Bucky Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
imfollowinghim) wrote2014-08-07 08:09 pm
imfollowinghim) wrote2014-08-07 08:09 pm
fifteen ✪ spam
[Open Spam]
[It's been over a week since Bucky was almost beaten to death maybe a couple yards from the infirmary, and he feels... fine.
Fine. Sore, tired, still healing, but fine, and that's so deeply unsettling that he really doesn't know what to do with it at all. At all, because he's gone this long without having to talk about what happened to him in any detail at all, and he definitely doesn't want to start now. It's just a lot harder to dismiss little differences like increased appetite and tolerance to alcohol and apparently painkillers now, too, as not a big deal when the deep black and blue bruises on his ribs have already faded to almost nothing, when it should take a friggin' month for broken ribs to actually start feeling better, not days.
He's scared. He's been scared of what this is going to mean for a long time, and two days ago, after he'd shooed Steve away, locked the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower, he'd spent a distressingly long time staring at his own reflection in the mirror, wondering if now's the time his face is going to start peeling off to reveal some monster right out of a pulp underneath.
So he stays quiet about it, tries to pretend like he still feels like shit and doesn't want to do much - which isn't a difficult thing to pull off, because all of this means he is pretty fucking miserable - and if he's a little more sullen and cranky than usual, Steve seems to be chalking it up to the fact that he's got three busted ribs and a bad concussion, and leaves it at that. It works out for the most part.
But eventually, boredom does get the better of him. Sitting around in bed while you're recovering - unless you're really out of your mind with fever or whatever drugs were trying to help nudge you back along to health - is fucking terrible, no matter who you're with or where you are, and obviously it's not like he expects Steve to be keeping him company the whole time he convalesces. They can't both be sitting around in Steve's room feeling penned in and bored.
Bucky slips out of Steve's room sometime after his friend heads out to go for a jog, and as much as he wants to go for a run or punch the hell of something in the gym, he heads for the dining hall and helps himself to a giant stack of pancakes instead. Now that he's not as achey or metabolizing painkillers out of his system too quickly, he's even more ravenously hungry than usual, and winds up settling at a table near a corner, facing the door to get to work on finishing breakfast. The bruises around his eyes are gone, and there's still a bandage wrapped around his left hand - even though the cut's healed, he'd changed the wrappings himself so no one would get suspicious - and as much as he looks burned out and tired, he's in a lot better shape than he has any right to be, and kind of looks it.]
[It's been over a week since Bucky was almost beaten to death maybe a couple yards from the infirmary, and he feels... fine.
Fine. Sore, tired, still healing, but fine, and that's so deeply unsettling that he really doesn't know what to do with it at all. At all, because he's gone this long without having to talk about what happened to him in any detail at all, and he definitely doesn't want to start now. It's just a lot harder to dismiss little differences like increased appetite and tolerance to alcohol and apparently painkillers now, too, as not a big deal when the deep black and blue bruises on his ribs have already faded to almost nothing, when it should take a friggin' month for broken ribs to actually start feeling better, not days.
He's scared. He's been scared of what this is going to mean for a long time, and two days ago, after he'd shooed Steve away, locked the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower, he'd spent a distressingly long time staring at his own reflection in the mirror, wondering if now's the time his face is going to start peeling off to reveal some monster right out of a pulp underneath.
So he stays quiet about it, tries to pretend like he still feels like shit and doesn't want to do much - which isn't a difficult thing to pull off, because all of this means he is pretty fucking miserable - and if he's a little more sullen and cranky than usual, Steve seems to be chalking it up to the fact that he's got three busted ribs and a bad concussion, and leaves it at that. It works out for the most part.
But eventually, boredom does get the better of him. Sitting around in bed while you're recovering - unless you're really out of your mind with fever or whatever drugs were trying to help nudge you back along to health - is fucking terrible, no matter who you're with or where you are, and obviously it's not like he expects Steve to be keeping him company the whole time he convalesces. They can't both be sitting around in Steve's room feeling penned in and bored.
Bucky slips out of Steve's room sometime after his friend heads out to go for a jog, and as much as he wants to go for a run or punch the hell of something in the gym, he heads for the dining hall and helps himself to a giant stack of pancakes instead. Now that he's not as achey or metabolizing painkillers out of his system too quickly, he's even more ravenously hungry than usual, and winds up settling at a table near a corner, facing the door to get to work on finishing breakfast. The bruises around his eyes are gone, and there's still a bandage wrapped around his left hand - even though the cut's healed, he'd changed the wrappings himself so no one would get suspicious - and as much as he looks burned out and tired, he's in a lot better shape than he has any right to be, and kind of looks it.]
[spam]
[spam]
[spam]
[But it's not.]
[spam]
[But she knows it's not, either.]
Look, do you mind if I sit down? Since I'm clearly talking to you anyway, and I'm standing here holding food in the meanwhile.
[spam]
[The chairs are up for grabs, and he's kind of used to people just dropping in and out whenever they want. Thus is life in the army.]
[spam]
So. Other than the obvious, how have you been?
[It's been awhile, she thinks, since they've talked. In fact the last time, that wasn't a crisis, it might have been...when she just told him she had killed somebody on the ship.]
[spam]
How about you?
[Since you killed someone, not really by accident. :V]
[spam]
[That comes out in a sort of babble, and her expression where she looks at Bucky is a little incredulous. Like really? That's all you've got to say?]
[spam]
And after-life?
[Terrible joke, sorry not sorry?]
[spam]
I found out the Barge didn't take all my powers away. When I realized I wasn't stronger anymore, I figured, that was it. But I found out during the caves I can still levitate. [She looks down and then up again, quickly, because yeah. That whole killing a person thing :|] It came in handy during the...thing. So that's cool.
[spam]
Anyway, levitation. That's pretty neat.] Yeah, I can see where that'd come in handy.
What else are you supposed to be able to do?
[spam]
But after a beat she keeps going anyway as if nothing had happened.]
Um, I'm supposed to be strong enough to toss around a guy a couple times my size. Also even now I can usually smell stuff better and see in the dark. And, hopefully that's it. Because anything more and I'd worry, considering where I got the powers from in the first place.
[She's okay with being supernatural. She doesn't want to actually turn into a fucking demon.]