[ They say that war never changes. Soldiers, by extension, are like bricks in a wall miles high and hundreds of years old, faded in different colors as time and weather has shaped them, but all shaped the same, molded the same, placed the same, patched the same, supporting the same system. War has changed from bow and arrow to gun to nuclear weapons, from hand to hand combat and trenches to technologies so advanced and mind-bogglingly complex Bucky can't even begin to comprehend some of the more abstract aspects to it.
But he will always recognize another brick.
New York has evolved since his time there as a young man, before the draft, before he served, before decades moved it and aliens shaped it. Skyscrapers now feel a little more like star scrapers, and elevators? Well, they play the same lounge music they always have, but it's a little clearer and there are... a lot more buttons. The one he steps into has over thirty, and only one other occupant. Regardless, he keeps the brim of his hat low and his collar high to hide a face that was a mugshot only a few months ago, still technically on the run though the pressure has faded.
He presses 28, and slips silently into the back corner, collapsed in on himself as casually as he can manage. Years of paranoia and a weaponized mind won't let him keep his eyes to himself, though, and he scans the other occupant keenly, subtly.
Another brick in the wall. He can spot them, he's been trained to, and it puts him on edge. Something else, though, something else in his countenance seems familiar, unsettling. He drops his eyes, a part of him tries to tell himself that it's all a product of PTSD, another part tells him he needs to bolt.
[ Americans. Always staring. That's how he can tell. That and the fact that he's in New York where it's already a safe bet.
Prior leans heavily against the railing of the elevator and tries to ignore the other occupant. His eyes focus on the buttons — the many multitudes of choices — and much to his dismay, he sees that they're heading for the same floor. Wonderful.
The car shudders into life and Billy feels an unpleasant tug on his guts, one that suggests that he's going to say something when he very pointedly knows he shouldn't. His short time in this city had been fraught with confrontations and while one more might not make a difference in the long run, he tries to remind himself that these people aren't the enemy. Not any more than anyone else, at least.
Sighing, he turns and presses his back to the wall, blue eyes shifting to look to the other man. He's nothing if not intense in his need to fade away. ]
The incognito look's popular, I hear.
[ Prior's accent is strong — too strong for him to have been in the United States very long. In fact, everything about him suggests he's not at all acclimated. A sigh slips out and he takes a cigarette from an inside pocket, placing it between his lips. With a thin smirk, he tips his head toward the "no smoking" sign. ]
Do you think they really mean it? I could go for a deportation right about now.
[ Truth be told, Bucky's not the best at going undercover. The man walked through broad daylight with all the confidence in the world because he'd been wearing a hat, hell, he hadn't even bothered to cut his damn hair since the last time he was seen. Incognito was not the middle name of any of his aliases. He'd never had to worry about it at his other job (a pleasant if bitter title given to a gruesome time), and it was a skill he never practiced, which figures because it's the one thing that might actually be useful in his everyday life now.
Bucky's eyes snap up warily when he's addressed, narrow suspiciously, an undeniable wariness in his posture. Bolt and Attack are at odds, and with such equal force that they cancel each other out and for a moment he stands tense and frozen, waiting for the scale to tip in either direction. In this tentative moment of control, he doesn't glance at the sign. Doesn't take his eyes off of his cell-mate.
Relax, says an authoritative voice in his mind. This is smalltalk. It sounds like someone he used to be, once upon a time when he used to be charming, an unfamiliar characteristic now that he's trying to tap back into. He was a person once, and a pretty good one at that, however long ago. ]
New York not welcoming enough for you?
[ He responds dryly, his voice flat and decidedly uncharismatic. Take a deportation, then, says the New Yorker in him, but he keeps that inside. ]
[ The elevator stops and the doors open again. A man joins them, presses the number for a few floors up, and then adjusts his suit as he settles in the middle of the elevator just a hair too close for Prior's comfort level. They exchange a look — the newcomer's expression of disdain meets with Billy's challenging lack of concern — and then the moment passes.
Moving away from the door, away from the buttons and the stuffy suit, Prior settles nearer to Barnes. ]
Not welcoming enough? [ He laughs. ] No, it's great. Did you know they'll deliver prossies right to your room?
