imfollowinghim | six ✪ video

Yes. [No surprise. She totally knew that already.]

You wanna talk? Because I've kinda got a feeling we probably should.

That's your job, isn't it? Talking.

More or less.

I want to see your room.

[Well. That's a weird thing to ask, but okay.]

Okay.

[Hey, look, you want to talk. She wants to poke around and size you up. Two birds with one stone.]

You are there now?

Yeah. Door's unlocked.

[Although he is vaguely tempted to hide a couple things before you invite yourself over. Nothing bad, just. Stuff he doesn't really want people messing with.]

[Better do it fast. Her video clicks off and a few minutes later, she's opening your door. Yeah, not even a knock.]

[Not quite fast enough, but that's. Fine.

Bucky's standing in the middle of his room, wearing his twill combat uniform as usual. The room itself is small, kind of cramped, and definitely looks a little like a storage room or something that's been halfassedly converted to a sleeping quarters, and everything kind of screams military without directly looking like a barracks. There's a bunk bed (there's an extra blanket still tossed over the top bunk from when Ben visited), a desk, a closet and a small bathroom, without a lot of personal effects to be seen. There are a couple books on the desk, including a battered paperback copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth and a couple books on World War II he's borrowed from the library.

He's holding another two books, but these look less like books and more like sketchbooks, and he doesn't move to put them down when she comes in, even though his posture's more or less relaxed and comfortable.]

Hi.

[Helena's in her oversized khaki coat, black jeans and heavy black boots; one hand is held up to her face, first fingertip stroking a line along her jawbone from under her ear to her chin. Her demeanour is significantly different than when they first met. She moves deliberately; instead of frightened or confused, she's curious and almost predatory. She pauses and takes in the room, eyes flicking over its details before coming to rest on him.]

Hello, Bucky.

[And then she's moving inside, letting the door close behind her and trailing her fingers lightly along the wall as she goes. The desk is her first stop; she starts picking up the books, flipping them open, running her fingertips over pictures, stroking the edges of the covers, lifting the paperback to her face and smelling its pages. She doesn't look at Bucky directly, but she doesn't turn her back to him completely either.]

Edited 2014-05-31 14:39 (UTC)

[That's. Weird. But weird is sort of what he's been expecting since reading her file, which has been stashed out of the way somewhere. Not because he's necessarily planning on keeping it away from her, but because it seems better to keep something like that away from any prying eyes, and it's already become apparent that at least one person knows how to break in here if they want to.

Not that he minds Ben dropping by, or thinks he'd do anything bad with the information, but. He knows he wouldn't want just anyone reading about him, if the situations were reversed.

Also, he's just... really, really not sure how to proceed here. Hadn't been sure when he'd first been assigned to Ben, either, and he doesn't remember enough of the specifics yet to know exactly what he'd done with him, or how well any of it had worked.

So he just. Raises an eyebrow when she starts smelling the book, and says more or less the first thing to come to mind.]

Big Jules Verne fan, huh?

Never read it.

[Her fingers dance over the beaten-up corners of the book for a few moments more, then she puts it down. She looks down again at the World War II books, tracing a design on the desk top as she speaks.]

This was your war.

Yeah. [These are just a small selection of the ones he's been checking out: a biography of FDR, a general history of what happened in the Pacific, a memoir of a man who fought in Italy, one about the Holocaust, which has been difficult to read in a lot of ways, but he still feels like he has to. It's kind of hit or miss as to whether he actually reads the whole thing, but he's trying to catch up on what he missed and fill in some blanks, answer some questions and make sure he's actually got his mind wrapped around what kind of happened. Kind of, because this isn't exactly the war he fought in.

He's sort of avoided looking too hard for books about his war, if only because he's not really sure how to feel about being able to read some random asshole's biography on Steve. He's already wondering if he knows too much about what happened after he died.]

Some stuff's different, though. I guess that happens sometimes, when you're dealing with people from a million different worlds. [Alex had said his thing had gotten edited out of the history books, too. It's hard not to wonder how true that is for other people on board, too.]

[Helena's been onboard long enough to be used to the idea of people from different times and different worlds. Her general frame of reference for the Barge is a kind of weird purgatory, so it makes some sort of sense. She leaves the desk, fingers trailing on its edge until the last moment, moving along the outside of the small space to the bed. She rubs the cloth of the top-bunk blanket between her thumb and forefinger absently as she turns to look at him.]

What was different?

Some little stuff. [Territory gained and lost, certain people acting a little different.] And some way bigger stuff.

[He watches her without commentary, wondering if she's just trying to orient herself with what kind of person she's dealing with and this is just another part of it.]

I was part of a special combat unit called the Howling Commandos. Our mission was mostly to take out HYDRA, but we fought with the Nazis, too. My best friend was our leader, went by Captain America. [Which he knows is a ridiculous codename. He knows.] None of that's in any of these books.

Captain America. [That is totally ridiculous. She sits down on the bottom bunk, propping her elbows on her thighs and resting her chin in her hands, watching him. Back home, with Tomas, she got used to being one step ahead, knowing more about who she's interacting with than they knew of her. She's curious about Bucky's life, his experience. Where he's coming from.]

I didn't come up with it. [He sounds more amused than anything else, though, and now that she's settled, heads over to lean on the desk so it's a little less like he's looming over her.]

His real name's Steve.

[She watches him move to lean against the desk, head tilted a little to the side. Although she's not wandering the room now, she's never really totally still. Her fingers move, drawing repeating patterns on her jaw.]

Did you know one another before fighting with him?

[Well. It's not the worst nervous behavior he's ever seen. Assuming what that is.]

Yeah, we grew up together.

[It's less nerves and more a desire for tactile sensation. She frowns, her thoughts jumping to Sarah, to what she could have had. Should have had. Growing together, two halves of a whole. Looking down, she drops her hand into her pocket, pulling out a few packets of sugar. She rips one open and tips it into her mouth, speaking without looking back at him.]

Where was he when you fell down your mountain?

[It's probably for the best, because it lets him look away too. Obviously he's not really getting space to answer the question or revisit those memories - and God knows he does it enough without being directly asked about it, and that still doesn't make it easier to think about - but it's enough to sort of soften the edge on talking about it.]

He was on the train. He tried to grab me, but the railing I was hanging onto just kinda... [He shrugs.] Gave out.

[She keeps eating the sugar packs, though she glances back at him now.]

And then you made a deal.

[Well, technically speaking, he broke most of his ribs, got his arm all but ripped off and was sort of drowning when the Admiral got his hands on him (again?), but. Details.]

Pretty much.

[She's silent for a few moments, crunching sugar crystals. Looking down at the empty packets, she tears one into a square, folding it carefully, starting to form a tiny paper fortune-teller. Her hair falls to cover her face and when she speaks her voice is mild.]

Who are you to fix me, serzhant?

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