in that silent place - unless you had the patience to sign or type it out - you didn't know anything about the people around you. And somehow it made Frank feel safer than he ever had in New York, surrounded by strangers the same, but not ones working towards a common goal. Not people who had no reason to turn on him, except Kilgrave. No Kilgrave is a definite plus, though Frank keeps halfway expecting him to be around the next corner.

The other man waves to him and he swallows, knowing the routine by now. He slows his silent steps until he's standing in front of Bucky, stock still. He's still ready to take off if he has to, but so far everyone has been kind. Kinder than they had any reason to be, really. Real clothes. It startles a "laugh" out of him - a tic he'd developed early on that jumps his shoulders and pushes an almost audible breath from his lips, bemused. Uniforms had always been a constant in his life. In the brief sliver of time between Kandahar and Reims, he had been able to wear whatever he wanted but found himself favoring BDUs and combat boots anyway. Jeans had been nice, for a time, but they also showed bloodstains and were impossible to scrub clean. And then there were the jumpsuits. He'd had white and blue and orange before eventually getting his native friend to make him a black one - and then that too had become his uniform. Something to hide behind.

Maybe he's feeling magnanimous because Bucky seems nervous, like he's afraid of offending Frank. Maybe it's the memory of knowing him however briefly, in Reims. Or maybe he's just so tired that he doesn't care anymore. Frank holds up his hands and signs in an almost friendly manner, the ASL motion for Hello.

[freightcars]

The huff of a laugh is unexpected, and it brings an upward twitch to his own lips. Something subtle, barely an expression and not even a smile really, but it certainly exists for a brief moment. The lack of an answer is unexpected as well, and a dawning look of understanding spreads across his features at the signing of Hello.

Sign language isn't something he taught himself, that's for sure. In the army they had call signs, gestures that transcended through every military branch and company, but it sure as hell didn't constitute ASL. The knowledge of that rattling around in his mind is from the same source as Russian or Romanian or German or any number of things he doesn't even know he speaks until he hears it; hydra conditioning. It's a strategic and tactical advantage and it's embedded into his mind whether he likes it or not.

In this case, he supposes, it's an advantage.

He signs hello right back, and repeats his question in slow and uncertain (but accurate) sign language: do you need a change of clothes?

it's onlyyyy loveeeee

[iwasrussian]

Only a few weeks in and Natasha was going stir crazy. She took Clint's advice and made a routine but she didn't stick to them well in her world and he should have known she wouldn't do well with them here. What has happened is her ease of being there, though only as far as being skeptical of each and every person that was there. She kept to her own and when she got particularly antsy, the spy headed out and walked.

It's dusk when she crosses over the bridge with her axe to wander closer to the other village. It looks like a mirror copy of the one they all lived in, though this isn't her first time there or even her second. The lake is what she comes for. It's nice and serene and something she wishes she can destroy out of anger because of its perfection. She's not sure why.

Eventually, sounds of someone beating the shit out of something can be heard. If anyone is close by, they'll no doubt see a petite blonde unleashing fury on a poor unsuspecting (but quite massive) tree stump.

[oorah]

The sound startles him, and he doesn't seem to be the only one, birds rushing out of the woods in the opposite direction. He stares after them for a long moment, remembering the birds who had come to the doorsteps of all the houses in Reims to chatter away in the rain. There's nothing strange about these birds so he doesn't get lost for too long, instead setting his sights on the woman up ahead with a frown. This kind of cacophony would be literal suicide where he'd been. Something is clearly amiss, but he doesn't think she has a deathwish, at least not from where he's standing.

Slowly, Frank makes his way in closer, though the hesitation in his near-silent steps is palpable. Not because she's wielding an axe or seems particularly terrifying for a tiny lady. No it's 100% the noise that unnerves him honestly. Only curiosity draws him in, still dressed in the teal scrubs he was given with the backpack strapped securely to his person. There's something familiar about her even before he gets in close enough to see her face, and maybe that's the only reason he's not running in the opposite direction now. Instead, he stands himself far enough back to observe without getting a splinter through his eye as he waits for her to calm down. He doesn't think to announce his presence when she's clearly in something here, so he doesn't try to get her attention in even his usual quiet way.

[iwasrussian]

Luckily for Natasha, the other version of herself had left behind street clothes that she could wear and is in a pair of olive green cargo pants and a white t’shirt with her hiking boots. She’s thankful to Clint for keeping it all when he really had no idea if she’d be back.

Even being trained so meticulously, Natasha is so caught up in her physical aggression that she doesn’t notice Frank there until he comes to a stop and watches for a few short seconds. In less time than it takes to blink though, she’s facing him and breathing as evenly as she would had she been out for a leisurely walk instead of hammering away on a tree stump that was resorted to a pile of splintered wood.

“What?”

CLOSED TO BUCKY

[oorah]

When he wakes on his third day in the village, it's to the pleasant pitter-patter of rain. He practically leaps out of bed like a kid on Christmas, racing to get dressed so he can go out into the weather. He dons all the clothes Bucky helped him acquire, a blue henley and dark wash jeans with tall boots and a black hooded jacket, and then he's off. Frank stops at House 3 to collect Aretha HE'S NOT KEEPING HER KAREN IT'S CALLED BORROWING. He doesn't steal dogs!!!! Only in his heart, okay.

He starts to head out to gather supplies for his project, but then something makes him think of Bucky. Maybe he wouldn't mind having a task for the day either. That whim is how a wet bloodhound and an already pretty damp Marine end up at Bucky's door, rapping morse code into the hollow bit just over the numeral two. U-U-P? A childish ask when he might well be waking the man up at around... he checks his device. Quarter to seven. Oops.

[freightcars]

Frank is far from wrong; initially when Bucky woke up this morning he'd been immediately disheartened by the rain. He's got something of a workout routine established that the downpour sullied immediately, muddying the ground he normally uses for a run at the ass crack of dawn. Despite the literal rain on his parade his sleep schedule is as unforgiving as ever, and seconds after Frank raps a message on the door he answers it, fully clothed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

He's a completely unexpected visitor; Bucky's half expecting it to have been the girl next door who only last week advised him to knock out s.o.s on the wall between them in morse code should he need anything. Apparently everyone here has something of a hive mind about them. The surprise fades pretty quickly, though, and he shifts the door a little wider so he can lift up a hand to sign.

U O K?

Concern that there's a fight or something going down is at the forefront of his mind, probably because he's only used to being called upon when it's a request to take up arms.

[oorah]

He smiles softly when Bucky appears, Aretha immediately darting forward to sniff all around him. The question gets a nod, knowing this probably looks a little crazy. The worst that can happen is the other man turns him away and then he's back where he started. Nothing could truly hamper a good mood for the good Mayor when it was raining, though. He hasn't even had coffee yet.

"It's raining," he says aloud, in a persistently good mood even if his voice sounds like a box of gravel. He looks happy for lack of a better word, inclining his head towards the beautiful weather outside!! "I was gonna..." He has to clear his throat, swallowing past the sandpaper in it before trying again at the softest crackle. "You wanna help me find some stuff?"