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WHO: OPEN
WHERE: Superjail
WHEN: Whenever
WARNINGS: N/A
SUMMARY: Bucky is in jail, people can visit him. Yes, my summaries suck.
FORMAT: Whatever people feel most comfortable with. I'm quicker with quicklogs!

He wasn't a stranger to the inside of a cell. He couldn't be, considering his line of work. It wasn't quite like they made out in the serials– tied up more often than not– but there were times Bucky figured he was a professional P.O.W. What could he say? It was easier to get into a place when they brought you inside all tidy.

This was different. This was more like those nights he spent in the brig 'cause he'd gotten drunk and hit a few too many people. Well, it wasn't like that at all, he knew that, he knew it, 'cept in the fact that he was there to do his penance instead of figuring a way to break out. Bucky thought those were the two different sorts of people stuck in prison. The kind who were spending every second thinking about leaving, and the kind who were spending every second thinking they deserved to be there. Maybe there were other kinds. People who were there for so long the being there had broken 'em. But Bucky hadn't been there long enough for that.

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Though there were official dates for these sorts of things, Donna had felt that this afternoon, at around two hours past noon, summer had come. It had come quite theatrically, too -- excitedly announced by the loud fraternizing of birds, and the flowers coming out to socialize in the most noticeable of aesthetics.

Donna wasn't certain it was her place to visit Bucky. She didn't want to feel imposing -- as if she was putting him in a position to react to an image of him being altered or tarnished in any way by someone who didn't even know him all that well. She hadn't even visited Jason when he was in prison.

But maybe it was because there was less baggage with this man that Donna felt more compelled to give him support. After all, she had missed his presence on the Network, which she was just getting used to.

She was pleased she had been allowed to visit, at least. The conditions could have been far worse.

When she was led to him, she was quiet, as if it were normal to expect someone like Bucky to break any silence with a smooth icebreaker. Her fingers stayed laced and locked in front of her, shoulders tense and betraying her deliberate, relaxed expression.

He didn't expect visitors, so he was surprised when the told him he had one. He'd figured it was Tom and he'd come to say some piece again. And Bucky didn't have the heart to turn him away, so he let everything happen despite his better judgment. And then it was someone else entirely who'd come to see him, someone a good deal better looking than Tom. Part of him was thinking he oughta be a gentleman, another part was realizing he didn't have a clue how that would be.

Mostly, he was just surprised.

But the more he though about Donna, and the type of person she was, the more he came round to thinking he really shouldn't be. There was a quality about her. Bucky wondered idly if she'd ever had a bad day, or if she'd just found out a way to wear them differently.

When Donna saw him, a warmth started with her smile and radiated out toward her body -- taut brow relaxing into something more affectionate and less wary, shoulders slumping lightly. Okay, so he wasn't going to break the ice.

"Longest game of hide-and-seek I've ever played."

"I wasn't really hiding." He takes a second to realize that's not true. "At least, I haven't been hiding recently. And I don't think they'll let you tag me, anyhow."

"You mean this isn't all about me?" Donna mocks surprise, before offering him a more helpless expression. She's so clueless about what to do and say in this situation, but the aimlessness of the interaction doesn't really bother her, somehow.

"Do they allow you books in here? Music?"

"I haven't asked, exactly." It was a prison, it wasn't supposed to be an enjoyable experience with creature comforts and the like. Truth be told, it wasn't much removed from how he usually lived— his was a spare existence.

"I guess books. They'd probably let you have those." His voice was flat, but patronizing. Bucky still didn't know what to make of the situation.

She felt undaunted by the situation, and by Bucky's tone. At the most, there was a creeping blanket of concern enveloping her chest, but she kept her warmer disposition, not allowing herself to feel bad about being essentially clueless as to how a prison in a City like this was run.

"Maybe I should bring some for you, sometime?" She thought about writing a letter to those in charge, about classes offered to prisoners and programs -- including book clubs, perhaps, that they could partake in. Which had been on her mind before, really, along with working with the mentally ill.

"And, um, do you know who's taking care of your bike?"

"I figured Tom could watch it. He oughta be— he should be out of the hospital right now." It was then Bucky realized he didn't have pockets to stuff his hands into. He'd forgotten to think about the books.

