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[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.]

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[As Bucky was in the dining hall getting his breakfast, Mason was coming to Bucky's room to leave him a present. He'd felt terrible about the whole thing, really. Just awful. He hated hurting anyone, and here he'd gone and terrified half the Barge.

But Bucky had put a stop to it, and for that, Mason owed him.

So he brought with him an assortment of items pilfered from various parts of the Barge: a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few flowers ripped up from the greenhouse, three pairs of socks stolen from the laundry room, and a hand-written card, all dumped in a basket.

He picked the lock on the warden's door, and wandered in to an empty room.

Fuck. No one there.

Right. Mason inched forward, and set the basket on the closest available surface, looking around. Maybe Bucky was coming right back? Should he wait for him here?

He sat down on the bed, pondering where the man could be. He reached up and covered his mouth with a yawn, attempting to wake himself back up. Early risers could go hang themselves, he wasn't one of them.

Within fifteen minutes, Mason was passed out, asleep, on Bucky's bed]

[Bucky's honestly only running by his room because he wants to pick up one of the books he's been thumbing through when he can't sleep. Steve's brought him some stuff, but he'd been rereading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and well, while he's up. Why not?

Except he returns to the glorified converted utility closet that passes for a room to find Mason passed out on the bottom bunk, and a basket full of stuff on the desk near the door.

Between Ben, Helena, and now Mason, apparently his room is an ideal place for people to crash while he's out. He'd get a better lock, except he doesn't necessarily want to discourage them from hanging out if they need a safe space, especially since he's got the (admittedly not very comfortable) bunk beds and doesn't actually spend much time around here, these days.

(The closet, though, that's definitely locked up tight. He's not letting anyone run off with his rifle or whatever.)

Bucky steps over to the bed carefully and - wincing, because he's still sore if not in serious pain anymore - stoops down a little to get a better look at him, still a little confused as to why he's crashing here in the first place.]

Mason, hey. [He nudges his shoulder gently and then pulls back - he's had enough experience waking people up and almost getting punched (or doing the startled punching himself) that he knows giving people space is probably the better when you're waking them up unexpectedly.] You okay?

[It's been over a week since Stiles stabbed himself in the gut with a jagged shard of broken glass and nearly died. He doesn't feel fine, in more ways than one. But he feels worse when he's just laying in bed doing nothing. He's probably been up and around more than he should be, really, but he's never been able to sit still whether it's for his own good or not.

He's spent a lot of time in the CES just sitting in the woods or hanging out by a lake because for whatever reason, being in a faux natural setting does lift his spirits. He's always liked the outdoors. Spent most of his childhood playing outside, usually with Scott.

Things feels strained with all of them now that Allison knows. He isn't surprised. He'd been expecting it, even if he hates it. And now Isaac is aboard. Contrary to what people probably believe, Stiles doesn't hate Isaac. He's not overly fond of Isaac, but he knows the feeling is mutual. He's not entirely sure if it's because they're too different or too alike, or if it even really matters. He's not going to let petty insecurities and annoyances distract him the way he'd done at home. It's not why he's on the ship.

He walks until he arrives at the dining hall, and realizes he is kind of hungry, so he grabs a plate of eggs and bacon and moves to sit down alone when he spots Bucky. He cocks his head and moves over to his table instead, not even hesitating to sit down across from him. He's relieved to see that the bruises around Bucky's eyes are gone even if that was awfully fast healing time -- not werewolf fast, but definitely faster than normal for a human. He picks up his fork and shovels a bite of egg into his mouth before chewing and swallowing.]

That...is one hell of a stack of pancakes, man.

[As crappy as he feels, Bucky doesn't mind company, and he definitely doesn't mind company when it's Stiles. He's got his mouth full when the teenager sits down across from him, but he manages a smile and a sort of nod of greeting until he chews and swallows.

And then he just shrugs, because, well.]

I like pancakes. [He's still pretty sure he's never really going to get over the novelty of having access to decent food, pretty much whenever he wants it for free. It's not like he's taken to hoarding it in his room or anything (not really, although it is comforting to know he's got a couple different ration packs stashed in his closet), but this is still nice.

And he's too hungry right now to feel vaguely sick at the reason why he's probably always starving, especially now.

Still, he regards Stiles a little seriously before taking another bite.]

Should you be out of bed?

[Needy still doesn't eat much at breakfast, herself. Call it a lingering habit. Picks up a plate with a pair of Toast'ems, adds a piece or two of fruit to her tray, and slowly picks at it as she sits off somewhere alone, usually. Sometimes if she's left staring at her empty plate after and decides she's still hungry she goes back for a second helping of the same.

The more she blends in, the more she gets out and stops looking over her shoulder, the better her appetite slowly gets...traces of that "institutionalized personality" thing starting to fade.

But still. For now, when she wakes up, when it's quiet and sometimes she's trying not to remember a bad dream, in the mornings it's usually just fruit and Toast'ems.

