bakerstreet | grand yourself a slam.

[ Strangely enough, Bucky doesn't feel that same anger. He doesn't feel scared, upset, pissed off, more than anything he feels conflicted. Confused, coupled with spaced out, distant from the situation. Some sort of PTSD-inspired coping mechanism where emotions come later and dealing with the situation using some kind of methodical calm comes fist.

And maybe, if he's honest, if he had to name a tiny spark of feeling that cropped up he might say he feels weirdly relieved. He's going to shove that down and not acknowledge it, though. He'll push right along. ]

Believe what you want.

[ He comments idly, noncommittal and lacking in enthusiasm. ]

I'm not exactly a church-goer, and I'm not saying heaven or hell comes with a short stack, but...

[ He shrugs a shoulder. A real shoulder. ]

Thanos wanted to wipe out half of the population and now we're-...

[ Here. It's basic math, pal. He's less concerned with the theology and more concerned with the blank, expressionless faces of the lifeless and unmoving bodies around them. He thinks the more pressing concern right now is why them? Why can he and Peter move, blink, talk when these people seem... Frozen. With limbs heavy and lethargic he shifts, the material of his clothing squeaking obnoxiously against the material of the booth, trying to exit it as gracefully as possible.

Name one person that can gracefully exit a diner booth, though, and Natasha Romanoff doesn't count. ]

[ Peter's mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as he looks around again when the other guy does.

Peter's never really believed in heaven and hell, either. The Ravagers had a concept of an afterlife that he didn't quite believe, either – a belief that when one dies, his body should be cremated, and his remains committed to space. They'd send out the fleet, flying their colors in the form of what Peter always called fireworks, helping to guide the fallen Ravager along his path through the stars.

Obviously, a goddamn Denny's doesn't factor anywhere in Peter's understanding of death.

His jaw shifts a little to one side as he turns his attention back to the other guy, but he's already moving to stand. Peter grunts out a frustrated sound, but he similarly shuffles out, the going slow and awkward with the way his body tries to disobey.

He doesn't stand, though, instead pausing on the edge of the seat, legs out from under the table. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, scrubbing his face with his hands like he's trying to wake up. ]

I really dunno how the hell you're being so calm about this.

[ Grumbled out, the words muffled by the press of his palms. ]

[ Bucky's not calm, at least, not by his own definition. Somewhere inside an expressionless face are a series of compartments, one of which is practically a reinforced iron stronghold where he keeps his emotions. They're the kind of thing he learned to lock up tight while his fucking brain was being fried and his memory erased; somewhere in there he's losing his shit. About Steve, mostly, about the fact that he's left his friend on the battlefield, that Steve's wondering where he is, that he's hurting; or worse, that he'd been one of the next to go and he's in a similar situation.

Although, he thinks, if anyone were gonna wind up in heaven it would be Steve. Even if it wasn't real before the goddamn universe would rewrite itself to give the man the ending he deserves.

All of that's internalized, though, with stern and unrelenting Russian practice. Instead of spouting out that quasi-psychological bullshit, he simply makes a face, lips pulling into one cheek into a sort of grimace. ]

Unhealthy coping mechanisms.

[ Is his flat and apathetic response. At least it's honest.

By the time he's on his feet he feels weary, bone-deep exhaustion. The bigger concern, however, is the way that the lights flicker above their heads the second he's upright. Eyes dart up, searching the ceiling for any kind of reason why it may have happened, then settle on Peter again. This time there's a slightly detectable hint of concern in his features, hanging around his eyes and the scrunch in his brow.

That can't be good. ]

[ That...

Actually manages to draw a surprised, huff of a laugh from Peter.

Yeah. He's definitely been there.

But he's used to wearing his emotions on his sleeve, and right now, his proverbial sleeves are covered with frustration and anger and a healthy helping of skepticism, of wariness. Whatever the hell is going on, it can't be good, but Peter's been in some tight spots before; he thinks he can manage this.

He holds onto the back of the booth seat, the edge of the table, and lurches himself to his feet. A second later, Peter's hand wraps around the grip of his blaster, as he takes a wary step forward. ]

... It's probably too much to hope that Purgatory just forgot to pay its electric bill, huh?

[ Peter's speculation earns him an amused shake of the head, but very little else. He's not exactly in a laughing mood, and he can't even really speak to the reality of the situation. He doesn't know what the lights indicate, or how they exist, or how any of this is possible at all actually let alone the logic behind it.

The good news is breaking away from the booth seems to be the key to lessening the bone-deep exhaustion he'd been harboring, and as he moves the vitality returns to his muscles little by little. He strides two tables down, skipping the empty booths, stopping before an occupied table.

