sixthiterationlogs | wow look what the cat dragged in

Entry tags:

wow look what the cat dragged in

WHO: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes
WHERE: fountain, inn
WHEN: May 13
OPEN TO: closed arrival, otherwise open to all
WARNINGS: language
STATUS: ~~second prompt is open~~ closed

the fountain

When he closes his eyes, he knows it will only be a moment in his mind, even as darkness blots out his vision and swallows him whole. Regret lingers as it always does, the fact he chooses this over consciousness impossible to ignore when the last thing Steve does is insist on standing there with the wish that Bucky will change his mind written plainly on his face. But it's all the more reason he shouldn't. Yet, even as he prepares himself to wake again to the worst possible scenario, being immersed in water is definitely not something he considered.

There's air in him, enough that he knows that he hasn't been thrown in and also enough that his mind cannot decipher the circumstances. It's hardly enough reason for dawdling, however, and his focus is quickly turns toward finding the surface. Easy enough, even short an arm. Maybe not as efficient or balanced as he'd like, but there isn't time to reassess.

He gasps for fresh breath once he breaks through to air and throws his arm out to pull his body out from what seemed a well but is apparently a fountain. Curiosity after curiosity, it doesn't stop him from clambering free from the water, even if the effort comes quite clumsily without the aid of a second arm. It's then while water drips generously from him, free from the metal joint and free from his clothing, that he realizes his clothing isn't really his clothing and that this obviously isn’t Wakanda. Not even a little.

Jesus Fucking Christ. “Can’t it be Kansas? Just once?” He doesn't expect an answer.

the inn ~~(open)~~

He’s not even going to pretend he’s not new. It seems like something that should be obvious, so why bother with putting people on? Not that it means he won’t do his damned best to make sure people know he’s not incapable, especially with the blatant visible handicap. But he’s dripping a lot less now, and that’s a good time to try and figure out what all he actually needs to deal with given his clear displacement of space and possible displacement of time.

Soaked is still very much the description of his physical state though, something that’s apparently becoming a trend, but he’s far more grateful this time around since his arm isn’t trapped in a vice and, well, he clearly hasn’t gone on a murder rampage either. It’s the little things in life...

There’s a fire at one end of the establishment he wanders into, and even without the cold, it’s a welcome sight. Soggy garments are really not his style, and having a quicker way to dry off other than waiting for the world to end is a huge bonus. He plants himself nearby and takes the opportunity to dig through the pack. It’s sturdy. Effective. But everything else inside is soaked through like him.

God. Why can’t anything ever be easy?

Dragging a hand down his face, he gives a long sigh. One thing at a time, Barnes. And at the least, the water isn’t sopping out of the bag, he tells himself. So it’s not all bad. Maybe.

He wants to laugh, but instead a wry grin plasters itself to his face. Patience is a goddamn virtue, for sure. But as long as he doesn’t get kicked out for being a drowned mess, he’s glad to stay parked here for another couple hours before moving on.

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Peggy absently fiddles with the quilt, wishing that she had thought to lay claim to more men's clothing as people vanished, but she hasn't, so all that she's got it this. She doesn't suggest Barnes take off the wet clothes, mainly because the propriety of the situation demands otherwise.

"Almost a year, now," she responds as she lights a fire in the kitchen and pours in some water from the fountain into a pot to start it boiling, keeping a steady eye behind her on Bucky as though he might vanish at any moment. "I'm going to be presumptuous and guess that you're from my future. I know today has already been a little stressful, but I'm afraid anything I tell you is going to make it worse," she says, turning so she can negotiate with him.

"That said, I'll leave it up to you how much you want to know," she offers.

“Jesus,” he remarks regarding the duration of her stay thus far, idling a reasonable distance behind her as he watches her work. That’s almost insanity to consider. She’s supposed to have been alive where he was a year ago. And not, well, youthful. As she continues, it only further cements his confusion, not that it hadn’t been hiding out the whole damn time since he found himself several feet underwater in a fountain that he’s never seen before, but there are times when shit like that needs to be taken more seriously. Like now.

