[for Steve] who will wield the shield?
Jun. 29th, 2011 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onlyapassengerThe sheer amount of ordnance Bucky has managed to acquire in the months since his arrival is, perhaps, startling. Though he'd shown up with nothing but a combat knife to his name, sometimes it paid to be the victim of the island's crueler tricks. Though he hadn't much appreciated the reminder of the time, getting saddled with all of his Winter Soldier gear has ultimately been a blessing as much as anything else; even if he has little cause to use it in his day to day life, there's a comfort Bucky finds in carrying a firearm that he'd be hard pressed to explain to someone of a different background.
It's old habit that finds him sitting on his front porch, a number of unloaded guns, ranging in size and make, spread out on a worn blanket beside him. His hands move in practiced motions as he cleans them one by one; it's mindless work, if necessary, though his thoughts drift elsewhere, sifting through memories both whole and fractured. He tries to remember the crimes he committed, the ones that apparently see him incarcerated in a Gulag in a future far worse than he ever anticipated, but he's met with nothing save a frustrating blankness -- a mental dead end.
Probably for the best. God only knows what sort of nightmare I'll find if I keep digging. I sleep poorly enough as is... Must drive Tasha crazy.
Shaking his head to clear his mind, it's only through a chanced glance upwards that Bucky realizes he's no longer alone. Steve is coming up the path, carrying in his hands a shield Bucky would recognize just about anywhere, one he stole if only to keep it away from anyone else, and wielded for much the same reason. He stands, abruptly, a cloth in one hand and an assault rifle in the other, but makes it down only so far as the first step before he freezes.
"Is that what I think it is?"
It's old habit that finds him sitting on his front porch, a number of unloaded guns, ranging in size and make, spread out on a worn blanket beside him. His hands move in practiced motions as he cleans them one by one; it's mindless work, if necessary, though his thoughts drift elsewhere, sifting through memories both whole and fractured. He tries to remember the crimes he committed, the ones that apparently see him incarcerated in a Gulag in a future far worse than he ever anticipated, but he's met with nothing save a frustrating blankness -- a mental dead end.
Probably for the best. God only knows what sort of nightmare I'll find if I keep digging. I sleep poorly enough as is... Must drive Tasha crazy.
Shaking his head to clear his mind, it's only through a chanced glance upwards that Bucky realizes he's no longer alone. Steve is coming up the path, carrying in his hands a shield Bucky would recognize just about anywhere, one he stole if only to keep it away from anyone else, and wielded for much the same reason. He stands, abruptly, a cloth in one hand and an assault rifle in the other, but makes it down only so far as the first step before he freezes.
"Is that what I think it is?"