A young dark-skinned girl sits across the table from a young man, teens he thinks, and they stare blankly ahead of them, eyes focused on nothing. Tentatively, he waves a hand in front of the male's face. No reaction. Bucky's lips purse unhappily. ]

This means something.

[ He mutters, but that's probably obvious isn't it? ]

[ Peter trails after the guy, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings.

... Not that this particular course of action proves to be particularly fruitful. It’s like sitting in the middle of a wax museum – that uncanny valley of realism and abnormal stillness and silence. Peter is quickly deciding that he hates this. The unease prickles up his spine, makes his jaw clench.

He tears his eyes away from their surroundings when the other man speaks, and he follows his gaze to the two— kids? At the table. Peter frowns at the two teens for a second, and while he knows he’s never seen the girl in his life, he frowns at the boy, head tilting and eyes narrowing as he focuses. ]

... I think I know him?

[ Slowly, uncertainly. At the very least, there’s a quiet, nagging sensation at the back of his head – the same feeling he gets when he can only remember a few notes from a song and nothing else, or when he’s trying to search for a word but can only remember the first letter.

Peter takes a breath to speak, but he huffs it out just as quickly, dragging a hand down his face. ]

I... don’t know his name.

[ The kid's slender frame rings familiar to him too, but not in as stark a way as it seems to do for Quill. He doesn't press, doesn't ask, because it's not the name that matters to him so much as the fact that the kid is familiar at all.

He passes beyond their table and to the next, and the next, searching faces until he finds a table that stops him short. This one he recognizes; one of the handful of people that helped him escape from Stark at Leipzig. Dark auburn hair hangs around a blank and expressionless face. ]

Her name is Wanda.

[ He mutters, though whether it's to himself or to Peter it isn't clear. She was an ally if not a friend, and to see her here like this...

It's unsettling. He turns to his reluctant partner, this stranger, and offers something of a shrug. ]

I think... I guess maybe these are others who...

[ You know. Fucking died or whatever. ]

[ Peter wanders past to another table – complete strangers to him, this time, with features that mark them as otherworldly and alien, like bright yellow skin and red eyes. He snaps his fingers in front of their faces, garnering no reaction. Not that he expected any in the first place, but still. It was nice to try.

He shoves back from the table, breathing out a sharp, annoyed huff between his teeth. ]

No one else is waking up.

[ And the unspoken question: Why us?

His gaze falls back on the other guy, eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth turning downward. ]

And who are you, anyway?

[ they never did get around to introductions. ]

[ The why us is definitely implied, and Bucky doesn't have an answer for that at all. Hell, he's not even completely confident about the assertions he's made so far, it's just something about the utter blackness outside of the windows and the emptiness he feels within them that make him draw conclusions.

He turns at the question, meets Peter's narrowed gaze and frown with something of a distant yet uncertain expression of his own. People act irrationally in high stress situations, he's half expecting to get a for all I know you did this, and... half expecting that for all he knows, Peter did this. If he can avoid them jumping into that pit, though, he'd like to. ]

Bucky. [ He mutters, skipping over last names partially because they don't really matter right now and partly because there was a period of time wherein he was painted all over the news as a terrorist. ] You?

... Bucky?

[ He repeats it back, and a flash of amusement cuts through his obvious wariness – sorry, dude, that’s. A weird nickname. (Which is rich, coming from a guy who willingly calls himself “Star-Lord.”) And it gives Peter pause for a second.

(Like. If “Chuckie” is short for “Charles,” then is “Bucky” short for “Barles”?)

A part of him thinks he might have heard that name before, too. Or maybe read it? Something from his distant childhood, flipping through pages of comics, looking at memorabilia—

But the thought scatters with a shake of his head. ]

Peter. Peter Quill. [ And either because he doesn’t remember, or because this isn’t the time for it, he forgoes his usual addition of, “Most folks call me Star-Lord.” ]

[ He seems pretty unperturbed by the amusement, apparently some of the nicknames from back in the 20s don't quite hold their value a hundred years later. It's not as weird as star-lord at least, so he gets by.

Plus it makes him seem like less of crazy eyed psycho fucking murderer. Nobody named Bucky kills anyone for the Russians. ]

Peter. [ He echoes with the faintest of nods, barely even a movement. Dryly adds: ] Can't say it's a pleasure, under the circumstances.

[ No offense. Now that they've established a baseline of an idea of what's out here, Bucky's eyes fall toward the bar above the registers, the window to the kitchen, the entire back half of the restaurant shielded from their view.

He flicks his head toward it to get Peter's input. ]

Think there's anything back there worth while?

[ Like a guidebook for the recently deceased, or pancakes. ]

Likewise.

[ And he casts the word brightly. Obviously Peter gets it, but he's falling back on his old instinct to make light of situations when they're seriously creepy and uncomfortable and borderline terrifying.

