bakerstreet | the picture prompt

the picture prompt

the picture prompt meme

I — Comment with your character.
II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...)
III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture.

IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please.
V — Be aware that this meme will likely be image-heavy. That's kind of the point.

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[I didn't manage to work in the handcuffs, but we can add them in later if you'd like!]

All Bruce had wanted to do was watch the sunset. He knew being out in a crowd of people at night wasn't exactly the best idea for someone with his... constitution, but his life in Bucharest was otherwise uneventful, and he was getting tired of just hiding out all the time. He'd left the Avengers in order to figure himself out. How could he do that without a few moments of self-reflection every now and then?

The problem was he looked too much like a wealthy, unassuming, vulnerable tourist. He'd been out for all of ten minutes before he felts his pockets being picked and saw three kids running off through the crowd. Swearing under his breath, Bruce ran after them, all too aware that there was a very small chance of actually getting his wallet back.

They led him through backalley after backalley before disappearing into a run-down old apartment building. Bruce heard their footsteps fade away, but he wasn't willing to give up just yet. A door at the end of the hall had been left open a few inches, and he could hear movement inside - so he crept towards it, hoping for their sakes that they wouldn't jump out at him with weapons of any sort. He wasn't particularly keen on turning green tonight.

When he finally pushed the door open, though, there was no sign of the kids. Instead there was a scruffy-looking man with old, ragged clothing and the most tired, worn-out expression Bruce had ever seen.

"Sorry," he blurted, backing out of the doorway immediately. "I thought - these kids stole my wallet, I thought they might have gone in here." He winced mentally at forgetting to speak in Romanian - this poor guy probably hadn't understood a word he said. "Îmi pare rău," he added, knowing his accent was too strong.

Bucharest isn't his home. It's just another temporary pit stop, the most recent safe house Bucky sets up as he hops from one country to the next; he goes through the same routine of plastering newspaper on windows out of muscle memory and putting his sleeping bag on a mattress reeking of water damage and sawdust because a real bed doesn't feel right and he refuses to admit he's more used to the cryo chamber. He gets by on decent-enough Romanian but it isn't like his Russian - he isn't fluent and he's slower, halting, aware in the back of his mind 7he could absorb it a lot faster under the right conditions. Hydra turned him into the perfect parrot between the wipes and reprogramming and he could slip in and out of countries like he was a native speaker way back when.

Those days are gone (he hopes) and it's just the run-down apartment building and the heat wave that's forced him to leave the door open a crack. Turns out that's a mistake.

Bucky jerks up from where he'd been sitting at the tablet with a scratched glass of tap water and a newspaper he'd been pouring over. He stares, haggard and still on edge, at the man framed in his door. First thing he does is immediately scan him, try to pinpoint the outline of a gun or a knife or any hint that he's what's left of SHIELD or Hydra or even the local cops. What he gets is glasses, shy nervousness that doesn't seem faked, and some Romanian that gets the point across but is even more stilted than his.

Could be he's lonely, desperate for a few snatches of conversation. Could be he wants to stall, get a feel for the man. Bucky's hand ghosts under the table, the whirring muffled by his jacket - too hot to be wearing in this weather - his fingers brushing against the Tokarev he duct-tapped to the bottom.

The old him - the one that went in and out of cryofreeze like it was a revolving door - would have just shot the stranger already. Planted a bullet right above his glasses. Maybe jumped the table with his knife to keep it quiet. He isn't proud that's still his first instinct sometimes. Trying to force it down, Bucky wets his lips and sits up, left hand still under the table, his flesh one resting on crumpled newspapers.

"It's okay," he says. The guy's either another lost tourist who got mugged - he had it coming, if he can't use some common sense - or he's a really good actor. At this point he isn't willing to take that chance. Bucky clears his throat, switching to English, "Three kids? Leader's the girl with the pigtails?" Yeah, the Professor here isn't getting his wallet back. They tried the same thing on him when he just moved in. Bucky catches himself almost smiling at the idea of another "gullible tourist" notch in the ringleader's belt.

