Bucky Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shapethecentury) wrote2022-01-29 11:25 pm
shapethecentury) wrote2022-01-29 11:25 pm
Somewhere in Europe, Saturday FT
So that whole... voicemail thing, last week, had been a real fuckin' lapse of judgment, hadn't it? Bucky was done with Fandom, Fandom was done with him, and everyone was all the better for it.
Right?
Right.
Had to be.
But then, this week, there had been a voicemail on his phone. (His burner phone, the current number to which no one was supposed to have, on which there had never been a single voicemail until a week after he'd called Jesse --) He'd ignored it for a full half a day, not wanting to know, desperately wanting to know, and then he'd finally caved, and...
Wanda.
I know you're an adult and can do whatever you want, but could you let me know you're okay?
It had been stuck in his head for days, now. And not just because he'd listened to the message probably more times than would have been considered healthy. (Was anything he was doing now healthy? Had anything he'd ever done been that?) And yet he still hadn't replied back. No call, no voicemail, no letter. No carrier pigeon. Because it was better if he was just a ghost again. If he just faded away and everyone got back to their lives.
So why did he find himself sitting and staring at his phone again?
(Maybe there was something else he could do.)
[ooc: NFB, mostly establishy, but as with the last one, you can try your luck with the evil Fandom-to-burner connection for texts and calls!]
Right?
Right.
Had to be.
But then, this week, there had been a voicemail on his phone. (His burner phone, the current number to which no one was supposed to have, on which there had never been a single voicemail until a week after he'd called Jesse --) He'd ignored it for a full half a day, not wanting to know, desperately wanting to know, and then he'd finally caved, and...
Wanda.
I know you're an adult and can do whatever you want, but could you let me know you're okay?
It had been stuck in his head for days, now. And not just because he'd listened to the message probably more times than would have been considered healthy. (Was anything he was doing now healthy? Had anything he'd ever done been that?) And yet he still hadn't replied back. No call, no voicemail, no letter. No carrier pigeon. Because it was better if he was just a ghost again. If he just faded away and everyone got back to their lives.
So why did he find himself sitting and staring at his phone again?
(Maybe there was something else he could do.)
[ooc: NFB, mostly establishy, but as with the last one, you can try your luck with the evil Fandom-to-burner connection for texts and calls!]
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It’d taken some finangling with Barry’s 80s-to-00s tech, but at least she’d figured out the number it had come from. And… now she was wondering whether she should try to call back.
Her finger slipped.
That’s my excuse. … oh crap. It’s ringing. Shit. I should hang up. I--
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Well, buzzing, anyway. It was an insistent feeling in his hand as he stared at the screen, with that same mixture of a lot of cold dread and a tiny sliver of hope as he'd had when he'd been avoiding the voicemail.
He hesitated.
Then tapped to accept the call.
But said nothing. Another faint mechanical hum on the line.
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Jesse was quiet for a moment or two.
Then: "So, uh... slam the door twice if you're a killer fridge?"
Lame.
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And then, against his better judgment: "That's a new one."
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Rather than ask that question out loud, Jesse managed a completely-composed-sounding, "Not for me, unfortunately."
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He found himself falling quiet again. (Shouldn't have picked up in the first place, shouldn't have called.)
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"James," she said. "Are you okay?"
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"I shouldn't have called." A pause. "I'm sorry."
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Though not as much as, "I've been worried about you."
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Maybe she'd startled that out of him.
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"'S different," he muttered, a faintly defeated note to his voice, "this time."
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"How is it different?" Jesse asked.
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It was kind of funny.
He was the one saying it, and yet it felt like it sucked all the air out of the room he was in.
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Jesse thanked herself for her often-preternaturally steady voice. "Why?" she asked.
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Yeah.
That was all he had.
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Definitely sixth grade.
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"You don't know the things that can happen when I'm around."
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(Away from the phone, so he wouldn't hear it.)
"You've got me at a disadvantage there," she said, "Since you do know the things that can happen when I'm around, and they're not pretty."
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Did.
(Was there a difference?)
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Should I tell him?
"You don't know that much about what I do," she said. "And you haven't told me enough to make this sound like anything other than ominous paranoia."
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"No. And that's for good reason."
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"You were already worried about me."
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And neither would she, if he had anything to say about it.
(He should've hung up a long moment ago.)
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"You know, I was a ghost story for... most of the last century," he said, finally, sounding more tired than before. But mild. "I don't get caught."
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"Why?" Jesse asked instead.
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It wasn't a cop-out. (Entirely.) Bucky knew better than to talk about these things over the phone.
There was a faint rustling in the background. "Look, I'm sorry I called."
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This hurt, a lot more than he'd expected anything to.
"Goodbye," he said.
(That, too.)
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She hung up before he got a chance to. Petty, maybe. But it felt like time to be a little more in control of this.
(Control. Now there's a word.)
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This hideout was compromised, now.
(And he'd have to get rid of this phone.)