Which is why she ends up feeling a little off-guard, when she walks past where Bucky is and sees the pile of food in front of him. She stands there holding her tray, which feels comically light all of a sudden, staring at him and his pancakes with a wide-eyed look of bemusement.]

Um. I gotta say. You look like a guy who's about to make an attempt to eat his emotions.

[Needy's definitely not far off. Beyond the fact that he's hungry and healing, and just needs something to do that's not sitting around staring at the same four walls, eating a giant stack of pancakes definitely does promise some great psychological payoff.

It's also just full of calories, hot, fresh and tasty, so it's not too hard to flash what's hopefully not a totally strained smile and pretend like nope, he's definitely not worried about how Zola definitely turned him into the Red Skull Jr. and it's only a matter of time before people figure that out.]

Nah, I'm just hungry. [Which is also true. Rapid healing takes a lot more out of you than you'd think, or something.

Time to navigate the conversation away from him.]

How're you doing?

[Allison's officially sick to death of this death toll shit.

She's feeling stronger, but still miserable most of the time. If she's not exhausted she's sore, and if she's not sore she's worse than sore, and tired all the time. However, she's no longer in so much pain she can't eat, so she decides to head for the dining hall after too many days either in bed or building her strength back up with some light yoga.

She even tries to put herself together a little with a bright blue hoodie over yoga pants and brushes her hair rather than just tie it up, and grabs a stack of pancakes the second she walks into the room. When she has a full tray, she scans the room for a place to sit, and spots Bucky in one corner with his own plate.

Making her way over, she flashes him a friendly smile as she draws near, gesturing to an empty chair at his table. She hasn't really talked to Bucky much, but she likes him a lot.]

This seat taken?

[Bucky's died once before on the Barge, and while the details of how it had happened and why are still hazy, and Ben had needed to fill in some of the gaps, he knows enough to know that the death toll? Sucks. Really, really sucks.

And he knows that Allison now knows that first hand, so she gets sort of a curious look when he first spots her, although he doesn't make any comment about how she should probably be taking it easy if she still feels like shit, because no one's going t wind up holding it against her.

His mouth's full when she sits down though, so he just manages shaking his head instead of pointing that out. Then he swallows, and manages to keep keeping it to himself.]

Nope. [And to prove that he might not be at 100% yet, but doesn't mind having someone to talk to:] How's things?

[Mason gives a sleepy groan at the shoulder nudge, rubbing his eyes and blinking awake, slow to rise. He's not the sort to have poor sleeping habits: Bucky's in little danger of being struck]

Bucky..?

What're you doing in my room?

[There's a beat of silence, in which Needy glances between his food and hers, mentally doubting that he can only be "just hungry", before she replies.]

I'm okay, I guess. I didn't get hurt too bad during the carnival of chaos. Still, it's been kind of...a rough couple of days. For everyone, I guess. You?

This is my room. [He sounds amused rather than annoyed, and moves back to take a seat at the desk rather than just hovering over him. He moves gingerly, because his ribs are still sore if not as bad as they should be.]

How're you doing?

[Bucky shrugs his right shoulder. His busted ribs and bad arm are both on his left side, and so long as he's trying to put up a convincing "I'm still seriously hurt" front, he might as well keep in mind not to do too much with that.]

I've been on forced bed rest for a couple days. Felt like getting some fresh air.

It is?

[He twists around, looking about in surprise. Sitting up, Mason shakes his head]

Oh. So it is. I'm sorry, I dunno what I'm doing in here.

I'm okay. Aside from all the...everything.

It's okay. Ben and Helena break in often enough. [What's one more visitor, really?

And Bucky will definitely be asking about the basket, but for now:]

Harvey been giving you any problems?

Yow, I'm sorry. [She thinks about the last time they talked; it was right after the Joker thing started calming down, he told her he was on his way to the infirmary. That's it.] If that's the case, then I don't blame you. I didn't realize you got that hurt by what had happened.

[He smiles at that, because he still has distinct memories of really terrible food, and granted, they're not really his memories, but they feel like his memories and he gets why Bucky is inhaling a stack of pancakes. The food here? So much better than what he's used to.

He takes another bite of scrambled egg and shifts slightly on his seat at the pointed question. He chews, swallows and flashes Bucky a grin as he shrugs a shoulder.]

I have a hard time sitting still for long. [Or for more than about two minutes, really. Even when he sleeps, he tends to toss and turn.]

[So much better. And as much as he's still not sure he's thrilled Stiles knows that much about him (not because he doesn't trust him, but because parts of it he doesn't want anyone to know about, and other parts Stiles just shouldn't have to know about, no matter what shit he's been through), it still makes it a little easier to relax, instead of worrying and overthinking warning signs, and what he might notice or what he might not.

Which also means it's easier to shake his head in exasperation and grin at the comment.] Sounds like someone I know.

[Steve. Also him. But mostly Steve.

Pray to God you never have to babysit him through recovery.]

Fair warning, I'll carry you back there if you pop your stitches.

