James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anotheroldsoldier) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riverviewlogs2017-04-22 11:21 am
anotheroldsoldier) wrote in riverviewlogs2017-04-22 11:21 am
[open] gonna live my life like i'm gonna die young
who: Bucky Barnes [616] and YOU
what: Catch-all for fireflies stuff and misc. If you want a specific prompt, hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
nekky
when: Next to last week of April and into May
where: Various
warnings: None atm.
[OOC NOTE: Bucky is out of the city on a mission from April 23-29, returning on the 29th. Any other date in April or May is fine. For the fireflies prompts, if you want red/lust, please hit me up on plurk or discord (nekky#8210) first, and it's only open to 21+ characters who already have positive cr with Bucky.]
[Parking Garage, Any Date]
[Apparently, Bucky has done enough that when his motorcycle came through the portal, the guards brought it down to the parking structure beneath the housing building and left him a glowing note with the keys. He's pleased, despite himself. It means he doesn't have to save up for one from this place, and if he's honest, he's fond of this particular bike.
It's gleaming cherry red and chrome, the frame a bit vintage - it's an Indian brand, likely a Scout model, but it's clearly had a lot of work and upkeep done on it, and plenty of upgrades. He's got it parked in a space near the wall, and two helmets hung on hooks nearby it, which he'd had to purchase in Riverview. Not that he usually wears one. He lives on the edge.
In the early afternoons, or the evenings, if he isn't on patrol with the Guard, he can be found in the parking garage, knelt down on the concrete in thrift store jeans and an oil-stained white t-shirt, working on his baby. He always seems to be in a good mood at these times, occasionally even humming something under his breath, or playing the radio at a reasonable volume on something that sounds like classic rock.]
[Pest Control Service]
[Despite being part of Search and Rescue specifically, Bucky works with the general Perimeter Guard often. It gives him more to do; he's always happy to get out and get to work. While other teams handle the docile behemoth, Bucky enlists to deal with the suddenly aggressive six-limbed creatures whose homes have been disturbed.
Considering the well-camouflaged nature of the creatures, he's chosen not to go out as Captain America, instead wearing clothes more typical of the Perimeter Guard to blend in better in the jungle. He still carries the shield on his back, and a rifle in his hands, not to mention the handgun at his hip, the knife attached to his thigh, the smaller knife in his boot... etc.
Trekking through the underbrush, he turns to his companion on this little trip and says lowly,] Keep your ears peeled. There was a group of them spotted in this area.
[A Gym Near Communal Housing, Early Mornings]
[Bucky likes this gym best out of the few nearby that he's tried. It's on the way to the Perimeter Guard HQ, near enough to the communal housing building, and blessedly quiet in the mornings. He gets up early to go running with Steve or Yuri, and then he hits the gym before work, which is usually about empty. What he works on depends on the day.
Today, the knuckles of his right hand are wrapped, and he's been training on the punching bag, working through a series of rapid, efficient punches and kicks. His fists pound against the vinyl of the bag hard, over and over, pummeling it without worrying about holding back. He's strong, and not just because of the gleaming metal arm, visible since he's wearing a sweat-drenched tank top instead of sleeves.
Eventually, though, the left fist punches a hole through it, and it sadly leaks sand onto the mat. He sinks back onto his ass on the mats, running his fingers through his sweaty hair.] Fuck me.
[Floor 5 Balcony, Any Date]
[Sometimes in the evenings, he hangs out on the deck with a beer, watching the sun sink below the horizon and the stars start to come out. The sky is different out here; occasionally he still looks for Earth's moon before he remembers that this isn't his galaxy and they're on a moon already. The ball in the sky is an unfamiliar planet in the distance. He picks out constellations with a beer in his hand, feet kicked up as he lounges on a deck chair, and he's usually amenable to someone joining him in these quiet moments.]
[Fireflies, Any Date]
[In May, Bucky's routine remains much the same. He gets up painfully early to run, he goes to the gym, makes breakfast on Floor 5, he goes to work with the Perimeter Guard. He goes out on patrols sometimes. He brings back dinner or he cooks himself (and whoever else might be around) something in the evenings. He sits on the deck in the evenings, or he watches a bit of TV in the shared living room. He grocery shops and walks around the city on his days off, stopping in to whatever shop looks interesting. It leaves plenty of time out of the apartment to be bitten by the strange insects.
