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[ He doesn't intend on redirecting, he doesn't plan on changing the subject, he really is just... stalling for a second. He'll circle back to it; in the meantime he scoops up his empty bottle and WIll's empty glass, slips through the crowd toward the bar.

When he returns a few minutes later with Will's double and a new bottle, he's breaking into his answer before his ass is even in the seat. ]

We're probably a hell of a lot more wrapped up in each other than we should be after only- what, a month and a half?

[ He's legitimately lost track of how long they've been here. The days and weeks have sort of been a blur.

But there, there you go, let it never be said that Bucky isn't both honest and self-aware. ]

[ Taking his glass, Will was already indulging in a healthy swallow before Bucky had finished talking. Setting the glass down, respectful of the amount of alcohol in it, he folded his hands around the highball and began to slowly turn it, making the amber liquid swirl. ]

An eventful month and a half. [ Will amended. ] Between the shock of finding ourselves here, the designations, the orientation, the bracelets ... [ Will made a rolling gesture with one hand to signify the rest of it. ] It's been one psychological game after the other.

This is not the most stable of environments. [ Or healthy, but Will didn't expect he needed to point that out. ] And you four are not the most stable of individuals.

[ Perhaps a dangerously blunt thing to say, but Will says it and owns the words with a direct look into Barnes' eyes. He's even removed his glasses, folding them up and hanging them off his shirt; apparently a habit of his. ]

Is it so surprising that you've developed a sense of need around one another?

[ Tapping one long finger on the glass, Will considered his next words carefully. He weighed the images that flared within his mind's eye, threatening to overwhelm the reality that was Barnes sitting right across from him. Faces and voices, little bits of evidence picked up across the network. Bigger pieces of evidence drawn from his own personal encounter with this man.

The images lay atop one another, conversations that were never spoken aloud, echoing in his head, almost drowning out the din of the saloon.

When Will managed to sort his way to the functional side of the cacophony he raised his eyes back to Bucky's. ]

Jack is a submissive psyche, trying to function in a Dominant's person suit. TJ is someone who is used to being second best when it comes to love. You can see it in the way he carefully marks that he's neither you nor Jack.

Steve is trying to hang on to the past. For some reason it's safe for him back there, in a way that the present doesn't offer.

[ He wasn't sure of the details there, but every instinct he owned screamed this at him. ]

And you're trying to hold all of them together, while simultaneously, trying to find absolution from events the human psyche isn't intended to survive.

[ Again he tapped the ridge of the glass. ]

Have you considered, that it is okay for you to need them? Have you considered that you still need to forgive yourself, before you can ask for Steve's?

[ Now, here came the hard question. ]

Do you want to forgive yourself?

Edited (sorry, extra words bit me in the ass and it was get them down or lose them.) 2018-10-24 03:53 (UTC)

[ With every passing truth that escapes Will's mouth he feels nerves hyping, increasing, driving anxiety into him because he knows it's a path that concludes with him, an what Will plans to bring to the surface he isn't so sure. There are a lot of things, a lot of dark and hidden pieces he tends to bury in himself. He knows when he does seek a therapist they'll pull those issues apart like cotton candy, and he knows it needs to happen, but the dread that fills his chest when he thinks about it makes him understand why some people swear off therapy.

It's hard, but like disinfecting a wound it needs to be done.

What he gets isn't necessarily what he expects. Permission, almost, to attach himself to these people. Permission to build a family, when what he'd sort of been anticipating was an illustration on how unhealthy it was and... perhaps secretly it's because he thinks he's bad for them in ways, they're fragile and he's...

Metal.

It's almost a relief until Will brings him up short with his question, and Bucky's lips part but no words come out for a moment. The bottle sweats between his fingers, and he stares down but doesn't see it.

Does he want to forgive himself?

He thinks the healthy answer would be yes, that most people should want to forgive themselves. He knows objectively he didn't have any bodily autonomy, he had no choice in what he did. He didn't elect to commit his crimes, he knows that. He knows in a court of law with the appropriate evidence he would be considered firmly not guilty.

He knows that logically.

But he also remembers Maria Stark's face. He remembers Howard, who was his friend. Howard, who's wedding he would have attended and danced at. He felt the pressure of Howard's cheekbones crumple beneath his metal hand, but worse than that, he remembers crossing over to the other side of the car where Maria sat wounded, injured, calling out for her husband.

