thearena | i am bad at titles.

Entry tags:

i am bad at titles.

Who| Bucky and ??? (it's an open log)
What| Exploration and paranoia
Where| Around
When| Week 3, backdated so this is earlier
Warnings/Notes| None right now!!

*

1. (TOMORROW LAND)

Disneyland Park— the real one, was built in 1955, from land Walter E. "Walt" Disney bought in 1953. He'd met his wife Lilian in 1925, and they got married the same year. That was the year Bucky was born. Snow White was just about the first movie he ever watched, or the first he could still remember. The first that counted.

He didn't recognize this place.

Bucky was pretty sure this was all a Nazi trick. That'd— alright, it didn't make sense, but it was the best sense he could make, so the idea found roots and grew within him. Bucky was used to a strange sort of sense-making, anyhow. He didn't listen to anything they told him, not when he woke up and not when they stuffed him into new clothing and sent him out to die. And because he was so intent on not listening Bucky did something he didn't usually do. He ran away from danger, instead of straight toward it.

And that was how he found Tomorrowland. Bucky was a fine sneak: he knew how to move when you didn't know what to expect. He recited lessons from the Parachute Regiment under his breath, figuring every other noise for something sinister. The more he wandered alone, the more his paranoia grew.

*

2. (TOON TOWN)

By the time he got to Toon Town his stomach was stabbing at him. It didn't make the place seem any more friendly; Bucky was beginning to think this place wasn't a Nazi trick after all. (But you could never tell, with them.)

The hunger made the colors of the place seem bigger than they were, less faded, more true. Or maybe that was something else: he hadn't slept in a while. Bucky'd tripped a few hours ago and the bottom of his left foot winced a little whenever it touched the ground.

So against some of his better (or worser) instincts, he sat down. Fifteen minutes of rest wouldn't kill him. He told himself this, and got angry. Because being angry was better than being scared.

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If this wasn't a serious situation, he'd laugh. "No, but I did punch Adolf Hitler a couple times," he confesses. Alright, not real Adolf Hitler, but he clearly wouldn't be welcome in the Nazi party. "Red Skull too, if you've heard of him."

"He ain't such a bad one to punch." He frowned, putting one of his hands on his chin. He had to one-up this guy somehow, he just had to. "I took out Hitler, Mussolini, and Emperor Hirohito." True story, 'cept—

"That was only in the five-cent press, though. Guess the real things a bit trickier."

"Well, thanks anyway." Steve grins, as much as he can for being in these dire situations. This Bucky is pretty swell, for a guy he just met out here. He can't expect everyone to believe his story; at least Buck's nice about it.

"What year was it for you, then? 1945?" He asks because hardly anyone talks about the war anymore, and nobody ever likes talking about Nazis.

"'44. It's 1944." What sorta question was that, and why did people keep asking it?

"That was my year," he says. "Or, it would've been. Apparently we won the war."

"What do you mean, your year?" Who are years supposed to belong to, anyway? In his mind he can hear a voice through the radio: this is your war, our war. Years were something that belonged to everyone.

"And what do you mean, would've been?" He's leaving out that last part for now. Bucky can't imagine the war, ending. Or he can. Sometimes he tries to, in pastel-colored daydreams, far off and faraway. And it doesn't go a thing like this. The end of the war— that's the exact sort of thing someone'd try and trick him with.

"This is going to sound crazy," he starts, but somehow he gets the feeling he can trust this guy. At least with this story, where it doesn't matter. "But I crashed a plane into the ocean and they dug me out of it in the new century." He looks sheepish. "But that's a funny coincidence, your friend being named Steve and all. He wasn't a soldier too, was he?"

"He was, I guess, you could say." Bucky's tripping over his own words. Damn, does he miss Steve. Steve'd have this whole thing figured out— he always knew what to say, what to do. Especially those times when Bucky didn't.

"And you're right," he added, sheepish. "That sounds crazy." There was still something about this fella Bucky wanted to believe, though, even if the ghosts of German occupation were staring back at him without blinking. "But it ain't the craziest thing I've heard, I guess."

Bucky doesn't know how very glad he is that he doesn't remember travelling to the future and meeting himself. (Comics, everybody.)

"Alright," he says. "Try me. What's the craziest thing you ever heard?" He asks, and though they should really leave here, Steve finds himself kind of rooted to this spot, like right now making friends is even a priority, like they won't both just be dead on a few weeks.

Something in his heart just aches, and it had nothing to do with his physical condition.

