in the midnight hour I can feel your power

[notreadytocomply]

(Prompt: 02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.)

---

If Bucky were being honest with himself, the reason he's still awake would be the memories come to gather at the window of his mind in dark, foggy silhouettes against a backdrop of screams. Luckily he's lying to himself and blaming his rumbling stomach -- which is true, but not the real reason for the season.

Sleeping never comes easily for him when not induced behind glass sparkling with cryogenic mist, and tonight is no exception.

So Bucky shuffles off to the kitchen at 2:14 a.m. in pursuit of a midnight snack. The shitty apartment is eerily quiet, no sirens in the distance for once. For a moment it feels too out of place, as if Bucky were looking at the scene from afar--

But then he comes back to himself just as his hip bumps the handle of a pan sitting on the edge of the sink -- of all places, why couldn't the culprit (Bucky) just put it two inches farther into the sink? -- and

CLANG!

Bucky sets his jaw, ready for the inevitable oncoming reaction waiting to burst through the door in a flurry of fifteen-year-old spunk.

Comments

[notreadytocomply]

Bucky blinks, a little speechless at her playfulness. It's still not something he's quite used to again yet. Someone not looking at him in fear or apprehension...or in control. But then, he can't help but laugh.

"Not into the whole Hansel and Gretel thing. Kinda morbid, don't you think?"

He folds his arms over his broad chest.

"Where'd you learn all that anyway? Witch school?"

It's nice to have a companion who can cook or bake, at least. He could do it, but really has more important things to worry about, more that weighs on his mind.

[witchplz]

She turns her nose up at him.

"There's no such thing-- and that's also cliche as hell. On behalf of all the witches who have been made fun of for warts, apologize or get ready to cry."

But just as easily as Rahzel threatens, as easily as each breath in her tiny frame, she curls her fingers around his forearm and tugs him towards their makeshift "living room". Living in the sense of its lived in as hell, with clothes everywhere and a tiny television set.

"You don't have to be mindless to get the same exchange-- that's what television is for."

[notreadytocomply]

Bucky pulls his arm away.

"Not in the mood for tv."

The same mind-numbing shit day in and day out, she isn't kidding there. More than that, news reports he didn't want to think about.

Nah, he'd already had enough of shit he didn't want to think about for the night.

"Why don't I just take a walk, kid? I'll be back by the time the brownies are done."

[witchplz]

One hand on her hip, the other snakes around his hand again.

"I don't think so-- I am not going to be responsible if you get lost and miss out on the brownies. Lost in your head. We'll both go for a walk."

Rahzel's being bossy, she knows, she knows its selfish to not give him time to himself...but on a night, a morning like this, she just can't leave him alone.

[notreadytocomply]

It's really goddamned annoying, being tailed around - more like put on a leash - by a kid. It certainly doesn't help matters of him trying to get his head on straight, not when so much of what he's found has been so inconclusive.

Why can't she just take the hint?

"Why? Do you want to burn the apartment down? One of us has to stay, but I know that I can't."

He sighs, a little too shaky.

"Not right now, anyway."

[witchplz]

She's stubborn. Too stubborn, definitely. She just....feels wrong. Wrong for leaving him alone, even if they don't have this long talk.

"Let's go. Let's go outside."

She's tugging at him gently, mouth screwed tight into a line.

"Lets talk to the stars."

[notreadytocomply]

"What makes you think I want to talk, either?"

That's exactly why he wanted the walk. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to talk or feel, just wants to feel the earth beneath his feet, feel the air around him. Not some stifling apartment air, even if it smells chocolatey. He's tired of talking about everything he doesn't remember. The things he doesn't but should, and the things he can't forget but desperately wants to.

"You talk to 'em. It's your specialty, anyway."

[witchplz]

Tug, tug, shove shove. Step by step, she has him steadily moving towards the door and away from the delicious smell in the oven. For someone so stubborn he hasn't knocked her away yet. Hasn't quite told her to fuck off.

Of course it won't be pretty for him if he does.