He used his flesh hand to strangle the life out of her. The real one, the one that can feel the wetness of the glass now in this bar. Sometimes he can feel her slowing heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

Tony Stark was left an orphan.

Multiply that by two dozen, because he remembers every single one of them. Some of them had kids. He remembers those, too. He remembers being told: no witnesses, no survivors. He knows how much force it takes to snap a neck of any age.

He does not see the bottle in his hands, his face stays schooled into something inscrutably blank save for the break for a second wherein his lips twitch into his cheeks. Rustily, hoarsely, he chooses to be honest in his answer. ]

No.

[ Because the thing that did all that doesn't deserve it. ]

[ The healthy answer was the truth, and Will felt honored that Bucky choose to share it. So much so that while he was not usually a demonstrative man -he'd sat for hours with Jack, but not touching- he reached out and rested his fingers along the wrist of the hand curled around the bottle. Jack had needed persistence, but Bucky needed touch. He needed physical contact, even if he didn't believe himself worthy of it. ]

You don't have too. [ He said softly. ] Not right now, not tomorrow, maybe never, and that's okay James. There are some things in our lives that we shouldn't forgive ourselves for, because they are part of who we are and are set in a past that is inescapable.

[ This would be about the time Hannibal stopped talking, skewing things towards the dark, encouraging his patient to embrace those unforgivable crimes, to enjoy them. Part of Will wonders, as he had with Chiyoh, but he's able to overcome that urge, if only because he was on the lookout for it.

Brushing his thumb lightly along the wrist under his hand, he continued. ]

But what is still within our power to change, is how they define us going forward. You're not the man you were, none of us are not even Steve. Maybe you are ready to let the past stay in the past, and perhaps he isn't. That doesn't have to destroy your friendship, it just means you have to be patient with one another.

Can you be patient with yourself.

[ Because that was an entirely different matter than being patient in a sniper's nest. ]

[ For one precarious moment, Bucky feels like he's made of paper mache. Like all his carefully constructed concrete walls are rigid from the outside but that they might crumple under the slightest pressure, because they're built to keep him in, they're not built to keep other people out. He can carry the weight of himself no problem, but the second a hand touches his wrist his foundation starts to shiver and shake. It manifests in his jaw, a shuddering tension that he bites down on a second.

Will calls him James, and he doesn't know why that feels like a vice around his heart, only that it does. It feels like the weight of a crushing metric ton, pushing down on his chest and pressing his lungs out flat beneath it, it feels like the heaviest blanket settling over him. It holds him down tightly so that there's no running inside of himself to hide from the rest of what Will says.

Reality teeters on the stroke of a thumb.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek not for the first time today, and he can feel a self-inflicted sore start to worry into it.

It always feels like people keep pushing an agenda of forgiveness until now, like he's meant to accept the atrocities he committed at face value and hug it out with himself. Like he's supposed to shore off his responsibilities, or at least the realities of what he's done, eschew them easily because he wasn't the finger on the trigger in a metaphorical sense.

James Barnes is like a car crash, wherein he is the car and his handlers were drunk at the wheel. He might not have been to blame, but he's the thousands of pounds of steel that took away someone's life, and it's not unreasonable for the other passengers to develop a sudden fear of driving. He isn't to blame, but it happened, and to be told that he can both accept that and not have to somehow forgive himself for it is...

Well, frankly, it's a fucking relief, because if that's the path to emotional health Bucky will forever be broken. Not for the first time, he's incredibly glad to have met Will Graham. He owes some random poorly dressed Dominant a bottle of scotch sometime.

Patience is the one thing he does have an abundance of, and though he's been quiet for long ticking moments he does at least offer a slow, considering nod at that part of it. Yes, he can be patient with himself, he's got all the time in the world, so maybe there's hope for him yet.

They haven't even touched on any of the details of what Barnes has done and perhaps they won't any time soon, but even this amount of prodding has him feeling open and exposed, a little vulnerable, laid bare and held together only by a hand on his wrist. Will is exceedingly good at this, and it's a combination of that observation and the need to shift the spotlight off of himself to recover for a moment that has him (seemingly out of nowhere) falteringly asking: ]

...Why don't you like to talk about your job?

