imfollowinghim | twenty nine ✪ spam

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twenty nine ✪ spam

[Closed Spam]

[The room is... familiar. He doesn't know why.

There are parts of it that look like the exhibit at the Smithsonian - the rifles stashed in the closet (M1 Garand, M1903 Springfield), the clothing folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet all look as though they've been removed from behind the glass and placed here for him. Then, he'd almost wanted to be able to touch, now, he's almost afraid to.

That doesn't stop him from touching the dark blue sleeve of the jacket one of the mannequins had been wearing. The fabric's different from how he thought it would. Softer, maybe.

(It looks black when its stained with blood.)

Some of it doesn't make sense. Plaid shirts, pieces of equipment that don't come from this time period - even he has a vague sense of technology, how much the world's changed, if only because of the museum - and then there's some of the weapons he's used, things he's been issued in the past for assignments, even though he doesn't remember how or when or what happened.

Everything except the last one. His one failed mission.

There's a bear dressed like Captain America sitting on one of the cabinets. He picks it up, holds it gently in his right hand, and there's a part of him - a vicious, violent, terrified part of him, no I don't! - that wants to rip it to shreds, but the thought makes bile rise in his throat. (Or would, if he'd eaten anything today.)

The bear is carefully returned to its place, and he decides he's seen enough. There's nothing for him in this room except more questions.]

[Open Spam]

[So he sets out onto the ship. He remembers the Admiral - it doesn't bother him that he doesn't remember what he looked like, or exactly what he'd said, he's been given a mission and he's going to fulfill it - and he remembers the helicarriers, remembers failing, remembers the inexplicable surge of terror and guilt at Captain America's - Steve Rogers, the museum said his name was Steven Grant Rogers - last words and the equally inexplicable relief he'd felt when the badly injured man had started breathing again on the shore of the polluted river. But the rest of it is still... not there. Blurry.

It gets worse the more he walks around. He's still wearing the jacket, shirt and jeans, the sleeve covering his left arm, and he keeps his hands shoved in the pockets to further prevent anyone noticing. The baseball cap's still tugged down over his dirty, too long hair as well, shielding his eyes a little as he tries to get his bearings, exploring what parts of the ship he has access to, trying to attract as little attention as possible.

(People are staring at him. No one at the museum had paid him much attention, not even as he stared at his own face blown up huge in black and white, but here, people are staring at him, and it makes him want to vanish. He hunches in on himself, and tries not to meet their curious eyes.)

The Admiral had said he'd been here before. He doesn't remember. This isn't like any facility or place he remembers, not at all, but at the same time, the more he looks, the more he feels some horrible sense that he's been here before, the same, strange feeling he'd had staring at the photo of his own face starting to settle in his gut.

He feels bad. Not injured, but... Ill. Compromised.

He takes a seat in the dining hall in the corner, with his back to the wall, holding a mug of coffee in his human hand, but not drinking it, even though his stomach complains to be filled with something. The lights flickering as he walks through the halls don't bother him, but he stops to inspect some of the lingering signs of violence and death that still stain the walls, crouching, leaning in close, and frowning.

The infirmary is avoided entirely, and he spends a long time on deck, watching the stars.

Something about them seems different. He doesn't like it.]

[Spam for Morgana, after he's got his memories back]

[It's all too much. Way too much. So he - Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes - runs, because he doesn't have a choice. He can't stay there, can't talk about it, doesn't know what to fucking do, because there's no where to hide on a cruise ship of the damned where someone won't be able to find you.

He can't go back to his room. Steve will find him there, or Helena, or Ben, or someone else, and he can't face them right now. Can't face any of them, and he feels more trapped and boxed in and terrified than he's ever been, overwhelmed by the weight of memory and the years he's suddenly got crushing down on him.

Some combination of conscious thought and instinct has him standing outside a familiar door, knocking anxiously, wondering if this is just as much of a mistake as the rest of this was. But how could he have known? What the fuck is the Admiral's problem?]

[ooc: Dillon and Jean are going to pounce him and give him his memories back, but until then, enjoy your new and improved brainwashed assassin in recovery, Barge.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Yes.

[She could probably do with taking a little more responsibility or feeling a little more for the women she murdered on command, honestly, but. Baby steps.]

Can I see you?

[He isn't sure this is a good idea for him (or her) right now, but he also doesn't feel like he can say no. Maybe there's a part of him that doesn't want to, too.]

morgana's letting me stay with her.

[So, yes, come down. 8v]

[There's no more talk, just the quiet click of the connection being broken and then it's not too long before there's a soft knock on Morgana's door.]

[The door cracks open at first, and once Bucky confirms it's Helena, he pushes it open farther, stepping out of the way to let her in. Morgana's not home, and he's wearing one of the plaid shirts Stiles got him for Christmas with jeans, but his hair's cut short again and he's clean shaven, so at least he doesn't look entirely different.

He doesn't really know what to say, and he has a hard time looking at her, like he's scared of her judgment.]

Hi.

[She steps inside, a little cautiously. Her gaze drifts over him, caresses him, taking in his clothes, his haircut, the single glove on his left hand, the hollowness in his eyes and the way he can't look at her. It's slow, deliberate or searching or just sad, and she doesn't speak until it's done. Her voice is small when she finally does.]

