Stray

[sneaks]

S T R A Y Taking in strays is, all in all, an understandable vice. The dips in between their ribs, those large and forlorn eyes, they can help you forget the claws and the teeth and the danger lurking beneath fur. But the habit's a knife edge; your efforts may not be rewarded with kindness (animal instincts aren't discretionary) and you may get bit despite what you've overlooked. A stray doesn't care about pity. All it can know is survival. These warnings apply to strays of the more human(oid) sort, too. But what may even more perilous with this type than any drawn blood is what you can get when they grow to trust you. You can earn their undying loyalty...or their love. Either from such a wild thing is a precarious path to go down, if you allow yourself to do it. Comment with your character, preferences, desired roles, etc. Reply to others. Thread! ＰＲＯＭＰＴＳ ғɪɴᴅɪɴɢ — Who's that? They're no ordinary passersby! Were they in an accident? Are they foreign? ...should you approach them? ʀᴀɪɴ, ʀᴀɪɴ, ɢᴏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ — The elements make this night no time to sleep out of doors. ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ — Cuts, broken bones, injuries all of sorts...you have to stitch them back up, then make sure they don't get any ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — It's all you can do to show gratitude to the person who took you in. Fix them a meal, care for their house, whatever you can do once you're able. ʙᴀᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — FUCK THIS PERSON AND FUCK THEIR COUCH. You didn't ask to be brought here. Let them clean up after you, you don't even care. ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ? — How you got into this situation is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is your identity, and why the person you were would be so displaced. sᴇʟғʟᴇssɴᴇss — ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ — If you've been injured badly enough or can't remember all too well, you might have to relearn a good deal. Luckily, you have a helping hand. sᴄᴀʀs — Scars from the encounter that lead you here or scars from prior, you don't want them to see either. You still have your secrets to keep. sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ — Ugh, your house guest is so stubborn! They always get up when they should be resting, have the worst habits, and completely disrespect your home! You'll get to them, one way or another. Or you'll throw them out. You don't want to, but you will. ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ — Bad memories or nightmares wreck you; your host and nurse comes to your side unexpectedly. ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄʟᴀsʜ — The person who's taken you in is from a different culture or lifestyle than you, and adapting is harder than you thought. ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ — Think learning about a new culture is hard? Try being a different species. Can you keep your little eccentricities at bay for the good of your station? ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ — Now that your emotions towards your caretaker/host/jailer are softening, you're finding yourself unusually jealous of those in their life who were close to them before. ɴᴇᴡ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs — You never thought you'd have fun after all that's happened, yet such simple gestures as a picnic or a movie make all the difference. ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ — You love them, this person who's taken you in or this person you've found. It's not a pity or a thankfulness, it's love, and you know that now. What you choose to do with this information is ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ — Suddenly, the person who's been so nice to you finds out that the two of you have a history. You killed their loved ones or caused something terrible. How can they forgive you? ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ — So much has been done for you. The least you can do in return for the one who helped you at your lowest is make sure they never have such a low point. ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ — Anyone in the way of getting to you will be destroyed, and that includes the person you're staying with. ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — You've been given a home, maybe which you've never had before. You don't want to leave. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ — Not only are you living with them, but you're starting a proper life with them. ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ — All secrets are laid out on the table. You've decided to tell about your past and what lead you here. ʀᴇᴠᴜʟsɪᴏɴ — What you've done and who you are is so heinous, they want nothing more to do. You're to leave their home and leave them alone. ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ — It doesn't matter what they've done. You've opened your home and your heart to them, and nothing's changed. ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ — All things must come to an end. No matter what you feel for each other, it's time to leave. Hopefully, you'll see each other again. ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ — Come what may, you've decided to stay at your new home with the person you love. Now, it's safe enough to do so. ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

Comments

[zimasoldier]

He remembered that attitude. In flashes of distant memories. And that same attitude was what had him concerned right now. "Steph, you can't just barrel in and take this problem head on." He insisted, but followed her inside anyway. His shoulders were hunched, his hands in his hoodie pockets, almost trying to make himself look smaller. Not the imposing force the Winter Soldier was any time he entered a room.

Bucky looked around the modest apartment, straying to look at her reading collection. He'd read the Lord of the Rings when it originally came out, but some of the other works she had weren't entirely up his alley. Still, he might look into them anyway, just because. However, it was the sketch pad that caught his attention more than anything. Sorry, Steph, he was prying. Images hit him in the form of memories like punches to the face. He recalled some of her older sketches. Before the fall.

