( open )

[redactions]

| characters | Bucky and you.
| date/time | Thursday afternoon.
| location | Around
| rating | G.
| summary | The best way to greet your neighbours is to feed them.
| note | I wrote in prose but feel free to use brackets.



He falls asleep instantly on the moss bed, the smell of it familiar and steadying. Combat lends sleep of no restful kind but he barely dreams at all, waking up as soon as the first ray of light peers through the window. There's a moment of bewilderment, and then reality introduces itself to him all over again as he notices the wings are still there when he picks up his gem. He flattens them self-consciously, before finally deciding they take up too much space and leaves the gem carefully tucked under his pillow.

Breakfast, however, is the immediate problem. He saved some water from the rains and an edible mushroom, and it's boiling away merrily on the stove. The glow worm is unusually cooperative, but Bucky supposes that if he's now the size of a dragonfly it's not the weirdest thing in the world.

It's actually nice. He could get used to it.

Once the worm's been sent off with an appreciative scratch on the head, he picks up the large bowl of stew and starts knocking on a few doors.

'Hello?'

Comments

[millionyearsentence]

[ It's probably a good thing for Bucky that Wyrden is already awake - if not, her Accessory would have barred the door completely. The soldier had been sitting on her bed doing weapons maintenance, and counting the disposeables that she still had left. Without her facilities, she would be stranded...

The knock takes her mind slightly off the state of her supplies, and she motions for Ramiel to open it. The Accessory fumbles a little with the door (it isn't the automated sliding door of her cell) but manages to get it open after a few seconds, standing back so Wyrden could see who was outside.

Another human, interesting. She stands, as per protocol. ]

Hey. Anything I can help with?

[ ooc: permissions post! ]

[redactions]

[ He eyes the Accessory curiously - just one more on the Grand List of Things That Are Part of Life Now - and nods briskly at her, straightening just as she stands. ]

I'm one of your neighbours. Just poppin' by. Would you like soup?

[millionyearsentence]

[ Ah, friendly people. Much more friendly than the folks back home, definitely. This she acknowledges with a nod, expression becoming less serious. ]

Thanks. [ But she isn't one to take things without paying, so: ] I don't have anything of value with me, though. Hope you're fine with that.

[ Free things is such a foreign concept to her that her mind immediately goes to bartering. ]

But if you'd need any building work, or the like, I can do that, yeah.

[redactions]

[ This is a language he understands and would insist on the same himself. She gets a bright smile. ]

You don't have to. Way I see it, we're all stuck here, wouldn't hurt to do a few things for free now and then.

[ But he won't stop her if she wishes to owe a debt. ]

What did you do back home? [ he eyes the Accessory, thinking maybe she built it. It's certainly fascinating. ]

[millionyearsentence]

[ Heh, that's true. But she has been in hardship too long to unlearn the fact that every gift must be returned.

So she just tilts her head, motioning to signal that he could come in and perhaps set the bowl down somewhere. ]

Soldier. [ Easiest way to put it. ] Field work mostly, but I have to maintain all my equipment on my own, so there's that.

[ The blade left on the bed is one indication, as is the intricate polearm leaning against one wall. Her machine gun is currently stashed in her Will'O Drive, so it isn't out. ]

Life isn't easy back home, so I'd learned to do lots of things. Think I can help out 'round here, too.

[redactions]

[ He checks the sole of his boots discreetly to make sure they're clean enough to enter a home with, and then walks in and places the bowl on the sturdiest wood outcrop he can find. Looking around the blade catches his eye first: he admires the craftsmanship, and whistles softly. ]

Me too. [ standing at almost parade rest next to where he put the bowl ] Which war?

backdated;

[dissemblance]

[She's unpacking her selection of 'leaf' clothing when he enters. She starts, but it's a subtle motion, not a jump but a slight tensing of her muscles before 'Anna' recognizes him, and smiles.]

Sorry, you startled me. Are you looking for someone?

[redactions]

[ Now that's interesting, not what he'd expect from an art director from the Bronx. ]

Uh - [ he gives her a wan smile, he'd wanted this one for himself but he's already backing out of the door ] not at the moment. Just lookin' for someplace empty. Sorry to bother you.

[dissemblance]

[She fiddles with the leafy little top for a moment.]

The rest are kind of... taken. I already looked. Guess whoever built this place figured we'd all just bunk together.

[redactions]

Oh.

[ Hm. Already at the door he just twists to peer at the other doors, quietly listening for footsteps, voices, and heartbeats. ]

Right. I'm stayin' here then. Guess we can get to know each other a little.