Hello, Bucky.

[There's an awkward pause where he doesn't know what to say, but he can't just stand there when she looks at him like that.]

You been okay?

Yes. [No.]

[Bucky just nods, not believing it for a second, but totally uncertain if he can or should push for more. What right would he have to?]

Sorry I didn't remember. [He'd said it already, but maybe hearing it out loud - even if the repetition's miserable and quiet - will help.]

[There's a hesitation all through her body, in the lines of her shoulders and the involuntary tensing of her muscles, all through her mind, through the whole of her, an uncertainty that she hovers on the edge on until finally, she just tips right over it.

When she does, she can't stop herself from slipping forward to slide her arms around his waist, pressing her body against him, her cheek against his right shoulder, face turned so her mess of hair brushes his cheek, his chin, his mouth, feeling him there and solid and alive. She doesn't cry but her shoulders shake enough that the fur around her jacket's hood shivers as well.]

[Even though it surprises him, Bucky just lets it happen. He doesn't tense or move or push her away, and a beat or two after it happens, he carefully puts his right hand between her shoulder blades, not really pulling her closer or hanging on for support, but acknowledging it.

He doesn't want to make her feel like this isn't okay. Maybe it's even easier accepting something like this from her, because she knows what it's like to be made into a monster and he doesn't want to deny her anything more than she's already been told she can't or shouldn't or won't have.]

[His hand settling in the centre of her back first intensifies her shaking, then stills it completely. She doesn't melt into the touch but she lets out a soft breath that she'd been holding, fits herself a fraction more snugly against him. Her fingers curl a little into the fabric of his shirt, somewhere around the middle of his back.

There are too many words she could say and she doesn't know how to decide which would be best, so for now she just stays silent, holding him.]

[Similarly, Bucky has no idea what to say. There's nothing much to say, from his perspective, because everything is kind of terrible and he has no idea how he's supposed to help her when he's like this, but he doesn't want to leave again. Putting her through this is bad enough when he didn't intend to walk out on her.]

It's okay. [It's not. He's not. But hopefully she still will be, and this is okay. If she needs to keep leaning on him, she can.]

It's okay.

[She echoes him softly, liltingly with a tone in her voice that almost sounds like prayer, knowing just like he does that it's not, not yet. But there's hope here, too.

Finally, she draws back, feeling the brush of his hand as it slides from the centre of her back over one of the carved wings scrawled over her shoulderblade. She doesn't wince or anything, but she can't help shifting her shoulders a little involuntarily.]

[Something's still wrong when she pulls back, and Bucky frowns, not understanding immediately even if he knows she's got a history of stuff like this. Maybe he just doesn't want to believe she'd have cared that much, even if he knows that thought's ridiculous.]

You hurt?

[She draws back a little more at that, hunching further into the depths of her coat. There's a reluctance to tell him that's new for her - not that she talks about her bad habits to many people, but it's not like Tomas ever discouraged her from taking her penance (even if taking pleasure from it marks her as unpious, unholy) and he was the only one she spoke to about it - it's just that telling Bucky feels different, feels like something that will hurt him or disappoint him. It's new to feel guilty for it.

Finally, she just nods. Then, a beat later:]

It's nothing.

You being hurt isn't nothing. [But it's said gently, probably more than it would have been if he'd come back as himself and not this shell of who he used to be. That man would have been angry for her, and this one still is, but... it's more muted. What right does he have to tell her how to feel about anything?]

[She's quiet for a long time and if he'd pushed her or asked her anything or said anything other than what he did, she probably wouldn't have said anything more about it. But he didn't and finally she offers something that might be meant to be an explanation.]

It helps.

[He's not sure if this is a conversation they should be having right now, not after he just got back, but he doesn't really want to leave it to lie, either.]

Why?

It feels... [She hesitates, groping for a word, not quite meeting his eyes. Trying to explain it is difficult and there's a false start before she pauses again and finally decides on--] Clean. Blood tells no lies.

Edited 2015-05-31 06:20 (UTC)

I don't understand. [He honestly sounds more apologetic than anything else.]

It... [She has literally never had to try to explain this before, and it's proving harder than she might have thought it would be.] When it hurts, it has a beginning and it ends. I control it.

[A beat of hesitation and she looks down.]

Tomas meant it to be penance or sacrifice. Blood spilled for God.

[Her tone makes it clear that it isn't that, for her. Not anymore, anyway.]

[Bucky looks away too, mostly because while he believes what he says for her, it's something he's still struggling to cope with himself. They can make their own choices. What other people chose for her or taught her or whatever shouldn't matter anymore. There's other stuff she can do.]

You can control something else. Something that's not going to hurt you.

[Helena doesn't often have much of a filter, often speaking without thinking or knowing or caring if her words will hurt the other person. This time, she catches herself before she can say that him disappearing hurt and she couldn't control that. Instead, dancing around that, she just says:]

I did it more, before I came here.

I'm glad it's not as bad.

[But even if she doesn't say it, he knows why she likely started it again now.]

[She doesn't know what else to say about it, not really, but there's something she wants to ask him about in return.]

Your arm. What did they do?

twenty nine ✪ spam

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