RED: Lust is unlikely, as he has a low sex drive on a good day. When bitten by a red firefly, he's more quick to anger, and that scrappy teenager he used to be comes out - he'll fight anybody. Make sure you know what you're getting into.
ORANGE: The biggest change is probably when one of these has gotten pincers into him. Where normally he's taciturn and keeps his secrets with deft avoidance, he'll be more honest, more willing to just sit and talk.
YELLOW: Anxiety is more common than outright fear, and it manifests with a big dose of paranoia. He's warier, cagier, with the watchful eye of a soldier. He's a little more obvious about checking entrances and exits, looking for escape routes.
GREEN: His jealousy tends to be a quiet thing, and can manifest over just about anything.
BLUE: Grief is something he has in spades already. Blue firefly bites take a while to go away, for him. He grows melancholy and self-hating, tending to sequester himself away from others to ruminate on his guilt. He also drinks heavily to escape the feeling. Maybe you run into him while he's on his way to a sad drunkenness.
VIOLET: Bucky's affection is also a quiet thing. He's more likely to touch, and he's surprisingly gentle. He's more likely to smile, and laugh. But his touches stay generally platonic and friendly.
These are pretty vague so feel free to start something anywhere, or hit me up on plurk or discord to plot something specific!]
what: Catch-all for fireflies stuff and misc. If you want a specific prompt, hit me up at
when: Next to last week of April and into May
where: Various
warnings: None atm.
[OOC NOTE: Bucky is out of the city on a mission from April 23-29, returning on the 29th. Any other date in April or May is fine. For the fireflies prompts, if you want red/lust, please hit me up on plurk or discord (nekky#8210) first, and it's only open to 21+ characters who already have positive cr with Bucky.]
[Parking Garage, Any Date]
[Apparently, Bucky has done enough that when his motorcycle came through the portal, the guards brought it down to the parking structure beneath the housing building and left him a glowing note with the keys. He's pleased, despite himself. It means he doesn't have to save up for one from this place, and if he's honest, he's fond of this particular bike.
It's gleaming cherry red and chrome, the frame a bit vintage - it's an Indian brand, likely a Scout model, but it's clearly had a lot of work and upkeep done on it, and plenty of upgrades. He's got it parked in a space near the wall, and two helmets hung on hooks nearby it, which he'd had to purchase in Riverview. Not that he usually wears one. He lives on the edge.
In the early afternoons, or the evenings, if he isn't on patrol with the Guard, he can be found in the parking garage, knelt down on the concrete in thrift store jeans and an oil-stained white t-shirt, working on his baby. He always seems to be in a good mood at these times, occasionally even humming something under his breath, or playing the radio at a reasonable volume on something that sounds like classic rock.]
[Pest Control Service]
[Despite being part of Search and Rescue specifically, Bucky works with the general Perimeter Guard often. It gives him more to do; he's always happy to get out and get to work. While other teams handle the docile behemoth, Bucky enlists to deal with the suddenly aggressive six-limbed creatures whose homes have been disturbed.
Considering the well-camouflaged nature of the creatures, he's chosen not to go out as Captain America, instead wearing clothes more typical of the Perimeter Guard to blend in better in the jungle. He still carries the shield on his back, and a rifle in his hands, not to mention the handgun at his hip, the knife attached to his thigh, the smaller knife in his boot... etc.
Trekking through the underbrush, he turns to his companion on this little trip and says lowly,] Keep your ears peeled. There was a group of them spotted in this area.
[A Gym Near Communal Housing, Early Mornings]
[Bucky likes this gym best out of the few nearby that he's tried. It's on the way to the Perimeter Guard HQ, near enough to the communal housing building, and blessedly quiet in the mornings. He gets up early to go running with Steve or Yuri, and then he hits the gym before work, which is usually about empty. What he works on depends on the day.
Today, the knuckles of his right hand are wrapped, and he's been training on the punching bag, working through a series of rapid, efficient punches and kicks. His fists pound against the vinyl of the bag hard, over and over, pummeling it without worrying about holding back. He's strong, and not just because of the gleaming metal arm, visible since he's wearing a sweat-drenched tank top instead of sleeves.
