logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: january 20-29.
content: the lanterns begin to malfunction.
warnings: body horror and psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

you'll become one

January 20th arrives the same as all the days before it. There's no great pulse of warning that throbs through the air, no ominous wind that causes the bonfire to shudder. The spirits are neither agitated nor do they hide. You could almost miss the change, if the lanterns weren't always by your side. There's no explanation that comes with the way that it's changed, but it's impossible not to worry when it's happened so suddenly.

Maybe it takes a few days, or maybe it only takes a few hours, but suddenly it isn't just the lanterns that have changed. You, yourself, have become somehow different. It's possible that you won't even have the right state of mind to wonder how long it will last. At the very least, it appears you aren't alone. All across Beacon, lanterns are changing, and changing the people with them.

Out in the distance, the lighthouse's beam has turned green.

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"Turns out it isn't, and you got a real nasty one. But you're tough, your turnaround's been good. I promise all the gossip's been very flattering." There's one ginger pat to his forearm, as much as she dares to try and bolster without moving too much herself. It's what little she can do to comfort him like this, and that much at least is...almost nice. The need to hug Soldat springs eternal. "Promise, you're gonna come out of this fine. What's important is you eat well, sleep well, don't spend every spare minute stressing over it. No straining."

"Gossip," he repeats with a little laugh. He doesn't even twitch at the pat, as if it were perfectly normal, and he has absolutely no negative associations with such a thing. If you want a hug, Misty, this is probably the version of Soldat to get it from. "Oh, you can't say that and then not share, miss Misty. What are people sayin' about me?"

If only he weren't a functional stranger, now. Someday it'll line up; she'll wait for it.

"All good things," she repeats, smile widening. "Surprise at how well the recovery's going, mostly. Nobody expected you to take it on the chin so well, and we hoped the arm casing would be that functional, but we were trying to keep realistic - it's a great sign, how fine the control's been. You might be out of it soon, and then it's just making sure your head keeps up with the rest of you." A wink, a tap of her temple. And if she's keeping to the flattery, "Wondering how long you'll stick around after, in some instances. Someone handsome and new shows up, newbies have to shake off the Florence Nightingale effect. Rite of passage."

"Well, ain't that all very sweet of people to say," Bucky smiles, looking genuinely pleased by the report. Sounds like decent people around this place, wherever this place is. "I don't know how long I can stay, though. I got people to get back to."

Which makes him think: Steve. Which makes him think: was Steve on that train. The smile fades into concern. "Were there any other survivors? From the train wreck?" Not just Steve, of course not just Steve, but... if Steve is here, hurt or worried about him, he has to know.

"No casualties, you can breathe easy. They're all getting put up in hotels someplace, something about public relations, tourism boards. Some dents here and there, but nothing more significant than a broken bone. You got the worst of it, 's why they sent you over our way." This is less difficult than anticipated, when she finds herself feeling a need to fib. It has to smooth edges over. Console, but keep in place. "You'll get patched through soon as you're fit to travel."

No casualties. Then at least if Steve was on that train-- (Was Steve on that train?Feels like. Feels like Steve was on the train.) and flashes of a hand reaching for him, terrified eyes-- he's okay.

Got to find out. Maybe then he can settle, if he knows for sure Steve's okay. "There wasn't a Steve Rogers among the survivors, was there? Skinny kid, comes up to about your shoulder on a good day-- about my age, blonde hair?"

"Didn't meet him, but I heard the name, yeah," a nod, an insistence to her smile, grateful she won't have to prove any familiarity. "Asked after you, not a scratch on him. Made sure we knew where he was staying, once you get the all clear for travel you'll get a ticket straight there. See? Nothing to worry about but you-- when did you eat last?"

A good deal of the tension does go out of him. Steve was there. Steve's okay. Steve knows where he is and they'll see each other again soon. He slumps back in his chair with a relieved sigh and a nod. "Hell, I don't remember. So it's at least been an hour. Maybe two. Probably more, I definitely feel like I could eat."

Joke's on you, Buck, this body can always eat.

"Too long," she tuts, standing to go about fixing something simple. "You have to fill up, you need the energy." One hand is somewhat crippling; he'll have to settle for frozen pierogies, at least to start. "Keeping light is just for when you're still in the sickbed, you're moving now. Eat, sleep, gentle exercise."

"I'm gonna say helping in the kitchen counts as gentle exercise," he comments, and gets up to drift after her. She's got a busted up hand; obviously she'll need help. Apparently Bucky tends in this direction almost as much as Soldat does. "Just point me at what you need picked up or chopped, yeah? I'm not totally useless in a kitchen."

Some part of her pridefully wants to insist she can handle it alone, but it's better he have something to do. Not like chopping one-handed would be much of a treat, either. "I'll take that as permission to set you to onions, then. Can I trust you to saute them after, or would you rather trade and just watch while these boil?"

Ugh, onions. Maybe there's a handkerchief in this get-up somewhere that he can use when the inevitable occurs. "I'll defer to you for the actual cooking bit. Wouldn't want to scorch your onions."