"That's fine, I will. But I sure hope you aren't calling me some sort of space cadet....and being stereotypical to witches everywhere." There's a halfway warning look on her face when she pries the door open, the cool air from outside immediately arches across her face.

[notreadytocomply]

"What, you mean you don't ride your broom in the night sky? Disappointing."

He can't resist a half-grin at that. The air brings some of him back to earth, roots him to the present (whatever it is that they're making of the present, anyway). Being out here helps the names and dates and the bitter taste of blood clear from his mind.

"Why the brownies?"

He knows, after all, that he'll never get an answer if he asks why she's here for him at all.

[witchplz]

For a moment it appears as though she's seriously considering giving him a pinch. With nails. Baby blue eyes narrow as she thinks it over. But instead, she turns her face to the wind, lets it ruffle her hair.

"Of course not-- I don't want to fly into a plane and have to lift it up to safety." Like that makes the most sense.

Why the brownies. Why, why, why. Naturally, there's something underneath the underneath there, something he longs for.

"Because--" Rahzel says, her gaze shifting, "they're part of the goodness in this world. Everyone could use 'em."

[notreadytocomply]

A likely story. Well, if she can lift a plane to safety then they've got something in common (probably...he hasn't actually ever tested this idea, but it's not out of the question).

Goodness in the world is certainly something hard to come by these days, Bucky thinks, so maybe brownies are one of those a little goes a long way kind of things. It did bring a touch of home to him...but the problem is home isn't anywhere now.

"Yeah but," he stops to find the Big Dipper; at least that hasn't changed in all these years, "I'm surprised you didn't yell more."

[witchplz]

Now Rahzel offers him a grin, bumps her shoulder with his. It's nice to see him enjoying this moment, finding something good out of it, even if it's just for a moment.

She doesn't know everything (bit by bit, she'd agreed to show her cards if he did too), can only make assumptions on the pieces....but the picture is telling.

"Do you want me to? Are you that kind of man, Bucky? Who knew you were a stickler for that~ The old ladies downstairs will be shocked."

[notreadytocomply]

"Don't tell the old ladies downstairs anything," he shoots her a glare. "They're already in my business enough. Did you put 'em up to trying to shave me?"

He runs careful fingers over his more-than-stubble. He wouldn't put it past her...

"We'll see how they taste, then I'll decide if you should stick with the brownies or the yelling. Long as you don't turn me into a frog with a metal leg, I can deal with either."

"Dealing with" Rahzel is certainly a tsun way of putting that, Bucky. She probably doesn't know how much her presence has, bit by bit, let a little sun into the room. It's still too dim to make out more than shapes, but it's there, a little brighter than before.

[witchplz]

As if her grin could get any bigger...there it goes, practically splitting her face. Things are looking up. Arms raised high, she stretches for the stars.

Good, maybe he'll shave one of these days.

"If you don't want that to happen, you'd better take care of it. Or hell, let me do it. I'll even give you a discount, via Salon du Heat."

Saying it aloud, the remembrance of that phrase, turns her smile into something subdued. Softer.

"I wouldn't turn you into a frog. I'll turn you into a peanut." How giving.

[notreadytocomply]

Dooooon't count on it. Just because he's mentioned the possibility doesn't mean it's a probability yet. Her stretching makes him realize how long it's been for him too, so he does, muscles working and joints moving (one benefit of super serum - no cracking and creaking joints).

"How generous of you," he snorts. "A discount like relieving me of groceries duty this week? That'd be nice."

He can smell the baking brownies and his stomach rumbles in protest. He nudges her in the side.

"You can turn me into anything as long as I can eat first."

[witchplz]

Mouth buttoned into a pleased line, she turns to him, one hand on her hip.

"So you can get out of arguing with Vani this week? I'd never keep you star crossed bros apart," her hand folds against her chest while a cheeky smile crosses her face. It's good for him, to have to haggle with the real world again.

Cheer lightened, she nudges him right back and turns back towards the door, hand held out for him.

"Duly noted. Even peanuts have to have full tummies."

[notreadytocomply]

Then the scowl is back on Bucky's face quicker than it left.