Eventually, though, the left fist punches a hole through it, and it sadly leaks sand onto the mat. He sinks back onto his ass on the mats, running his fingers through his sweaty hair.] Fuck me.
[Floor 5 Balcony, Any Date]
[Sometimes in the evenings, he hangs out on the deck with a beer, watching the sun sink below the horizon and the stars start to come out. The sky is different out here; occasionally he still looks for Earth's moon before he remembers that this isn't his galaxy and they're on a moon already. The ball in the sky is an unfamiliar planet in the distance. He picks out constellations with a beer in his hand, feet kicked up as he lounges on a deck chair, and he's usually amenable to someone joining him in these quiet moments.]
[Fireflies, Any Date]
[In May, Bucky's routine remains much the same. He gets up painfully early to run, he goes to the gym, makes breakfast on Floor 5, he goes to work with the Perimeter Guard. He goes out on patrols sometimes. He brings back dinner or he cooks himself (and whoever else might be around) something in the evenings. He sits on the deck in the evenings, or he watches a bit of TV in the shared living room. He grocery shops and walks around the city on his days off, stopping in to whatever shop looks interesting. It leaves plenty of time out of the apartment to be bitten by the strange insects.
RED: Lust is unlikely, as he has a low sex drive on a good day. When bitten by a red firefly, he's more quick to anger, and that scrappy teenager he used to be comes out - he'll fight anybody. Make sure you know what you're getting into.
ORANGE: The biggest change is probably when one of these has gotten pincers into him. Where normally he's taciturn and keeps his secrets with deft avoidance, he'll be more honest, more willing to just sit and talk.
YELLOW: Anxiety is more common than outright fear, and it manifests with a big dose of paranoia. He's warier, cagier, with the watchful eye of a soldier. He's a little more obvious about checking entrances and exits, looking for escape routes.
GREEN: His jealousy tends to be a quiet thing, and can manifest over just about anything.
BLUE: Grief is something he has in spades already. Blue firefly bites take a while to go away, for him. He grows melancholy and self-hating, tending to sequester himself away from others to ruminate on his guilt. He also drinks heavily to escape the feeling. Maybe you run into him while he's on his way to a sad drunkenness.
VIOLET: Bucky's affection is also a quiet thing. He's more likely to touch, and he's surprisingly gentle. He's more likely to smile, and laugh. But his touches stay generally platonic and friendly.
These are pretty vague so feel free to start something anywhere, or hit me up on plurk or discord to plot something specific!]
no subject
"You want to hear about Sam's tenure as Cap? Or maybe Jeff Mace's, or William Naslund's? William Burnside?" His words are pointed, a little biting. "The way you start conversations, it's not exactly incentive to talk. To open old wounds so a stranger can stare at the trainwreck. Fuck that." Bucky is blunt as he bags up the old heavy bag, fetches a broom from a storage closet to sweep up sand. He's a little angry. She comes into his gym, she interrupts his navel-gazing, she demands answers.
He motions to the mess, the ruined bag and spilled sand, pointedly. "I'm in no place to hit another person right now." It wasn't meant to be an implication that she kills, it was meant to be an implication about his own state of mind. You can go all out on a bag of sand. You have to hold back, with a sparring partner, you have to be conscious of your movements, the force behind your fists. If you accidentally murder a sandbag with a too-hard punch, all you have to do is buy a new one.
no subject
Not the case any more. Her place in the world (morally grey, but hers) - decades to search out, mere weeks to lose entirely. The danger of letting yourself love something, need something, is that it can be used against you. Doesn't make it any easier to turn it off. It's the only thing she misses, about the old days. The way they drilled it into her, tried to train her to turn off the emotion entirely. It made it hurt less. She didn't know what she was missing yet.
The sting in his words, the anger, it's not all for her, is it? Most of it, yes, but... not all? It's easier to take somehow, his list of names. It removes her so far from what she can handle, shuts down a part of her mind in self preservation, the part that wants to beg him to tell her what happens, why Steve is gone, any information she can squeeze out, anything she can use that might make a difference some day. Because what if it is the same? Some parts are, clearly. Just their luck that it would be the bad bits. That part of her mind goes quiet, and the familiar safe detachment of turning to analytical observation kicks in.
