driftfleet | gotta get down for a mingle

[It's a little like watching a snake-charmed, and Steve has yet to decide how deeply unsettling he finds it. Part of him is willing to admit it's necessary, lancing an infection, but the other--

He draws a bit of a breath, smooths his hand across the small corner of table he's claimed as his own.]

I'm game.

[He's not. He's really not, but the memory of the hope in James' face and in his voice aren't lost on him. Steve's never backed down from anything in his life, even (especially) when he knew better.]

I'll even make the pancakes myself.

[ He leans forward slightly to see Steve past Jim, appraising him. Not sure what to make of his expression, Winter nods looks away, brow furrowed. He tries to feel some sort of connection to him, but it's just not coming the way he wants it to.

Not quite like the feeling he gets when he listens to Jim talk about Steve, anyway. There's just the man on the bridge and knowing that he knows him. He knows who he was and that they were friends, but this? This is frustrating. He still feels like a total stranger. Himself included. ]

It's for the best.

[ Jim is — trying not to look at him, looking at Steve, thankfully his expression is carefully schooled even. No hope, no expectation to put on the man's shoulders. If he remembers, well and good. If he doesn't, it's — it'll hurt, but wounds heal. ]

All right. You done with that?

[ He points to Winter's plate. ]

[ His attention snaps back to Jim's immediately, and he nods. He pulls the plate toward himself so he can throw the remains away and wash the utensils. ]

Yes s-- I am.

[ He's quick to correct himself, standing up and moving from the table. ]

[The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes at that abortive sir, and he studies the table very intently as the Soldier stands.

He doesn't know how Buck stood it, all those years. The helplessness. Watching, waiting. The Soldier's not in danger of drowning in the fluid in his lungs, he's not burning up with fever, there's no physical danger at all. But what's standing in for all those sleepless nights he could barely breathe is worse, and he's helpless.

He's spent time learning what he could, reading all the right books, speaking with former POWs and people who specialize in the therapy thereof. Coming up against the reality is-- it's different, harder, and the worst kind of failing.

He gives it a moment before he stands as well, deliberately letting his chair scrape across the floor paneling so it doesn't come as a surprise.]

We were-- [He stops. Clears his throat.] Going to make pie. Fresh one. Did you want to stick around for it?

[ The funny thing no one bothered to mention about brainwashing was that he were a passenger in his own head. Watching out his eyes behind a double-sided mirror as his fists hit uselessly against the barrier of his mind. Left inside with only thoughts and the barrage of orders and motive-laced praises, he started to break down.

Once it happened? Once they'd broken him down until he was nothing, all that was left were their words. Another thing nobody mentioned was how fucking hard it was to stop the programming. Going against what they taught him for years, and punished when it wasn't to their liking.

Jim knows he's trying, but all the same, it feels to Winter like there's more he can do. He can be whoever he wants to be, but who is it? Both men in the room, despite what they say, want him to be Bucky.. At least on some level, don't they? Made to believe that it's fine if he isn't, but what happens if he doesn't? Where does that leave them, then?

Logically, he knows this is all fucked up. Steve missed him. Doesn't care what the hell he remembers- even if it takes him years to remember something or nothing. But it does little in the face of the looming threats on the outskirts.

The scrape of the chair makes him alert again, and he looks between Jim and Steve, nodding almost immediately. ]

Can I help?

Yes, [ like there could be no other answer. Jim gestures vaguely at him, studying an open book on the counter. ] Do we have any apples in storage? And sugar. If not we can get 'em from the Vanquish.

..I have apples. They were in that basket. How many do you need?

[ He's hoping he has enough for it. ]

To feed the three of us? A lot. Where's the basket?

In my quarters. I can go get them.

[ Even as he says it, he's edging toward the door so he can. ]

[ Jim tilts his head slightly in question: you're using your room? but he nods soon enough, briskly. ]

Do that.

[ He really isn't using it at all. The basket is still in the middle of the bed, untouched. He'd looked at the contents and left it there. Anything the Atroma gave out was something he didn't want.

Winter nods at Jim and goes down the hallway to retrieve it. When he does return, it's with the basket and its contents, which he sets on the table. ]

Use what you'd like.

