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[redactions]

WHO: Bucky & you!
WHERE: Around the city.
WHEN: Throughout November.
WHAT: Catch-all log for various stuff! Starters in comments.
WARNING(S): Some language, others will be added as we go. PM/ping me @ midwinters if you want something for yourself, or just jump in the wildcard options.

Comments

@GENE.

[redactions]

[ There's enough space for a small garden. He has a vague seed plan in mind, the herbs feel like they'll be better hung on the kitchen window. That and the bedroom are still the only completed and furnished rooms in this half-built house. It's not the rainy season, so for the time being he just has the mattress and blanket under the open sky. It's a kindness, not to make this place seem like a cage, to be given free movement like he's not watched or leashed. ]

[ — but as nice as the thought is, he doesn't know that much about gardens. The Surgeon offers to write to the Gardener for him. But Buck stubbornly sends her a note in his own hand, having tried to follow the Surgeon's conventional methods of correspondence: he's not expected to, but it's a commitment to a solid front. ]

[ The reply is a time and a name that he assumes is this lady's champion, or the fella who runs her house, it's not made clear. Buck's there on the dot, in his own clothes anyway, with just the Surgeon's pin with its leaves on his collar. ]

[ And knocks, ]

Pardon me, I'm lookin' for Eugene?

[preseance]

[He's still a bit dazed by the whole of the place. The glitter and glam - like nothin' so much as New York in '43 before they all shipped on out - is such a change from the mud and cold of mid-March that processin' it's been-- it's been tough.

Reggie tells him he needs to relax. Relax? Hell, Gene hasn't even doffed his field uniform. Though he's had it cleaned, and sat one evening at the fireside to mend it where it was frayed or torn. The Gardener has a closet set aside for him with a variety of clothes in colours he likes, but this feels too much like furlough than like bein' discharged and back home again, and he feels he ought stick to regulation.

The knock comes, and Gene - who'd lost track of time wrangling a kitten and an eyedropper of food after she and her little brothers and sisters were left on the stoop overnight - glances upwards. She gets her tiny claws extricated from his uniform and she's set back down amidst her fuzzy brethren before he goes to open the door.]

Ah, you ain't gotta look too far, fella.

[A broad smile, an Alabama accent in full force. He holds out a hand.]

Gene Hicks. C'mon inside, we'll get you set up.

[redactions]

[ Time and space follow different rules. This was in neat handwriting on a packet delivered to his room, it was obvious from the moment he met the Surgeon. Buck blinks at the familiar uniform. ]

[ His eyes narrow — hard not to feel like this was a trap of some kind, set for him. Its jaws close kindly, considering. ]

James Barnes.

[ He shakes it, firm but brief. ]

Which unit you with?

[preseance]

[It ain't a civilian's question, and somethin' softens in his smile. There's somethin' that hangs on a soldier, in their shoulders or bearin' that he doesn't think he'll ever fail to notice.]

Five-oh-five. Airborne infantry. You?

[redactions]

[ It's not a civilian's question, and this isn't a civilian's movement. Buck sizes up the room first, exits, possible weapons, the sequence ends at Gene. There's a kernel of compressed movement in his feet, he's not used to being in an unfamiliar space he can't immediately decide to leave from. ]

107th. Infantry. [ A beat. ] What's the year?

[ Whatever the answer is, it's a lifetime ago, it's a world that shaped someone else. (But he remembers the War.) ]

[preseance]

'45.

[Except he's met folks to whom that means nothin'. James Barnes seems to know what he's about, but that don't mean they're from the same year.

(There's always another war. Gene ain't so naive as all that.)

He clears his throat faintly and tries again.]

Uh-- 1945, that is. March.

[redactions]

[ A memory. One he has, but. A memory. ]

[ That War ended in September. He fell in May, on a Wednesday. ]

S'while ago for me, [ he offers, quietly. ] I was a sergeant.

[ He doubts Gene cares that much about rank, nah, this fella's one for politeness; Buck isn't going to begrudge him that. It's one of the kindest names anyone can use for him. ]

[preseance]

[He cares about rank to an extent, but a medic's charm lies wholesale in their ability to - when needed - not give a fuck about oak leaves on up. So he takes it with a nod, and gives the man a bit of a salute. It's polite, but it lacks the crispness one might find in field inspection. Was a sergeant. He's learning to take it in stride.