[ He's going for a bright, cheery smile, in the neighbourhood of rakish - who wouldn't want to stay in the vicinity of a beautiful dame? But he's out of practice. ]

[dissemblance]

[A smile, and she sits down on the edge of her moss bed.]

What, like twenty questions? I'm game. Favourite movie?

[redactions]

[ He approaches, and sits at a polite distance. ]

Casablanca. You?

[dissemblance]

Shanghai Express.

[She smiles, and pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged with a dancer's grace.]

But I liked Casablanca too. Hmm-- favourite type of pie?

[redactions]

[ He hmms, he expected her to pick something more contemporary. ]

Can't say I saw that one. Anyway. Apple. What kinda music do you like?

[dissemblance]

[Movies and on to music. Things he misses from the front lines. It gets filed away.]

I like all kinds. I have a weakness for instrumental work - classical, or jazz - but I'm also a big fan of rock'n'roll, which is a bit more modern.

[She doesn't say it in a disparaging way, or a pitying one. Anna knows he's 'dead' and Natasha knows he isn't, but he doesn't need to be treated like glass over either fate.]

[redactions]

[He gives her a cheeky look, only a bit more modern? and she sees the first honest smile. ]

Uh-uh. Exploitable weakness, madamoiselle. You like to dance?

[dissemblance]

[With a brief flash of a little girl's fond remembrance,]

I used to do ballet. So yes, James. I do like to dance. That was two questions.

[She could ask another throwaway question, but she doesn't want to. Instead,]

What did you think of the war?

[It's said with nothing more telling than the faint curiosity of someone born long after the echo of the last shots died away, the last shells left their mark on open countryside or city streets. Anna isn't a woman to romanticize the war, hardly that. She isn't afraid to get her hands dirty, and doesn't shy away from dark histories.]

[redactions]

[ He beams at her as he raises his hands, palms facing her. ]

I'll make it up to ya, promise.

[ The play doesn't smother itself when she asks, instead he sort of settles, like a heavy rock has been placed on his chest, and while his eyes are bright, they are sharper too. ]

What do they tell you about it?

[ There's much more to her than meets the eye, and he's curious as to how it's lived on in the future. ]

[dissemblance]

[There's the man he was before the war. It's a brief flash, but it fills in another of the gaps in her knowledge, clicking down into place like a bullet in a magazine.]

Depends on who you ask. Where you look. It's sanitized for schoolchildren, glamorized in the movies. Some of it's erased altogether.

[With wry amusement,]

Did you know, for example, that America was responsible for winning the war singlehandedly against Germany? While the French cowered in the streets and the British drank tea.

[She's an art director that knows her history, at least.]

You're still up by two questions.

[redactions]

[ With brief seriousness, though he's still smiling, ] I did say I'd make it up to you. I'm a man of my word, Anna.

[ He frowns at what she says, though. ]

That's not right. French were fightin' Fritz long before us, so were the Tommies. The Russians too; they had the worst casualties. Germans rarely ever took 'em alive. [ she's Russian. She might've had and lost family in the War, and his expression twists with sympathy ] That ain't a morale boost, it's plain lyin'. We weren't nothin' to HYDRA's guns, we never woulda made it if it hadn't been for all'o'folks over there with us.

[dissemblance]

[He slips into the vernacular of a Brooklyn back alley like a second skin. A sign of anger, she thinks, well-restrained but nevertheless present.]

No, it's not right. But it is how the world works.

[redactions]

[ Plainly, ] Well, it's bullshit. [ softer, ] Pardon me. [ and a beat, normal volume, ] Next thing you'll be tellin' me is they kept that stupid Captain America crap.

[dissemblance]

No pardon necessary. I'm a New Yorker, same as you.

[And her ears are hardly delicate, but he wins points for being a gentleman at least, and 'Anna' gives him a smile.]

Not a fan?

[redactions]

[ A soft hmph. ]

He's my best friend. [ and he's happy, honestly. Steve getting the attention, love, and respect he deserves. But the War's home for him, while it's taking away little bits and pieces of Bucky, and showing him only the shadows in the room ] It's not how he should be known.

[ As just Steve. Not a symbol. Just a good man, but that's a world Buck's too dead to see. ]

[dissemblance]

He was a symbol when the country needed a symbol. It may be a little-- [one corner of her mouth quirks down,] 'cartoonish', but it endured, and it's meant something different to every generation since. Something important.

[The smile comes back, a bit shy.]

I dressed up as him once for Halloween. That was... the year the Soviet Union fell.

[She was busy hating him, actually, for everything he stood for. But in hindsight, if the little girl she never got to be knew Steve Rogers the way Natasha does now, it could have been a reality.]