"You know why I'm here, right?"

"Okay, good. Because I really just came to check up on the motorcycle, not you." She said in a lighter tone, after he had asked the question, before folding her arms and nodding.

"Of course I do. Which is why I've been thinking of you a lot," she didn't want to sound strange in that regard, since she doubt she had crossed Bucky's mind other than perhaps an idle wondering here or there. "How are you feeling about that? I assumed because you were in the military..." She trailed off.

"That I know how to break out of prison?" He thought he could, if he was much given to it. He'd been locked up in fancier places than these.

"But what you really meant. That too." Cripes, why was he making jokes about it? It was something to be talked around, maybe. But not shrugged off.

Donna, however, wasn't going to worm him out of his comfort zone when she didn't feel entitled to do so -- she liked to consider herself a friend of Bucky's, somewhat, but he wasn't obligated to talk about the horrors of war or whatever with her.

Still, she wasn't afraid to let him know she cared.

"I don't mean to make light of what you did. I know you wouldn't even like that," Donna started with a more serious tone coursing her voice fluidly. "But I'm not going to dwell on it ... chances are you've done that enough for everyone. Circumstances, and all of that."

She gestures at Bucky, not really a particular part of him, but in a comfortable manner. "So why don't you tell me a meal you've really been craving lately? I feel like cooking for you."

"What? I don't really care about food." Which was true, he'd grown up mostly on stuff that came in cans or in mess halls. He was the exact opposite of particular. And what he said next, what he didn't mean to say, was, "Usually, when I kill people, I remember it. Because it seems like the only decent thing to do."

And that was the moment that quite a bit of her air of comfort was sucked out from around her by some ... vacuum of awkwardness. When she could not cook or take care of someone, she was left in a befuddled void of lost context. Her fingers tapped against each other, nervously, and she assumed a more shrinking posture, glancing off at some random dirt pattern on a nearby wall that she decided looked like a birthmark she had on her thigh.

Her gaze became more somber at his last remark. "It's hard enough to forget those things, even when we want to. But to actively remember it... it's respectful, though that has to be quite a burden."

She almost looked and felt shy now, which was kind of pathetic, and something she needed to shake off. As soon as possible. "Sorry, I haven't really had your experience. I didn't mean -- well," Donna fumbled as she tried to explain. "I didn't mean when I said not to dwell that you should just forget things and not care or something, but I meant there should only be a healthy amount of beating yourself up over things you can't change, and really, there's only so much you can do in here to redeem yourself aside from ruminating and thinking on it, it would be much better if you were a productive member in society. And gosh it's kind of cold in here, do they blast the air conditioning all day, hah..."

She already felt like this was failing.

Edited 2010-05-11 06:57 (UTC)

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not trying to redeem myself." The whole situation seemed sharp to him, sometimes. Not sharp, like a knife, like that whole string of imagery he was only occasionally trying not to dwell on. But sharp like a joke can be, like someone's sense of humor. It was always coming up and spilling over into sentences. Things his mind thought, funny things, tiny ironies he got the itch to say out loud. Sharp like that. Cutting. Which, Bucky supposed, was like a knife after all.

But with Donna here, he was trying his hardest to bite those thoughts out of his tongue. Because they were things she didn't need to hear or see. Not polite conversation, everybody knew that. The War was everywhere, back home, plastered on the sides of buildings and in homes with empty beds. You couldn't turn on the radio or walk into the theater without hearing all about it. But you never heard all about it. They never showed pictures of soldiers dying with their bellies full of shrapnel. It was impolite.

"I'm sorry," he said. Apologizing was polite, even if he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. "I s'pose I'm just used to the cold."

Relieved that her awkward ramble was answered with little bewilderment, she offered him a shrug and smiled, quelling some of her anxiety by meeting his eyes through the glass with a forced and mustered bout of conversational confidence. "I'll just wear a jacket the next time I come in!"

With that, she looked curious, as if she'd never even considered this question before -- not even in her mind. "...Do you know how long you're in here, for?"

"As long as they'll keep me." He had his doubts that it'd be very long, considering the questions they kept asking him and the number of cells they had. You'd think they'd appreciate a prisoner who wasn't testing the limits of the place or trying to call down an army of alien invaders or whathaveyou, but a lot of what you'd think isn't spot-on correct. Still, he was trying to stretch his time here out as long as possible.