He has to think about this: was it the time Hitler mined Wagner's operas deep enough to open a portal to the actual Asgard? No, that's been conveniently mindwiped. That whole escapade with the Vision? Nah, he still can't figure much about the Vision. The time Steve'd dressed up like a crotchety grandma with knitting needles, undercover on a trip to France? Nah, Bucky insists that bit never happened.

As his mind runs through the possibilities, he ticks them off with his hands.

"You've heard of Subby, right?" He doesn't pause, of course, everyone's heard of Namor the Sub-mariner. "Angry, eyebrows that sorta buzz, hates wearing pants, Prince of Atlantis. Anyway, one time or another, this Kraut flathead actually manages to capture him once, for all of five minutes. But it turns out it wasn't ol' Subby he was really after!"

It's obvious that once Bucky starts talking he hasn't got the breaks to stop himself.

"It was those green scaly panties he always wears! They needed 'em for Nazi experiments." A big hand gesture, here, 'cause he can't cue up spooky music. "And then— this is the part that really gets me— they put him in some brand new panties! And they tell him that they picked these ones out 'cause they match the funnybooks. Can you imagine? The Nazis burning up 'cause comic books don't always match!"

So, it shouldn't be a surprise to anyone except Bucky that Steve didn't understand half of those things that he just mentioned. Atlantis? Subby? But he supposes that Norse gods are probably just as far-fetched, and he has a good time imagining this prince of Atlantis, having to walk (swim?) around, trying to find a pair of pants to wear. "That's stranger than anything I've seen," he says, but wondering if the Nazis back home would expect Bucky wearing blue. He never understood that part of the comics' artistic license.

For a moment, he settled into the conversation. There was something familiar enough to hang onto, here, and yeah— even if he wasn't admitting it to himself, or anyone else, at this moment, Bucky needed something to hang on.

"You bet it is," he said, pleased. "I'm not anyone strange though. Just so you don't get the wrong idea."

"Didn't think you'd be. Hey, are you hungry? There's not a whole lot to eat around here; it's kind of a hassle, so I picked as many peaches as I could," he explains. He takes some out of the little satchel he created from his cape, remnants of his old days carting newspapers from door to door astound Brooklyn.

Bucky was starving. Worse than it had ever been, back in the Depression. Worse than that time he kept off his D-rations because his stomach could only take so much cardboard.

"Are you sure it's alright?" he said, maintaining some kind of politeness and grabbing a peach without waiting for the answer.

Steve can go back to the groves in a second. He probably will, rest here to eat a little first. "Sure I'm sure," he replies, grabbing one for himself and taking a bite. That feels good, and he's already salivating though he knows there's not enough to satisfy him, not on peaches alone. He'll need protein, and lots of it. When he gets back, it's likely he'll gorge himself on fats and carbs.

But right now, this tastes like a feast.

Bucky doesn't say anything, he's too busy stuffing his face. He eats so fast he almost can't taste the food. But he does taste them, the juice and the pulp and the velvet. Something about being hungry makes tastes sting more.

He knows he shouldn't be doing this, he should be pacing himself like the army manual says, and talking nice to the strange, kind man who still seems kind of familiar. But he's hungry, so he eats.

"Slow down a little, bud. There's plenty. We can go get some more, even." Not exactly stealthy to walk around with a sling full of peaches, but they're necessary for survival. It's not like Steve goes on stealth missions wearing the American Flag or anything.

"Have you eaten since you got here?"

He squinted one eye at the man, in between his awful slurping. "What's it to you?"

Bucky hated having to accept help, to admit something about him needed it. Maybe something about growing up an orphan had turned him leery of charity, or maybe something else deeper just wanted to give more than he took. But he was about a world away from that kind of self-reflection, right now. Maybe he could trust this guy. Maybe it'd be alright.

"I know we're supposed to kill each other, but you've done nothing to hurt me. Why would I want to you to starve?" He knows what that feels like, having nothing to eat. He'd always give food to Bucky, knowing he'd need it more than Steve. He had a little stomach, he was alright. Steve and Bucky could barely pay their bills at one point, so Steve dropped out of college. It wasn't like he could eat his paints.

Bucky'd joined the army at age fifteen— and he didn't like to brag, but he'd done a lot of KP duty.

"Well, there's a differnce, ain't there? Between letting someone die and killing them yourself." He shook his head, like he was trying to shake something off, with it. "Not that I'm gonna starve."

"Sure is, but I don't particularly like either, and you seem plenty hungry." He takes out another peach to eat. "Do you have a problem with this?"

He squints, at that. "With peaches, or with killing?"

"Me feeding you, you seem to have a problem with that," he responds. He won't ask about the killing.

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i am bad at titles.

omg....... how did i not see this in my inbox...

no worries :')

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