capeandcowllogs | here is a title

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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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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?"

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