"Oh," Donna's tone was understanding, though the expression on her face that followed immediately after had an influx of confusion flooding in. "Well, that's ... not very good to hear. I wanted to be able to see you more, but I guess I could always come down often."

"It's probably easier to figure out where I am if I stay in one place." Heh, that was a joke. Or he meant it to be, he thought.

"I doubt if they'll lemme stay that long, if you wanna know the truth."

"Can you be held accountable for ... well, I mean. Um--"

She stopped to consider her words more carefully, before deciding to abandon the statement altogether, smiling and scooting her chair in a bit closer to the glass separating them.

"Say, Bucky," Donna poked at the glass with the tip of her fingernail, keeping her eyes on his. "D'you think it's weird that I'm visiting you or something?"

"I'm not too surprised. Not sure what you're expecting to happen— but it doesn't shock me that you came."

She just seemed like one of those types. Which wasn't a sort he understood to well, to be honest. Bucky was a cynic, born and bred-up, and he was always banking on people to act in their own self-interest. But he knew not everyone was like that. He just wasn't completely sure why.

"What I'm expecting to hap--" She cut herself off, giving a forced look of anxiety. "Well, actually ... this is where I tell you that I need twenty bucks. But don't worry, I'll pay you back!"

She hoped this joke didn't go over bad.

Oh how she hoped.

"I, uh— that's a joke, right?" Bucky shook his head and laughed. It was a tired sound, but he hadn't been doing much laughing, lately. "Girls are weird."

The triumph that Donna felt shone throughout her expression, and it was something she couldn't reflect too deeply on, because when she did, it went straight to strange analogies. Such as a jock making the girl of his dreams giggle.

"You're just as weird, Bucky." She smiled, trying to keep the mood somewhat light. She wasn't sure if she was the person Bucky wanted it to get heavy with either -- or would allow it. "Sometimes I feel like we speak two different languages. But I don't mind, because you're such a swell guy."

A glance around where the setting of this conversation took place, and she suddenly felt a bit sheepish. Prison certainly didn't agree with her assessment of him. She wondered how his behavior factored in to parole possibilities.

"Have you ever tried out a rubix cube?"

It took Tom almost two weeks to screw up the courage to actually see him again. He'd figured that the moment he'd been told where Bucky was, he'd swoop in and shake some sense into him. In this mental scenario, Bucky had been out in the woods camping and he'd be gruff but grateful that Tom still wanted him to stand by him as a friend.

That was before the redheaded creepy woman had told him that Bucky was in jail. Before that conversation, he'd had it all worked out in his head. It would have been something near heroic.

But, after being escorted to a bank of seats with a wall of glass between them and a telephone to talk through, Tom was feeling less than triumphant for having found Bucky. If he was in jail, staying in jail, it was because he wanted to be there.

He leaned his cane against the side of the chair, sitting down.

"How'd you find me?"

That was the first thing he could think of to say. Well, maybe not the first thing, but the first thing that seemed halfway sensible. Bucky winced a bit, to see the cane. He hadn't forgotten, but it was something to be reminded, all the same.

"That creepy lady's got your number, Mr. B.," Tom said simply, shrugging. He massaged just above his knee, where the ghost ache settled. He could walk now just fine, even if he got sore and achy from pushing himself too hard. He was lucky, all the professionals said. "S'good thing, too. I wouldn't have thought to look for you here."

"That creepy lady?" It took him a while to figure, because there were a fair number of things he'd lost track of lately. And it gave him something new to think about, so maybe he latched onto with a bit too much force.

"Red hair. Real tight black getup. She knows you, I guess. Future you, at least." Tom scrubbed a hand through his hair, a nervous tic of a motion. Trying to think of what to say was difficult. He was no wordsmith on his best day and Bucky was stubborn.

He could give---and had given---him all kinds of forgiveness and it still wouldn't be enough. Tom didn't want it shoved back at him again.

"Wait, hang on, you saw her? I didn't want to know what she looked like."

He clearly wasn't happy, but he was thinking about something besides the number of cracks in the concrete floor and how heavy or light a thing death could be, which made words come a good sight easier.