"I'm not paying forty leu for a loaf of bread, and Vani can shove it if he thinks otherwise."

I mean, forty leu? Ridiculous. Bucky can't remember paying more than eight cents for bread in the thirties, but along with everything else from that time, it seems like a story he read in one of the novels he's picked up from used books vendors around. It turns out being on the lam means lots of time on one's hands.

And lots of weirdly vague memories like the price of bread.

Even if some of that time is spent entertaining (or being entertained by/beat up by/verbally accosted by) a fifteen-year-old ball of spunk.

"We'll see how full I get. Depends on the brownie."

[witchplz]

This is when Rahzel's eyes nearly pop out of her head. "Forty?! What the hell-- is he trying to give the government what they want? Slaves to the nation? I ought to shove that bread up his nose."

So much for that romance-- it appears the teenager no longer approves of this joining. She could make bread, hell! They'd better find another place or else she just might...

Sighing, Rahzel takes his hand and leads him inside.

"You're gonna looove these, trust me!" She beams over her shoulder.

[notreadytocomply]

He laughs as he thinks of what a sight that would be and he unconsciously squeezes her hand this time. Feels a little warm in his chest, a familiar and kind feeling.

"You got a way with words."

I did too, once.

"Middle piece only. And milk's gotta be ice-cold, no lukewarm."

The last part is more to himself as he pulls out a glass, but he stares down into it, fridge still closed. It feels almost too familial, makes him feel out of place even among someone who's taken him under wing.

[witchplz]

Rahzel's grin widens, a full 100% watt smile that lights up her face. Something warm and joyful fills her chest, like a balloon that might burst at any second.

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Mr. Buckwheat."

Whirling around, she opens the fridge back up to fetch the milk, drops it down at his elbow. After a moment of watching him, Rahzel pours him some. Another moment of watching him silently, expression open. Not expectant, just steady. Patient.

And then, as if remembering:

"Ah, the brownies!"

In another whirlwind, she scurries to the oven.

[notreadytocomply]

Maybe it'll help him forget the shadows that have begun to creep in on the very distant sides of his memory, either that or pick out something light, something to help.

It takes a while for her words to reach him, like a verbal telegraph. He doesn't notice the grip he's got on the glass is unusually white-knuckled.

"Buckwheat...? I don't know 'bout that. Well, the Mr. can stay. I am your elder, after all. One who aged really well."

And maybe he flashes a ghost of a half-cocked grin he proudly worn in 1939. More progress, even if he's lame as hell.

[witchplz]

They're piping hot, maybe a little crispy around the edges, but still pretty damn perfect. The smell is delicious, the steam that rises from the pan she deposits on the counter is heavenly, as well. Rahzel takes another glass from their meager provisions and sets it down, pouring herself a glass.

"Buckwheat the Third, then."

That smile...its almost hard to watch it cross his face. Almost painful, like something from worlds away. But he's trying, that flash in his eyes cements it. True life.

"I'll age one hundred times better than you when I'm a cute little old grandma."

[notreadytocomply]

Bucky drops into one of the shabby chairs at the kitchen table covered in newspapers.

"Buckwheat the Third. Better spy name than Зимний Солдат, I guess."

This is kind of his third reincarnation, every time a different Bucky.

"Hit me. Let's see whatcha got." He holds out a napkin expectantly.

[witchplz]

Her nose wrinkles in confusion at the phrase, the jumble of vowels she isn't familiar with. She says it under her breath, curious, but doesn't push it.

"What's that one? Boy band hair?"

Nevermind about not pushing it. Rahzel releases a put upon sigh and rolls those baby blues.

"While it's still piping hot? I refuse to listen to you complain if you burn your pretty mouth. Vani will cry."

[notreadytocomply]

"What."

His blank stare should be enough but something about boy band hair makes him run a hand through his. Is his considered boy band hair? What the hell even is boy band hair?

"Why would I complain? It'll heal before you'd even know. Not really patient when it comes to brownies."

He doesn't explain how. It's weird enough living it still, after all this time.