There hasn't been much time to think about how they'll adapt after the war. If it'll be like it was for the fathers of his generation. His Da was just the slightest bit too young to serve in the Great War, but Agathine had a lotta veterans, and as many ghosts to haunt her, but the thing of it is-- time passes. Ain't no choice in the matter. He buried his best friend some eighteen months ago, and there'll come a time when no one remembers him at all.

So-- 'a while ago'. He can at least try to understand what that means. What it looks like, and how it feels.]

T5. I'm a medic.

[He feels he shouldn't dwell on the subject, but the truth is-- it's a weight off his shoulders to talk to somebody else that was there. Maybe he's grasping at that little bit of shared experience.]

[redactions]

[ The Surgeon sent him to a healer — he'll have to ask her if she knew. Buck huffs, soft and amused. Shared life experience is hard to find as it is — everyone he knew from his world was gone, even if they were barely remembered. ]

[ And this place is safe, but it's next to unrecognisable compared to mud and trenches. ]

How you been doin', kid?

[preseance]

[Kid. He doesn't laugh, but there's an incredulous little lift to his eyebrows for a moment. Doc he's used to, but he can't remember the last time anybody called him kid. Guess he must seem young to this fella - a decade's difference is an age at twenty-one.

Far as questions go, it's an easy way to be dishonest. People lie by degrees all the time, he sees in it the men (the boys) in his platoon. It ain't on purpose, it's just-- there are always bigger things to worry about. Have you eaten takes second fiddle to how many bullets you got left?

Gene exhales. It's steady, like how he always is. The kittens mewl in the corner, and it spurs him to head over towards the box. The fire crackles. It's an old-fashioned sorta place, like a little countryside villa in France, though he appreciates not havin' to pump his own water.

He picks up one of the kittens - a small ginger tabby - and takes up the milk dropper again. He strokes the kitten gently to get it to nurse and lets it knead the tower he's draped over his arm for that purpose.]

Oh, [Soft,] I ain't one to complain.

[The War will always be there. Right now it's an open wound, but he knows how to set bones and sutures. He'll manage.]

It's a little like bein' on furlough, you know? Bein' here. What about you?

THE FOREST;

[redactions]

[ Mist rolls in from the hills in the morning, this side of Avastarya. Bucky melts into it easily in the poor morning light, hunting for the flowers that are only going to be blooming for an hour more before they close up in the sun. ]

[ He hasn't asked what they're for — the reference page is bookmarked on his IIMP, already racing ahead of him in the form of a small bird. ]

[ Pausing in a clearing, he looks underfoot. The soil's been plenty disturbed, not even weeds are growing here. He's still frowning when he hears someone close, without looking up, ]

I'm moving, just a minute.

[lie]

[ This morning, she's after a dog. It's some sort of virus made flesh, not-quite wireglass bones and unable to control what hard-light shape it takes, flickering rapidly between forms as it tries to fight and adapt to what's inside it. An experiment gone sour. It's been difficult to track the last few days; the Apiarist had said that it was lost property, needed to be found and returned, in a voice that hadn't brokered much argument. Natasha hadn't found a reason to ask if it was alive.

In the hills this side of Avastraya, Natasha stands in her tac-suit. The Winter Soldier doesn't look up. Natasha nods, giving him the measure of distance. ]

Does Rogers know you're in town? [ It's more of a courtesy question. The upturned soil says that the dog's shaped back into something with four legs; she'll find it sooner rather than later, today. ]

[redactions]

[ His fingers aren't on the trigger. They could be — the terrified, cornered animal he's been for the past two years has been swallowed by the kind of certainty here that nobody can hurt him in the way he fears. And that they haven't been asked to kill each other, not like this: she's far away enough. Bucky doesn't know the voice, but a direct glance tells him everything. This requires little navigation from him.]

[ A moment ticks by. Quietly, ]

I don't think that's your business.

[lie]

[ Something inside her twists, turns rueful. It used to be so much easier to kill the things inside of you. ]

Yeah, [ she agrees lightly. It's a middle-of-the-road tone of voice, mild but empty. ] I'm asking for me.

