( he's a cacophony of tension as she takes him in, his sinews a set of vibrating strings, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
but then it doesn't come, and doesn't come. instead, it's karen's fingers against his right shoulder. she feels bucky tense beneath her touch, a stiffening of all his joints and levers, but once he realises that she's not reaching for the metal arm or gravitating towards it like the anomaly it is, he seems to breathe a little easier. still not meeting her eye, instead keeping his gaze riveted on the shelves across the room, the flourish of greenery in the kitchen, as he leans against the table and lets her work. the houseplants are thriving. he's never actually kept plants before.
he knows he's dissociating a little, leaving his body as he so often did whenever he retreated to a small and safe corner of his mind, but then that bright flare of pain at his abdomen is scouring, clarifying. like a hot bright sun burning hot inside him and this, this is familiar. he knows this part. his muscles tighten like twisting a set of screws and he breathes through the pain of the alcohol, as his expression turns even emptier and stonier.
bucky finds himself stupidly, sickeningly grateful for the fact that she's not pointing it out or demanding answers. it had been easy enough to not recognise him, out on the street. his hair's been cut short and he looks less haunted, less haggard than the face that hit the newsfeeds, but there's really no mistaking the arm anymore. not after the winter soldier had come out of the shadows, started gunning down cars in the middle of the freeway.
(he remembers everything.) )
Most of the time, yeah.
( his jaw almost hurts with how much he's working to not look at her. but then he finally moves, just a few inches' turn in order to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. her blonde hair drifting into her eyes; the quick, careful, practiced movements of her hands. she's done this before. maybe not as steady as a trained nurse, but there's an unflinching competence to the way she cleans the wounds. he wonders who it was. where and why and how she'd needed to pick up the skills of impromptu ad hoc medical treatment in the middle of the night.
you remind me of someone. )
How about you? You do this often?
( as if it's something normal, like running into her at a carnival or a woodworking class or something. you come here often? )
no subject
but then it doesn't come, and doesn't come. instead, it's karen's fingers against his right shoulder. she feels bucky tense beneath her touch, a stiffening of all his joints and levers, but once he realises that she's not reaching for the metal arm or gravitating towards it like the anomaly it is, he seems to breathe a little easier. still not meeting her eye, instead keeping his gaze riveted on the shelves across the room, the flourish of greenery in the kitchen, as he leans against the table and lets her work. the houseplants are thriving. he's never actually kept plants before.
he knows he's dissociating a little, leaving his body as he so often did whenever he retreated to a small and safe corner of his mind, but then that bright flare of pain at his abdomen is scouring, clarifying. like a hot bright sun burning hot inside him and this, this is familiar. he knows this part. his muscles tighten like twisting a set of screws and he breathes through the pain of the alcohol, as his expression turns even emptier and stonier.
bucky finds himself stupidly, sickeningly grateful for the fact that she's not pointing it out or demanding answers. it had been easy enough to not recognise him, out on the street. his hair's been cut short and he looks less haunted, less haggard than the face that hit the newsfeeds, but there's really no mistaking the arm anymore. not after the winter soldier had come out of the shadows, started gunning down cars in the middle of the freeway.
(he remembers everything.) )
Most of the time, yeah.
( his jaw almost hurts with how much he's working to not look at her. but then he finally moves, just a few inches' turn in order to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. her blonde hair drifting into her eyes; the quick, careful, practiced movements of her hands. she's done this before. maybe not as steady as a trained nurse, but there's an unflinching competence to the way she cleans the wounds. he wonders who it was. where and why and how she'd needed to pick up the skills of impromptu ad hoc medical treatment in the middle of the night.
you remind me of someone. )
How about you? You do this often?
( as if it's something normal, like running into her at a carnival or a woodworking class or something. you come here often? )