sixthiterationlogs | give him a mullet;

There are a lot of reasons for the house to wind up a mess: earthquakes, Mark's experiments with what Kira can only call "mixtures of dirt." Mark's jars of dirt plus earthquakes. Armed men running through the whole fucking thing looking for plant specimens, kept on the back bedroom of the topmost floor.

In the aftermath, Mark is understandably busy being Mark at people for the good of them all, and Kira doesn't want to clean the house, but he knows it might center him. The goat is tied up outside, the dog is with Frank, and the crow is in one of the bathrooms, whistling parts of the Careless Whisper sax solo to himself. Not because Kira's been telling the broom about how he'll never dance again, sliding around in his makeshift sandals while he hunts every speck of glass and dirt off the floors.

Definitely not, especially with someone knocking on the door. Mark would just come in. Ravi would very probably just come in. "Unless you have those lemon cookies with all the powdered sugar," he starts, broom in his other hand when he tugs the door open.

"Right." Just that guy with the good advice about living in simulations, who happened to kill a nine foot mythical creature yesterday. This is fine: Kira's pretty sure he wiggled bars of soap in his back pockets at him last time. "I can't remember if boyscouts sell things, but anyone with a decent grasp of tying knots can come in, I guess."

Edited 2018-07-28 04:35 (UTC)

Ah yes, if it isn't blockiest ass in the village. There's a wry sort of look to him, dry and amused even though he hasn't said a single god damn word yet. It's got nothing to do with the broom or the lemon cookies, and everything to do with that weird ass memory from his first day in town.

Boy scouts don't typically murder a hundred people either, if they did he'd have a sash full of merit badges and his eagle whatever by now. He doesn't say as much, though there's something in that sidelong glance he gives Kira that suggests a less than receptive sentiment about the notion.

"I've got a mean clove hitch," is his dry response, accompanied by the shrugging of a shoulder. He edges forward a little, pauses before the threshold and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "You still in the hair cutting business?"

"It pays the bills," he answers, a shrug of his own brushing the side of the door, dragging the broom as he shifts to let Bucky inside. Less than receptive is what he gets, these days. He's not been very receptive in his own right, to anything, since well before the theories about purple megalomaniacs and a man dead in the fountain park.

But he receives Bucky with a rolled wrist, gesturing him inside. "Clove Hitch is what I'm naming the weed we grow here," he decides. "I'll consider that your payment this time."

Poor notice doesn't mean it's poor timing. If he's sweeping the house regardless, best time to cover it in hair. "I don't have any clippers, but I can still get it pretty short if that's what you're after." He hopes not, though he's glad Bucky isn't taking the savior thing seriously enough to keep the Jesus hair. "We can use the bathroom--upstairs."

He huffs out an amused sounding laugh; easy enough payment, just as well because he doesn't have anything to offer in turn unless Kira's in the market for having something chopped down. The ridiculous pile of firewood they've got outside he takes a personal pride in. Actually, it's getting a little out of hand - the man seriously needs to find a less braindead hobby.

He's heard tell of a marijuana crop growing around here too, not that he's taken up the offer to partake at all. Interesting to know that Kira's at the source of it, but he supposes someone had to be. Something to keep in mind if the urge ever arises, though it hasn't since a bar in France back in '42.

"No-" He protests quickly, striding across Kira's recently swept floor. Up the stairs behind him. Probably should have taken his shoes off, but too late now. Really just a shining example of poor manners, his mother'd have his head for it. You see the broom in that poor boy's hand, James? "No, uh, not- not that short. I was thinkin' more just a few inches, if you can do that."

Bucky won't have to look far for the crop: once they're in the house proper, the shoes a bit of a must with what Kira has left to sweep upstairs, the open space of the dining room is lined with white buckets, each all but overflowing with leaves. There's a batch overdrying in the window, a few on the sill; they'd left it in a hurry when the call went out to gather at the inn.