[ He smiles, soft. ]

All right. Recipe's over here. Steve, you mind doing the crust? We'll cut the apples.

[Having Bucky take charge of the situation is. New for him, and Steve has a genuine moment where the ghost of an old instinct gets its hackles up at being summarily ordered about. He shakes his head, amused - mostly at himself - and then starts digging out ingredients.]

Go for it.

[Should he be worried, about the Soldier being at his back with a knife? He searches for the thought, finds the caution in his mind but nothing but resolute faith in his heart: Bucky won't hurt him. And even if he does-- well, Steve heals. He's proven that point time and again. He's more afraid of his best friend not knowing him than he ever could be of pain.]

[ The kitchen comes to life. Jim fixes Winter with a scrutinising look, and then, he fills up the silence, talking to his alternate about a bake sale in the neighbourhood when he first moved into it. All kinds of cookies, the different people he saw, who recognised him and what they said and did. ]

[ Winter listens to Jim talk with rapt attention, soaking in the details. He can guess something like this is supposed to be common, but it's still so foreign doing normal things. It sure as hell beats murdering people for a cause he never wanted to be part of. ]

It sounds nice.

[ He hasn't completely forgotten Steve's presence, every so often sneaking glances at his back. ]

You can try it out if you want, hey?

[ Gently, as they finish the last of the apples. ]

Maybe someday, yes.

[ He puts the knife down on the counter, putting what they wouldn't use into the garbage can. Winter peers around Steve to briefly see what he's working on and how it's coming together. ]

[Meanwhile, he's rolled out a couple balls of dough and is working on flattening one down with a cylindrical liquor bottle in lieu of having found a rolling pin. Mostly he's succeeding.

He's half-listening to Barnes, at the way he's integrated with the future. So different than his own. Steve held himself apart. Between Natasha and Sam, seems like Buck tried harder to get back into the world. He has to wonder how much of that was guilt. Hinged on, what would Steve have wanted? And he wonders which one of them is more selfish for how they lived after the War.]

Might even work here.

[Mostly he just says it because he feels the attention on him as he's laying the bottom bit of dough out into the dish, and then he holds it out to them one-handed to fill.]

[ He takes the cue, gathering apple pieces and dumping them carefully into the bottom of the pie dish.

Winter looks to Jim for confirmation that something like that could be possible. Always deferring to Jim's judgement on the issue. ]

Maybe we'll get some Girl Scouts — or stop on a planet, who knows.

[ He peers over the now-forming pie, nodding. ]

I know how it is. You'll find a nice gal and I'll get sold down the river.

[His fingers spasm on the edges of the dish, he's damned lucky he doesn't break the thing. He has to turn with deliberacy, to set the dish down and get an extra lemon from the fridge all the while facing away from them both. By God's grace, or Steve Rogers' stubbornness, he manages to keep the stiffness from his shoulders and his motions easy and casual.

It was something said too easily to be unmeant. And Bucky - the Soldier, with frost clinging like spidersilk in his mind - remembered that first night back from Azzano. What Peggy said had stuck with him. Left an impression.

I should have been kinder. That night, maybe all others since.

He cuts the lemon, squeezes it out over the apples, and wets the edge of the crust against the dish. Then, very carefully, he lays the final crust down overtop and starts the process of pressing a fork down against where the crusts meet to seal it down.]

Oven ready?

[That he sounds normal is a minor miracle, and he turns with the pie in his hands.]

[ He watches Steve finish up the pie, glancing to the oven. ]

It looks to be.

[ When Steve is finished, he picks up the pie delicately and scoots it into the oven with his left hand. ]

How long does it need?

[ How long do they have to wait there, awkwardly making small talk? Should he leave and come back? Let he and Jim catch up? ]

Twenty minutes first, then we reduce the heat and wait until the crust is golden. You'll know by the smell.

[ He eyes the oven, and stretches. ]

Maybe the next planet will have some apples too, and we can get a better kitchen at the end of the month.

[Steve takes a seat at the table, managing to look more-or-less at ease.]

Got a deck of cards?

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