With a taste of your lips I'm on a ride

[freakymagoo]

Who: Bucky & Fury
Where: Bullwinkles
When: After the texts
What: Not-talking

Warnings: Some NSFW and medicaly stuff


[Of all the... experiences he had had on the train, the ones with her were... particularly...

Disturbing?
Uncomfortable.
Familiar.
Disquieting.
Horny.
And thorny.
Also, invasive. Was invasive mentioned yet? Definitely invasive.

Hmm. Well. Pick one, or more of those adjectives. They all apply, to varying degrees. They definitely needed to talk, but after Bucky reluctantly returned to Panorama, he got busy between settling back into his mundane day-to-day life and trying to patch things up with Steve even though Steve keeps reassuring him that his abrupt taking off didn't break anything.

And, you know, maybe a part of him was trying to avoid having to have this conversation. Not the one about Frank, in particular. That never really crossed his mind after he said it out loud the first time. But just. Everything that happened in that charity gala. And everything that happened on that yacht.

Of course none of it meant anything. Of course it wasn't 'real'. But it's yet another thing added to the list of things he's not talked to Steve about that he probably should. And even if it's not Steve, maybe someone else. Anyone else.

He didn't-- really want to talk about it with Furiosa herself, if he's completely honest with himself. But he went to the place she told him to go, anyway. Like her good little lapdog he goes where he's told. And even if she didn't hear his bike whizzing past her workplace, at the very least one of the girls hanging out front would have spotted him ride past. The one with the dark hair in the dark jeans and the dark jacket that hides his dark arm and his dark sins who isn't her boyfriend.

She didn't tell him it was a line-dancing bar, but he can tell it's not just a shitty dive bar from where he's standing on the outside. He seems to be considering going in, or bailing, or maybe he's just really interested in the signage. But after a few minutes of standing outside next to his bike, head turned left and right scanning the length of the street, he tries to quietly slip in through the front door.]

Comments

[imperatour]

[ Furiosa wasn't nervous about seeing Bucky. They're just them now. The variants of themselves on the train, while awkward and entangled and heated and obsessed and... well, those weren't reality. Not the originals.

But when he walks in, she knows immediately. Her head turns up from the bottle in front of her that had her focus before him. It's like the multiple versions of herself fighting to be upfront. The one from the gala, relieved to see a familiar face. That version wants to duck in close against and whisper snarky comments against his cheek after giving him a sweet, familiar kiss. The one from the yacht, soothed by the presence of her guard dog, unwavering in his loyalty, wants to reach out and thread her hand through his dark hair and spend a moment admiring him.

Those are just shadows. She shakes her head, blinking quickly like they're afterimages she can force away. Just something lingering after she spent too long looking at something bright. Something she shouldn't have looked too hard at. ]

Sorry— [ She wrangles herself into her regular, steady disposition. She's sitting at the bar with an open stool next to her. She's glad she chose that instead of a booth. They can look forward at the same thing instead of at each other.

The mirror behind the liquor bottles seems a lot more obvious than it did a second ago when Furiosa was sitting alone. ] Usually there aren't that many people dancing. I didn't know they changed their Thursday special to one-joolie beers.

[ Which explains the moderate crowd. Not totally packed, but not empty either.

A long pause. She's not sure what else to say. ]

I wasn't sure if you'd show.

[ She almost didn't show up. ]

[freakymagoo]

[And there he is, in all his unassuming glory. Unlike her, all those versions of him co-exist simultaneously. Congressman. Old and tired and desperate for the quietest, least humiliating option for retirement. Attack dog. Unflinching killer. Loyal, devoted lover. Winter Soldier. White Wolf. If he knew which version of himself to wear at which time maybe life would be simpler.

But he is all these imperfect, broken things cobbled together, like a shambling horror closing the distance between them.]

Didn't figure you for the uh. Honky tonk type. [Who's talking to her now? Some version of him before the train? Can they go back to that and just have a normal conversation like they used to? He slips softly into his designated barstool, checks the windows and exit signs in the mirror before turning to look at her. No dress. No makeup. No shiny accoutrements. But still Furiosa. Still powerful.

He could have said "Yeah, me too." It wouldn't have been a lie, exactly. He would have come either way because he's still enough of a gentleman somewhere in there beneath all those multifaceted layers that he wouldn't have stood her up on the off-chance that she did come. But he certainly had his doubts.]

Why not?

[Maybe "Yeah, me too." Was the right thing to say after all.

He gets a one-joolie beer even though it does nothing for him. Better that than empty hands, watching her drink.]

[imperatour]

Because I thought about not showing.

[ Flat and honest. There's no point in lying. They're sort of past that now because everything feels sort of pale when put up against "Hey, remember that time we ended up in a pocket dimension, and I had you get on your knees in front of everyone else, and I was going to fly us across the world to have a bespoke collar made because I had more money than god and still felt empty inside."

But the important part isn't the honesty. It's the reason. She thought about not showing, which made her think he probably thought about not showing. Because she thinks... she thinks they might have more in common than just a metal arm and the fact that they've both done some bad things.

She thinks he knows what it's like to be owned.

She picks at the corner of the label on her one-joolie beer with a metal finger. ]

It wasn't— I didn't hate the first one.

