[Bucky doesn’t realize he’s gripping the edges of the porcelain sink (??? dis ok????) until part of it breaks off in his left hand. Whoops. He glances toward the doorway and places the chunk carefully into the sink and sighs, turning to lean back against the sink, digging his palms against his closed eyes. He’d been able to tuck one knife into a thigh holster but he felt too bare without the other, still left out in the uh, glass-and-blood pile. Less than ideal situation.
Still, he can’t focus on that feeling when Kira’s words are rushing through his brain, throbbing like a headache behind his eyes but worse. Like...but deeper, somehow, locked inside without a key, something pulling at the core of him. The face from the museum, not of James Barnes, but…
He swallows hard against the pounding in his temple, pays no attention to the way his voice comes out in a sneer mirrored on his lips.]
What gives you the right to call him a dumbass? Acting without thinking is easier than you’d like to admit, but of course, you know that.
[Something protective rising like bile from the bottom of his esophagus makes him feel...he doesn’t know, but feeling anything is a feeling he's feeling rather welcoming to lately.
He smells the burn of a cigarette, thinks of how long it’s been since he’s smelled that. It brings back the feel of mud caked on his skin, explosions; his head hurts more; wondering if it’d be his last--
His mind returns to the list of places tucked away in his pocket, scribbled in half-Cyrillic script, half-Latin alphabet. Eyes peeled for the faces he can remember best from the museum. He wishes he could draw to be able to sketch them before they’re too fuzzy to recall well enough, remembers the feel of graphite slick on his fingers but not… not his own, he doesn’t feel artistic. That damned almost nauseating feeling of familiarity in the back of his mind… he clears his throat, steps out of the bathroom to stare - just stare - at Kira, gaze guarded and careful.]
Looking out for number one’s harder when I’m a little fuzzy on who exactly number one is.
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I did most of this during GoT damn even I'm impressed
16/6/14 02:29 (UTC)(??? dis ok????)until part of it breaks off in his left hand. Whoops. He glances toward the doorway and places the chunk carefully into the sink and sighs, turning to lean back against the sink, digging his palms against his closed eyes. He’d been able to tuck one knife into a thigh holster but he felt too bare without the other, still left out in the uh, glass-and-blood pile. Less than ideal situation.Still, he can’t focus on that feeling when Kira’s words are rushing through his brain, throbbing like a headache behind his eyes but worse. Like...but deeper, somehow, locked inside without a key, something pulling at the core of him. The face from the museum, not of James Barnes, but…
He swallows hard against the pounding in his temple, pays no attention to the way his voice comes out in a sneer mirrored on his lips.]
What gives you the right to call him a dumbass? Acting without thinking is easier than you’d like to admit, but of course, you know that.
[Something protective rising like bile from the bottom of his esophagus makes him feel...he doesn’t know, but feeling anything is a feeling he's feeling rather welcoming to lately.
He smells the burn of a cigarette, thinks of how long it’s been since he’s smelled that. It brings back the feel of mud caked on his skin, explosions; his head hurts more; wondering if it’d be his last--
His mind returns to the list of places tucked away in his pocket, scribbled in half-Cyrillic script, half-Latin alphabet. Eyes peeled for the faces he can remember best from the museum. He wishes he could draw to be able to sketch them before they’re too fuzzy to recall well enough, remembers the feel of graphite slick on his fingers but not… not his own, he doesn’t feel artistic. That damned almost nauseating feeling of familiarity in the back of his mind… he clears his throat, steps out of the bathroom to stare - just stare - at Kira, gaze guarded and careful.]
Looking out for number one’s harder when I’m a little fuzzy on who exactly number one is.