riverviewlogs | (no subject)

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who: open!
what: a bunch of old soldiers hanging out
when: 3/22
where: the riverview bar and grill
warnings: none yet, will add as necessary

[The Riverview Bar and Grill is a pretty typical-looking bar-slash-restaurant. Sam's spoken with the owners about having a gathering here, and he's there early to push several tables into position so everybody can sit around and chat (though if anyone wants to break into small groups or be less socially inclined, there are still some smaller tables in the vicinity, or there's always the bar itself). A local sports match is showing on the tvs, of course, and there's a pool table, foosball, darts, and even a pinball machine tucked away in one corner for entertainment purposes.

Sam himself spots one round for the group, several pitchers of cold beer on the table once they're all gathered. After that, it's every man for himself - and, of course, the menu has all sorts of appetizers available, from everyone's favorite bar nachos to hot wings to...well, whatever Riverview offers in terms of specialties.]

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John noticed Bucky, but given his rather cagey behaviour, he wasn't about to turn around and start chatting him up. If the guy wants to talk, he can talk, John's not the type to push. He's learned a thing or two from his friendship with Ronon Dex, a man who does everything on his own terms. Including socializing in weird, sometimes unintentionally (but mostly intentionally) threatening ways.

He doesn't turn away from the target when Bucky finally speaks up, tongue caught between his teeth, squinting, as he aims a dart and lets loose, hitting the outer bulls-eye.

"First time, actually. You?" A pause, "Bars, though? Yeah, been to plenty of these. They don't change much, from galaxy to galaxy, or universe to universe."

Watching the other man play darts is actually sort of relaxing, it gives him a vague idea of how accurate John might be with other projectile weapons. It's not perfect, there's a huge difference between a dart and a gun, but it's still a little piece of the puzzle to be filed away for potential future use.

"No, but I know the man who runs it."

Other galaxies, huh? An alien, or just someone who travels in space? Either way, that opens up a lot of avenues that Bucky's not at all familiar with.

John's a pilot, not a sniper, but he's taken his fair share of kill-shots. More than his fair share, probably. Some people count. Keep track. John doesn't. He tries to forget. His rifle is an extension of his arm, but he'd never wanted to become a weapon. It just happened. When you fight for long enough, things get twisted.

"Sam? Huh." He draws his arm back. Tracks the target with his eye-line.

Another shot, this one dead centre. John grins, stepping back from the board to offer Bucky a dart, and take a drink of his beer.

"You two serve together?"

Bucky looks like a vet. Faded, and a little dog-eared. Like a map held too tight by sweaty hands, folded so many times it's tearing at the creases. When and where John's from, they call it sandblasted. Before his time, in Vietnam, it was waterlogged.

If John weren't still working, it would show more. You can hide a lot of things behind a Kevlar vest and uniform.

Bucky isn't entirely sure it was a good idea to come to this place; he usually avoids people that he thinks might be a threat, and now he's voluntarily put himself in a room full of them. Perhaps there's no other super soldiers in here, but that doesn't mean that there isn't a whole lot of danger.

It's a small piece of the puzzle, that dart and how easily it hits the bullseye, but an important one. He takes the dart offered to him in return, but he doesn't throw it yet, just twists it between gloved fingers.

"What, me and Sam?" He snorts quietly, the question taking him by surprise. "No, we've never served together, we just have a friend in common."

"He and I were in the same war. Never ran into each other, that I know of, but who knows. Everyone looks the same under a helmet." It doesn't matter, really. Feels kind of trite to talk about, and more than a little awkward, but that's what this kind of thing is for, isn't it? For veterans, and soldiers, to connect. Or something.

Honestly, John been particularly moto about the USAF, or military at large. He cares, of course, or he wouldn't have served, or continued serving, but he's not about to buy the bumper-sticker or wear the t-shirt. Some officers treat it like a social club. John doesn't. It's his work, and it's important work, but it's not everything.

Atlantis was everything.

John sips his beer, eyes looking somewhere past the dartboard for a long moment before flicking back to Bucky. He smiles, sitting on the edge of the nearest table. Gives the man some space to make his move.

"Kinda nice that there's no Officer's Club, here." Says the officer, "Or uniforms. Everyone's just getting hammered and playing pool. You don't need to know anybody's rank for that. Last time I went to something like this it felt like a dick waving contest."

"Never been to something like this before."

The admission is a tiny offering of information, something in return for everything John has given him so far. Knowing what war he was in dates him, at least, and gives him a location as to where he's from. Same world, or a similar one if they had that sort of war, and he was more than likely fighting for the US army given his accent.

All small things in the grand scheme of things and maybe not useful, but to someone who still has so little about himself, even the small pieces of a puzzle are things to be guarded.