"Yes," she says, slowly picking through what she's seeing, trying to sort it in her mind. "Of course I do, as badly as I wanted to hear about yours. I want to know what happened to Steve that left you to fill his shoes, what happened when he got back, who the trainwreck is, what goes wrong." There's a dustpan in the supply closet, too, with a long vertical handle. It's the matter of a moment to retrieve it, to set is near the edge of the pile of sand and lean her weight down on it so that it won't budge. "Not everything is the same, but some things are. They must be, for us to--" She makes a vague gesture between them, at their faces. "You could be his brother. I want to know everything you won't tell me, in case some part of it can help me to protect the people I care about, and I wish I knew what you wanted for it."
It's a lot, more than she's said to most of the people here. More of the truth, anyhow. Then again, most people didn't witness the way she broke apart that night. It's obvious, isn't it? It seems to her that it must be so obvious, that it must be written all over her face, and she hates it, but it is what it is. More than that, though, she's pretty sure he doesn't care enough about her to use it against her, because to him, she's wrong. That is a feeling she knows all too well, being wrong.
no subject
He could almost laugh, the way she goes on. Who the train wreck is. Isn't it obvious? The train wreck is him, the train wreck is everything she wants to uncover just to gawk at, to pick apart and use to suit herself. How funny, that it's become easier to talk to the other version of him, squirrelly and antisocial as he is, than it is to talk to their world's version of Natasha Romanoff.
She commandeers the dust pan. He's reluctant as he sweeps up the sand, as if he doesn't want to get too close. "I'll tell you this. Almost nothing is the same, from my timeline to yours. I've spoken to your Steve and Sam and Barnes enough to know that." It'd be pointless, really. Their world has none of the context of Earth-616. In a way, they're babies, their age of superheroics just beginning. He tries not to be resentful that it's him she's grilling for her answers and not someone who could handle it better, but she has no idea. Of course she doesn't know what this makes him miss, even though she's nothing like the woman who kept him sane when he came back to himself.
"If I thought your Steve needed to know something, I'd tell him myself."
no subject
She watches him fill the dustpan with sand, focusing on the shift of the broom over the mat, the neat tiny rows it leaves behind. When the pan can't hold any more, she moves to empty it, still quiet, taking the time to work through it. It's not about her. She's not the important part of the equation she's trying to balance. She sets the dustpan down again, at the edge of the pile, and tightens her grip on the handle. Shouldn't matter that he doesn't like her. Doesn't matter that he doesn't like her. She just needs to get the walls back up, and she'll be fine. She can do it.
Until then, there's the one important part of this conversation. "Promise? Even if it's something you don't want to talk about? Even if something changes and you end up not liking him, either? You'll still tell him anything that might help him be prepared for... whatever comes next?"
no subject
Bucky sweeps up sand, almost robotic in his motions, not particularly grateful for the help but not able to refuse it either without looking petty and unreasonable. He's not unreasonable, at least. Maybe petty.
Her words make him stop, leaning on the broom, his expression neutral except for the lift of his eyebrows. It's a lot of fussing over nothing, in his opinion. A world that different, who can even know what will happen? And, some half-remembered part of him chimes in, it's not good to try and alter the future.
"You keep actin' like I'm some kinda fortune-teller, like I know exactly what's gonna happen in your timeline and I'm just keepin' it all to myself for fun. I don't think you're getting that it doesn't work like that. Just because something happened for me, for us, it doesn't mean it's going to happen for you all. Like, I ain't sure you guys even have a Namor, but he flooded our Manhattan in the 40s. I never met Steve before the serum. I didn't fall off a train. If you want a lesson in alternate universes, I'm sure Tony would oblige."
no subject
A fortune-teller? What she wouldn't give for one of those, someone with all the answers, someone she wouldn't hurt with questions. Anything like solid footing.
Her laugh is not a laugh. It's wounded, almost. "I don't think I'm getting any of this. I know it's all going to go over my head, but I'm fucking terrified and looking for anything to hold on to. If I don't try, if I don't run myself down to nothing looking for the answers, then the bad that happens, it's my fault." It comes out in a rush, like it's been fighting to make it out of her mouth for weeks, and the look on her face once she's quiet again is one of shock mixed with just a tiny bit of horror. Why the fuck would she just say that?