[ Their new companion looks back over his shoulder, sneering in offense. Prior merely shrugs at him. God bless America. ]
He dips his head to look at his cigarette as he rolls it between his fingers, his intention to smoke it already gone. It's all an act, isn't it? A way to hide those parts of him that aren't comfortable anywhere anymore. This time, when he looks at Bucky he's holding on to an apology, but it's not as well-hidden as he'd like. ]
My name's Prior. [ He offers his hand. ] Billy Prior.
[ The elevator door opens, the man in the suit leaves, and they're alone once again. ]
[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Prior has no such thoughts of potential aggression, no striking instinct to question motives, but it's not exactly because he's a trusting individual. What he senses in Bucky is familiar, at least at the roots, although he'd never outright accuse anyone of having pedestrian origins; being from near the bottom himself, it's not hard to recognize. ]
I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]
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no subject
But he will always recognize another brick.
New York has evolved since his time there as a young man, before the draft, before he served, before decades moved it and aliens shaped it. Skyscrapers now feel a little more like star scrapers, and elevators? Well, they play the same lounge music they always have, but it's a little clearer and there are... a lot more buttons. The one he steps into has over thirty, and only one other occupant. Regardless, he keeps the brim of his hat low and his collar high to hide a face that was a mugshot only a few months ago, still technically on the run though the pressure has faded.
He presses 28, and slips silently into the back corner, collapsed in on himself as casually as he can manage. Years of paranoia and a weaponized mind won't let him keep his eyes to himself, though, and he scans the other occupant keenly, subtly.
Another brick in the wall. He can spot them, he's been trained to, and it puts him on edge. Something else, though, something else in his countenance seems familiar, unsettling. He drops his eyes, a part of him tries to tell himself that it's all a product of PTSD, another part tells him he needs to bolt.
He stands rigid and silent and aware. ]
no subject
Prior leans heavily against the railing of the elevator and tries to ignore the other occupant. His eyes focus on the buttons — the many multitudes of choices — and much to his dismay, he sees that they're heading for the same floor. Wonderful.
The car shudders into life and Billy feels an unpleasant tug on his guts, one that suggests that he's going to say something when he very pointedly knows he shouldn't. His short time in this city had been fraught with confrontations and while one more might not make a difference in the long run, he tries to remind himself that these people aren't the enemy. Not any more than anyone else, at least.
Sighing, he turns and presses his back to the wall, blue eyes shifting to look to the other man. He's nothing if not intense in his need to fade away. ]
The incognito look's popular, I hear.
[ Prior's accent is strong — too strong for him to have been in the United States very long. In fact, everything about him suggests he's not at all acclimated. A sigh slips out and he takes a cigarette from an inside pocket, placing it between his lips. With a thin smirk, he tips his head toward the "no smoking" sign. ]
Do you think they really mean it? I could go for a deportation right about now.
no subject
Bucky's eyes snap up warily when he's addressed, narrow suspiciously, an undeniable wariness in his posture. Bolt and Attack are at odds, and with such equal force that they cancel each other out and for a moment he stands tense and frozen, waiting for the scale to tip in either direction. In this tentative moment of control, he doesn't glance at the sign. Doesn't take his eyes off of his cell-mate.
Relax, says an authoritative voice in his mind. This is smalltalk. It sounds like someone he used to be, once upon a time when he used to be charming, an unfamiliar characteristic now that he's trying to tap back into. He was a person once, and a pretty good one at that, however long ago. ]
New York not welcoming enough for you?
[ He responds dryly, his voice flat and decidedly uncharismatic. Take a deportation, then, says the New Yorker in him, but he keeps that inside. ]
no subject
Moving away from the door, away from the buttons and the stuffy suit, Prior settles nearer to Barnes. ]
Not welcoming enough? [ He laughs. ] No, it's great. Did you know they'll deliver prossies right to your room?
[ Their new companion looks back over his shoulder, sneering in offense. Prior merely shrugs at him. God bless America. ]
He dips his head to look at his cigarette as he rolls it between his fingers, his intention to smoke it already gone. It's all an act, isn't it? A way to hide those parts of him that aren't comfortable anywhere anymore. This time, when he looks at Bucky he's holding on to an apology, but it's not as well-hidden as he'd like. ]
My name's Prior. [ He offers his hand. ] Billy Prior.
[ The elevator door opens, the man in the suit leaves, and they're alone once again. ]
no subject
[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Sarcastic understatement of the century. ]
no subject
I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]