[OPEN] underneath this skin there's a human

[disassembles]

Who: Bucky Barnes and YOU
Where: The training room, then coffee shop.
When: Feb 28th - Mar 1st
Rating: PG-13? PTSD/hypervigilance references, etc.
Summary: Bucky is having trouble sleeping, so he finds a little distraction and loses track of time. A day in the life of your average ex-hydra murder hipster.
The Story:

Training Room

It's edging close to midnight when James heads down to the training rooms. He has a regular routine, but this isn't a part of it. As more of his memories come back, he's been dreaming more, and he finds that tiring himself out is usually the only way to get some sleep.

The problem being, of course, that he doesn't tire easily.

The room is empty when he arrives, and he wastes no time clearing space for himself and plugging his phone into the sound system. If anyone else shows up, he can deal with it then. For the moment, music fills the room.

He walks to the front of the mats and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. As the music swells, he flows into retzev, a continuous fight with an imagined opponent. It takes him across the entire space of the training room, every movement an attack, targeted and controlled. Even as his speed increases, there's a deadly kind of grace in every movement. With the music to accompany him, it's almost like dancing.

By morning, he's tossed his shirt aside and pulled his hair up into a bun to keep it from clinging to the sweat on his neck and face. His movement is more acrobatic now, though no less controlled, punctuated by an easy flip and roll, or the silver slash of a knife from one of the sheaths strapped to his thighs. He's out of breath and the dark circles under his eyes could be bruised there, but from the look on his face, he's content.

Coffee Shop

By early afternoon, he's tired enough. He showers and changes into a shirt that's a little tight for him -- probably one of Steve's. He thinks he can make it back to his room, but he's sorely mistaken when the smell of food from inside the coffee shop hits him. Hunger seems to re-assert itself instantly in the form of his stomach trying to eat itself and/or convince him to gnaw off his remaining arm.

He ends up ordering as much food as they'll let him take. Darcy wouldn't appreciate him spooking her employees, so he tries to be charming about it. He smiles, he tells them that he's waiting on some friends. He doesn't touch any of the weapons he's concealed, not even once, not even for the voice at the back of his mind that's just a hair from panic. He shouldn't have allowed himself to deplete his resources like this, and he shouldn't let anyone stand in the way of proper asset maintenance, he should be more weary of the patrons, and on and on. He appreciates that he's too tired and hungry to care.

He piles everything up in an empty little booth. The moment he's got his back to a wall, he leans slowly, heavily against the side of the couch. His metal arm looks to be the only thing keeping his head propped up while he stares at a cheese danish, almost hopelessly, like it's not worth the energy it will take to get it all the way to his mouth.

Comments

Training room morning of the 1st

[heirtotheshield]

It's dawn when James comes into the training room. It's been a while since he was allowed to work with things, because of his broken arm, but he's finally allowed back. He's surprised to hear music coming from the training room, and opens the door carefully.

He's glad he was cautious.

He doesn't know what happened to Bucky, but he's been warned to be careful around the man, and careful he will be. So, instead of heading straight for the heavy bag, he waits until Bucky acknowledges his presence. He settles the shield against the wall and watches the man move, appreciating the fluidity of the movements.

"Good morning." He says softly.

[disassembles]

He doesn't pause for so much as a half-second. He knows that Steve has explained as much as he can, in his absence, but he doesn't expect that anyone will treat him the same way. If James wants to slip out seemingly unnoticed, the option is there.

When the kid speaks, he finishes his last movement and stills, catching his breath. He returns the greeting with a nod.

"I'm guessing you didn't come in to help hold up the walls," He says. He inclines his head, indicating the rest of the training room. "Help yourself. I'll stay out of the way."

[heirtotheshield]

He's not sure what to do about whatever they're supposed to do around Bucky. He just isn't used to people with mental injuries - or physical ones, if he's honest. The metal arm fascinates him and he wants to ask, but decides that would be impolite.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, sir. I just wasn't sure if I'd startle you or not." James is an honest kid. He can't help it. It's something genetic from his father.

