James "Bucky" Barnes | The Winter Soldier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disassembles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2015-02-27 07:38 pm
disassembles) wrote in entrancelogs2015-02-27 07:38 pm
[OPEN] underneath this skin there's a human
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.
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.