fifteen ✪ spam

[imfollowinghim]

[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.]

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[maced_eggs]

[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]

[voluntaryapnea]

[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.

[spam]

[notsoneedy]

[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.

[theresalwayshope]

[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?

[youwillgotohell]

[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?

[lastrat]

[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.