So, James walks over to the heavy bag and starts working on it. He winces when his left arm hits the bag and shakes it out, before starting again.

[disassembles]

He almost rolls his eyes. James wasn't exactly being subtle, and the soldier isn't easily caught off guard, but he knows that what James says isn't exactly what he means.

It's not unreasonable to think he might trigger the wrong reaction. It's just that the soldier has had his fill of people behaving like he's made of glass, and will shatter at the slightest provocation. He makes himself take a deep breath, and he goes back to his routine without responding.

He notices the flinch from James a few moments later. As strange as it is, the kid has Steve's eyes, and apparently some of his other, less-endearing features, too.

"What did you do to your arm?"

Training room sometime in the middle of the knight

[voiceinthedark]

Sam has nightmares. They're not as bad as they had been towards the start of the apocalypse, when nearly everyone had been waking up at some point. But he's got a whole new slew of them from the last few months.

Five, blank eyed and hollow, but their face twists into a horrific grin as the axe comes down on Sam again and again.

He's already sweaty after that, and he's not going to get back to sleep easily, so he might as well do something useful. He heads down to the training room to practice some moves that Natasha had taught him, maybe some shooting. Anything to make him feel safe.

He steps inside, not realising there's someone there already.

[disassembles]

He hasn't been at it long. The dream he came here to find some peace from still lingers, heavy and thick as smoke. He makes himself visualize an opponent; nameless, faceless. They all are, to him. They've been long wiped from his memory, or forgotten in a more mundane fashion. They were targets, they were eliminated. He was put back to sleep.

He goes through a series of strike patterns, meant to calm his mind more than anything in particular. He reaches the neck, the face -- his movement falters.

It's only a split second before a knife sits perfectly in his grip. The throw is quick, precise. It hits its mark exactly two inches from the intruder's head.

"Sorry," He says, not sounding particularly apologetic. It's then that he gets a good look at the person he nearly hit. "Sam?"

[voiceinthedark]

Sam has been through a lot of things. Knives thrown at his head have not been one of them. He gasps in surprise, and maybe shrieks a little, and stares at the knife embedded in the wall. Close, too close. That could have killed him, a few inches to one side. He hates that he's so familiar with the feeling of impending death.

He turns around to face the man, because he recognises the voice, and the face, sort of, but that look is as different and jarring as Five had been under mind control. It's all wrong.

"Bucky?" he says, still wary because throwing a knife at someone is not exactly a friendly gesture. "Yeah. It's me."

[disassembles]

"Sorry," He repeats, and this time it's genuine, the irritation in his expression fading into something more neutral. The knife didn't hit Sam because it was never intended to, but it had been meant to drive away any curious passer-by. He doesn't think he would have been sorry if it had worked, and he doesn't know how he should feel about that.

He's underestimated how on-edge he would be from the dream. He has to remind himself that the room isn't his.

He walks toward Sam, slow and tense as any predator, though he isn't conscious of it this time. He reaches for the knife to yank it out of the wall. It spins once in his hand, and he slides it back into the sheath it belongs to.

"The room is yours, if you want it. I'll find somewhere else." He pauses, frowns a little. "Why are you here so late?"

Coffee Shop

[oversight]

Blake hadn't stopped by to see Bucky in the training room, but by the time he goes by the coffee shop in the afternoon, he has no trouble recognizing the sight of a man short of sleep. He's seen that look before on himself and plenty of other people since coming to Wonderland, and it's not hard to guess why. There's little else to do in Wonderland than worry, it seems.

Taking it upon himself to resurrect a relationship, he steps up to Barnes' booth and gestures to the seat across from him.

"Mind if I join you?" From what he can tell, asking's better in this case than assuming it's better to just sit down and engage the guy. "Feelin' like I could use the comp'ny," he adds, hoping that will keep the other man from immediately turning him down.

