James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes (
nerves_of_ice) wrote in
milliways_bar2021-02-21 03:24 pm
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"Go. Go! Take this journal and write down everything you can remember. It will help, I promise you."
"Princess--"
"Do not argue. Find somewhere quiet, where you won't be bothered."
"The kids aren't a bother."
"They are also not quiet."
* * * * * * *
It's been a long time since he's been here, enough that if pressed he couldn't actually say how long. He hadn't exactly meant to come, either, but he'd been thinking about finding somewhere out of the way when he walked out of Shuri's lab, and there's no question that Milliways fits that description better than anywhere else.
About ten minutes later, Bucky Barnes is settled in at one of the quieter booths in the back, the journal open in front of him. (A close observer might notice that each page is subtly embossed with the logo of the Wakandan Design Group.)
He's holding a pen in his right hand and tapping it against the blank page. From time to time he sets down the pen and picks up the cup of coffee waiting beside him instead. A swallow or two later, he repeats the process, swapping cup for pen.
His left hand is immaterial to the whole process, as it's entirely absent. A series of gauze bandages are barely visible under the collar of his shirt, and his left sleeve is neatly pinned shut over where his arm used to be.
"Princess--"
"Do not argue. Find somewhere quiet, where you won't be bothered."
"The kids aren't a bother."
"They are also not quiet."
It's been a long time since he's been here, enough that if pressed he couldn't actually say how long. He hadn't exactly meant to come, either, but he'd been thinking about finding somewhere out of the way when he walked out of Shuri's lab, and there's no question that Milliways fits that description better than anywhere else.
About ten minutes later, Bucky Barnes is settled in at one of the quieter booths in the back, the journal open in front of him. (A close observer might notice that each page is subtly embossed with the logo of the Wakandan Design Group.)
He's holding a pen in his right hand and tapping it against the blank page. From time to time he sets down the pen and picks up the cup of coffee waiting beside him instead. A swallow or two later, he repeats the process, swapping cup for pen.
His left hand is immaterial to the whole process, as it's entirely absent. A series of gauze bandages are barely visible under the collar of his shirt, and his left sleeve is neatly pinned shut over where his arm used to be.
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"And yeah. It sucked. Still does, sometimes. Like when a vengeful asshole like Helmut Zemo decided to set the entire world hunting me so he could set me running like a deadly wind-up toy."
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Not that part, anyway. At the thought, his jaw tightens in grim lines.
"He was looking for information, too. Things I knew. Intel."
He shakes his head. Stark's parents' death is Stark's secret to keep or tell as he wants. Bucky's done enough to him.
"He got too much of it, in the end."
He still blames himself, at least partly, for how Steve and Tony's friendship had shattered, even though Steve insists it's not his fault.
Maybe it's not, not entirely. But he's not going to tell this kid, who clearly idolizes Tony Stark, the jagged dark mess of it. That wouldn't be right, either.
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He shakes his head, very slightly.
"But they've come through worse, I guess."
He doesn't include himself as part of the group.
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A little bit of that grin comes back though. "You look like you're doing pretty good too," he says.
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"Built for people like the Avengers. People with special abilities. It's a hellhole."
He manages an answering, slightly wry smile of his own.
"Yeah, I'm doing okay."
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Shifting to a different topic, he nods toward the missing arm. "Are you gonna get a new arm? Or go like this?"
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Who helped Steve, when it comes down to it. Who trusted Steve enough to let him make the call. He's under no illusions that any of them would have put themselves on the line like that for him. Nor should they.
"--is one of the heroes."
He glances at his left shoulder.
"I don't know."
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"I do think the metal one is pretty cool. But, anyway - what are you not-writing?"
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He looks down at the journal, then back at Peter.
"Supposedly, everything I remember."
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He nods. "Does this mean you don't remember anything or the things you remember you don't want to?"
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He stares at the blank page for a moment, then looks up at Peter again.
"I remember things. Just not sure how to begin."
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He smiles, a little.
"Thanks."
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He studies Peter for a second.
"So are you free to come and go, or are you stuck here?"
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"Maybe," he allows. "Could always treat it like a vacation."
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