“Ain’t a fan of being out of the loop.” He tries to be as polite as he can with his phrasing because it’s not as if he’d ever discussed this directly with Peggy before. But it frustrates him nonetheless that people (namely Steve) always seem to think he can’t handle what’s dished to him, specifically since that’s all he’s ever done in life. What’s another dogpile of bullshit? “I’d appreciate the full sitrep, if that’s dandy.”

Peggy keeps her back to him while he takes in her news, grateful that she doesn't have to show the wash of emotions over her face, because the whole of this place has been one unexpected turbulent ride of emotions after the next, which Peggy hardly feels equipped to deal with. When she feels like she has control of herself, she adjusts the heat of the fire and turns to face him again.

"This is the third time I've met you here," she says. "The first, you were from my time. The second, you looked very similar to the way you do now. I have no idea where you went either time," she confesses, and the first, she should have known. They had been sharing space, she should have figured out where he went. "Yet, here you are, back again," she says, as confounded as ever.

"What makes all this worse is that I've spent a year trying to find a way out," she says, the frustration in her tone, "and finding nothing."

His brow furrows, eyes alert with realization as she explains her lot. The gravity only weighs heavier as disappointment settles into her final words, and he finds himself suddenly far more aware of how utterly fucked up the situation is. He has no memory of having been in a place like this, and it hardly seems like something Hydra had a hand in, especially because the unnaturalness of the circumstances would certainly stand out more than any of the memories he held naturally on his own. There’s no protocol relative to such a notion either, an apparently encased space where he was capable of coming and going so many times while others could remain captured.

What kind of crazy place has he come to? God. Poor Peggy.

He doesn’t want to dismiss her clear struggles since arriving in this place, but it’s difficult not to want to offer his condolences, his sorrow, that someone like Agent Margaret Carter would be more or less trapped somewhere for a year without a means of escape.

“Pegs,” he starts, trailing off when nothing else comes. Bucky doesn’t correct himself this time. “Jesus. Are you. Holding up okay?” It’s the only thing worth asking. No one deserves what she’s gone through, and no platitudes can erase what she’s likely endured in the interim. A clear crease forms in his brow, the concern he always help for the wellbeing of others making a rare appearance, but here and now it sharpens because Peggy isn’t just anyone. Peggy's existence is something too grand for him to even quantify properly with words.

The question takes her aback, mainly because she hasn't heard it in some time. When she'd developed those icy powers after losing Natasha and Bucky and Steve the last time, people had been very worried and lovely, but it's been terribly busy since. The lightning, the storms, the bugs, and now Credence's troubles mean that she's been on the helping side to make sure people are taken care of.

Stella makes sure she's well, but it's so odd for someone newly here to care about her before their own plight. That's why she's so silent, gaping at him before she collects herself. "I'm as well as one can be," she admits. "I don't like failure and here, I fail every day. Every time I go out to the canyons and they continually close in on themselves, every time the borders become more impossible, every time someone leaves without leaving a map, I feel like a failure."

"Sergeant Barnes, I'm meant to be comforting you," Peggy remarks calmly, raising a brow at him seeing as she knows there will be more questions, soon enough.

Failure. He understands that notion well. It seems, when he looks back on the remnants of his past he manages to make sense of, that his life may as well have been defined in a lifetime of failure. Every attempt he’d made to do the right thing, to be the right person, was always taken apart, pried open, and forgotten. No one had even come for him when he fallen, not even to bury him properly or to mark his grave.

Bucky watches her solemnly, knowing the words she ends with are a deflection, to draw focus away from what she feels and put the present moment back into focus. Taking a slow breath, he decides to oblige the deference. For the moment.

“Can’t say there’s much for you to comfort,” he returns. “Not when I’m used to it.” It being how fucked up everything that happens to him is anymore. He almost wishes he had a genuine reason to need comfort, at least as an excuse to feel that old feeling of concern again, of feeling like he matters or that his existence makes a difference. But the rules were defined without him in the picture. Wanting something like that when he already knows his place is a selfish, abominable thing.

“All of that isn’t on you though, is it? Not like you were the one that trapped us here. Ain’t really a failure if you’re just doing your best with what you’re given.”

"You're used to showing up in a fountain, clawing your way out, and finding yourself in a town better suited to our childhoods?" Peggy remarks, her eyes widening in a mild prod at him, seeing as she can't help the way sarcasm laps at her words a little. "Well, then, you would be a first. You could write about your experiences, help others," is her deadpanned conclusion.