Blake's just recently returned to Wonderland, and after months, he's trying to get back out there and reconnect with people. It's been going slowly, but well enough, all things considered.

[disassembles]

He knows the moment someone is near the table. That doesn't stop him from being surprised at exactly who that someone turns out to be. He sits up a little straighter, looking Blake over like he isn't entirely certain that he's real.

"I thought you were home for good," He says, before he can catch himself. He could have a little more tact about it, but he's still getting the hang of social interaction all over again. Still, he nods at the chair across from him without hesitation, inviting Blake to sit down. "What happened to you?"

[oversight]

If Blake thinks the questions are tactless, he makes no indication of that fact. He slides into the seat, back straight but posture otherwise casual. He recalls Steve's post to the network and since then he's been too scarce to catch up with Bucky. Seems now's the time.

"Not much, if you can believe that." He doesn't see any point in lying, though when asked, he has remained somewhat vague about the everyday details of his time back in Gotham. Compared to most that do go home, it seems like a relatively short amount of time.

"Comin' back was a hell of a thing. Guess I didn't miss much, but it was a bit jarrin' thinkin' I coulda come back years later, instead of weeks." Immediate candor. He can't even bring himself to be any other way after the friendship they forged in Storybrooke.

He gestures to Bucky. "Look at this. Bet you've got people screamin' over that hair. What's goin' on with you? Trouble sleepin', right?"

[disassembles]

He nods in agreement. It could have definitely been strange, but it isn't much of an answer to the question he asked. He almost presses for it right there, but he realizes he should wait a little, and see how much of his company Blake is really willing to keep. Despite Steve's certainty about how everyone will - or should - treat him, he doesn't have it in him to hold it against them if they'd rather stay away. He knows that it isn't necessarily logical, but every interaction with someone he knew before feels like a test in some way or another.

The comment about his hair gets a short, sharp laugh out of him. He hasn't exactly kept himself up, it's true, and he'll take Blake's candor over the sympathetic looks any day. It gets a little trying to be handled with kid gloves, and not just because he's always expecting the opposite.

He makes himself tear a bite out of the nearest pastry overflowing from his tray. Partly because he's starving, and partly because he's stalling.

"Yeah," He replies, after a moment. "Started dreaming more lately, and I can't seem to turn it back off. Got any suggestions?"

Training, early morning

[sidecars]

When he enters one of the sparring rooms, the sudden swell of music isn't at all what he expects. It's grandiose with the full orchestra, but as he keeps walking forward Bucky can appreciate the effect. It's calming and without the distraction of words it helps to narrow your focus. Who would have thought? Glenn Miller would have been his choice. Puts a real spring in your kicks!

"Heya, pal," he calls out to his other self with a big grin. It's obvious just by looking at Bucky that he knew Frosty would be here, that he deliberately came to find him when he was training. He's decked out in his uniform except for the mask, knives hidden everywhere. "Nice to see you've got some moves. Care to swing?"

[disassembles]

He finishes what he's doing, coming to a stop. One glance at Bucky is more than enough to read his intent. There's something to be said about knowing yourself, he supposes. While they aren't the same person - in some ways, far from it - they both know that a smile is the best place to conceal a knife.

There's something about seeing Bucky that still seems to hit a nerve, but after seeing those memories, he knows that it's got less to do with Bucky than it does with him.

He doesn't say anything. He just beacons the other soldier to fight.

[sidecars]

Perfect. Bucky saunters right on up, hesitating only briefly when comes to the mats. Etiquette would tell him to take off his boots, but reality is telling him not to be an idiot. A very large and stubborn part of him wants to take them off, to play by the rules. The other part reminds him that rules are broken all the time in war and the very nature of Frosty's strength goes against the natural law. Plus a broken foot just isn't how he wants to end this. Death fine, hospital, sure, but one wrong kick to his sides will lead to immediate loss.

