James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nerves_of_ice) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar2017-02-01 06:01 pm
nerves_of_ice) wrote in milliways_bar2017-02-01 06:01 pm
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(no subject)
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.
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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"Know any other witches?"
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"I don't know, " he answers.
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"Okay. Yeah. Fair point."
James mulls it over for a second or two, then jerks his head toward the bulletin board.
"You could put something up there. See if you get any response. Around here, I figure there's got to be someone who knows about that kind of magic thing."
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"Yes," he says. "That might be an idea. I just - really hate magic."
Really.
With reason.
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He shrugs.
"I also don't know how you're gonna beat this -- this spell without it."
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His voice is very, very flat, and the look in his eyes is hard.
"They don't."
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And then he nods, slowly.
James understands. He doesn't have to know why. It's just - good to know that he understands.
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Then he says, a little hesitantly, "I remember one thing. Can I - can I tell you about it?"
There's a part of him, deep down, that fears that this memory will fade as well. If he doesn't keep it alive.
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"Sure. Go ahead."
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"I remember the sea," he says. "And a ship. I think. I remember the sound of it. Of sails and timber creaking. And I remember sand. And the -"
His voice grows very soft. His eyes distant. He swallows reflexively.
"The sun. The sun on my back. Thea my skin was warmed by it."
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"This must have been ... before. Right?"
It never hurts to verify, when you can; making assumptions on hearsay intel's a good way to get killed.
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"Yes. It must have been."
Quietly.
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A long pause.
"What color was it?"
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"The sand was white and yellow. With little stones. Shells. The water was grey and blue. Clear."
The beach of his childhood, up north.
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"No," he says. "But it feels like home."
He makes a vague gesture, halfway between his belly and his heart.
Home.
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(Among other things.)
But he knows what it's like to lose who you were.
"North."
James takes a long swallow of his coffee, and sets the empty mug down; Bar refills it unasked.
"You were a Viking. Once."
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He nods.
"There is a small ship in my room. A model. Someone gave it to because of that. Because of what I was."
But he doesn't remember. It doesn't spark anything. There is nothing there but nothingness.
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Anyone who'd been giving the vampire gifts is likely to be a friend.
Or enthralled, come to think of it. If it works that way. T