[ Because if this is his job, if it's shit like this, he's talented. If he's good at peeling back the layers, Bucky can't help but wonder if maybe it costs something in him to do it, if that's why it was the first rule they'd set forth - do not bring it up in the bedroom. They're in a bar, though, and he feels like maybe they could do with evening things out a little.

Never a fan of an emotional power imbalance. ]

[ Every small detail is carefully catalogued and inventoried. He should not be able to read the man this well, Barnes did have an admirable amount of control and they had only just met. Yet he'd watched that face, in every intimate moment. Listened to the quick draws of breath, and felt the shift of muscles atop him in those pleasurable moments.

Now he used that as a baseline against the way Bucky's jaw knotted. The way his Adams Apple bobbed with tight swallows and even the small inward pinch of his cheek. He felt the twitch of muscle beneath his thumb, and even the extended quiet told it's story.

When Barnes nodded, Will released a breath he hadn't entirely been aware of holding, and he gripped the man's wrist a little tighter but otherwise didn't press him further. He'd pressed enough for this time and this public place. If the body language hadn't indicated that fact, the question did.

Here, Will drew back a little. He retrieved his hand, moving to close it around the whiskey but carefully not lifting the glass to his lips for a drink. Though he was sorely tempted. He knew what Barnes was doing, because it was a tactic he would have used if their positions were reversed.

There was absolutely no way in hell he was cracking into the can of worms that was his job, when Bucky was this vulnerable. Will didn't need to hear the words, or the promises, or see into the man's soul to understand what had happened in this brief exchange. He could feel it, could almost hear the whispered sound of torn paper, fluttering in the breeze.

But at the same time, he knew he couldn't shut the question down (Barnes was owed some balance here) and nor could he brush it off. However, that didn't mean he couldn't answer it, without answering it. ]

Habit, I suppose. [ He said and that part was full truth. ] Technically my job was instructor at the FBI academy, teaching behavioral profiling of serial killers. But when I did assist the BAU out in the field, I was beholden to strict non-disclosures, as speaking about an open case would jeopardize the chance to catch the killer, and potentially to prosecute.

[ All the genuine, clinical truth. ]

But aside from that ... [ here he paused, weighed his next words and it was Will's turn to fidget as he reached for his glasses and perched them back on his face. ] I wasn't asked to assist in the field until the situation had gotten particularly ugly. Not really the kind of things you want to drag home and talk about in casual or intimate conversation.

[ Not the kind of things you want to talk about at all. Not the kind of things you wanted lodged so deeply into your unstable head that you dreamed about them, woke with the feel of a young girl's neck beneath your hands, or a nurse's eyes popping like overripe grapes beneath your thumbs; the crack of bone and soft squish of brain...

Will discreetly rubbed both of his thumbs against his index fingers as if to rub off the vivid memory of eye viscera and other material off his thumbs. It didn't work and he ended up taking a long draw from his glass of whiskey, unable to stop himself this time.

Setting the almost empty glass down, his eyes darted around Bucky's shoulders, no longer catching and holding his gaze. ]

So yeah, I try to avoid shop talk.

Edited 2018-10-24 05:35 (UTC)

[ He feels the loss of touch more deeply than he'd like to admit, but he makes no move to recover it or compensate for it. He stays steadfast where he'd been before the touch, unflinchingly solid and still. Deflecting is an obvious method, and he appreciates Will allowing it to happen. He could have pushed further, cracked open Bucky's ribs and lay eyes on his beating heart as it were, but easing the brakes on now has tension rolling out of his chest and easing down his spine.

It's better. Not completely, but better.

He's not as adept at reading people as Will and he probably never will be, but he's intuitive about it in his own way. A studious and keen man with a knack for parsing through bullshit, at least enough to know that non-disclosures don't come anywhere near scratching the surface about why Will is so reluctant to talk about this facet of his life. If he left it there, Bucky would be unbelievably disappointed.

He gets a piece, though. A small, shaded, shrouded piece of truth that's enough to be going on. In it, he can see something that looks like parallel lines, like an overlapping of their issues. It looks like something he can empathize with, because particularly ugly situations that you wouldn't want to talk about casually or intimately are...

