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[lefthandfree]

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[allusive]

1, 2, 3, 4

[lefthandfree]

[It's counter-intuitive, but sometimes he looks down the street and wishes he could have left it all behind. None of it made a difference here. Maybe if he didn't have any attachments, if there wasn't Steve, he could leave it all behind and make something for himself here. It wouldn't make a huge difference would it? There's no Red Book. No one is hunting him. He's free from everything that he has no control over. But he knows he can't. He can't. He won't. And he's left with the ghosts of everything that doesn't matter here.

When he feels like this, it's hard to drink. He feels like he's lying to himself by pretending he's just getting rid of any other headache, and it makes his insides churn. So instead of finding his way into his usual tavern, he stops himself outside. He turns on his heel to wait by the door for the bitter thought to pass, and chastises himself silently. He waits, hours if need be, if only to remind himself of who he is and why it should matter, even if there is no one who will ever tell him the same.

A roll of thunder echoes in the distance, and a gentle chill settles down the street in front of him. Subconsciously, he rubs his left shoulder, where his other arm used to be, and wonders how long it will take today. Seems like a storm. Hopefully, it won't be as long as usual.]

[allusive]

[ Alysia hasn't made a good many friends in this new world yet, preferring to keep to herself and to keep others at arms' length. Being allied with them, proving to be a worthwhile companion...those are things she'll certainly do. She would be foolish to assume she could survive in this world without anyone to help her should she be in peril. She makes nice with the new arrivals and offers to help where she can...but much of it is an act of survival more than true kindness.

Bucky is someone who's...strange. He walks like a ghost might, in and out of crowds, and carries an undeniable weight that she can see in his eyes more than in his countenance. They've spoken before and while somewhat low-spoken, he doesn't seem a cruel man. Not one that should need to be punished.

She finds him outside of the tavern she's gone to play at for an hour or two, the money good enough to buy a bed and a hot meal at the least. He looks lost.

Gently, with a firm tone, she calls out as she gets closer. ]

You look out of place, stranger.

[lefthandfree]

[His eyes dart up from the ground to meet hers, and the corner of his lips quirk upward. While he knows she is always on her guard, even around him, knowing that there is someone like him is enough to give him a sense of camaraderie, regardless of how much or little he could genuinely trust her when it came down to things. Maybe it’s something leftover from the war, but he can still respect another fighter, another survivor, no matter what side the other is on. Takes one to know one, after all.

It’s bad to let people too close, especially when he feels like this, but it’s difficult to turn away now that he’s been spoken to. Not to mention rude as hell. Generally speaking, she isn’t bad company either, so the least he can do is some small talk.]

Yeah. Should be inside drowning myself instead, huh? [There’s a clear dryness to the remark that's found in every other thing he says. Maybe it’s to mock the situation or even himself. He has no idea. The words just come out of his mouth that way, and it feels right.

Noting that she has her instrument with her, he cocks his head to the side and nods toward it.]

You about to work?

[Cause if she is, he knows a far better place to be instead of out here being mad at himself, even if it means without a good, stiff drink.]

[battletested]

[ He goes back to the empty grave on Buck's birthday. Arlington's nearly always deserted in the evenings, voices carrying from guys talking to their buddies and the odd sniffle of a family member. The air rings heavy with solemnity. There's flowers on the grave — his sisters send them regularly. Steve traces the 1 from the year of birth, and he stays there long after the sun sets. ]

[ It's nothing close to a routine. Grief always crashes down like an avalanche — someone on the street with a swagger, someone who looks similar from the back in the distance. Little things, that brick by brick, become something impassable. Steve treads water. He leaves a beer bottle by the grave. Buck pulled him from the river and Sam trails behind him, worrying and solid. The years pass — he starts to wonder, when he's alone, if that empty grave holds more of his friend than the man they're searching for. It does nothing to his resolve. Bucky Barnes never picked and chose the parts of Steve he cared for, and Steve has no intention of doing anything less. That love was tested once in war and again on the helicarrier: Steve knows who he's looking for. He knows who they found and who he chose over the Avengers. ]

[ They're put in the same corridor in Wakanda; separate rooms, though Steve tries to spend as much time with him as he can. Breakfast, trying out everything they can and talking about the flavours. Out in the gardens, with the sunshine and fresh air. Little pieces, for the wall. He's hanging on now. ]

They have Casablanca in the movie room.

[ It's morning just before sunrise, and there's a faint mist drifting in from the east. Steve is sitting with his sketchbook open, the page empty, twirling the pencil. ]

[lefthandfree]

[He spends two years avoiding Steve, not wanting to be saved—sure there's nothing worth saving—and trying to disappear to bear his penance. There’s little surprise when it’s gone in a flash as soon as he sees Steve’s face again.