The Soldier picked up the sketch book and followed her into the kitchen, touching the lines of the mask with his concealed metal finger. "You still draw." He leaned against a wall across from her, giving her plenty of space, but in view so she knew he was there.

[dysmorphics]

She ignored his protest about getting involved in his business. If he remembered enough of their life together, he'd know it was par for the course with her. He had, after all, left Brooklyn thinking she'd be safe and far away from the war — only for her to turn up in that HYDRA factory in Austria. She did it for him, she'd said. She wanted to bring him home and took the opportunity she'd been offered to try to make it happen.

Thankfully she had the ingredients for meatloaf; she figured he might like a taste of the familiar, and she still followed her Ma's recipe despite the more modern variations that were available. She was getting that ready, along with a side of mashed potatoes, when he came into the kitchen with her sketchpad. Had it been anyone else, she would've taken offense at the prying. But he'd always been a supporter of her art, even during the days when her vision oddly skewed green thanks to a form of colorblindness.

"Yeah, when I can't sleep." Which was every night, and not for lack of trying. Nightmares lurked in the dark, as well as awful memories of trains, and mountains of snow and ice, and the Winter Soldier's face, impassive and devoid of recognition. She shook her head a little. "It helps me hold on to the good things." She'd drawn all of the Howling Commandos, and Peggy and Howard and Colonel Phillips, and even the dancers of the Lady Liberty tours.

And Bucky, always Bucky, in almost every other page.

"I also sell art online sometimes," she said as she mixed the ingredients. "Portraits of people and their pets, mostly."

[zimasoldier]

He remembered and it hadn't been unexpected. It made him huff. She was always stubborn and just as much so when it came to him. He could remember that. He could also remember protecting her from her own stubbornness when she picked fights with guys bigger than her because they were harassing helpless kids. Even though she was a helpless kid herself.

"The good things." He parroted and flicked through a couple pages. His face was there frequently. She drew him so much... "I know some of these faces too." He admitted. The memories were vague and hard to hold onto, but looking at the drawings made them a bit more tangible.

"Online?" He hadn't gotten that far yet, Steph. "I always knew you could do great with your art." Buck said with a fond smile that fell away quickly, because those words came out like they were natural to him and he didn't even know where they came from. Bits and pieces of Bucky Barnes were slipping through the cracks of the broken sieve. Parts of him that wanted to remember and parts of him that were afraid to remember because every time he did, they'd force his head back into that machine.

"I can't go back." He said suddenly, looking up from her sketch book, having paused on a sketch of himself from before he'd become the Asset.

[dysmorphics]

"Yeah. We fought with them for a few years." Not even two years, really, but it had felt longer. War had that effect. In a way, it had been a relief when she'd been forced to crash the plane, thinking that she was finally going to get to rest. That she was finally going to join him. "I can tell you about them, if you want."

In his silence, she busied herself with the rest of preparations. She didn't want to overwhelm him or scare him off now that he'd finally shown himself. Not that she expected him to stay. That would be some kind of miracle, and she didn't believe in miracles anymore.

She was surprised by his sudden declaration. She slid the meatloaf into the oven, then turned to face him. "I won't let HYDRA take you," she promised with that trademark stubbornness. "Or anyone else who wants to." Nat had released those files when she'd confronted Pierce, which meant the government was after Bucky now too, but for all that Steph was Captain America, she was ready to throw that away to protect her best friend. The past several decades hadn't been his fault. If anything, it had been hers.

[zimasoldier]

"Are they... like us?" He asked, trying so hard to remember more than just the faces. Brief voices, but the memories were obscured by gunshots and HYDRA agents and it made his head hurt.

When he came back to himself, she was more or less done with her prep and the meatloaf was in the oven. "You can't promise that." He said softly. He knew she would try and he knew she would likely die trying if it came to it, but he didn't want that. A part of him that was resurfacing would rather turn himself over, even knowing what would happen to him, than let them hurt her.

"More than just my Handlers?" He asked curiously.

[dysmorphics]

"Supersoldiers? Nah." She approached, though kept enough distance still when she held out her hand to ask for the sketchpad, after which she flipped through the pages to show him. With every face she told him something about them, but not the kind of information that the museum offered, no; instead it was about a shared experience from the war. Drunk Dum Dum offering to pose for her sketches. Jones rolling down a hill and straight into a river. Morita and Dernier teaching her all the Japanese and French swears. Those kinds of stories.

Reminiscing made her chest feel tight, however, so she put the sketchpad aside after a moment to focus on their other conversation. "I know," she conceded, more hurt than he realized — she'd promised to bring him home and she'd failed, hadn't she? — but she did her best to appear unbothered. She wasn't going to cry, not now, not in front of him. "But I can promise to try." And die trying, if it came to that.