They make him up, these days.

Even more telling is the way Will's eyes drop away from him, penetrative stares turned into furtive glances, disconnected from the moment and from James in particular. He could wholly understand the desire to retreat. Extending the same comfort, the same touch to indicate solidarity, doesn't strike him as the right move here.

Will's coping mechanisms don't seem as particularly tactile, and this is still only their third meeting. He can't say he knows Will well enough to truly guess at what he needs right now, but his gut suggests perhaps all he really wants is an opportunity to build up his walls a little higher and not to feel cornered while he does it. He hopes that he's making the right decision by abstaining, and he truly isn't sure.

All he can offer is a rusty sounding: ]

I'm sorry.

[ Not for asking, he's still glad he asked, but for what Will's experienced. He means it not in pity, but sympathy. Empathy. Whatever word seems to match the way his mouth twists into his cheek and curls in distaste.

And because Bucky never could resist dry, dark humor at the absolute least appropriate times he adds: ]

Maybe we can compare notes, see who's seen the most fucked up thing. Winner buys a round. Maybe we could vlog it.

[ Because that's what you future-people do. Vlog things. ]

[ 'I'm sorry'. Bucky might as well have read off a grocery list for all the impact the words made. It wasn't about the words, it was about what lay behind them; what prompted them. That was where Will looked, felt his way through and he almost reached out again to grasp Barnes' hand.

But he didn't. He didn't because it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be fair. It would be selfish, self-serving and with the echo of Abel Gideon's voice in his head, Will was thrown back to the first meeting between them. Where he'd looked into Barnes' eyes and saw where he could inflict a hell of a lot of damage, if he wasn't careful.

Now, even more so than then, harming this man was the last thing Will wanted. Reaching up to yank his glasses back down off his face (yes they were shields of sort for him) Will rubbed at his eyes with one long fingered hand. He had two choices. Slam the drawbridge up, set the spears along the ramparts and drive Barnes back to a safe distance. Or open a small side door, little more than the bathroom sluice and try honesty.

Perhaps, lucky for Barnes, Will had always been brutally honest. At least when it came to himself and his cargo ship of issues. In the end, he would rather deal with the look of disappointment, disgust on the man's face (seen that look plenty of times) then confusion and hurt.

Bucky had enough confusing men in his life; including the one in the mirror.

Taking his glass up, Will finished it in one shot. ]

Don't be. [ He said softly. ] It's not your responsibility, and I won't have it become such.

Because you have the chance to get out. [ Get away from the darkness, from the destruction of the soul. Bucky might always have scars, he might always have those things he would never forgive himself for, but he hadn't gone to his death in the embrace of that darkness. ] I couldn't save myself, and in the end that was alright because I was still able to do what needed to be done to stop myself.

[ He shared this, not to garner sympathy and the expression on his face said clearly that they weren't going to discuss it in depth. This was only an explanation of why he was trying to protect Bucky from the parts of himself he'd failed to recover. ]

Provided you don't walk out that door and not look back, which I wouldn't blame you if you did, I am telling you this because the answers to your questions, don't mean anything anymore. They're in the past, I can't change them and they are unworthy of explanation.

I didn't make it back from the dark places I was sent. That's why, I see you and see that you still can, and I don't want to jeopardize that by reopening doors you are trying to secure closed.

It would be unnecessarily cruel.

[ Why would he burden this man with all that trauma and abuse, when there was no coming back from it? It would be cruel and three meetings or not, he didn't want that for Bucky. The reason he spoke now, was because he could see the dogged determination in the other man. The more Will tried to avoid, the more Barnes would want to understand, and while it might make Will feel better to be understood, it wouldn't be good for Bucky.

Sitting back, Will gave a sad but genuine little smile and slipped into the dark humor. This he could speak about, as it was amusing rather than dipping into the nightmares. ]

For the record, I never owned a computer of my own, or a television for that matter. But there was this woman, a tabloid journalist who ran a vlog called Tattlecrimes. [ He chuckled, because the name was ridiculous. ] Freddie, and that damn vlog of her's, were a significant pain in my butt.