But he does find one of the many knives tucked around his person-- without even fumbling for it; how did they even all get there, damn-- and collects the onions and starts chopping. With the Soldier's customary twirl of the knife around metal fingers before starting, which he hardly notices. He does notice, though, the extreme swiftness and precision with which he's chopping. And the fact that his eyes water not at all.

He pauses. Tries to take stock as he stares hard at the neat stack of perfectly even bits of onion. How did he just do that...?

Edited (pronouns arg) 2020-01-23 08:11 (UTC)

Misty assumes the opposite, in fact; that this was old skill he ignored or refined as Soldat, and was reconnecting with at present. Her instinct would be to encourage regardless, so it changes nothing about her impressed, low whistle.

"Secretly a chef just showing off, I see. Shake a little oil into a pan and then you can take over here? Just stirring, making sure none stick together. Can't show me up at that."

This Bucky has only ever experimented in the kitchen out of desperation, usually when Steve's much worse efforts had failed. This Bucky hasn't been drafted yet, much less sent to training. He knows how to throw a punch-- he's a great boxer, and knows some moves off the street-- but this is beyond anything he even thought people could do.

"Not that I know of," he says vaguely, still frowning at the onions.

There's something in him that's in the habit of obeying that voice, though, so even in the midst of the confusion, he does as asked and swaps over to the pot to stir.

"Don't go looking put out about talent, now. 'S not flashy, but it's useful, cool for anybody who has an eye for it." Gonna just gently steamroll that concern; it's harming nothing, Soldat-Bucky, please don't linger. There's still intel to gather, while things cook.

"So, how's...Brooklyn? Family?" She dreads the latter answer more than a little.

If only it could be that easy. The Soldier doesn't get many quick fixes for missing memories, and family is a big one that's going to be hard to get back. Bucky hesitates, stymied again and increasingly distressed by the weirdness of it all. His hand stills in his stirring. "I have one," he says after a moment, voice shaking. "I know I do. I got people, at home."

He looks around the dark little cabin, a little wild-eyed, as if he might find answers there. "Steve. Steve will know." Steve's the one answer he knows always works. He's the leader; Bucky just goes where he goes. Steve will fix this.

"Of course." Gentle finality. "Sorry, I shouldn't be needling you like this. Cold out, hungry, ought to be taking it easier." She'll kick herself later, for now there are plates to grab, onion to divide.

"You're alright. I know that look, believe me, it's normal, but you're alright. One hour at a time. Strain those, and you can sit back down."

How is asking about home needling? It's casual conversation. Conversation that he should be able to manage. Is that part of what he lost with the head injury? (His head doesn't even hurt. Shouldn't it hurt if it's been injured?) The plates are shifting on the metal... whatever it is on his arm, which is disturbing, but it's steady enough when he pours the water out of the pot to strain the contents dry.

Then he backs up, a couple steps, suddenly needing space. "Sorry. I'm not usually-- am I usually like this?" What if he doesn't know? What if he doesn't know himself anymore, either? Jesus, this is so messed up.

"You're healing, and this is pretty par for the course. Confusion is normal. Little gaps are normal." She doesn't move to steer him physically, but she's quick to pull out a chair for him. "It's a real delicate process, and it's not fun, but you've done great so far and you're gonna keep doing great. Try not to force anything, okay? I'm serious. It's scary, I know, but it'll come back. It's just...time. Letting all the bits connecting things together get back to form."

"Right, okay. Not fun. Yeah, I'll believe that." He doesn't so much sit as just drop bonelessly into the offered chair, and then lean forward to rest his face on his hands and his elbows on his knees. His voice is a littlem muffled when he says again, "I'm sorry. Random amnesiac droppin' in like this. Can't be fun, either."

"I've dealt with a lot worse. You're nice, you're working hard, and I don't expect any more than that." She pats his back, brief, before returning to plating. "Take your time. Go with what's comfortable. Don't worry about whether or not I mind lending an ear, because I don't."

He actually leans a little into her brush to his back. Bucky before the war loved little touches like that. "I'll try. I ain't had a lot of experience at being the invalid." That sounds sheepish, at least, rather than distressed, and he drops one hand to just lean on one. The flesh one, because the metal plates are still kind of cold. "Usually it's me lookin' after Steve."

"Not an invalid," she corrects, setting his meal in front of him. "Just a person who took a hit. Who has already blown comparable injuries out of the water, by the way, so he's got nothing to get down on himself about. And a hot meal to eat, yeah? Some focus to adjust for a minute."

Forks are set down, and she takes up a seat adjacent rather than across.

"Geez, let a guy call himself what he wants," Bucky complains, but only half-heartedly. He's hungry, and there's food, and at least she's kind. He does lean over to bump her shoulder just a little, silent thanks, before digging in.

"Nobody at my table's an invalid," she murmurs dryly, though smiling between bites of her own. Not so much as a peep for the minute or three immediately following, nothing that might distract him from intake - it's part of the fiction, but she's familiar enough with Soldat to know the value, necessity even, of ensuring enough calories are getting through. Might spare him one discomfort, when he comes back.

"Thinking you'll need anything else? Water, back to wine, I think there's a couple of these left in the pot--?"

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