He wanders among a few more tables, and there's a part of him that's looking for someone, though he apparently can't settle on who. Someone who means a lot to him, probably. Someone he deeply cares about. His friends? His family? Anyone, really, at this point. And if he saw one familiar face, surely he could spot another?

But Bucky catches his attention again, and Peter frowns at the rear of the restaurant. ]

That does tend to be where the magic happens.

[ And even as he's saying it, he's moving in that direction. Foolhardy, maybe, but they're not getting anywhere like this.

And to his credit, despite his blasé attitude, he still has a hand resting on the grip of his blaster. ]

[ It's an instinct Bucky can actually appreciate; he certainly doesn't bring the brevity to a situation but he can partner with it. Usually he has Steve to nudge him out of solemnity with a quick little snap of a joke or phrase and he can parry it right back. Without that dynamic they'd be living in limbo with nothing but dry, flat humor and fear.

He's not so sure what magic happens in the back of a diner unless you count a chain smoking cook and floor burgers, but he'll follow along anyway. Wishes he had a gun like the one at Peter's side, but evidently it had fallen out of his hands or perhaps just wasn't attached when he was disintegrated.

He does, at least, have a metal fist, which comes in handy when the big knobless metal door doesn't want to open at Peter's initial push. He motions Peter back with a hand on his shoulder, flicks his head to indicate he ought to take a step back, and rams his goddamn fist into the thing at the rough approximation of where the bolt lock is likely to be. There's something of a crunching sound, the locking mechanism breaks but the bolt stays jammed, and one more forceful slam knocks the door wide open. ]

...Guess we could have just gone through the serving window. [ He muses aftward, glancing to enormous gap in the wall on their left. ]

[ Peter steps back as directed, expecting the guy to give a count so they could both throw their weight against it.

... Apparently not the case, and Peter watches in wide-eyed surprise as the dude punches the thing into submission.

For a few seconds, Peter just stares, mouth open and eyes owlish, and when Bucky speaks, Peter's gaze flicks over to the window in question.

Then, he shakes his head. ]

No. This way was definitely cooler.

[ Who needs practical when you can have awesome?

It does, however, mean that whatever element of surprise they might have had is firmly lost, now, which is why Peter takes point. He's the only one with a weapon on his person, after all. He creeps into the darkened kitchen, staying low on instinct.

It's dead silent in here. But then again, it's dead silent everywhere. Peter was expecting to see, like, frozen line cooks in the middle of flipping pancakes or browning hash, maybe shouting out orders or peering at slips, but... nothing.

... Weirdly, it still looks like a proper kitchen – it even seems to be stocked and equipped like one, with stoves and refrigerators and cooking utensils – but it's just empty. ]

... Man, this place creeps me the hell out.

[ Congratulations, Peter actually manages to get a huffy thing resembling a laugh out of his throat. It's quiet, incredulous, almost more of a scoff, but it's something. First time he's been called cool that he can think of, at least since his reawakening, so he guesses he'll take it.

In the meantime, he's content to fall into step behind Peter. They scope the kitchen from top to bottom, and aside from being fully stocked and disturbingly clean, there's nothing remarkable about it.

It's empty of personage. Not even frozen people standing at the grill.

Out of curiosity, Bucky cracks open one of the refrigerators. It's full of butter and bacon and premade pancake batter, but nothing of note. The second one, though, gets slammed shut just as soon as it's opened and has him curling away in disgust, one notch short of gagging. ]

Christ-

[ The carnage in that thing is practically lovecraftian, it's swarming with flies and bloated bits of carnage, every color red in a sunset painted over flesh. ]

Don't open that.

[ He listens as Bucky peeks into the fridges, creeping further into the kitchen while the other guy lags behind. Probably unwise, honestly, in case something ended up hiding in the fridge and Bucky unwittingly unleashes it, but it’s not like Peter’s getting too far away.

In fact, Peter’s still close enough that when Bucky opens the second fridge, however brief it might have been, he still gets a whiff of what might have been inside. Rancid meet and bile and blood, and maybe Bucky doesn’t gag, but Peter absolutely does, whirling around and slapping a hand over his nose and mouth. ]

What the hell was that?

[ And his voice is slightly high-pitched, tight with disgust. ]

[ He does his best not to judge Peter for his gagging, it's a perfectly valid response to the stimuli, but there's no hiding the slight amused uptick to his eyebrow. At least he doesn't say anything, so there's that. ]

Not sure.

[ Although he has a sneaking, haunting suspicion that it's fucking people somehow. He's not all that interested in opening the door to double check. In fact, he's just going to head to the sink and hope they have running water by which to wash their hands.

By some miracle it works, which is damn interesting considering they're in some kind of limbo. ]

grand yourself a slam.

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