How easily he caves. He feels hollow as he goes through those familiar motions, the looks, gestures, and smiles he give masking every bit of his shame. And he has no choice. Every cell in his body compels him to, and he can’t refuse because there’s no way to say no to something that matters more than the air in his lungs. Everything he worked for to redeem his sins—his failures—gets lost somewhere behind them. Atonement is loneliness and solitude, but Steve rewards him, gives him a real breath to breathe that fills the hollow with mercy he doesn’t deserve.

He hates that he loves every second.

Grass is softer than he remembers, so he likes to feel it against his back while they watch the sun cast shadows across mountains. The light damp of dew settles into his clothes and skin as he lays and remembers how beautiful the sky is no matter what happens underneath it. Steve’s words float by like a cloud, and his eyes close as meaning comes.

Humphrey Bogart. A crowded room. La Marseillaise. He hums the first two bars in his head to see if he remembers it. He sees himself with the Howling Commandos belting it out joyfully with—for—Dernier after they’ve heard about the Liberation of Paris.

Bucky turns and opens his eyes to watch the pencil.]

You think they’ll mind if we put a sign on the door again?

[’Private Session’, like last time, so it’s just the two of them and their memories. He doesn't talk much with T'Challa, but he knows Steve worked something out with the guy while the doctors were patching up the stump Tony had left him with.]

[battletested]

[ They saw it together in 1942 at HQ, Bucky got real thoughtful, after. He had his quiet moments in the War, and Steve tried not to push then, but it hurt. His best friend who never seemed to care much about the state of his collar or the smell of his clothes when at home he wouldn't have been seen dead like that. Steve always thought there'd be time to talk to him, after. There would be an after. It was the two of them, it was war, but there was nothing they couldn't get through together. ]

[ Buck's lying on his back, Steve is — deliberately — the first thing any assailant will see coming into this corner of the garden. They're not left to their own devices: the Dora Milaje are always around. There should be two of them silently prowling around, but Steve can't really bring himself to complain. They're here on T'Challa's charity, and every concession is small compared to the fact that he will — without hesitation — send his people to die if anyone comes looking for them. It doesn't sit right, which is why they're leaving as soon as Buck's comfortable walking outside in the world. ]

[ For now, Steve nudges Bucky's toes with his own in a lazy motion, and hums the next two bars absently as he starts outlining Buck's body on the page. Being in his space is like breathing — he stumbles without it. Steve has been recalibrating in response to any request, verbal or otherwise, for space. Seventy years they were apart; over three times longer than they were together in life. ]

I think Sam might get annoyed you're not catching up on Harry Potter with him.

[ Sam, who's taken full charge of both their film and music education. ]

You didn't hear that from me.

[lefthandfree]

[He doesn’t even think when his foot nudges Steve’s back; it just happens. The fondness of the gesture is almost unrecognizable to him, even though it comes so immediately—so naturally—and a dull ache in his chest stifles the warm feeling his mind tells him should be there but isn’t.

He wants to reach out before the moment slips through his fingers. Again. He wants to recognize what they had been and should still be now. He needs to know if any of it still means anything to Steve, if what he knows isn't a lie and that Steve doesn't just want this side of him, the one everyone counts on being there but not the one he actually is.

Bucky hums the next bar lazily as he watches the top of the pencil dancing in the air as Steve draws. When the following bar passes him by, he turns back to look at the sky.]

He can stuff it. I don’t see what’s so great about that kid.

[While the universe itself is interesting to Bucky, he’s lost on why Harry Potter is considered a hero. Everything Harry does is so predominantly self-serving, which is the complete opposite of what a hero should be. A real hero is willing to give up everything for someone else. Even if that someone doesn't deserve it.

He clenches his jaw briefly before continuing.]

But I’ll watch it if you want.

[Because this is Steve’s choice. Shield or not, Steve is Steve, and Bucky is just his shadow.]

[scarletcast]

[ Wanda's room is at the very end of the corridor, a little too luxurious for her tastes, but plenty of space. T'Challa — or someone — as thoughtfully left a salve on the bedside table that made the marks of the collar fade within two days, and doubles as sunscreen. She claimed one of the smaller training rooms to use with Steve. The first day, the Dora Milaje only watch. After that, they participate. They are quicker and stronger than her, but as Natasha likes to say, it is all good practice. ]

[ Sleep is often fugitive. The bed is too soft, and there's not always something to watch from the window. 3AM finds her in the pantry fiddling with the kettle, a packet of tea bags clumsily torn open on the table. She nods at Bucky when he comes in — she hasn't talked to him much yet, thinking perhaps he might wish to keep away from powers like hers. ]

I am making jasmine. Would you like a cup?

