Bucky Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
imfollowinghim) wrote2014-11-07 09:06 pm
imfollowinghim) wrote2014-11-07 09:06 pm
twenty one ✪ video & spam
[Public Video, Backdated to Thursday]
[It's pretty dark when Bucky clicks on the video feed, but that's nothing new. He's sitting on the couch in Steve's room, and the light from the comm's screen is illuminating his face. He's not wearing his Commandos jacket, although it's folded over the arm of the couch, and he's still got his uniform pants on, even if he's swapped the t-shirt or fatigue green sweater for one of the plaid shirts Stiles had gotten for him.]
Alright, for anyone who's new, I'm Bucky Barnes. I'm a sergeant with the US Army, it was 1945 before I got here, and anyone who says "hail" or "heil" anything around me's gonna get a fist in the face.
I was running some people through basic training before stuff went to hell. I'm gonna need a headcount of who's still interested. That includes anyone new - we cover endurance, strength training, hand to hand, weapons and survival skills. It's gonna be hard, and you're gonna be mad as hell at me sometimes, but it'll be worth it next time we wind up somewhere dangerous. We're gonna meet in the gym until whatever's going on with the missing room's gets fixed.
[If it ever does.
There's a quiet rustling noise some somewhere off camera, and Bucky looks off to his left, distracted. He drops his voice, and manages to look irritated and amused at the same time.]
One more thing: if anyone wakes up the star spangled dummy here- [Bucky jerks his thumb towards what's presumably the bed and therefore a sleeping Steve.] In the next eight or so hours, I'm gonna kick your ass.
I don't know what you guys did to him while I was gone, but Steve's taking a week off. If you really need Cap, call me or one of the other twelve superheroes you've got on board. Pretty sure we can handle it.
[There's a soft swoosh of air as a pillow goes flying towards the camera. Bucky catches it almost without looking and puts the comm down, turning away as he kills the feed.] Go back to sleep, you dumb punk.
[Spam for Helena, backdated to Tuesday]
[Before Bucky had finally put his foot down and more or less guilted Steve into taking a break - he hates admitting he feels shitty, that he's back to feeling like his skin's about to crawl off of him, but if saying he's worn out gets Steve to take it easy, he'll say he feels like shit - he'd been doing his best to just keep things together. It's easy enough when he's got something to focus on, like running sweeps of the ship with Steve, figuring out what they do and don't have on board now, damage control, all of it.
But then there's downtime, and it's suddenly a lot harder to take his mind off the fact that he was strapped to a table and poked and prodded and drugged again, and that this time, he'd gone into it knowing exactly what he was getting himself into.
He doesn't regret it, but his skin itches like it doesn't quite fit anymore, and he knows he should be tired or at least try to sleep, but he winds up staring at the ceiling in his room, or Steve's, and he just... can't.
On Tuesday, he gives up. It's late, or early, and he throws on his Commandos jacket and uniform pants over his sleep shirt and boxers before heading up to the deck. Times like these, he almost wishes he was a smoker. Maybe it'd help calm him down at least a little, especially considering most of his usual haunts for stress relief - the CES, the CTS, the firing range... - aren't around, so he tries to make do with pacing around the deck and chewing gum. It's better than nothing.
Most everyone else seems to be asleep, but Bucky's not out on the deck long before he spots a familiar figure slinking into his peripheral vision. Helena's been scarcer, he realizes, and he's not sure if he's more worried or relieved. Worried, because they haven't exactly talked much since what happened, and relieved because Bucky has no idea how he's supposed to talk to her about what he did for her, or about what she'd overheard him admit to. He's never told anyone what Zola did to him, not really, even if he knows and can't pretend like he doesn't anymore.
So there's some hesitation before he glances over to acknowledge her, but he does. He even manages something that might be considered a smile.]
Hey. [He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a chocolate bar, offering it out without commentary, as one does when you're both basically constantly hungry.]
[It's pretty dark when Bucky clicks on the video feed, but that's nothing new. He's sitting on the couch in Steve's room, and the light from the comm's screen is illuminating his face. He's not wearing his Commandos jacket, although it's folded over the arm of the couch, and he's still got his uniform pants on, even if he's swapped the t-shirt or fatigue green sweater for one of the plaid shirts Stiles had gotten for him.]
Alright, for anyone who's new, I'm Bucky Barnes. I'm a sergeant with the US Army, it was 1945 before I got here, and anyone who says "hail" or "heil" anything around me's gonna get a fist in the face.
I was running some people through basic training before stuff went to hell. I'm gonna need a headcount of who's still interested. That includes anyone new - we cover endurance, strength training, hand to hand, weapons and survival skills. It's gonna be hard, and you're gonna be mad as hell at me sometimes, but it'll be worth it next time we wind up somewhere dangerous. We're gonna meet in the gym until whatever's going on with the missing room's gets fixed.
[If it ever does.
There's a quiet rustling noise some somewhere off camera, and Bucky looks off to his left, distracted. He drops his voice, and manages to look irritated and amused at the same time.]
One more thing: if anyone wakes up the star spangled dummy here- [Bucky jerks his thumb towards what's presumably the bed and therefore a sleeping Steve.] In the next eight or so hours, I'm gonna kick your ass.
I don't know what you guys did to him while I was gone, but Steve's taking a week off. If you really need Cap, call me or one of the other twelve superheroes you've got on board. Pretty sure we can handle it.
[There's a soft swoosh of air as a pillow goes flying towards the camera. Bucky catches it almost without looking and puts the comm down, turning away as he kills the feed.] Go back to sleep, you dumb punk.
[Spam for Helena, backdated to Tuesday]
[Before Bucky had finally put his foot down and more or less guilted Steve into taking a break - he hates admitting he feels shitty, that he's back to feeling like his skin's about to crawl off of him, but if saying he's worn out gets Steve to take it easy, he'll say he feels like shit - he'd been doing his best to just keep things together. It's easy enough when he's got something to focus on, like running sweeps of the ship with Steve, figuring out what they do and don't have on board now, damage control, all of it.
But then there's downtime, and it's suddenly a lot harder to take his mind off the fact that he was strapped to a table and poked and prodded and drugged again, and that this time, he'd gone into it knowing exactly what he was getting himself into.
He doesn't regret it, but his skin itches like it doesn't quite fit anymore, and he knows he should be tired or at least try to sleep, but he winds up staring at the ceiling in his room, or Steve's, and he just... can't.
On Tuesday, he gives up. It's late, or early, and he throws on his Commandos jacket and uniform pants over his sleep shirt and boxers before heading up to the deck. Times like these, he almost wishes he was a smoker. Maybe it'd help calm him down at least a little, especially considering most of his usual haunts for stress relief - the CES, the CTS, the firing range... - aren't around, so he tries to make do with pacing around the deck and chewing gum. It's better than nothing.
Most everyone else seems to be asleep, but Bucky's not out on the deck long before he spots a familiar figure slinking into his peripheral vision. Helena's been scarcer, he realizes, and he's not sure if he's more worried or relieved. Worried, because they haven't exactly talked much since what happened, and relieved because Bucky has no idea how he's supposed to talk to her about what he did for her, or about what she'd overheard him admit to. He's never told anyone what Zola did to him, not really, even if he knows and can't pretend like he doesn't anymore.
So there's some hesitation before he glances over to acknowledge her, but he does. He even manages something that might be considered a smile.]
Hey. [He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a chocolate bar, offering it out without commentary, as one does when you're both basically constantly hungry.]
video;
video;
video;
video;
video;
video;
video;