Kira leans back off the first step, craning his head to get a look at it before deciding that's a project for tomorrow. At least Bucky hadn't come for his other "business."

"Yeah, I can do that," he says, snapping back to the moment and hefting the broom up over one shoulder. His other hand reaches out, slow enough to stop, and thumbs the tips down over Bucky's collar to get an idea of the full length. "Where do you want it to end? Jaw?"

The pause at the first step catches him off guard and it's only through let's face it, amazing reflexes that he manages to stop himself an inch before slamming into Kira's back. As such, he's a little too close for comfort when Kira turns to do his initial assessment, and he settles awkwardly back on his heels to put a few more inches of space in there. Sorry, pal.

Eyes drop to the hand that reaches out, a subtle wariness until he understands what the reason behind the touch is, and then he seems to relax a little. Settles his shoulders, relaxes his jaw. Seems like whiplash, going from so guarded to so determinedly not back and forth in the span of a few seconds.

"At least, yeah," He agrees, lips twitching, pulling back into his cheek. "Something like that."

Kira leaves his thumb exactly where it is, holding that bit of hair to Bucky's collar. He hasn't been pushed off, and it's a nonverbal way to make the point while Bucky seems in a mood to settle.

He has to touch him to do this: if it's a problem, he can mitigate it, but not stop entirely. "You have to let me know if you want enough for a terrible little pony tail," he says, easing out of the tension as he eases up another step. The old soles of his boots slap at his heels when he carries on, enough distance to keep the broom out of Bucky's face when he turns on the short landing.

Whether or not Bucky gets the point of the extended gesture isn't clear, he's too impassive for that, inscrutable and keenly studying Kira's body language. The important piece is that he allows it, doesn't stiffen or pull back like someone with real touch issues might; he's not a broken toy, just a wary one. Doesn't carry any real aversion to it, not at all, he's just rusty. Out of practice with anything beyond a simple man hug and even further out of practice with anyone but Steve.

But he's fine. He is.

Even if his lips twitch down in a combination of distaste and consideration, it's all for contemplation of the question. Has him hesitating a beat or two before following.

"If it's short enough, I don't think I need one," he muses; although the convenience of getting it out of his face during a run would be nice. Then again, he wryly adds: "If it's terrible anyway, why bother?"

Edited 2018-07-28 17:58 (UTC)

Kira should be rusty; they all should be, if as much of their lives were simulated as Kira's started to believe. He hasn't touched or played around with half the people he thinks he has--but it's there, in his memories, and he doesn't hesitate when it comes to contact.

He used to, when it meant knowing too much about the person. That's never been the case here, and now he only stays conscious of their proximity for the broom.

"You good with that shave," he asks, just to set it on the table if it's wanted. There's a grooming kit around here somewhere, even if he's never needed it. Slipping across the hall at the top of the stairs, he puts the broom in the open doorway and starts hunting in the cabinets, shears and towels on the counter.

At the question, a flesh hand slides up to absently pass across the thick facial hair creeping up his cheeks and down his neck. He hasn't actually put much thought into it, mostly because he'd been a hack it off every other day with an electric razor guy back home, lacking the time or the patience to go completely clean shaven like he'd done in his youth. He grows it not out of style but out of ease.

"You a full-service shop?" He fires back rather than answering, and this time doesn't bother to hide the touch of humor that comes with the question. It's more than he'd been expecting, frankly, he'd half anticipated a pair of sheers in the yard and a five-minute hacking session that left him functional but far from stylish. Which is, by the way, still better than he'd manage to do for himself if he tried.

Edited 2018-07-28 21:34 (UTC)

"Everything but the swivel chair and hot shaving soap," he replies, wondering how to make the latter a reality. He mostly makes do with having people sit forward on the toilet and wedging himself in awkwardly around the tub and sink. Bucky, even this many days out from slaying a carnivorous beast, is welcome to have a full shower before he leaves.

