[ After that disastrous press conference, they’d been hustled out stunned and a little shell-shocked, accompanied by clamouring yells of reporters and the flash-pop of cameras; maybe one of Bucky’s least favourite things, the bright lights always feeling like they were on the verge of awakening something else within him.
The supposed New Avengers have been stashed in the lobby of an office building repurposed as a makeshift crisis center. (Not everyone survived the day, despite their best efforts: debris was flying everywhere. Those helicopters went down, and their pilots didn’t have anywhere safe to come back to.) The Russians are huddled on the other side of the room, conferring with each other; Shostakov looks completely overjoyed. There’s a specialised medic examining Starr and Robertson, making sure they’re physically okay, their augmented abilities not chewing them up from the inside. Walker doesn’t look much the worse for wear; the benefits of being a supersoldier. They still give each other a wide berth.
Bucky mostly feels empty. His body still aches from the brief fight earlier; it’s been a while since he went toe-to-toe with someone who could thrash him so easily. But above all, the day feels surreal, dream-like, untethered from reality. He keeps glancing to the corners and waiting for the shadows to grow and lengthen and swallow the room anew.
He excuses himself and moves over to the side hallway, by the restrooms. He’s an old-fashioned guy, he still doesn’t really prefer texts over the assurance of hearing a voice on the other end of the line. And when the chips are down, there’s really only one person he wants to hear from.
So he calls Sam Wilson. Waits for him to answer, his heart thudding hollow in his chest; he knows the other man probably caught the breaking news, the attack on the city, the eventual press conference. Once he picks up: ]
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post-thunderbolts | we’re fixin it
The supposed New Avengers have been stashed in the lobby of an office building repurposed as a makeshift crisis center. (Not everyone survived the day, despite their best efforts: debris was flying everywhere. Those helicopters went down, and their pilots didn’t have anywhere safe to come back to.) The Russians are huddled on the other side of the room, conferring with each other; Shostakov looks completely overjoyed. There’s a specialised medic examining Starr and Robertson, making sure they’re physically okay, their augmented abilities not chewing them up from the inside. Walker doesn’t look much the worse for wear; the benefits of being a supersoldier. They still give each other a wide berth.
Bucky mostly feels empty. His body still aches from the brief fight earlier; it’s been a while since he went toe-to-toe with someone who could thrash him so easily. But above all, the day feels surreal, dream-like, untethered from reality. He keeps glancing to the corners and waiting for the shadows to grow and lengthen and swallow the room anew.
He excuses himself and moves over to the side hallway, by the restrooms. He’s an old-fashioned guy, he still doesn’t really prefer texts over the assurance of hearing a voice on the other end of the line. And when the chips are down, there’s really only one person he wants to hear from.
So he calls Sam Wilson. Waits for him to answer, his heart thudding hollow in his chest; he knows the other man probably caught the breaking news, the attack on the city, the eventual press conference. Once he picks up: ]
Hey. Sooo, uh… I’ve got good news and bad news.