[ You have the chance to get out, he says, and something like laughter bubbles up in his chest threatening to spill out his throat. It doesn't come, he stifles it down, now isn't the time, it's just... It rings so similarly to this doesn't have to end in a fight almost like it was the harbinger of the fight itself. He is exhausted, he thinks he could sleep for a hundred years more in the ice under cryo and still come out the other side feeling exhausted. He thinks perhaps tired is now his biggest personality trait — some days it's his only personality trait.

As long as Steve carries the shield, there is no getting out. As long as he's got this shit pumping through his blood he'll never get out. As long as he knows about twenty six different ways to kill Will using nothing but his hands or the things within arms' reach right now there is no getting out.

It's not that he thinks Will is naive for suggesting it, he just doesn't know yet. There is no out for Bucky, there is only the lull between fights. He will die on the field with a gun in his hand and blood at his feet, and he could start his count over a dozen times and probably still lose track of the number at some point. Some days he doesn't feel like James Barnes anymore. Some days a voice in his head speaks Russian and reminds him of things, the Asset waits for his calling in the back of Bucky's mind.

Perhaps another reason he can't forgive himself. Wouldn't want to be preemptive when there's still so much to do. Just because he's compartmentalizing his trauma doesn't mean he's finished manufacturing it.

Still shaking the urge to fatalistically laugh, thickly, he feels the need to point out: ]

Doors are meant to open, otherwise they're just walls with pointless knobs.

[ That being said, he doesn't push the matter farther. Pry his fingers under shells where they aren't wanted, and certainly not here. He isn't about to argue the semantics of trauma, of what he does and doesn't deserve, what does and doesn't mean anything anymore, whether or not either of them can actually truly crawl their way back or not. He knows a rabbit hole when he sees one, and he spends enough time already fending off reassurances he doesn't believe. There is no out and there is no forgiveness, and all the hammers in the world won't pound those nails into him.

Still, he understands what Will is trying to do for him, and what he must feel about himself. Why he doesn't want to talk about it. ]

В до́ме пове́шенного не говоря́т о верёвке.

[ In the house of the hanged man, they mention not the rope. ]

That is probably profound. If I spoke Russian. [ Will looks genuinely apologetic, but then he sobered.

Will knew that trauma wasn't something you could use as a measuring stick. It was unique to the individual who suffered it, and he would never try to use it as a gauge. In fact, he would be very happy to never speak of what was trapped in his head, so long as it stayed there and didn't come out at inconvenient moments.

But he wanted Bucky to at least be forewarned of what lay beneath the surface.

For now, the smaller man gave one of those quick little half grins, before he leaned forward on the table. ]

Shall I escort you back to your apartment, so you can't have a case of nerves and escape the conversation that's coming? I am ... assuming, those were Steve's shoes I saw the other night?

[ It was profound, and Barnes lets out a chuckle; soft, throaty, head ducking for a second and hair spilling forward. Amused, but he can't put his finger on why. He doesn't bother to translate it, just lets the rather grim notion die where it belongs. Maybe that's the key to saying dark, dramatic, inappropriate shit and still maintaining friendships: say them in Russian, accept the weird looks, and nobody knows how big of an asshole you are, or how cryptic.

At the very least, he considers himself appropriately forewarned. Whether or not he makes good use of it will be another matter entirely, but disclaimers are set and the underlying understanding broadens just a touch. Knowing limits is still knowing something even if he doesn't understand what lies beyond them. Some rooms in the house can stay locked to guests and they still feel welcome. ]

Bingo. That obvious, huh?

[ It's precisely what he plans to do, in fact. Text Steve, bite the bullet, have the hard conversation they need to have about what the fuck is going on. He doesn't look forward to it, he doesn't know what will come of it, and there's a very real chance that spilling his guts will only make things worse.

But it needs to be done. He shifts forth with a small nod, half-drunk beer abandoned on the table along with some loose bills for a tip to whichever busser happens upon their otherwise clean booth. There isn't much room for conversation navigating through the bodies of patrons, but he holds the door open for Will and once they spill out onto the empty street he settles somewhere on Will's left, hands tucking into his jacket pockets, casting a look down. ]

You sure you feel like the walk? I think I can manage to make it home myself.

