[MINGLE] PLOT: Siren's Call

[sixthiteration]

WHERE: Anywhere
WHEN: August 25-26
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: Mental manipulation, drowning, death
NOTES: Details here. This post is for EVERYONE, not just the affected. Please make sure and note if your thread is locked for plot purposes.

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It began slowly.

A wisp of song or familiar sound on the breeze swept in from the lake. No source to be found, only the uneasy feeling it had been heard before as it coiled itself steadily inside the minds of the chosen. The sound was a mantra, pulsing soft at first and then louder, growing over days until it seemed to fill the skull, relentless. Come here, the lake whispered, cajoled, shouted. It is cool and quiet beneath the waves.

Come here, it presses now in time with the melody until there is nothing but to blindly follow. The water is calling.

Comments

[living_proof]

I'm not what most people would call a damsel in distress. Where I come from, with the condition I have, I tend to save myself just fine most of the time. But I can't deny that the moment those arms slide around me, the relief is so palpable that a sob actually bubbles up from my throat, muffled against the wet collar of Bucky's shirt.

I wasn't drowning, I would have eventually made it, but I'm just so damned glad to be out of that water.

"I don't know what happened, I don't— I was just there, and I— Oh my god," I pant out, allowing myself that fragile moment, that open vulnerability as I clutch at him. But then I hear more cries, blink damp lashes over Bucky's shoulder and see again the people there on the shore, and swallow it down as well as I can.

"Is anyone hurt? Are you hurt?" I swing back, wide eyes meeting his as I pet the wet hair from his face. He looks okay. Mostly okay.

[freightcars]

He knows she'd have made it, knows that once your feet are on silt you're more or less safe, doesn't imagine she'd have plunged under so close to the shore, but it didn't stop him. Couldn't help it, the urge to see her through those final feet, it's almost more for himself than for her. There isn't a scenario where he'd have swam past her and let her clamber out on her own.

His scrubs stick to him, plastered to his body everywhere but the left sleeve he'd ripped off for easier articulation. Hair is a similar state, soaking wet and sticking to his face at points, dripping like a drowned rat. Once they're safe, stable, grounded by gravity, he allows himself to collapse next to her on the shore. Lands hard on his left ass cheek, weighed down by metal and struggling to catch his breath. It's not the exertion so much as the sucking in of a hell of a lot of god damn water, most of it choked right back up, sure, but it was still enough to put a little strain on his lungs.

He shakes his head steadily, a constant back and forth that sends his hair dancing and dripping.

"I don't-" He starts breathlessly, eyes flickering from her toward the waterline again. "I don't know, I'm fine, I- I don't know how what we're doing here..."

Neither does anyone else, it seems. One by one they make their way onto the shore like turtles, some running, some collapsing, a few washing up. He can see distant outlines of heads bobbing, treading water or swimming back. For the moment, none are in obvious distress. None sink down beneath the surface or splutter to the top, but somehow he thinks it's inevitable

[living_proof]

"We're going to need a head count." There's only a fraction of us here on the sand or stumbling toward shore, and statistically, it seems unlikely everyone else in the village is out there under the water, drowned or drowning, but we won't know for sure until we check.

"Who has a list—" I mumble, shifting back to swing a disoriented stare down the rocky shoreline. "Mark. Is he—" I don't see him or Ravi. Where's Major?

I swing my gaze back to Bucky, pinched expression going suddenly slack as I push out an abrupt breath and pitch forward against him. "Oh god," I say, voice shaking. "I'm so glad you're okay."

When things like this happen, my boyfriends usually aren't.

[freightcars]

He understands the sentiment; understands her plan, to check for casualties because it seems likely there are some. Not everyone is as strong a swimmer as he is, not everyone has the capacity to recover from something like this in the middle of a fucking lake even if they are. As disoriented as he'd been, as uncomfortable as the realization of lost time and missing memories is for him in particular, he steels himself.

He's got to get his shit together and actually do something. Move.

She pitches forward, he wraps his arms around her tightly. Maybe a little too tightly, but christ he's glad it isn't her he's going to go diving for. At least there's that. He shifts a beat later, pushing her back just far enough to cup a hand around her chin and look at her in the eyes.

"Get the list - start a count, whatever you can do, but- don't go back in the water." It's not an order, he's not the order giving type. It's a request, but he says it with a sort of plea in his eye. It's not frantic sounding, he's a calm and logical rationalizer even in the face of chaos. "Drowning victims- they lose control, they grab whatever they think they can float on and they push it down, understand?"

He's seen it, he's caused it. Out in the ocean, out in anywhere, husbands will scramble in wild reckless abandon, lost to their instincts, press their wives under the water to try and drag themselves up for air. They'll drown one another before they ever get ahold of themselves. The coast guard's method is to knock hysterical survivors unconscious the second they start flailing. If she goes back in, it might happen. She doesn't have a metal arm to knock their asses out.

Meaning, obviously, he intends to be the one going back in. Not the first time he's pulled people from the water, at least he's got experience. The upper body strength, too, to pull grown men out. Not that she doesn't, but it might be easier for him than for her.

[living_proof]

"I know, I won't," I say, watching him carefully. He's going to go back in, because of course he's going to go back in. He killed JFK and is going to be forever making up for it by throwing himself into any situation where he might save people instead.

And I'm not saying I don't get it. I'm not exactly known for sitting on my hands, either. But that doesn't mean I relinquish my right to worry about what that water might do to him while he's playing the hero.

I clamp a hand over his wrist, pushing free from his fingers to dart a hasty kiss to his mouth. "Bucky, I—" I falter, and then swallow the words roughly down as I sit back. He's not dying, Liv, and what you do or don't say won't make a difference in that.

"Be careful." I heave out a sigh. "Please."

[freightcars]

The relief he feels is practically palpable; he's so used to being surrounded by people who'd steadfastly refuse, who would run in and get themselves hurt. God, it's a nightmare to be so wrapped up in a mission and have to watch people you care about drop left and right - he's good at compartmentalization, but some people, some relationships transcend it.

He doesn't consider this playing the hero, either. He doens't, this isn't a war, it's just a lake. It's not heroic to pull people out before they suck in water and drown, it's just... The right thing to do.

He meets her lips quickly, a rushed thing before he's pulling himself to his feet. Her words catch him, a slight widening of his eyes because he's not sure how she plans on finishing the sentence at first, but all too soon it's dissolved into a nod.

And then he's off, breaking away to turn up the beach and search for struggling civilians.

She leaves him something to think about later, though. Something to consider, once he's alone and the world is calm. Bucky, I-.