Bucky Barnes | зима солдат (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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sixthiterationlogs2016-11-20 08:11 pm
zymasoldat) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-20 08:11 pm
bucky barnes and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad seventy years
WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: Fountain / Around
WHEN: Late afternoon, November 20
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Nothing yet. Will update as necessary.
STATUS: Open
It's far from the first time that Bucky suddenly comes to in a state of complete disorientation, no idea where he is, what he's been doing, or what year it is. Even after freeing himself from HYDRA and piecing those small, confusing fragments of memories together until they eventually told a semi-coherent story, it still happens. All it takes is a nightmare, or a too-vivid dream that may be a memory or may be a fabrication, and he'll find himself waking up without his bearings. When it happens, he has to fight back that spike of panic in his chest, stay calm, and focus on the little things that help ground him. The familiarity of his bed (when he had one). The time on his watch. The day's date. The entries in his notebooks-- the newer entries, that is. The daily documentation of each day that's passed since he started journaling. Affirmations from himself that he's Bucky Barnes, and he's still alive, and he's making new memories, not just chasing after his past.
All of those little strategies are pretty useless right now, considering he's underwater and doesn't have time to try to think about how he got here or where here even is. He feels a push for the surface, and he goes with it, starts to swim, even though he can tell from the get-go that something's not right with the way he's moving. He's uncoordinated, using his legs more to compensate, because-- he soon realizes-- his left arm is gone.
That's not news, exactly. He lost his arm in 1945. But it was replaced before he was put in cryo for the first time, and he's had the cybernetic prosthesis ever since. It felt so natural to use, it was as if it'd always been a part of him.
But it's gone now. He's got nothing below the shoulder, and he doesn't know how it happened, but he can't stop or panic or dwell on it, so he doesn't. Soon enough, his head's above water, and he's grabbing onto the edge of a fountain, pulling himself out so that he can sit on the ground and cough up any water that he inhaled when he first woke up.
Now he can think, take in his surroundings and any clues. Bucky pushes his hair back and looks down at himself. He's wearing a backpack or something, and scrubs-- dark blue, almost black, since they're completely soaked-- which means... Hospital?
(Or a lab.)
He shrugs the backpack off, trying to piece together his memories leading up to this, but all he can remember is heroes fighting heroes, teammates and friends in an all-out brawl against one another because of him. But that was in an airport, and he had two arms at the time. Maybe he was captured by Stark's team and brought back to justice. Maybe he was placed in an institution. It'd explain his outfit.
Or maybe somebody else found him and said the words and took his mind from him again. There's a painful twist in his stomach at the thought, and he tries to shift his focus, instead, on the contents of the backpack. The insignia on it is nothing he recognizes, and all it contains is clothes. He huffs out a sigh and zips it back up. Putting it over his shoulder again, Bucky stands.
There's no way he's going to sit around and wait. He needs to figure out where he is and what's going on. First step: explore his surroundings.
WHERE: Fountain / Around
WHEN: Late afternoon, November 20
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Nothing yet. Will update as necessary.
STATUS: Open
It's far from the first time that Bucky suddenly comes to in a state of complete disorientation, no idea where he is, what he's been doing, or what year it is. Even after freeing himself from HYDRA and piecing those small, confusing fragments of memories together until they eventually told a semi-coherent story, it still happens. All it takes is a nightmare, or a too-vivid dream that may be a memory or may be a fabrication, and he'll find himself waking up without his bearings. When it happens, he has to fight back that spike of panic in his chest, stay calm, and focus on the little things that help ground him. The familiarity of his bed (when he had one). The time on his watch. The day's date. The entries in his notebooks-- the newer entries, that is. The daily documentation of each day that's passed since he started journaling. Affirmations from himself that he's Bucky Barnes, and he's still alive, and he's making new memories, not just chasing after his past.
All of those little strategies are pretty useless right now, considering he's underwater and doesn't have time to try to think about how he got here or where here even is. He feels a push for the surface, and he goes with it, starts to swim, even though he can tell from the get-go that something's not right with the way he's moving. He's uncoordinated, using his legs more to compensate, because-- he soon realizes-- his left arm is gone.
That's not news, exactly. He lost his arm in 1945. But it was replaced before he was put in cryo for the first time, and he's had the cybernetic prosthesis ever since. It felt so natural to use, it was as if it'd always been a part of him.
But it's gone now. He's got nothing below the shoulder, and he doesn't know how it happened, but he can't stop or panic or dwell on it, so he doesn't. Soon enough, his head's above water, and he's grabbing onto the edge of a fountain, pulling himself out so that he can sit on the ground and cough up any water that he inhaled when he first woke up.
Now he can think, take in his surroundings and any clues. Bucky pushes his hair back and looks down at himself. He's wearing a backpack or something, and scrubs-- dark blue, almost black, since they're completely soaked-- which means... Hospital?
(Or a lab.)
He shrugs the backpack off, trying to piece together his memories leading up to this, but all he can remember is heroes fighting heroes, teammates and friends in an all-out brawl against one another because of him. But that was in an airport, and he had two arms at the time. Maybe he was captured by Stark's team and brought back to justice. Maybe he was placed in an institution. It'd explain his outfit.
Or maybe somebody else found him and said the words and took his mind from him again. There's a painful twist in his stomach at the thought, and he tries to shift his focus, instead, on the contents of the backpack. The insignia on it is nothing he recognizes, and all it contains is clothes. He huffs out a sigh and zips it back up. Putting it over his shoulder again, Bucky stands.
There's no way he's going to sit around and wait. He needs to figure out where he is and what's going on. First step: explore his surroundings.
no subject
"What game did you hunt?"
no subject
He's got her number, that much is obvious, and she's pretty sure she can see the frown on her dad's face (not to mention the disapproving look of her mother, clear as day), because she's doing a terrible job of this. But you don't tell people. You just protect them. And even though he's clearly capable, even though he's clearly been through something, if those scars on his chest and the lack of a left arm is any indication (and her mind supplies that maybe he was attacked, maybe he knows, because there's no way anything natural gave him those scars), you just don't tell people. Because that's the easiest way to keep them safe.
no subject
"Army," he answers. "I never hunted any deer. Nazis, on the other hand..." Ha. Ha. Sniper humor? He says it with more casual flippancy than he actually feels, like he's trying to channel Sgt. Barnes of the Howling Commandos. Normally, he wouldn't offer that information unprompted, but he's testing the waters by offering a little bit more honesty to see how Allison will react, if she'll respond in kind.
no subject
"You look really great for being 90," she says with a small smile, eyes narrowing just a little as she sizes him up again. "Or do you mean Neo-Nazis?"
no subject
His smile wavers a little just thinking about it, and he looks at Allison again, eager to focus on the positive things before his mind can pull him down into bad memories. "But thanks. Good to know I'm well preserved."
no subject
But he gets a smile in return, and she snorts a little in laughter.
"My best friend would have something to say about that, like.. well preserved is putting it lightly, or something."
And, okay, she's not trying to flirt with the 90 year old Army vet, but. But. Lydia's disapproving smile is firm in her mind. You're alive, Allison, it says. Live a little.
no subject
...though he also has no intention of reciprocating. But it's nice, at least, to have something resembling a normal, casual conversation for once. He hasn't had one in so long.