imfollowinghim | 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

[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?

Oh.

[He hesitates, uncertain and still not looking at her, but after a beat or two, he moves to unbutton his sleeve a little and tugs off the glove, rolling the sleeve up to expose the metal arm. He holds it up a little awkwardly, not trying to reach for her, just showing her.]

Lost most of the real one in the fall.

[When the glove comes off and the metal of his fingers is exposed, her breath hisses out through her teeth and she glances from it to his face and back again. She's still close to him, her hands hovering a little at her sides; now, she shifts a little closer, reaching out where he didn't, not stopping to think whether he would want her to touch it, just brushing the back of his metal hand with her fingertips.]

[He can't help it - he flinches a little, but there's a flicker of regret in his expression and he quickly stills, letting her keep touching if she wants.

The metal's cold, not body heat warm.]

Sorry.

[The coldness of the metal and the flinch sends a frown rippling over her features and she draws her fingers back for a moment before he goes still again. Then, cautiously, she touches the metal again, shaking her head at his sorry.]

Do you feel this?

Edited 2015-05-31 08:27 (UTC)

Not like how I used to, but yeah. I can.

[Her fingers trace up the back of his hand to the wrist, running over the grooves in the metal, the places where pieces fit together.]

How is it different?

[The sensation of touch, she means, not the whole having a metal arm thing.]

[He frowns, trying to decide how best to answer that. He's never had to think about it before, or put it into words.]

Kind of like wearing a glove? You can kind of feel it, but it's duller. And it doesn't have pain receptors.

twenty nine ✪ spam

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