In a place like this, with dirty work a part of survival and the hallmarks of most identities stripped away, this is all Kira can think to offer. The cards don't mean anything anymore, and there are plenty to cook a hot meal: but twenty minutes to an hour, being made to look how you want to look, liking anything about what you see in the mirror--he can do that. He can make sense of that.

"Edge of the tub or the toilet," he instructs, rolling out the colorful shears in their cloth case. "I even let you choose how much you want to punish your ass; best service you'll get in town."

Considering the state of his broken ribs, the thought of having to use his core strength to keep himself upright is a less than desirable affair. The tub would have given him more room, he thinks, but the toilet will keep him from having to tense the entire time. He opts for it, makes sure the lid is down, settles and and does his best to tuck his long legs back, bent at the knees and heels up, toes touching somewhere just behind his hips. No easy feet at six feet tall, but he's flexible at least. Practiced at folding himself into unassuming spaces.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind when I tip," He answers, a creeping note of amusement in his voice. Kira firing off sarcastic jokes makes this whole thing ten times easier than it might have been. He flicks his hair back with unconscious snap of the jaw, and quietly looks forward to not having to do that anymore for a while. He studies the bathroom, studies Kira's familiarity with this space and his process. "You do this a lot?"

Not asked because he's worried about talent, just gauging and making conversation.

"More trims than shaves," he answers honestly, crouching back down under the sink to gauge the bottle of coconut oil. It's the one kind he kept out of the kitchen, just to have something other than harsh soap. "And when no one else needs it, I keep myself tidy." None of which involves the razor touching his skin, but he can fake a clipper with it and a thin enough comb.

Someone did leave him a dozen ugly belts to sharpen things on.

"I'm going to soften up your face while I get rid of the length," he says, gentle warning for the fact of his hands on Bucky's cheeks. Letting him watch the oil pour out of the bottle, Kira makes the intent clear by working some of it into his fingers before holding them out, tips to Bucky's jaw as he prompts him to look up. "I'll cut the soap with it too, it's not exactly moisturizing." Conversational, instructional: some people need a practical reason to let you rub sweet smelling oil into their face and neck.

Looking at the state of Bucky's skin, summer heat and brushes with death--he goes a little higher with his thumbs, a little frown of concentration as he keeps the sweep of fingers over cheek and brow light.

"What about you," he asks, pushing the last bit of oil to Bucky's hairline and framing his face with a final swipe. "When's the last time you got a haircut?"

It's not the oil that he minds, the smell of it. He doesn't cling to his masculinity and run in fear of things that smell like fruit or flowers, frankly it never bothered him even before the war. Girls used to smile to themselves as they dabbed him with perfume, laughing like they thought they were getting one over on him; he'd just smirk back and let them. What matters more is the procedural way Kira explains what he's going to do before he does it, it takes some of the edge off. Allows him to prepare for something without stiffening first, without subconscious hyper-vigilance.

He gives himself over complacently, allows Kira to guide the tilt of his chin perhaps too pliably. It's all about context, all about the moment. Some are harder than others, but this feels familiar in a way he doesn't want to think too much about.

The question is a good distraction, and a little divot finds it's way into his brow.

On second thought, it's not a hard question. When he answers, there's a feeling in his tone like he's not sure he expects Kira to believe the answer. "Winter of 42, before they shipped me out."

He got to pick from a whole three styles of approved cut.

Framing the face, he nods along with the explanation, not quite letting Bucky go as he decides the best way to frame it. With the task at hand, he's in a certain mode--not professional, but focused outward, thinking about the person in front of him. Between deciding there's a handsome block of man under the rough edges, and having lost all memory of every other vet's reaction to his features over the last couple of years--it isn't really a thing, this time.

Nineteen forty-two, right. Sure. Kira believes that it's what Bucky believes, and with all the people who leave it up to time travel and advanced science or magic--he can play along. "I'd say you don't really come off like a guy from the forties," he says, smoothing hair back from Bucky's features with his other hand just under his chin, "but I guess I wouldn't know what that really means. We did not, probably fortunately, get hover cars in the early two-thousands." Traffic in Manhattan was already in a nightmare in two dimensions.