The raise of her brow after is a pointed comment that she doesn't believe him for a single second, and he's not going to get away with deflecting. "That said, no, I haven't taken a particularly villainous turn, lately. I'm just trapped here, along with you."

With the tea boiled, she brings over two cups and settles in a chair opposite Barnes, wondering how long he'll stay with her this time. She's become so inured to loss, but she's not sure if she can handle losing a friend yet again, especially one she'd grown close to, twice before.

Taking her sarcasm in stride, he laughs and shrugs his shoulder, hand lifting with his arm as he shakes his head. “Hey, I tried to, but I didn’t know where I was supposed to mail it.” The reply almost seems like genuine truth until he throws his eyes to the side briefly before meeting her gaze again, indicating his own sarcasm despite the broad smile now dancing on his face.

“But, y’know, better trapped with others than alone.” Not that he knows the full details of the place, but from how Peggy carries herself and what all she’s said, there’s strong indication that they aren’t the only two trapped here, and he’s grateful at least for that much. “Not the best situation, sure, but... I mean, if you had to be stuck here and figure everything out by yourself? No one to talk to?” He gaze wanders off to the side. That solitude, even imagined, strikes far too close. “That’d really be something awful.”

Peggy can't help her amusement, though she tries her best to hide it by ducking her head down towards her tea. "Well, I would read it," she jokes, breathing in a little deeper as she tries to convince herself to tell him about the others. He's going to find out, so it's best that she's honest.

She also worries that once she does, she'll lose the contemporary she has. Everyone from the future is so lovely and she's become their friend, but they still have a connection with each other that she never will. Even Steve, when he'd arrived, had been disconnected. Best to do it, now. "I arrived alongside roughly twenty or so people, including Sam Wilson," she says. "He's here, along with several others from my future. Wanda, Natasha, Clint, Thor," she shares. "They're all here."

Yet, Peggy is living with someone else, always feeling a barrier between them. "If you'd like, I can show you where they're all staying, later."

The way she says “my future” doesn't slip past him. Her choice in words tell how disassociated she feels, that they all come from a far later time, even if from the same world. Well, assuming that’s how things work. He can only assume Peggy’s just from the past anyway. Doesn’t really make sense otherwise, does it? Not that any of this makes much sense either.

Though his interest is mildly piqued at the inclusion of Thor, who had been distinctly missing during the conflict that had ensued over the Accords, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a similar form of detachment, even if he technically came from the same future Peggy described. He didn’t really have the same rapport with any of them, all of them simply numbering into Steve’s new allies when it came down to it. He didn’t delude himself into thinking they’d helped him escape because he was Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, a wrongly vilified World War II veteran. No, they only cared because Steve had, and all of it had been for Steve, not him.

“Don’t worry about it.” The answer comes with something of a pained smile. He lets her see the real one since lying about this in particular would likely prove costly, especially since he did have a decent rapport with Peggy already, even if just as a soldier. “I can figure it out later. They’re—” He cuts off trying to think of the best way to put it. His fingers fiddle with the cup’s handle as he stews. “They’re Steve’s friends,” is what he settles on. “Not mine.”

She gives him a speculative look when he makes the comment about them being Steve's friends. She'd felt that way for a long time, though she can safely say that with Thor and Sam, she knows that they're hers, now. Their future and those events may not be, but both men are, and she hopes to earn that from the others. Still, they had their connections at home with Steve and the Avengers. She's a a dead woman from the past whom they only know because of this place.

"If you're sure," is all she says, because she also doesn't want to keep him from them because of her own selfish reasons. "There are many homes like this one," she says. "There's also several rooms at the inn, if communal living is more your style."

"This sofa is always open to you," she says, wanting to make it clear that she doesn't expect him to simply leave her be. "The first time you were here, you and I, we shared a home. I'm used to some of your worse habits," she teases, as if there had been any to mention.

He doesn’t have to wonder to be sure anymore. It’s reality. Fact. He doesn’t have any other friends anymore. Not on Earth anyway. But that’s what happens when you’re on Interpol’s most wanted. Rather than remarking further on it, only a soft nod follows as she continues speaking. Making a stink of it doesn’t really matter here, even as much as it aches to think and reminds him of how weary his body has grown despite the positivity he wears like skin.