[ It's out of the way, but he can't say he wouldn't enjoy the company. Free out, though, and with no disappointment to follow it if Will opts for convenience instead. ]

To me, at least. Though I'm not the best benchmark. [ A small quip towards his talents for observation, before Will is moving out of his chair. There is a soft spoken 'Thank you' when Bucky picks up the tab, but otherwise Will is quiet as they make their way through the saloon and to the door.

He smiles a little when the door gets held open for him, but steps out and waits for Bucky to fall in beside him. Will's hands go into the pockets of his trousers, his head up and simply taking stock -situational awareness- as they walk. The Up is not the Down, but it never hurt to keep an eye out. ]

I've been sitting all day. The walk would do me good. [ Will answers, before it dawns on him that perhaps Barnes would like the out. ] But if you'd rather ...?

What, all that profiling business and you can't peg me as the selfish bastard I am?

[ Lazily, dryly drawled as they amble. He's half-joking, but there is something he thinks might be inherently greedy in making someone walk him back to his apartment when it's clearly out of their way. God knows he's done it himself a dozen times, mostly for the girls he took out and had a nice time with. He's been awake and alive in the modern day long enough to know that it's an asshole move to pin that on just one gender, that getting walked back doesn't make him the girl in the relationship, but it takes a little conscious effort to stifle the feeling.

The truth of it is he's got a weak spot for old fashioned domesticity. Walking home with someone... it's nice. It means something.

...and yes, so maybe Will is right, the company keeps him from treating it like a walk to the god damn gallows while he gets lost in his own head over what he wants to do. He's the type to pre-plan conversations, to measure his words well in advance, to venture down possible paths the conversation might take and develop responses to arguments that won't even happen. Chronically overthinking, dreading.

An outward distraction is a blessing. ]

I told you, I only work on the difficult profiles. [ The delivery was deadpan, but the look he shared with Barnes was sassy.

It was perhaps a sign of the difference between their times of birth, that Will didn't see this as 'walking home a date'. Though it wasn't dissimilar. From his perspective, it truly was more about helping Bucky stay out of his head; as a man who tended to suffer from the habit.

He hadn't met Steve Rogers and yet there was a part of him that sincerely wanted to see these two men work out some of these obstacles. Not unlike the hours he'd chosen to sit and wait for Jack to talk about Bella's illness. Will didn't make human connections easily, but when he did, he tended to be loyal to them.

Shame those connections hadn't returned the favor.

As they walked, Will began to talk about his job in the Down. Perhaps it was a little like discussing the weather, but the thought behind it was to help both of them ground into the present. Shake free of the dark, steel threads of the past.

He explained about taking a low level job with the Down police force. The ~~NPC~~ Dominant he'd had to work with in order to get the position, though he didn't give many details about that arrangement; just enough to confirm it was not a contract. Then he shared some of the amusing stories from his day. ]

So apparently there's a permit you need to file if you plan to bounce on a trampoline while playing "tag" with a dildo that's longer than twelve inches in length.

Edited 2018-10-25 10:50 (UTC)

[ Another coincidental common thread, considering Barnes had taken to working for the police force in the Up. Thankfully the similarities end in the same general line; he didn't have to work under some jackass, and had no under-appreciated submissive beneath him doing all his grunt work, but frankly he's getting the shit shifts anyway by virtue of his lack of his experience. He's got just enough of a fundamental basis of understanding to appreciate the stories, to contribute loosely to the conversation, and to grin like a god damn madman about dildo permits. ]

Damn, Officer Graham, wish you would've mentioned that before my Wednesday night club meet.

[ He lifts his wrists, presented out, pressed together like he's submitting to cuffs as they walk. ]

Book 'em, inspector, you caught me.

[ Will had been more concerned over the fact that there were dildos of a length that required these permits! He was surprised to learn that Bucky had taken a similar position with the Up's police department and initially asked a barrage of questions that lead to one of those personal revelations.

A little personal detail they had bypassed the other night when falling into bed together. Bucky learned that Will had started out his working life as a homicide detective with the New Orleans Police Department. He also learned that Will had been 'retired' from the position due to his inability to pull the trigger while on duty.

But at least one of the scars decorating his right shoulder was explained in the recall of events. ]

No kinky stuff out in public. [ Will 'scolded' primly, with a light tap of his fingers to the presented wrists. ] And it's just Mr. Graham, not officer, I'm listed as 'help staff' on all the paperwork.