Relief washes over Bruce's face when he hears the man speak in what seems to be near-perfect English, though it's a little accented. He lets out a weak chuckle and hangs his head, nodding. "Yeah, that's them." If they're well-known, they must be good at what they do. He gives up on any hope of getting his wallet back. It's not a huge deal - just some cash and temporary ID, nothing he can't replace - but it's another blow to his ego. He should know better by now then to fall prey to local pickpockets.

Reaching up to scratch at his neck, he steps back a little, feeling awkward. "Sorry to bother you," he says, glancing back at out the hallway. He should leave. Yet something about this man draws his attention back, makes him take notice of the fact that he's got one arm under the table. A creeping sense of dread replaces his relief, and he realizes quite suddenly that he might have encountered someone far worse than a child thief.

His eyes track around the room, taking in its shabbiness, and his brow creases in concern. His own living arrangements aren't exactly enviable, but they're a far sight better than this - Bruce can practically smell the mildew growing in that mattress. His gaze returns to the man at the table, and he sees the jacket, something far too warm to be wearing in this heat. It reminds him of the way homeless people wear all of theur clothes at once for fear of losing them.

Bruce isn't exactly sure what makes him do it. Maybe he senses a connection, the sort that weary travelers share without even needing to speak. Maybe he's just being an idiot. Whatever the reason, he doesn't leave just yet. Instead, he steps forward a tiny bit and asks softly, "Are you - um. Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

He can tell the American's looking around going wow, this is a shit hole, not so much out loud but it's written all over his face, how his eyes linger around the apartment, the newspapers in the windows, the stained, yellowed mattress. It's written all over his face. Good.

The question catches Bucky by surprise. Most people don't look twice at him since he keeps a low profile, makes sure his arm is muffled and covered at all times and his head down. As far as everyone in his neighborhood is concerned, he's just another guy scrapping by. Anyone else would've just done the smart thing and closed the door and forgot about him.

Apparently not this guy.

Bucky stares for a beat too long, the surprise showing on his face before he can school it into something more neutral. "What makes you think I'm not okay?" And what's he offering? Bucky's suspicious again and he doesn't try to hide it, doesn't try to be polite like he would've a lifetime ago, "What's in it for you?"

He's blunt to cover his growing curiosity, despite his better judgment. Maybe he's been on the run by himself too long, maybe he's just lonely and it doesn't help that he started remembering the Howling Commandos, what it felt like to have a team, have a Steve he won't have to worry about someone sitting on because he's that tiny. Scraps of that invading his dreams and Bucky's past week has felt more isolated than usual. Suddenly it bugs it. Suddenly he's looking up at the tourist and he isn't minding that he's actually having a conversation today. His grip on his gun doesn't relax but it doesn't tighten, either.

"You got a name?" It's the first time he's asked someone who they were in at least a year. All it took was some random tourist, squinting behind his glasses, hair in need of a good cut, to do it.

Now that Bruce has become more aware of his surroundings, he's picking up on this man's mannerisms more quickly. Everything about him speaks of some strange, unknown danger: his none-too-happy expression, the way he just sits there without moving, the rough quality to his voice that seems to say he hasn't spoken much recently. He's definitely someone Bruce should be running away from, but.

But.

Bruce knows what it's like to be alone. To not speak to anyone for days, even weeks, at a time. To put on that mask of ferocity in order to keep himself alive. He's been on the run enough times to recognize the lost look on this man's face, and - while he knows their experiences probably aren't similar in the least - that recognition makes him want to stay. To help.

The sudden array of questions catches Bruce off guard, and he has to pause for a second to gather his thoughts before he can reply. He wasn't expecting any real response from the guy, so he's not at all prepared for the sudden inquisition. "Um." What an intelligent way to start.

Clearing his throat, he tries again: "I just - wanted to make sure. I know life can be rough out here." He gestures vaguely to the shabby room they're in, not wanting to be an asshole about it but knowing the guy must understand what he's getting at. "I don't want anything, I just - want to make sure you're okay. I'm a doctor," he adds, as if that'll somehow help. He realizes it makes him sound kind of suspicious, though. Then again, to a guy like this, everything probably seems suspicious.

"I'm Bruce," he finishes, attempting a smile. For a moment he's not sure if it's worth asking for, but courtesy is hard to shake. "What about you? What can I call you?"

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the picture prompt

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