Satisfied, and refusing to let the admission color his plan for Bucky's hair, Kira lets him go to rinse the oil from his hands. "I guess I can give you a senior discount on the firewood you're going to owe me," he says, waiting for the water to warm. "Put your head in the sink, soldier."

This week's been an interesting week for casual touching. Between Sam's pressure point thing, Natasha gently taping his ribs, his kiss with Liv, and now Kira's hands smoothing their way along his jawline, he's falling into this the way Nicholas Sparks writes love stories. Slowly, and then all at once. He can internalize with the best of them, doesn't think he's set much of a precedent for any of this, couldn't say for sure what changed only that it seems like something has.

Maybe this is just what happens when you integrate with human society. Maybe this is the rust shaking loose.

"I know," he murmurs in dry amusement. "It was 2018 before I got here."

Which leaves a great big gap between the last date he gave and this one, leaves a few big holes for questions that he doesn't proactively answer. Doesn't mention that they've gotten pretty close to hover cars too, except it's more like hover suits and hover carriers. He'll let that stay uncorrected, and cover it with a little huff at the joke.

Karma, probably, for giving Steve that cane for his birthday.

He does as he's told, shifting obediently.

"That's a long war to fight." Not very sarcastic, not very much of a joke, unless it needs to be. Maybe the water in Bucky's hair will drown it out. None of what they're talking about, none of what they remember, is real by Kira's estimation. But the thick hair filling the sink is. It runs over his hands, directs the water as Kira folds and lifts it to get an even soak.

With that in mind, there's a beat of silence to follow. Water gurgling in a drain, Kira squeezing some of it from the length when he cuts the tap. Real or simulated, he's done this before. Lines of fighting men and women waiting while he snaps the last of his hair bands on some little girl's braids. No mom or dad in the safehouse to do it for her; no mom or dad for the people behind her, wanting some of the grime off before the next sortie.

"How do you feel about pigtails," he says, pulling them both away from the moment as he leads Bucky back up by the hair. Parted in two hands, he lays the ends on Bucky's shoulders and steps back to look, hands reaching for his scissors. "Britney Spears: they give you a furlough in the nineties?"

It's not exactly pleasant on his chest, curling in on himself like this. Hurts like hell is a better term for it, but other than the subtle clenching of his jaw he makes no mention of it. It's alright, he can almost block it out beneath the feeling of hands and water passing over him.

He's lead easily like a broken-in horse, powerfully compliant. Pigtails earns him a flat and unimpressed look, he won't even dignify it with an answer. Hilarious, pal.

He shakes his head, "I wasn't awake for most of it. In and out. Can't say I get the reference."

Not a lot of high priority targets in the 90s. Only one stands out; back in 91, Howard and Maria Stark. His lips twitch a little, tilt down into a muted frown. A little before Ms. Spears' time, some 8 years before Baby One More Time. She'd have still been in non-sexualized pigtails back then.

Kira doesn't pick up pain like he used to: doesn't pick up anything he can't read in a gesture or slant of brows, the moments people hesitate, the moments they don't. There's a giving of privacy, in putting his eyes in one place and not asking people about their fucking problems.

But even he can tell things are sinking, from where they were running even. Bucky's posture is its own slow tell, slotting slowly into Kira's memory, the recent context. "Warn me if you need to shift while we're doing this," he says, dragging away from the subject. "But don't feel like you can't move how you need to."

The shave will be a bit of a different story, but for now, he can even up whatever happens to Bucky's hair. Putting his scissors at the line of Bucky's shoulder, he cuts across each segment, setting the resulting handfuls of hair on the counter of the sink. That can go out for the birds. When he's done, he starts running his fingers under the new tips, letting it settle around Bucky's face to see where he'll be shaping and cleaning it up.