[ He knows because a lot of his day is spent doing paperwork. Not that he is going to complain. It was a job, it made him some money and kept him from climbing the walls of his apartment building.

[ It's almost funny to think about, The Winter Soldier of all people getting lectured on coming back from the darkness by a man once afraid to pull the trigger. By and large, he's lost track of the number of times he's actually shot someone. The truth is he was good at pulling it before he ever became an asset; somewhere in the French countryside in 1942 they'd needed a man with good aim to take up a vantage point and put down an encampment with two ball turrets before anyone wised up and started using them. He'd never shot anyone that wasn't shooting at him first before then, took out four sleeping men with five bullets from sixty yards. Got promoted up the ranks just for that, and the rest is history. Literally history, thank you Smithsonian.

Questionably unpleasant though the story may be, he's pleased to hear it. Glad for the insight, glad to know where one of the marks he'd touched came from, glad to know a little bit of Will even if it was farther removed than any of his recent history.

His wrists drop obediently, tuck back into his pockets. ]

Gotta admit what a line of bullshit it is for me to get the title and not you. Probably doesn't help anything to hear, but.

[ It makes him feel a little better to say, selfishly eases some of the guilt at getting the better of the two designations purely at random. ]

Speaking of which, you got any prospects? Think we're almost half way to them dishing you someone at random.

[ And he'd be lying if he said in the back of his mind he wasn't absently muling over what the hell someone could even do with a dildo over twelve inches anyway... Jesus, people, what the hell? ]

[ There was definitely a heavy irony to the situation. Though Will would argue that there was a difference (at least in the beginning) between a man pulling the trigger as part of his country's war effort, and what Will had done. Though that really wouldn't impact much on the Winter Soldier years.

As for the here and the now. Will gave a small shrug of his shoulders, a genuine gesture without any hint of irony. ]

Titles never matter much to me. [ He admitted. ] People would sometimes ask about the difference between 'Special Investigator' and 'FBI Agent', got to be more of a nuisance than anything. I know what I do and I know what I can do, that's all that has ever mattered to me. [ The paycheck was nice though and after a brief pause, Will does have to acknowledge this fact. ] I'd rather have your paycheck.

[ Seriously. The whiskey in the Down was awful!

Bucky segues into the next, obvious question, and the way his gut clenches and the muscles along his back and shoulder tighten, surprises Will. He knows it's a sign of just how utterly he'd been trying to avoid even thinking about that particular eventuality. The fact that he was going to be forced to contract with someone.

Too many shades of his time in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Under Chilton's thumb. Or for that matter, even a step back, when he'd been under Hannibal's thumb. ]

Can't say I've been looking. [ Will admitted, after what was probably an awkward pause as he stroked back to equilibrium. ] I suppose I'll figure something out, before the witching hour.

[ Probably an obvious train of thought, but it crosses his mind again to offer. He'd taken the position in the Up rather than the down for one reason only: that paycheck Will mentions. He'd known he could do more good in the Down, he'd known there were submissives that could use a cop who wouldn't arrest them for bullshit infractions, that they could use someone on the inside down there. At the time, though, he'd had Steve and Natasha think about.

Supporting three people on a single source of income was his unfortunate reality, and while he's all for altruism he's also more practical than self-sacrificing when possible. He based his entire career on the premise of having two submissives to worry about. Then, just like that, Natasha was gone without a word, with only text messages on his phone to prove she ever existed here at all.

So yes, it crosses his mind to extend the offer.

He doesn't, though, only because of their first meeting. Broaching the subject as something to even consider had been shot down right from the jump, and whether he's more concerned with Will's pride or his own, can’t honestly say. Lips twitch for a second, the physical manifestation of stifling himself. He figures it’s unspoken, and even if it weren’t he’s obviously a god damn train’s worth of unresolved issues with his current subsmissive relationship alone. Not exactly an appealing prospect, he can’t imagine anybody would bid on shackling themselves to him or his situation.

The awkward silence lends them just enough time to slow to a halt at the bottom of Bucky’s apartment building, neatly swept and double-doored, presently uncharacteristically vacant at the front.

He sighs, and opts for another subject altogether: ]

Really don’t decorate this place for stalling, do they?