"Not sure an officers club would even work in a place like this, too many different worlds and types of army. Who's to say all those worlds use the same ranks?"

He finally flicks his wrist and throws the dart, barely even glancing at the dartboard, to get a solid bullseye so close to John's previous dart that there's a tiny noise as they vibrate against each other.

"In a place like this you've gotta leave your rank at the portal and take a bite of humble pie. Makes sense everyone starts at ground zero, or there'd be some serious head-butting going on."

John's watching Bucky intently from behind his beer bottle as he sets up for the shot and releases, nicking John's bulls-eye. He whistles appreciatively, grabbing his next dart. They're not playing by any standard game rules, but who cares. Call it Riverview-style.

"Nice shot. You've got a good arm on you."

He catches his lower lip between his teeth, squinting at the target. The board's getting crowded. He pulls his arm back, mimes a shot twice, charting the path like an air-strike, and lets loose. The needle skims the side of Bucky's dart, and bounces uselessly off the board and onto the floor.

"Welp. I tried."

A good arm, that's funny. Obviously it's not meant as anything, John couldn't possibly tell that one of Bucky's arms is fake underneath the sweater and gloves. Right? Bucky still shifts a little and tugs down the cuff of his left sleeve in an unconscious nervous gesture.

"I'm good with this sort of thing."

Projectiles. Weapons in general. It was pretty much the only thing he was good at now, the skills of the assassin, but he was working on getting back things like social skills and this was another step of that journey.

"So-- you were in the US army, right?"

"Yeah, I'd say so." John picks up the dart and positions for another throw.

John has no idea about Bucky's arm, it wouldn't even cross his mind that a man could have a mechanical arm, despite all the strange shit he's seen in his time. John does, however, note the way Bucky self-consciously pulls at his sleeve.

He doesn't know what that's about, but they've all got their scars. New and old. John knows better than to ask, or draw attention to something he's obviously uncomfortable with. He's been there. That's the real benefit of a meeting like this. Shared experiences, mutual respect, and silent understanding.

"US Air Force. Pilot. I flew a few of the air frames guys like Sam were jumping out of." He takes his next shot, striking the bulls-eye again. They must be irritating bystanders at this point.

"What about you? You seem like an army guy."

That was a much more difficult question to answer than it seemed on the surface of it. He had been in the army once, long ago, but he didn't know if he had the right to claim that any more. His service had been about seventy years in the past, and he had spent a hell of a long time after that working against the country that he used to serve.

In order to give him time to weigh up what he should say, he turned his attention to the next dart that was his to throw. He turned it a couple of times in his fingers, aware of the silence dragging on, before throwing it to hit as close to the bullseye as he could when there were already three darts in it.

"Yeah."

Perhaps he could lay claim to that piece of his past life. A part of him must have felt he could, after all, or why would he have come to a veteran's club?

"US Army, but I haven't served for a long time."

"Lucky you." Getting out is the dream for most members, but once you're out, you're out. Then what? There's a reason John's never thought about ending his contract for longer than a minute. The prospect of civilian life is more terrifying than anything he'll find in the cross-hairs of his rifle.

John's already struggling with all the spare time he has in Riverview. He doesn't do well left to his own devices, without purpose or structure. He needs a job he can throw himself into, or he'll throw himself off a-

Socializing. Fun. Happy. John brings himself back to the dartboard, and away from the edge. Watching Bucky, and standing comfortably in his silence, John can't help but wonder if he's only ever a few steps away from that same edge, too.

He looks back over his shoulder for the table Poe Dameron is sitting at. Smiles when he catches his eye.

"You here with anyone?"

Lucky. Right.

Bucky's mouth twitches up into a half smile and he snorts quietly with amusement, because he definitely wouldn't call himself lucky. He'd much rather still be Sergeant Barnes of the 107th, that would save everyone a whole hell of a lot of heartache. He doesn't know what he is now.

"No."

Bucky glances around to see who John is looking at-- wait, that's Poe. He hasn't seen Poe in a long time, he thought the man had gone back through the portal. Maybe he had and this is a different one, like with Steve.

"I don't really socialise, I don't know a lot of people."

John almost says 'me too', but that was him five years ago. After his court-martial. Before Atlantis. Before he found a home, purpose, and family.

Riverview isn't Antarctica. He isn't lost or hiding. He has people here. A team.

Hell, he has a relationship, or something like it, for the first time in years.

It could be worse. John could be alone again. Really, truly alone. The kind of alone that makes just being around other people painful, even when you're desperate not to be left alone with yourself.

"Well now you know one more."

He's not where Bucky's at, but he knows where he's coming from.

"Got a job?"

The look of surprise on Bucky's face is muted but genuine. He spent so much time alone these days that it seemed like his natural state of being, he wasn't used to people making that kind of offer to him. His first instinct was to refuse it, to walk away right now and put distance between them. He's not safe to be around people, and it wouldn't be fair to endanger someone who's just trying to be nice.