"I was ages two to eleven for all of it, so I can't tell you what I didn't retain from the Kid's Choice Awards in the later years." He stares at Bucky's forehead, pushing all of his hair back from his face with one hand to see how it will settle when Bucky winds up doing it twenty times a day. Not good; not yet.

Trying to erase--or maybe change the tone of--that frown, he quints at Bucky and holds a finger to his brows. "Not to alarm you, but the temptation to give you mod girl bangs is strong right now."

A hand absently wraps around his aggravated ribs, but they settle into a dull and thumping ache. Not even close to the worst he's dealt with, so he'll manage. He settles into a posture he feels like he can hold for a while, and wisely doesn't nod at the instructions.

It works, he doesn't know what a mod girl is but he knows what bangs are, and a little warning divot shifts into his brow, a kind of up-tilt to one and in-tilt to the other, an unflinching look.

"Don't start what you can't finish," he cautions, because he's not above stealing in here and giving Kira's own hair a lovely hacking-into in his sleep one day. Maybe shaving one eyebrow. Hell of a way to put his world's deadliest assassin skills to use, but he's not above it.

That's fine: Kira would only have to actually murder him over it, but it would be an honorable death. And Kira would likely die in the attempt.

Two birds, one stone. The real Kira would never pass up an opportunity to die.

Good thing he isn't, then. One more pass of his hand through Bucky's hair sates whatever mood he's reaching for, and gets it close enough to damp to work with. "Pardon the intrusion," he says, almost reflexively, squeezing in at Bucky's side to start evening up the line along his jaw.

"I can finish," he promises, though he doesn't quite mean what Bucky does. "I can make you look like Jackie Kennedy, I don't care if I have to make rollers out of jars and rubber bands and ask Mark to reverse engineer hairspray out of goat saliva."

Edited 2018-07-30 01:17 (UTC)

He does his best to shift and make room without moving his chest or tousling the way Kira's finally settled on his hair falling. It winds up with his shoulder gently pressing into Kira's chest, but there isn't much to be done about it. He's not nearly as broad across as Steve but he's close, and the metal arm does takes up a hefty share of space.

Surprising even himself, he laughs. Not just a huff, but a real and proper thing, lips curling up, teeth showing, because that one he gets. Jackie Kennedy he knows, and what's more he knows about her more than just because he may have assassinated her husband.

"Take a hell of a lot of goats," He replies, laugh still in his voice. "Frankly, I think I could pull it off."

Kira lifts his hands for it, not just to let Bucky move with the sound, but to see it. Bucky might not have given any heads up, coming over, but right now Kira's glad he showed up. Glad he's laughing, wedged onto his toilet with half his hair on the sink. "You've got the volume for it," he says, "we just need to give you the lift."

Which isn't far from what he's doing anyway, now that he's seen Bucky do more than stare at his hands and frown. Something to look good with that laugh. Something to stick to his lip just a little bit, the way the damp hair is now.

Gently, Kira combs it back on the side he's working on. "So," he asks, having settled on a period of time Bucky seems to like. "Jackie or Marilyn?"

Yeah, he has no idea if he has the volume or the lift for anything, so his mouth stays firmly shut about that. He hmms in the back of his throat like he's considering it, but really the decision's made the second the question comes out of Kira's mouth.

"Jackie," he says decisively. Both of them really got famous after he'd already enlisted, after he'd already been knee deep in trenches, and their height broke after he'd already "died". He's got some memories in and around the sixties, though, spent more time unfrozen then than any other decade really, present day excluded. "Seems smarter. More than just a pretty face."

Not that there's anything wrong with Marilyn, but Jackie.

And it's out of conversational politeness that he asks, "You?"

Kira sucks the back of his teeth, at least a little for the press of Bucky's broad shoulder under his ribs, but he can only shift so much with the tub behind him, Bucky's knee at an angle that corrals him into his little corner. He can't say he really minds it; something in the quiet sound of shears through his hair and the dull echo of the bathroom, it feels better to be up close.

Might just be the recent fright in a damp cave talking. Might be he needs another round of carrying his goat around like a baby, after everything.