[freakymagoo]

[He can't hold back a quiet snort at that. Of course it probably felt nice, as a tourist experiencing it for a few brief moments. And while she won't exactly crave being someone else's disposable warm fuckhole plaything pet puppy after six months living that glamorous-looking life, in both those scenarios she's still getting fucked one way or another. And feeling equally empty inside.

He pulls his beer a little closer to himself, but doesn't otherwise take a drink just yet.]

You ever... lived that kind of life? [He suspects not. He honestly thinks it's beneath her, but if it was something nice she wants to hold onto, he doesn't want to ruin it for her.]

[imperatour]

[ She turns her head toward him, offering a hard stare with narrowed eyes. A kind of did you forget the part about how I'm from a post-nuclear war wasteland version of Australia? ]

No. [ Not really. ] I never had to be anything but a warrior.

[ And that was a role she was good at playing. Too good at times. ]

Don't get me wrong. I think it'd get old fast. But. [ She shrugs, resuming picking at the label. ] It seemed tolerable. With a partner.

[ That's the part she didn't hate. ]

[freakymagoo]

[He didn't forget, but sometimes, you live long enough, you get a chance to do all sorts of crazy shit you never thought you'd do. Especially when dying in the war seemed all but certain.]

I wouldn't have minded being your trophy husband. [Not the kind of partner she was thinking of, probably. And maybe that's a foreign concept in her world, so, he offers:]

Take you to all these parties. Rescue you from boring conversations and sleazy old men. Keep the house tidy. Make you dinner. [He figures he doesn't need to explain the 'make you laugh, keep your bed warm' part. That should be... fairly self-explanatory, hopefully.]

[imperatour]

[ She scoffs wryly, shaking her head. She doesn't need anyone to run interference with men who bother her. She's never needed rescuing. She's never needed anyone but herself, but is that because it's true or because she's always been standing alone at the end of the day?

She leans forward on her elbows, rolling her shoulders, remarking with a sardonic tint: ] In a house with a big yard for a couple of kids and a dog.

[ That's what he had said right? When they were talking about the reward that was supposed to be waiting on the other side of the war. She shakes her head, dismissing it quickly and decisively. ]

That won't ever be my life. I wasn't built for it.

[freakymagoo]

[Maybe a tripod dog, just like him, that he'll quietly spoil rotten because for somebody who doesn't really love himself, he doesn't seem to encounter the same problems loving others. A dog and a baby girl he'll dote on until he shoots her first boyfriend and all hell breaks loose.]

Hm. [He keeps believing it could have been his life. That he was fully capable of retiring - as long as other people leave him alone. And he won't bring any of the pain or trauma or bad days home, if he had a place and people with whom he could call home. But it hasn't really been that simple so far. And as Dr. Raynor so aptly pointed out, 'guys like him' aren't really looking for or cut out for peace. Shrinks may be full of shit but. Steve doesn't give him the kind of tough love that she and Sam and other people did that have pushed him onward to making those small steps.]

You liked the other one better? [He takes a swig out of his beer, pointedly not looking at her or the mirror in front of them.]

[imperatour]

[ A tripod dog and a daughter with the scariest parents on the planet is a nice story. The kind that comes at the end of the sappy romantic movies she catches on TV sometimes.

Sometimes I dream I have a daughter, she told Frank once in the quiet of the dark, and the quiet pained turn of his expression was all the response she needed. She hadn't brought it up again. ]

No. [ Defensively and quickly. It feels like she's going to say more, but it hangs. Was she going to say 'but?' It feels like there might be a but coming. She takes a steadying breath, keeping her eyes cast down. Jesus, he doesn't pull his punches, does he? Not that she expected him to. She grimaces slightly, hand tightening around her own beer bottle. ] I think it's closer to what I am.

[ What she was made to be. If not by Joe, then that's what Dementus would've turned her into. Is there any path where she isn't soured earth? ]

I wouldn't— That's not how I would've treated you. Like a thing to be owned.

[freakymagoo]

Me too.

[He can wear the politician skin fine. But it's an ill-fitting suit. He's an easy target in those arenas. And more and more he's found that, peeking behind the curtain of their democracy, some voices are more equal than others. He doesn't have the pull of someone like Steve nor the resources like the lobbyists. There's no rhyme or reason why there are winners and losers in their system and everyone is crawling up this pyramid built on the blood and broken backbones of the people beneath them. To get any shit done he has to climb. But he's done climbing.

He understands that life just fine. Just as he understands the other life he had with her. He might not remember everything he did under HYDRA's influence but he can't imagine absolutely nobody in all those decades tried to toy with him like that. There had to be at least one who got off on it.]

I dreamed of you. [He closes his eyes and-- for a moment he isn't sure if he's trying to remember or if he's trying to forget. His mouth runs dry and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Taking another mouthful of beer in, he breathes out a slow sigh.]

Anyway. It wasn't real, no? [Only he can still feel it. The way she carved her name into his skin and hushed him as he gritted his teeth and whimpered. The sting of her soft, wet, warm tongue. It feels as real as the scalpel that cut into his shoulder to remove the infected-but-healing flesh and peel back enough skin to affix the first iteration of his metal arm to his shoulder socket.]

I don't think of you as. That kind of person. [It's difficult to catch the details of her face in the mirror. He's trying to figure out if 'I'm okay, really' is what she wants to hear.]