[lefthandfree]

[Another one of those dreams that’s left his nerves rattled and he’s out in the hall because he can’t just lay there and pretend he’s okay when he knows he’s not. His skin feels cool from the light sheen of sweat still there as he makes his way silently down the hall. He isn’t surprised to see Wanda awake. Seems like no one can sleep around here.

He nods back a little stiffly. He’s not sure how to talk to her. She’s really powerful, and he can tell because whenever she’s near, he feels his nerves calm, and alarming doesn’t quite cut it.

But she’s been all but polite to him, so he always gives it his best.]

If it’s not too much trouble. I can vacate too if you just wanna be on your own.

[Sometimes they all do, he’s sure.]

[scarletcast]

[ She flashes him a small smile. It's not that kind of night, so she simply puts the kettle on and takes out two mugs, an earth-coloured one for herself and slides a white one for him. ]

[ Truthfully: she's not afraid. When she was, anger took its place, then grief, and now something else, curious and nascent, is working its way there. The same dryness as his throat scratches at her mouth, but the fractures in his psyche are enough to keep out more than that. She doesn't want to look in. From what she's heard, he's more than earned his privacy. ]

Are you hungry?

[lefthandfree]

[He wants to smile back, at least to be nice, but it’s damn hard when he doesn’t know her very well. Instead he looks at the mugs and wonders silently why they’re different. Not that it's bad, Bucky likes a little variety. It just doesn't seem to fit this place. So he makes up a story in his head on how two different types of mugs were needed in the cupboard. It’s a really short story. He looks up when he’s done because she asked a question, and he shouldn’t ignore that.]

Maybe a little.

[His body needs more calories now, and he's still getting used to managing the right amount between necessity and his own accord. It's a weird divide now that he's had food that sometimes tastes better than the sunrise.]

[battletested]

[ Steve steals one of the Private Session signs from the movie room to hang on the door leading to the roof. Wakanda doesn't import Coca-Cola, so instead there's a few bottles of some local fruit punch both he and Buck enjoy having as well as sealed packets of snacks. The servers in the mess agreed to pack some meals and leave them in the fridge if there was need for extra calories; the key is in Steve's pocket, to be returned in the morning. On the roof are two telescopes, both with instruction manuals, and a collapsible tent he's absolutely sure can be done with one arm — he spent the afternoon trying. It's a clear night so far. ]

[ He catches up with Bucky after dinner, nudges at his good shoulder with his own, before moving to Bucky's left side, to cover for him. ]

Buck. Guess what.

[lefthandfree]

[Bucky nudges back instinctively and watches his friend hover to his other side with a mild smile on his face. Steve is like a damn kid still sometimes, and he fucking loves it.]

What? Didja win the lottery? Are we movin’ to an apartment on top of the Eiffel Tower?

[Ha, wouldn’t that be great. Those aren’t wishes of Bucky’s at all. Because obviously they’re unrealistic and stupid.]

[battletested]

[ It's only around Bucky. Steve ducks his head into an unguarded smile as Bucky rattles off guesses that are deliberately so far off the mark. ]

Even better. C'mon.

[lefthandfree]

Yeah? Better than winnin’ the lottery?

[He nudges Steve gently with his left shoulder, lightly enough that it won’t be too hard because of the metal.]

Did you get us tickets to the Dodgers?

[He doesn’t know yet.]

[assembles]

[ The Wakandan compound is also, in some ways, a palace. It's a combination of cutting edge technology and a long history, full of both sleek lab spaces and halls lined with ancient artifacts. The combination should be jarring, but Wakanda's interest in both creating the future and honoring the past is something that Steve finds all too relatable.

They're advised not to leave the compound for their own safety, but it actually doesn't feel restrictive, simply because it's so huge. This place is twice the size of the Avengers facility.

There are even gardens, but they're not the kind that Steve's used to from back home. Instead they're filled with tropical plants, as if a small piece of jungle has been transplanted here for them to enjoy. As soon as they're assured that they can go explore it, Steve decides that it's time to stretch their legs.

There's a lot to think about, and walking helps him get his thoughts in order. Running is even better for that, but he doesn't think now is the right time for a jog.

As Steve and Bucky make their way under the canopy, Steve points at a multicolored bird that lands on a nearby tree branch. ]

What do you think that is?