[ Natasha carefully takes a few steps -- navigating her way into his line of sight, rather than from behind, but doesn't come any closer. Just travels the perimeter. As if in explanation (as if she knows that the answer isn't coming, anyway): ]

I'm looking for a dog.

[redactions]

[ His head cants, like he's listening. No salvos. Knives, kept up the sleeve or inside a shoe, but he holds those just as easily. There'll be decompression, after, when he feels sick about how much sense this makes to him, that the decision not to wasn't the one being made now. ]

Haven't seen one.

[ He moves away from her, giving her space. Palms empty. ]

What's wrong with it?

AT THE MECHANIC'S;

[redactions]

[ This road runs parallel to the beach. The set of properties this side of it are on the lower end, the houses are much better maintained than anywhere he'd been sleeping lately, but compared to the ones leading up to it, they're practically ramshackle. Over them, the buildings on the layer above cast a shadow. ]

[ It's usually not extremely lively, but around town there's been a buzz of a building competition, so there's constant activity as people come in for parts and rare materials. Bucky's amongst the crowd, been looking at this like a place in the city to crash: there's living quarters on a decent rent, a job he wouldn't mind holding down for a while. ]

[ Right now, he's admiring a motorcycle on display. Black, and mandarin red. ]

[a_different_future]

[ The only sound he might be able to go by is the soft flap of the wind in his suit, as Clark quite happily flew his way here. That's why there's not so much footsteps to give him warning as a pair of feet touching ground and a voice, a few feet away, greeting him by noting- ]

You really do like red. And you can never go wrong with black. I would know.

[redactions]

[ The voice is just far away enough that he doesn't jump, Buck instead gives him a look that's sort of annoyance. Like yeah, this is going to be happening often, and he doesn't like it, but he can't hold it against someone if they can fly and want to show off. ]

You lookin' for parts today, pal, or just browsing?

[a_different_future]

[ He holds up a hand in defense and in apology; look, he'd just been traveling. He wasn't actually trying to play games. ]

I was given a set of coordinates. The lady tells me where to go and I go there.

[ He can't help a fond smile. ]

It's a little unorthodox, but I've never found anything I couldn't handle.

[redactions]

Wonder if there's anything you can't.

[ It's just a musing out loud — not a real question. He has no desire to rip apart Clark for his weaknesses, even if his paranoia would find it helpful. There's an ugly sort of certainty in knowing one's outmatched. ]

[ He moves back, an implicit invitation for Clark to approach and look at the bike. ]

She's a beauty, ain't she?

[a_different_future]

Not so I've found.

[ ...Kent had one, cheated, and two, hadn't actually won the fight. Emotional suckerpunches don't count as 'wins' in his book, even if they were effective. Not that he would mention his weaknesses to anyone in this world. He was aware of them, and that was quite good enough for him. Bucky might earn his way towards more information, but not quite yet.

Regardless, he steps forward and raises an eyebrow as he takes in the machine. ]

Lovely.

[ He means it. Sarcasm, for him, is rather pronounced. And he doesn't engage in outright lies except in cases of survival. He hasn't needed to for a while, thankfully. ]

Have you looked at the engine yet?

[redactions]

[ Ain't that terrifying to think about. But he's lived with a certain fear for most of his clear memory, and this isn't the worst that could ever happen. Maybe it's cold to think death doesn't scare him, but it's a consequence of overwintering. It'll come if it does. It might even be a relief. ]

Yeah. Fuel doesn't smell familiar, must be that eco-friendly stuff they have.

[a_different_future]

[ Clark's lived his entire life afraid, just not of death, and definitely not of the kind of thing one might find here. Until the day that someone enlists Lionel Luthor (or his brother, honest), Clark will be on pretty steady ground. ]

It smells of... something. But it's very different.

[ He smiles companionably over at Bucky. ]

I'd bet the engine is quieter as well. Most of them seem to be here.

[redactions]

[ Part of him is prepared for Alexander Pierce or Arnim Zola. He wouldn't put it past any of the Idyl Eben not to. But until then, he's fine. Just settling into having room to breathe. ]

S'pose we could take her for a spin and find out. [ He looks over, searching for someone with the keys. ] Do you want to come along?

WILDCARD;

[redactions]

[ sentinel's rest, during the scavenger hunt, random other places/things go for it ]