milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Another day, another city. He's not sure how long he'll be in this one - weeks, maybe a month or two, if he's lucky. He hasn't been lucky for a half-year or so now, but there's nothing to do about that except stay ready, and move when he needs to.

He'd picked the apartment because it was high up in the building. He prefers it that way; it lets him watch from various angles and lines of sight when he needs to, and gives him quick access to the roof and escape.

Not that he can see much from inside at the moment, of course, having just finished taping newspaper -- multiple thicknesses -- over the windows. It helps; the lines of text and distortion of blurry newsprint photos disguise any shadows that he might cast from within.

James takes a moment to look around. It's got everything he needs; sleeping bag unrolled on the cheap mattress in the corner, the windows (now covered), washroom no bigger than a closet, kitchenette barely bigger than that, even complete with the unimaginable luxury of a full-size fridge...

... ah. Food. Right.

He's not hungry, but food's the fuel that's necessary to keep going. It's too late to go to the market now, though. Instead, he goes to the apartment door, and opens it into Milliways.

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"The rest of the bar wasn't a target."

Not that Natasha was either, not the way his targets usually are.

(His, now; no one else's. There's meaning to that.)

He's still studying her.

"The other one. In your world. Did he ... who does he work for?"

"I wasn't about to take chances. Not with that kind of damage."

She's a little sorry for deliberately freaking him out, but she'd do the same again. There have been enough places she couldn't protect that she's serious about protecting this one.

"...Uh. Last I heard he was with the Avengers."

Nobody's seen him or Black Widow since Magneto's destruction of New York, but she certainly wouldn't bet on him being dead.

She does know the backstory, though - or at least some of it. After all, he did go on trial.

"I get that. But just so we're clear."

He blinks, once.

"With the Avengers," he repeats, as though he's not sure if he's heard her correctly.

"Yeah."

She looks at him over her coffee, and doesn't pass comment on his remark about the fight. The bar might not have been a target, but she's seen more than enough collateral damage that she doesn't want to see any more.

"...Uh. Are you from the same 'verse as Danger Spice? 'Cause we compared notes, and my world seems pretty massively different from hers. I'm like... ten years in the future, for a start. And a mutant, which you guys don't seem to have."

She hasn't quite settled on a nickname for Natasha yet. But Danger Spice'll do for now.

"I know mutants."

Although he leaves out the fact that he knows them only in Milliways context, in the strictest definition. Then again, some of the people with powers other than "normal" -- who knows what they'll be called, eventually?

"Wait."

No, really.

"Did you say 'Danger Spice?'"

What?

She grins. "Your ex-cellmate. I'm not sure 'Danger Spice' is gonna stick, but the look on her face was great the first time I used it."

Yeah, she's a Nicknamer. And applying one to the Widow means she won't accidentally use the wrong name.

Edited 2017-02-10 19:08 (UTC)

The sudden bright grin that appears in answer makes him look much younger.

"Man, I wish I'd been there to see that."

Molly laughs. "Stick around, maybe you'll get your wish."

Score one for her!

"Speaking of names - you said you were 'usually' James in here. Is that what you actually prefer? 'Cause I'll stick with whichever you'd rather."

The laughter fades, as does any sign of amusement. He studies her carefully.

"How much do you know about ... him? The other me? His - my - background?"

Aw, damn. And she'd just been trying to be tactful...

"Uh. A fair bit? My sisters were in the Avengers."

And also, of course, the trial. But she feels like maybe he can live without knowing there's at least one 'verse where that happens, at least for the moment.

He nods. He still doesn't like the idea of other people knowing about him, but there are times where it's not going to be possible to do anything about it.

(And how many people know, anyway? How many had used him as an asset, a weapon, had deployed him over the years; how much information is still out there?)

"I was Bucky. I ... am ... James. But I ... answer to both, now. They ... didn't ... couldn't keep that from me. Not any more."

She nods, green eyes wide as she watches him.

"So you don't have a preference? 'Cause like I said, I'll call you whatever you'd rather be called."

Until he gets a nickname, anyway.

He studies her in silence for a few seconds.

"Make it Bucky," he says, finally.

It feels like taking a step forward, somehow, although he's not exactly sure why.

"Bucky it is."

She smiles at him over the mound of glittery whipped cream - the kind of smile that's warm rather than bright.

"Want a drink?"

It's not an apology for freaking him out, but it's something like it.

He smiles back.

"Sure."

"Bar? My tab, please - and a refill for me."

She looks impish.

"Glitter probably optional."

"Definitely," he confirms, with an answering look that's more than a little wry.

"Coffee, black. Please."

"Spoilsport."

Her eyes still dance, but her smile is crooked. She can hazard a guess or five about the reasons why glitter, or much else that's fun, has not been high on his to-do list.

He gets the coffee he asked for, but the stirrer - though not glittery - is bright Barbie pink.

"That's me," he says, a little dryly. "Guaranteed ruiner of fun."

Bucky eyes the stirrer, then fishes it out of the coffee and dries it on a napkin. His glance goes from it to her hair, and there's an extremely speculative look in his eye for some reason.

"Aw, man. And there I was, thinking this place lacked entertainment."

(Behind them, someone starts up a very off-key Livin' On A Prayer on the evil karaoke machine.)

She looks blissfully innocent - although, if he's paying close attention, there's something in her look that says go on, double-dog-dare you.

He raises both eyebrows.

"Thought you liked it that way."

"Depends on your definition. I don't like having to do more work than I've gotta. I don't like being bored... or being boring."

She smiles, sipping her coffee.

"I've heard legends of this thing called a quiet life, but I'm pretty sure it's mythical."

(She has glittery whipped cream on her nose. She's aware, she's just not worried about fixing it instantly.)

"Somehow, I don't think boring is your style."

He sets the coffee stirrer down on the napkin -- for now, anyway.

"So what do you do when you're not saving the world or working security here?"

Chicken!

"Awww, you say the nicest things." She grins as she swipes the cream from her nose. "But I'm a very shy and retiring person, really. All the pink's just, like... reverse psychology."

Hell, around here it probably counts as camouflage; it's the sort of thing you need when you're as timid and reserved as she is.

"Haven't saved the world in a long time, though." Her smile turns very crooked; her accent more L.A. valley girl, as if trying to make the words sound less serious than ~~she is~~ they are. "Periodic pest control in the form of destroying sixty-foot killer robots. Den mother for a stroppy six-year-old... and a bunch of stroppier adults."

Trying not to die, as one of her sisters used to put it.

Edited 2017-03-29 13:43 (UTC)

"Sure it is."

He considers her for a few seconds.

"I'm not sure if the robots or the six-year-old would be the harder job."