At the mention of his having previously stayed with her, his brows raise, wondering what she could even know that he is now unaware of. “Wait, what kinda habits we talkin’ here?” Because he’s pretty sure most of his habits are great, and even if he had some shitty ones before the war, they’re probably not really the same anymore now. “Cause, y’know, fixin’ my hair for way too long isn’t a thing anymore.”

Sipping at her tea, she pauses and waits a very long moment to respond. It's not kind, perhaps, but she can't help but want to tease Barnes just a little. She's grown to enjoy the man's company, through his many iterations, and she keeps her expression even as she sips at her tea, thoughtfully. "Well, the hair was something to get used to," she concedes, aiming to allow him to lead this conversation himself.

"It was...other aspects," she says, purposefully vague. In truth, he had been an excellent roommate. It was someone who understood their time, someone who understood the war, and with Steve, they had a common topic in the event they ran out of other things to discuss. Beyond that, they could also talk about the Howlies and Howard and any other myriad of things.

It had been a nice touch of the past to make Peggy feel comfortable, which she's been missing out on, ever since.

God, she fucking knows and is dragging it out. This isn’t fair. Trying not to squirm has never been such a task before, and he’s scowling a bit after her overtly vague reply. Not cool, Peggy. Not cool at all.

“What other aspects?” His eyes narrow, suspicious of if she’s just pulling his leg. If she really had lived with him, then she probably knows the easiest ways to get under his skin, and keeping information he wants to know from him is definitely one of those ways. That and he hasn’t exactly made a secret of how much it’s bothering him right now. Two can play at this game though. Maybe. Sort of.

“The shirt thing? You mean the shirt thing don't you.” There isn’t a shirt thing.

"There was no shirt thing, unless you've somehow developed new bad habits," Peggy remarks, sipping at her tea one last time before settling it down. "You were a lovely roommates, Sergeant Barnes." Honestly, it's strange, because she had been calling him James, but only briefly, and now she feels as if she's lost that permission and ability.

"I was feeling rather guilty, when I began to stay with you," she admits. "I had just learned that Steve was alive, and I couldn't sleep for the guilt that I stopped searching for him, that I gave up on him. You, he," she clarifies, "you helped. Not to mention, you had an excellent habit of being very helpful with dinner."

Mainly because she was awful at cooking, but let that not be said out loud (not by her, at least).

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he grouses quietly to himself about the fake thing he made up. He takes the compliment that follows for what it is though, a rare acknowledgement that he maybe isn’t as much of a wastrel as he sometimes feels.

Nothing could change the reality though. As much as anyone could have searched, he knows it wasn’t as simple as just finding Steve either. The fact Captain America still lived was a surprise for everyone. No one should have survived, and the logical conclusion would have been to assume he had died. It’s the one Bucky had also reached when they kept bringing him the papers in his cell, rubbing it in that no one was coming for him, that no one remembered James Buchanan Barnes. But that doesn’t matter anymore, at least not in the grand scheme of things.

Rather than linger on the obvious subject that would draw them to discomfort, he smiles easily at her latter remark while giving a slight shrug. “You can thank my ma for that. She was a killer cook too. Dunno if I’ll qualify as on par, but I do try my damn best anyway. Steve used to swear by my pancakes. But I’m sure he was probably just putting me on too. Pancakes aren't all that hard to make.”

Her lips curve upwards with delight at his grumbling, but seeing as there was no shirt habits to speak of, they can move on without anyone's feelings getting hurt. It's still so strange to have him here, especially when in the past, he's come on the heels of or before Steve, but right now, Peggy doesn't need that heartbreak and grief. She just needs a friend and Barnes is one of them.

Maybe, if he remembers, at least. "No pancakes to speak of, I'm afraid," Peggy informs him, not sure that this is awful news. Then again, she'd never really grown up in a home that had pancakes so much as cold cereals and the occasional egg. "It was mostly fish and grains and whatever greens we could drudge up. I did the knifework, left the cooking to you so no one got poisoned."

"I'm afraid I haven't even seen what we might need for pancakes," she says, "but I wouldn't say no to them."

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wow look what the cat dragged in

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