"Trick question," he says, "the answer was Audrey Hepburn. Well, actually, the answer is Eartha Kitt, who I need to show up to dish about that threesome with James Dean and Paul Newman." While Bucky isn't going to get bangs, even for his wrong answer, Kira does shape the front a little shorter than the back, the kind of shaggy that can hang in his face a bit, make up for it if he does decide for a tiny ponytail while he chops wood. "And don't discount Marilyn's smarts, it takes brains to leverage pretty that far."

He huffs another laugh, and it takes a last-second moment of self-control to keep himself from shaking his head. As it stands, his shoulder shakes a little against Kira's chest, the slightest swish of fabric and brush of contact.

"Of course," he agrees wryly, "Stupid me. Audrey."

He agrees with ease, but that second part has his eyebrow lifting, a sort of surprised amusement filtering across his features. "Wait - threesome? Seriously?"

He doesn't lean back; the feelings of other people don't resonate like they used to. Like he may have been programmed to remember them doing, fuck, he doesn't know anymore. When they did, all he'd wanted was control, or a way to shut it off. When he got that wish--it's fucking been awhile. Seeing and hearing a laugh is like a deep breath in the chaos of their lives, but Kira almost leans into the feeling of it, physically pressed to his ribs.

He at least stills his hands, giving it room to happen. Seeing that the new shape of Bucky's hair makes that smile visible from the side. "I mean I'm perfectly willing to add inventor of threesomes to the Eartha Kitt mythos," he says, "but that was still the fifties. She said she had them both one afternoon, once. And Dean is at least a little famous for swinging both ways. He can actually show up any day, if anyone is listening for my opinion."

Shame to lose the forced proximity, but it is forced, and the backs of his legs don't love the tub digging into them. "You can put your feet in the tub, or just turn that way to let me at the other side."

He huffs a little as he shifts--both because of his ribs and because of the idea of James Dean showing up in that well any day now. Legs swing around and settle themselves in Kira's bathtub, suddenly a little guilty of not having stripped his shoes despite the glass on the ground.

"Now that'd be a hell of an entrance," he muses, settling still again. "Imagine the line of people queueing up to be the one to give him mouth to mouth."

Probably still standing in line after he started breathing again, too.

"I don't think anyone who came through ever actually needed it," he admits, never regrettable until this moment. "But you teach me how it's done, I won't rat you out if you lie to him a little."

Trimming the left to match the right, periodically leaning himself back into Bucky's face for a better line of sight--it hasn't escaped his notice that James Dean is the one getting mouth to mouth fantasies out of Bucky, joking as they are.

"I've got a red leather jacket downstairs; we could dress up, have a knife fight on the school field trip if it'll fill that void in your heart."

Frankly he hasn't even noticed himself that he's fixated on James instead of any of the women they'd mentioned before him. It's a completely unconscious thing, telling only to Kira while he himself remains oblivious to it.

He does, however, scoff out an incredulous laugh at the offer. Can't wrap his head around what it probably is, doesn't consider for a second that it might be actual flirting rather than just... a guy joking with another guy. It was never a possibility back when he had the chance to have any sort of camaraderie with other men. You make those jokes because they're absurd, because if you take them seriously then you're a fairy.

Except for the subtext, except for the things no one talked about. Except for the guys at the back of the yards, and the guys who did the drag shows for "morale."

"Maybe not the best idea. Pretty sure I can do things with a knife James Dean could only dream of."

"So cut my ass and call me sashimi," Kira scoffs right back; he's got crocodile jaws when it comes to his own jokes. He latches on and spins them to shreds of what they once were. Pro tip, young Buckinald: gay and absurd had a baby, and he gives free haircuts on whatever day of the week this is.

"How else am I supposed to work out my daddy issues, we don't have any cars and I can't drive."

He backs off for a moment, in case there's another laugh coming to shake the hair out of his grip. He's almost done, taking the opportunity to rinse off his razor-comb.

give him a mullet;

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