milliways_bar | (no subject)

"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.

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"Eh. Lotsa people do. You're cute and not a killer robot, so you'll probably live, I guess."

He grimaces.

"Not a killer robot any longer, anyway," he corrects, wryly.

On the one hand, it's clear her first observation has gone clear over his head, so God knows what that means. On the other, 'going clear over his head' at least means he hasn't reacted badly, so it could be worse?

"Pfft," she says dismissively, "You were never a killer robot. At most you were a killer cyborg. I had a killer cyborg for a brother, they're cool."

"Ran into a guy named Cyborg here once," he observes. "Not the same guy as your brother?"

He shakes his head.

"Hate to correct you, Sparkle, but I might as well have been. What happened at the JTTF proved that."

She shakes her head. "Don't think so, although Vic used to come here for a while when we were kids. He had a lot of nicknames, but he never went by Cyborg."

Her arm tightens slightly around his shoulders. "I mean, Vic was literally programmed to take over the world, so... What happened?"

"The guy who set off the bomb in Vienna did it to get to me."

He's pleased to hear that his voice remains level.

"He killed the shrink they were going to have 'evaluate' me, took his place, and ..."

He reaches for the coffee and takes a swallow.

"There were controls left in my brain. Mind control programming. He had the manual. He wanted the Winter Soldier. And he got me."

...She has several questions, most notably 'so is he dead yet?' and its tight-knit sibling 'would you like him to be?'.

She also has the observation that again, in several ways he's not entirely unlike her brother, but she has the feeling this might be somewhat... unhelpful. (Especially if he asks her to elaborate, and she includes the emergency shut-down codes they had for Vic.)

She doesn't hug him any more tightly, but she sure as hell doesn't let go either.

"Well," she says, eventually, "That doesn't sound like a good time."

A single breath escapes him, a small, wry laugh.

"Yeah. You could say that."

Bucky draws the tip of his index finger in a circle on the table and looks up at her.

"He got the intel he wanted from me and targeted me to escape if possible, doing as much damage as I could on the way. Steve stopped me, again. I damn near killed him, again. And a bunch of other people."

She doesn't look away.

"...Just so we're clear, we're in agreement that none of this is in any way your fault, right?"

She may or may not be speaking as someone with experience of misplaced guilt. Mainly in other people. ~~But.~~

"People keep telling me that," he agrees. "I know it wasn't my choice to do any of those things."

"But I did them."

She shrugs, delicately, with her free shoulder.

"That's kinda the point of mind control, though, isn't it?"

She pauses for a moment. She doesn't want to make this about her, but...

"My parents could - and did - make people do all kinds of horrendous shit. But I know where I'm putting the blame."

"I know."

He glances sideways at her.

"Your parents?"

"...Yeah."

She glances away briefly, then back to him.

"They were both telepaths. It's not that uncommon of a power, for mutants. What they liked doing with it... that's less common."

Beat.

"For the record, I am extremely not telepathic. As you probably noticed."

"Ah."

He leaves it at that, and takes a moment for another swallow of coffee.

"You don't need to be. You yell loud enough as it is, when you want to."

Unexpectedly that makes her snort with laughter.

"Oh, my sweet summer child. You haven't even seen me in a real fight."

Shouting at him and Natasha barely even counts!

He flashes a quick, wry grin at her.

"What, am I wrong?"

She grins back at him, green eyes twinkling.

"You may not be totally incorrect."

"There's a first time for everything," Bucky says, dryly.

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," Molly advises him lightly. "Amount of time you've been around, there's no way that's your first time."

"Oh, thanks. Thanks so much."

"You're so welcome," she assures him. "Super-tact is my secondary mutation, it's no trouble at all."

"Sure," he agrees, dubiously. "At least it doesn't glow pink when you're using it. That'd be a dead giveaway."

He settles a little more deeply into his seat, apparently not bothered by her arm resting across his shoulders.

She takes her arm from his shoulders for the moment - not wanting to come on too strong or be too overwhelming - but the rest of her doesn't move away.

"Oh no," she assures him, utterly straight-faced. "It totally does."

"Yeah?" He scrutinizes her face very deliberately.

"How about that. It sure does."

She draws on all her training (with a pack of teasing siblings) to remain utterly poker-faced under his stare.

"Would I lie to you?"

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