"You're wanted by the U.S. government, among others." And here she was, Captain America, aiding and abetting a criminal.

[zimasoldier]

Each story felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. A strange sensation. The nostalgia was heavy by the end and he swore he felt more human by the time she put the sketch book aside.

"I'm wanted by multiple governments and my Handlers? Then it's too dangerous for you if I stay here. That... part of me that's remembering is telling me to protect you at all costs. You're the most important thing in my life. Your safety is my new Mission. If my being here will bring that many people to your door, you're in danger." As he spoke, he was already looking around and collecting his few sparse things that he'd shed on his way in.

[dysmorphics]

She wanted to reach out and grab him, but she managed to stop herself before she could do it and potentially trigger some other kind of reaction instead. She was grateful for his concern, really, but: "It's a little too late for that, don't you think? The world knows who you are now. Who you were, to me. I'd have been in danger whether or not you were here." At least, this time, she was no longer a frail little girl and she could actually defend herself.

When he still tried to leave, she grabbed him by the bicep of his flesh arm. "Buck." She tried to look into his eyes and stare him down, though her voice was soft and earnest and nonthreatening when she continued, "I'm safer with you. Remember, during the war? We fought them, together. You always had my back." Up until the very end, when he got shot out of a train car.

"Stay, please? We'll protect each other, keep each other safe."

[zimasoldier]

It was a good thing she didn't grab him on her first instinct. He was too deep in his own thoughts, the remnants of his programming would have acted on that as a threat and likely fought her without thinking. But when she spoke, trying to persuade him and disarm him, it helped take him out of high alert. So when she did finally grab his arm, all he did was tense up and freeze in place.

"I..." Surprisingly, he didn't tug away from her. "I can't keep you safe. My Handlers, if they catch up, they can turn me against you again. I'm a weapon. I'm not worth all this." He let her make direct eye contact. Blue eyes full of emotion foreign to him. And the words just spilled out like he was possessed. "I'm with you to the end of the line, pal." He broke eye contact and relaxed in her hold. "Fine... But you have to promise me, you won't let them get me again. Even if you have to put a bullet between my eyes, Steph. I can't... become their weapon again. Please."

[dysmorphics]

"No, you are," she protested, though she didn't interrupt him further when he continued on. Of course he was worth it. She'd gone to hell and back for him the first time, in that HYDRA factory in Austria, and she would do it again, and again.

At his request, she couldn't help cupping the side of his face with her other hand, even at the risk of him fighting the contact since it was a whole lot more intimate than just having a hand around his arm. But she held her ground. "I promise," she swore, though deep down she promised herself, too, that she wouldn't let it come to that. She'd already lost him once; she wasn't going to lose him again.

"But you also have to promise me," she added, her voice suddenly very quiet. She waited until he made eye contact with her again before continuing, "That you would do the same, if that was the only option we had left." Even if a bullet between his eyes would be an act of mercy, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. She wouldn't be able to live without him, not again.

[zimasoldier]

Surprisingly, he didn't resist the hand on his cheek. Instead, he leaned into it. He kept her eyes as she spoke and made her pact with him. He nodded lightly, almost imperceptibly, then closed his eyes as he leaned into her touch. He nudged his forehead closer to rest against hers. The contact was so intimate, but it felt so right for some reason and he didn't even know why.

"I can't lose you again. And I don't want to hurt anyone else. If you were in this position, I'd grant you that mercy."

[dysmorphics]

She closed her eyes, too, not moving or saying anything for a moment lest he pull away. Maybe it was true what they said, about muscle memory, about the body remembering things even when the mind couldn't, because they'd had this closeness a long time ago. Only back then she was usually the one who needed the comfort, like when her mother had died, or after the first time she'd killed someone. She'd never liked showing weakness, never liked him seeing her cry, but in both instances she had, and he'd held her like this, without judgment, just being her anchor and her strength.

"And I can't lose you again. Would you grant me that mercy?" Maybe it was selfish, when she'd been granted the ability and means to change and protect the world, but hadn't she already given enough? She'd been fighting since she was born, since she was reborn, and she wasn't keen on continuing the fight in a world without him. That had been why she'd let go of the shield, when they'd fought on that helicarrier; why she'd crashed the plane, after she'd thought him dead.

"To the end of the line. That's what we promised." And she didn't want to be left behind the line again. If she would have to pull the trigger on him, he better be ready to do it for her, too.