Yeah, Zane threw me into the wall a couple times. [He doesn't sound especially irritated or upset about it, though. It's just a thing that happened.] Good thing I've always had a thick skull.

Dent? The guy I killed?

Haven't seen him. Been avoiding him, actually.

[Morgana isn't good at forgiveness. She never was, even when the facts that made up her world were vastly different than they are now. Her facts are colder, harsher, but though there is not often forgiveness, sometimes there is understanding.

She's angry, on Zane's behalf. Angry, seeing what dying did to him. Angrier seeing what killing did to him. The worst of it is that she doesn't know how to fix it, or erase it from his heart. She can't. And she doesn't know how to forgive the cause.

The trouble is, there are two causes. The clown, the madman - and Bucky.

Bucky, who knows what it is to be a captive. To be tortured. Bucky who is, she thinks, a friend. Bucky, who killed Zane.

It's difficult to hold both bits of knowledge side by side, and she waffles when she sees him in the dining hall, taking her time to find her own breakfast. It's a lot of wasted effort - she comes away with porridge and an apple, but by the time both hands are full, the decision's made. She heads to Bucky's table, and jestures at a chair a cross from him.]

May I?

[Bond has a certain fondness for breakfast. On good days - days when he isn't camped out watching or running from a target - it's time to pull his thoughts together and get ready for the day. All the better if he can eat in the restaurant attached to an acclaimed hotel, or take room service. None of which is available on the Barge.

It could be worse, he knows. He's had worse, often enough that he's glad the cooks here are tolerable. Still, it's nothing new, nothing exciting, and he's becoming bored of eggs and toast. Which is really disheartening in a way, because his fondness for eggs and toast is really unprecedented.

He doesn't ask Bucky if he minds a companion - at this point, he doesn't think courtesies need standing on. Instead he sits with his eggs, his toast, his hash, and his orange juice. It's still not nearly enough in proportion to rival Bucky's plate.]

You must be feeling better.

[Allison hesitates as she starts in on her pancakes, shrugging as she shoves a bite into her mouth. Now that she's actually sitting down to eat, she's realizing how hungry she truly is...and it gives her time to formulate an answer until she finally finishes chewing and swallows.]

I'm about as well as can be expected for having been dead. [For being actually dead nearly follows, but she stills her tongue on it.

Because her death is not his burden to carry. It's no one's...no one but her. She'd spare her pack that, too, if they weren't all here, falling over each other to save her life, to save each other...if they hadn't already lived through it.

Hunters die. She knows this, she's long ago accepted it. Her own mortality will take some time to come to terms with, but it's a human reaction, and she can endure it.

Seeing what her death has done to her friends...that's the part that haunts her now. That's the thing she lets no one see, the thing she doesn't even think too hard on herself, lest she be forced to admit how deeply she's been wounded by that revelation.

That moment of weakness...that instant she wasn't careful enough to protect them from watching her die...

She won't even trust Lydia to help her bear that pain.]

Probably for the best. [But he still meant what he said, despite you know. Being a little worse for wear and probably not in a good place to be beating anyone up for anyone, you know?]

What's with the basket?

[Funny you should mention all that Allison, because you know who's in a really good spot to completely get where you're coming from, and how hard it is to cope with not just because you're upset, but because you hurt your friends?

Bucky freaking Barnes.

Just because you knew it was probably going to happen, just because you'd do it again in a heartbeat if you knew it'd mean your friends got out okay, or if an innocent person didn't have to go in your place doesn't make it easier to cope with. Especially not when the people (or person) you'd left behind is often face to face with you here, looking at you like you're some kind of ghost.

So he smiles, and while it's not really a happy one, it's still genuine. Sympathetic. Empathetic, more like, because yeah. He's been there.

(And Stiles did tell him the rest of it, even if he doesn't know she knows, and he's promised not to say anything.)]

Welcome to the club. I'd say there're benefits or whatever, but I think you'd know I was full of crap.

[The thing is? Bucky's not more than vaguely sorry about what he did. Zane seems like a decent guy - weird, but decent - and so he can recognize it's a shame he had to die.

But Zane killed Allison, and he was going to kill him, and then maybe someone else, and so Bucky's choice had been more than obvious. Not really a choice at all, honestly.

Still, it's rough being in a spot where you've suddenly got to be facing the people you've killed, and their friends. It's not like he's done much chatting with the buddies of the Nazis he's killed, or the HYDRA guys or whoever. The civilians he'd interacted with usually seemed less scared of him and more relieved they were there, or maybe even pissed off the Commandos or the US Army or whoever else had invaded, so this is just. Different.

Especially because he thinks of her as a friend, too, so Morgana gets a sort of awkward looking stare at first, like he's not sure if she's being serious or if he should start apologizing right this second or not. Instead, he lets out a breath and nods, attempting something like a smile.]

Sure. [He hesitates a beat, and then decides to just blindly forge ahead. That's worked okay before, right?

Right?] How're things?

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