But he's lonely. He hasn't had a proper conversation, a friend, since Clark left him behind. He wants so badly to be human again, not a weapon, but he can't without any connections to keep him grounded.

"Should be more careful who you say that to," he said, voice low. It hadn't even been a declaration of friendship, just saying that Bucky knew someone else, but it felt like a danger anyway.

He rolled one shoulder and pulled himself back to the present, moving on from his own warnings quickly. "No job. I'm between places to live at the moment, and they usually need an address."

"Uh huh." John's heard that one before. Bucky reminds him of Ronon in so many ways. The two would get along. A runner is a runner, no matter which galaxy they're from. A human can only be alone in the wind for so long. Even animals need companionship, whether it's in the form of a pack or a mate.

He waves over a server and orders himself another beer.

"I don't need an address." And since Bucky's taking his sweet time, and because John doesn't want this conversation to be anything more than casual, he starts yanking the darts out of the board to reset the game.

"I run a unit out of the PG. Riverview Reconnaissance One. We've got a core group, but we could use auxiliary members. People who can fill in when members are busy with other PG duties, or who have special skills. Think of it as part-time fieldwork."

Bucky doesn't answer for a while, all he can do at first is stare. He hadn't been expecting a job offer, and the kindness of that stymies him for a moment. He doesn't know this man, not really, and that's a lot to put on the line for a potentially untrustworthy stranger.

For a moment he almost wants to accept. The look on his face is one of wistful gratitude, before it shuts down again into the more neutral mask that he's just so used to wearing all the time.

"I can't." The 'sorry' is implied underneath that. "But thank you. Really."

Just to be offered that has touched him more than he thought it would.

"No problem. If you ever change your mind, just give me a shout. Sometimes we need an extra pair of hands, sometimes we don't."

John holds the darts out to Bucky, taking the opportunity to look him in the eyes.

"Y'know, sometimes it helps to keep busy." John doesn't specify what it helps, exactly, because he doesn't think he has to. Isn't sure he could, even if he wanted to. John's got a smoother surface, he's learned to polish it over the years, has had to in order to survive, but on the inside? He's still all jagged edges.

There's no smooth surface for Bucky, but his jagged edges are hidden beneath a carefully constructed mask. His expression changes very little in the manner of someone who has been taught to keep their true emotions hidden for the sake of their own survival. He doesn't want to leave it like this; John is a stranger, but he's reached out in kindness and that deserves something in return.

He takes the darts and turns one of them over and over between his fingers, breaking the eye contact pretty quickly.

"I'm not a safe man to be around," he says eventually. "It might help me, but it wouldn't help the person I might hurt. Or worse."

"I've never met a soldier who's safe to be around." They're all a little crazy. You have to be crazy to do what they do. It takes a special kind of person to become a trained killer, and to be good at it.

John smiles, even if Bucky isn't looking. He likes the guy. Troubled as he is. John's always had a soft spot for fix'er uppers. Just look at his team.

Hell, look at John. He's been the darkhorse since day one.

"My door's always open, is what I'm saying. For a job, or a game of darts. You can bet your ass I have one of these in my office. Nothing makes me want to play a game like a stack of reports."

Perhaps that's true, that they're all dangerous in some way, but Bucky knows that things are different in his case. He wonders if John would be as kind, as relaxed, if he knew just how many deaths of innocent people is on his hands, and how many decades he did nothing but kill to the tune of HYDRA pipes.

He's not about to explain.

It's unlikely that he'll ever take John up on his offer, he's more likely to sink back into the shadows and obscurity. But maybe-- maybe he'll remember sometimes that it's nice to have company, and he'll risk it, so he doesn't dismiss the offer out of hand. He just nods slowly and offers his gloved hand to shake.

"Thanks, I'll remember."

John takes Bucky's hand and gives it a firm shake.

"Don't be a stranger."

Followed by a crooked grin, because yeah, it's a little absurd to act like buddies after hanging out for approximately half an hour, but that's how John rolls. When he likes people, he likes them. It's an all or nothing deal. And Bucky looks like he could use a friend, regardless of where or how that friendship came about.

Men like them have to live life in the moment. You never know what tomorrow's going to bring. John never really counts on being alive past his next mission.

Bucky offers up a smile of his own in return, because he genuinely is grateful for the offer of work and for the kindness shown to a stranger. It's a small smile, and it looks rusty as if he doesn't use it often, but it's genuine.

"See you."

It's a perfunctory goodbye, as he's already turned to leave as soon as they've finished their handshake. He's done here, and he doesn't want to stay too long in case something ruins the relatively good time he's had.

He's out of the door only seconds after that.

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