Fuck it. He's keeping them on. He saunters onto the mats like he owns them, smile never wavering. He's posture is completely open and unguarded with ever step, although he comes no closer to Frosty than a meter. But it's only a trick, one that Frosty unfortunately knows. Defenseless and unassuming is how he lures opponents in to make the first move. Then he annihilates, but it's not going to work on this man. Still, old habits die hard when you aren't one for frontal assaults like Cap. His fighting is done in the shadows, behind people's backs. An open assault like this is not his forte, but he still enjoys the challenge.

There's no knife in his hands when he closes them loosely, but there will be soon. He simply comes in slowly, one foot in front of the other. Bucky does his best not to telegraph his moves, too keep everything quick and efficient. So when he jumps, it's intended to be sudden and startling as he tries to land a kick to Frosty's head. It's not going to work, but that's not the goal. He's got to think five steps ahead if he wants to control this fight.

[disassembles]

It's all about the little choices that Bucky makes. Though his clothing looks thin and far too bright for a battle field, it must be lightweight armor at the least, for him to have worn it to a fight. He keeps his boots, even on the training mats, which is a better choice than he might know. There's almost as much metal under James' skin as there is outside of it, support structures and feedback relays for his arm fused right into his bones.

Even largely under-dressed, he's at an advantage. A dangerous thing to think, he reminds himself, when Bucky will be expecting him to underestimate his opponent.

The Winter Soldier did not become what he was by underestimating anyone.

He shifts his stance, prowling in counterpoint to Bucky. He makes no effort to play at openness or hide behind a smile. He may have changed uses, hands, and intentions over the years but he was, and has always been, the honed edge of a knife.

The jump is fast, impressive actually. It would have taken any normal human by surprise. But like everything else about Bucky, it's something flashy to hide his intentions behind. Instead of stepping to the side, the soldier raises his metal arm and moves forward into Bucky's momentum. It will put his head just out of range of the kick, and clothesline Bucky if his contingency isn't good enough. All the soldier needs is a good grip on him, and he'll drag him right down to the mats.

Coffee Shop!

[sorryitasedyou]

She’d told everyone to give her a heads up if anything ran out ahead of schedule or something kinda weird happened. And a dude ordering a bunch of food and a metal arm apparently warranted a heads up on both accounts. By the description, she knows exactly who it is, making her way quickly down to see him and make sure he’s okay.

When she pops her head in, she lets out a small sigh at the sight. Stopping off at the counter, she greets a few people more for the sound of her voice echoing in the coffee shop than anything - a heads up that she’s here before she actually makes her way over to him. The last thing she wants to do right now is startle him, warnings ever present in her mind even if she doesn’t really pay too much attention to them.

“Hey... “ He looks exhausted, something that has her sliding into the other side of the booth with a concerned look. “Y’know osmosis for all it’s cool properties doesn’t really work well with people and food.”

Hi, Bucky.

[disassembles]

He hears her, but he doesn't give any indication of it. He doesn't think she'll particularly mind that he's taken half her inventory. He can try to make it up to her later, when he's not on the verge of passing out in one of her obscenely comfortable chairs.

He finally looks up when she slides into the booth across from him, though his knuckles are still digging into his cheek to keep him upright. There's that look. It's the same one Steve gets when he's said or done something stupid enough to be noticed. Luckily, he's gotten better at handling it these past few months.

"How do you know it's not my superpower?"

[sorryitasedyou]

Amazing how looks could be so similar between people... Considering she's gotten the same look she's giving him quite frequently while in Wonderland. Especially when she started talking about things like fire.

She braces her feet against his seat to make herself a little more comfortable as she gives him a little lift of her eyebrows. "Oh really? That's a pretty spiffy new superpower... Although I don't think it's working on that cheese danish. Y'know there's somethin' to be said for doing things the old fashioned way."