"Y'know what? Me either. I coulda gone without knowing what she looked like, but she's the only reason I didn't get another bullet in the heart." There was an edge to his tone, a banked anger that still had smoldering roots underneath all the dust he kicked over it. He wanted to be angry. Maybe Bucky'd take anger easier than he'd take the rest of the knot of emotions he had in the pit of his stomach.

"No, no, you don't understand." That hit a note of genuine discomposure. And Tom was still talking about the Creeper Lady and so he was clearly missing the point, and Bucky was taken aback by the anger. 'Cause he thought maybe Tom'd like the chance to talk about something else, too, or— he wasn't sure what, exactly. But no, he'd come here all dead set on talking about bullets and the places they wind up. Well, fine by him.

"What don't I understand?" he asked, brows beetling together. He leaned back in his chair, mouth pressed into the firmest of lines. The anger was the easiest thing to dig his claws into and stick with, the easiest thing to process. If he thought about how goddamn sad it made him to see Bucky on the other side of the glass and atoning for his sins like a real martyr, his heart would probably deflate in his chest and this conversation would fall apart. He hadn't mustered up all this resolve to see him just to act like a runny-nosed little girl about it all.

"She's-- she's my girlfriend. In the future." At least, Bucky was pretty sure that's what it was. Dames had changed, but they hadn't changed that much. "I don't like talking about her or thinking about her or knowing about her 'cause it feels like cheating. Like it's unfair to Gretchen, even though..."

Bucky let himself follow the edge of the countertop. If you looked from the right angle, you could trick your eyes into believing the line of it went on and on forever. A white prison countertop, running a ring of the whole damn world.

"Aw, hang it." There were an awful lot of things in this world he just didn't want. And he figured there were some stories Tom felt the same way about.

"Your girlfriend?"

Tom's voice hit an embarrassing crack, the kind of prepubescent screech that he should have left behind years ago. He leaned into the counter, almost dropping the scratched-up phone, and resisted the urge to toss all the made-up boundaries aside. Him and Bucky, they didn't do jail. The minute they got into a lock-up, they were already figuring a way out. They were trained for it, Bucky especially. It felt all twisted-up and stupid to be sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair holding the phone when he knew that it'd take him and Bucky no time at all to blast their way out of this place.

He was thinking about it without even realizing that he was thinking about it. Judging the security he hadn't consciously scoped out as he walked in, remembering where cameras had and hadn't been, figuring how hot he'd have to burn to scoop his way through the barrier. He didn't have Bucky's head for numbers, but he still knew that their chances were pretty fair. They could bust out. They could go. There wasn't a damn thing keeping them in the City.

And it'd be just like old times.

Lowering his voice, he took a deep breath and repeated his question.

"She's your girl?"

"No! She isn't! That's the problem."

She was from the future, did he just miss that part? Jesus, he'd figured Tom'd know better than anyone about wanting no part of the future. That was the place gum cost more than a dollar. And the place where canes grew and bullets got stuck in legs and nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.

Tom's expression scrunched and flattened. He looked down, more interested in the creases in his slacks than making eye contact. Seemed like neither of them could stand full-on eye contact for more than a few seconds here and there.

"Christ, Buck, this whole thing's fouled up," he said tiredly, and felt the enormity of what this whole thing entailed deep down in his chest. "All of it. I figured the war was bad---and don't you get me wrong, it is---but this? It's all new kinds of bad."

The anger was draining out of him again, edged out by something more complicated. His jaw worked, but no words came immediately.

"I wanna take you back. You shouldn't be here."

"Well, I don't want to leave."

That wasn't true. He wanted to leave this decade real bad. Not because it'd make anything better-- at this point it seemed like the only way Bucky could go was worse-- but it might make things right. If there was such a thing. Mostly, he figured that if it were 1945, he wouldn't need to think so much.

But it was well out of Raymond's power to get him back when, so he certainly wasn't going any kind of where.

"They're not gonna keep you long," he said in a voice that was choked and tight. He hadn't anticipated being brushed off that easy or that thoroughly. He didn't want to leave? Of course he didn't want to leave. "You sure you wanna stay here and be bunkmates with that fat goose stepper Major? Circumstances may be looking damn bleak, but you ain't that man. Rotting in here 'til you do turn into that man is stupid."