[ Not a pinball machine, interesting plant, or homeless person in sight to use as an excuse not to head up and deal with his problems. ]

[ It does hang in the air between them, the elephant that just crept up behind them.

Back at that first meeting, Will had meant to protect Bucky from himself. After their night together, after seeing further beneath the surface to the man within, and also after seeing the chaos Barnes already navigated, Will's position on the subject was changing. Enough that he could see himself asking, and is even now starting to compile a mental case for why it could work, without interfering with the tangled web that was Steve, Jack and TJ.

But the thoughts were still half formed, not ready for open discussion yet, and Bucky really needed to focus on Steve and that relationship first and foremost. At least for tonight.

As they stop in front of the building and it's time for the awkward pause, Will makes a show of glancing around, before he turns back. His hands are in the pockets of his trousers, removing the expectation of hugs or some other type of typical evening wrap up. But he does wear that small smile of his, to help make it clear that he enjoyed the drink, and if not the topics in the bar, the conversation on the walk home. ]

Maybe you should stop stalling? [ He said and didn't try to hide his pointed tone. Then ... on a whim, on one of those gut check, instinctive jumps of logic he was known for, Will added. ]

See if you can't sort something out, so if I get in trouble at the end of the next six weeks, I have somewhere to turn.

[ Frankly, the pockets thing is a really intuitive move on Will's part. There'd been a not insignificant portion of his mind devoted to puzzling out how exactly he was meant to end the encounter, what the appropriate social custom is these days in general let alone... how you're supposed to say goodbye to someone you slept with once, would like to sleep with again, just grabbed a drink with and talked extensively about the guy you're in love with and very much want to also fuck, while simultaneously wondering whether or not to enter a contractual relationship based on sexual dominance for convenience sake.

Do you, like, kiss on that or what?

Also incredibly intuitively, Will picks up the other half of Bucky's cognitive contemplation, and he can't help the rather wry comment: ]

Difficult profiles, huh?

[ Sure, pal, he sees you reading minds. He's not complaining, frankly so far it's been real convenient not to have to put some things into words. Usually only Steve's able to parse through his inscrutable expressions and occasional shortness of speech. Don't knock a good thing when it's working. ]

We'll call it five, make sure the paperwork has time to go through. I don't cut things down to the wire.

[ Enough time for Will to see if he can find someone he works with better than Bucky (though he thinks they've been remarkably in sync so far), or at the very least someone less complicated, with fewer additional commitments with the exact same face.

Plus that one really big piece of baggage shaped like a shield. ]

Hundred percent closure rate. [ Will responded, with a quick grin and even a duck of his eyes and blush on his cheek that suggested he was not a man who ever took credit for his accomplishments. As a rule he wasn't and had even scolded his class at the academy when they had applauded his efforts with Hobbs.

But Barnes was so far out of Will's league, Rogers even further, and Will felt the need to grasp at the rare accomplishment. It was a sad, tattered feather compared to the others, but a little peacocking all the same.

After all, that was what you did when he held a small hope of being invited back for another encounter. Actually, when he'd come out for the drink Will had wondered if just maybe he would be going home with Bucky tonight. But no. No not tonight.

He was already starting to move back and away, getting his bearings and then half turned back to nod his understanding of the timeline. Also to duck his head in gratitude that Bucky hadn't immediately shut him down. ]

Call it five.

Have a good night, Bucky.

[ There is no follow up, just a small, secretive smile and the silent slip into his building.

so, that went pretty well.

now for the hard part: god damn Steve. ]

[ Regardless of whatever Steve decides, Bucky is getting a little gift delivered to his apartment.

It is tattered, definitely second (hell probably eighth handed down) and has been stitched here and there. The left wing is missing, but a pen cap has been carefully stitched in its place, using the tie methods of a fly for fly fishing.

On top is a torn piece of paper with a hand written note. ]

"Plucky Ducky, Bucky"

I heard he was the next gen model.

-wg

Pluck Ducky, Bucky

I'm not sure if this is a punishment, a gift, or a threat.
I'm sorry / thank you / bring it?

[ 50% amused, 50% concerned. ]

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ic contact; duplicity

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cw: eye gouging

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cw: suicidal language

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Post Steve's Texting

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