[ Not that he would expect Bucky to know. If they were still kids, they would have come up with their own name for it. ]

[lefthandfree]

[He doesn’t like that they can’t leave. He understands the reasoning for it, but he doesn’t like it anyway. Why disguise captivity as freedom? He’s still a captive even now. Nothing will change that ever again. Too much has happened, and he was ready to let it all be taken. Instead, Steve fought, and he has his life, his choices, but the freedom is lost somewhere between the pages, and Bucky can’t get to them.

He knows Steve itches to jog, but he’d never been one to burn out the frustration through running. It was always easier for him to bide his time, settle his mind, and begin anew. Walking has always been his speed, absorbing the world as it happens rather than charging in to face it. He appreciates that Steve comes with him though, instead of pressing on at his own pace. The attention is appreciated, even if the selflessness is another thing he can never repay to Steve.

He’s in such great debt these days, even unwillingly.

The bird is gorgeous, and while familiar, something he remembers seeing in the books he used to borrow from the public library to show Steve while he was sick in bed, no name comes to mind. Bucky resorts to his usual. Even years out of practice, it comes far too easily.]

That, my dear friend, is a quarkywobbledoodler, relative of the brushawobbledonkler and resident scavenger of these jungles. It feasts on berries and grubs, and in the night, they dance above the canopy while singing serenades to find their mate.

[assembles]

[ Bucky's voice comes out dry, flat, but that only makes the ridiculous made-up words that much funnier. Steve finds himself smiling before he can really help himself, and maybe that's a good thing. He shouldn't have to feel like he can't enjoy some time with his best friend. Sure, it's complicated and there's still a whole lot that they need to talk over, but the heavy stuff needs to be taken one day at a time.

Is there anything wrong with being glad that they're finally reunited? That they're once again side-by-side, the way things should be? Steve doesn't think so.

(Of course, Steve still notices the differences. Before, he would have been able to hear the amusement in Bucky's voice, his futile attempt to not laugh his way through his silly explanation.)

As if it knows that they're talking about it, the quarkywobbledoodler in question sings at them and then flies off. Steve watches it go, then looks back to Bucky as he presses further into the jungle. ]

You know, if it weren't for the name that almost would have sounded legitimate.

[ A pause where he looks forward, picking a path for them to take. And then: ] Wobbledonkler? Really?

[lefthandfree]

[Steve’s amusement is all he aims for, and when he achieves that goal, the corner of his own mouth quirks upward. Some days, this is all he needs to get through, that honest joy that Steve has always held for his mundanely simple humor. Even with his own tone varying from that of the past, for the two of them, it has always been the sentiment that holds weight, never the delivery.

Following along with Steve’s lead easily, he shrugs his shoulder (the good one) and cocks his head to the side amusedly.]

Better than calling it Sam and cracking wise. [This time, there’s that more familiar amused lilt, even if it’s still not as strong as it used to be. A ghost of a smile even lingers on Bucky's face.]

order up for more au things

[holdplease]

[ It's been about two days since Tony more or less went off the grid. He had good reason for it, but that didn't mean certain people weren't getting suspicious. He had part of the mansion on lock down, looking into everything from tech to the best doctors in the world. He's ordered more food in the past day than he has for himself since Thor used to drop by on the regular.

It's only partly for him.

He's given over his bed to the too small kid, and FRIDAY is doing constant surveillance to make sure it's safe. Tony's kicked a lot of wasp nests in his day, but this takes the absolute cake. Someone is going to work out what went down. He's not sure if he's nervous about that or ready for the fight. People who would do this to kids---

He needs to sleep himself, but before he does, he sends out a text: ]

I need you. When can you be here?

livin the dream

[lefthandfree]

[He’s awake, as he often finds himself most nights. While he does manage to get sleep in, it usually only happens a few hours at a time, and this is one of those hours when he just can’t anymore. The buzz of his burner is a good distraction from the memories of his most recent dream replaying in his head over and over again, so it’s with a sigh of relief that he reaches for the mobile and flips it open.

Tony's never this forward; as tempting as a joke is, Bucky knows it's not the time.]

tower? upstate?
eta 11 tower, 42 upstate

[holdplease]

[ Tony scrubs a hand over his face, groaning as he waits for a reply, and hopes that for once the guy isn't actually asleep. His hours are more off than Tony's sometimes.

He'd almost be proud if he made a comment, but he's too much on high alert for it to really settle the way Barnes would want it to. ]

Upstate. Take a different route.
Can it be faster without drawing attention?

[lefthandfree]

[The reply isn’t a good sign. He takes a moment to think. Then promptly responds:]

know a copter. won’t be missed. can fly dark. should be fueled.
23. best i got.

[brokeassgoing]