She knows that feeling though, the exhaustion - an distant memory coming back to her and spurring her next question. "How 'bout some hot chocolate?"

training room; morning

[beatupgrass]

Rocket is a diurnal creature, despite his species being primarily nocturnal. Of course, he doesn't really sleep much, given that he doesn't necessarily have to. One of the benefits of being wired up, though that doesn't change the fact that when he does sleep, he dreams badly. Tonight was no different.

He paces the halls until he notices the music coming from the training room and peeks in for a second, observing the movements. Watching from the door feels strangely voyeuristic in a way he can't place, so he ducks out, and returns about thirty minutes later with a bottle of vodka obtained from the closets.

"What the hell was that music?" He walks in, uninvited, using both hands to carry the bottle in clutched to his chest. "I thought Quill's taste was weird."

[disassembles]

He notices the moment the door opens, though he doesn't give any indication of it. His mind is clear, nothing but patterns of breath and movement. He's tiring, anyway, and he plans to make an exit soon enough.

By the time the door opens again, he's seated on one of the mats. He should be busy stretching, but instead he's digging the heel of his palm against the joint of his left shoulder, trying to ease some of the tension that way first. He looks up sharply when he hears Rocket's voice. His gaze passes over the bottle, noting any other weapons before he actually comes to focus on Rocket himself.

"Tchaikovsky. It's the score of a ballet." His expression clears, bemused now. He gestures, short and sharp, at the bottle of vodka clutched in Rocket's hands. "What's this for?"

[beatupgrass]

Rocket just has the gun he was using on the roof strapped to his back, as always, and it seems to just be a natural part of him to the point where he doesn't even seem to notice (or care) that walking around with a large weapon strapped to your back might bother some people.

He screws up his face and shakes his head, deigning not to comment on the ballet part. Whatever's good for the assassin is revolting to the bounty hunter, but he has a better sense of camaraderie with Barnes that steadies his tongue for once. There's friendships where you can cajole each other for your tastes and then there's this where you don't make snide comments about what may well be a coping mechanism.

"You told me to bring vodka next time, so I did." He shrugs, depositing it in front of Barnes without any ceremony. "What? You thought I wouldn't remember?"

training room... whenever

[hyperkinesia]

The area is visited enough times that hearing people come in and out hardly bothers Bruce. He doesn't keep to a schedule himself, and though he often likes to train either early in the morning or later in the day, just before dinner, he can be found in the training room at other times too. Right now he's not practicing, but instead sitting on the floor, legs crossed and arms relaxed, his hands resting on his knees, thoughtlessly timing his breaths as he meditates.

He registers someone coming in faintly, but he doesn't react right away. After a few seconds he does open his eyes, if only to see who it is, and this time, at least, he manages not to instinctively tense up when he sees Bucky. It's been a while since he got back, after all, Bruce is sure that he must be a little more at ease now, and not posing so much as a danger to him. "Hi."

[disassembles]

It's much later in the day when James returns to the training room, having eaten and slept a few hours. There were still dreams, but the exhaustion was enough to keep him in bed this time, so he supposes that it's something. Maybe eventually he'll get up looking better, rather than worse.

He expects there to be someone in the training room, maybe even someone he knows, but he fully plans to make this a quick visit. When he crosses the threshold and spots Bruce, who doesn't respond, he thinks he might even be in and out quickly enough that Bruce will keep pretending not to notice. It doesn't exactly go that way.

"Hey," He pushes his hands a little deeper into the pockets of his coat. There's nothing in them, but it keeps them still. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just came by to grab something I forgot."

He turns his shoulder a little to indicate the shirt still piled on a bench.

[hyperkinesia]

Bruce looks anything but disturbed, and though his attention turns back to Bucky, he keeps himself relaxed and seated, an extension of his meditative state. "It's fine. I could probably use a break anyway," though he can tell Bucky was hoping to come and leave without him noticing, or at the very least not acknowledging his presence.

Still, he's been meaning to catch up, try and see how Bucky's doing. Maybe he won't manage much of a conversation out of him, but he's going to try to get something anyway.

"How are you doing?"