It was the closest Tom got to admitting that yes, yes, that man with the ugly metal arm and uglier eyes was Mr. James Buchanan Barnes. It was the closest he could get without bile rising in the back of his throat.

"If I were in here when I did, then maybe you'd be able to walk right now."

They didn't feel like well-considered words, those ones, they didn't come out after a pause and ruminations. But they were what he'd been thinking every passing moment that he'd been here, so it wasn't too unnerving to hear them aloud.

That is the single most uncomfortable truth to ever be shoved in his face. That was really something to say, seeing as war was nothing but uncomfortable truths.

Tom felt claustrophobic again, breathing coming about as naturally as if he were doing it underwater. It was the truth, the worst truth, and he couldn't get away from that. It was too slick. He couldn't get a foothold in the issue to argue from.

"I can walk," he said finally. "What happened happened, but I'm healed."

"Because you're lucky and...someone saved you. Rikki came back, but other people don't. How many do you reckon there are, Tom? How many bodies no one's ever gonna find?"

He was looking at Tom now. Straight-on looking at him. And he wasn't sure if he was trying to push him away or pull him in closer or what the point of all of this was, except maybe just to say something. His hands were sure, pressed against the table, palms wide. His voice wasn't.

"I don't know. Christ, I don't remember a thing."

Tom didn't look away. Maybe he would have any other time---Bucky was one of the only men he knew who could make warm brown eyes look that frosty---but this moment had weight. It was important, even if it was with a plastic phone and wall between them.

"And how many planes have I shot outta the sky? How many bodies in the war? The only difference I'm seeing is that you did it for the wrong side and don't remember any of it. I ain't giving you a blank check for what you did, but I'm just---I'm sayin' it's complicated. It's complicated and we probably won't ever suss it out or fix it. But I didn't think you were the type to just give up on yourself."

"Are you seriously gonna tell me it's the same thing? Because if that's the tack you're keen on, you might as well just quit." He shook his head. "I'm not trying to fix anything. I'm trying to keep the unfixable from happening again. It's about the only thing I can do."

"So you're just gonna quit living?"

He was almost yelling at this point, smoke curling up past his collar as his neat white shirt began to darken into a caramel color. "I'm gonna forgive you, I'm gonna help you, I'm gonna---I'm gonna put it all on the line 'cause you're my friend and I thought that meant something!"

Some part of Tom knew that Bucky was right. This was safest. This was the only thing that could be done. He was being so, so selfish, but didn't he deserve something? All he did was give. His friendship with Bucky was one of the only things that'd kept his head above water since Pearl Harbor, since Russia, since coming to this damn depressing future.

"If you think that that metal-armed son of a bitch couldn't get out of this joint if he put his mind to it, you're fooling yourself. You're better than that, Barnes, and he's better than you. If you're going to sit in here and rot, you'd---"

Tom took a deep gulping breath. He had to calm down or they'd throw him out but he didn't want to control himself. He wanted to shake sense into Bucky, wanted to burn down anything that sat between them. "You'd best believe I'm not letting you do this alone. We're a team, and I've got certain problems with leaving friends behind. You can't get rid of me. I won't stand for it."

"Nah, I know I could get out of here. But not before someone else could stop me, I don't think. It'd take time. And people know what to look for, now." This was a prison especially for people who'd normally waltz outta prison easy. So that he was resting easy with.

"But about the other thing. Quitting living. That was always the deal, wasn't it? Not what the Japs do, running at ships with manned planes. But, the service is still the service. I reckon when I signed up it was just 'cause, well, I'd never thought of anything else. And Steve'd just go on and on about America, and the good fight, and how this was some noble thing, we'd been called to. All the stuff I wasn't much inclined to listen to. That I'd heard dozens of times but knew was just crap. But y'know, it isn't. It's...it's a sight more'n crap. And lately I've just been turning it over and over in my mind. What the hell does it mean, when they call it the service? Why am I doing this? Why have I been the person I've been?"

He paused and ran his tongue across his lips. "I think about it and what I came up with, was, so other people wouldn't have to. And criminy, if I can save lives by staying in jail, then hang it, I'm staying in jail."

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