At least in a way he couldn't quite process. There seems to be no Gotham, no Metropolis. Thankfully, he managed to find decent clothes as he wandered the streets aimlessly. The newspapers in the distance talked about an "Iron Man" and "Captain America".
And he thought Batman and Superman sounded overrated. With a sigh, Clarks sat down on a bench. He had no idea where to begin again. He died after all.
Was this a second chance or just another endeavour he needs to figure out on his own? ]
[Things feel strangely out of place, as much as they are familiar, but a routine has helped Bucky with finding his place around the streets of New York again, even if it doesn’t quite feel like the home it used to be. Sure, it’s still the center of the world (to the western half of the planet, anyway), a waypoint, the city of ingenuity and creativity. Shops and restaurants come and go, maybe even more rapidly than they used to, just like the tourists. Coney’s still around. He can’t be too mad, even if Brooklyn is far too jazzed up for his liking these days.
People don’t look you in the eye anymore. That’s the biggest change he thinks. Good when you’re one of Interpol’s most wanted. Bad when you’re trying to find a reason to stick around. Even though he’s spent a good year here already, the people seem just as indifferent and heartless as the day he stepped back into town, and the apathy does little to endear the city he once loved proudly anymore than the once-comforting scent of a push-cart of Sabretts. He doesn’t hate any of it. Actually, the Sabretts are still damn tasty, maybe even tastier. None of it feels right though. Things feel off, almost fake. The life seems to be sucked out of everything, and he can only wonder if it’s his own fault for thinking he could find any kind of peace after the way Hydra had gutted his brain over and over again.
He’s doing his second lap of Central Park. Routine. Something to do to keep him sharp, aware. He practices analyzing people, reading as he’s meant to, anticipating even when he has no intention of counter-interaction. But because New York is ever changing by the minute, it stands out to him when he realizes someone’s taken a seat significantly longer than anyone should if they’re phoneless, music-device-less, bookless, and otherwise without anything that would normally preoccupy one’s attention in this modern new day.
The guy’s still there when he’s on his third pass. Bucky had tried to read the man’s expression the last time, but he found little there to decipher. The usual signals that were apparent with one who was pondering some facet or quandary of life were nowhere to be found, and there seemed a genuine emptiness in the expression. Loss.
Even playing a covert agent these days, he finds it difficult to ignore the possibility that this man could truly use the help. Or the company. Strangers weren’t entirely uncommon in these streets, after all. And every single life mattered, at least to Bucky.
He approaches as he would a wandering civilian, a slight stroll that easies into a pause as he stretches his arms up and back over his head and heaves a sigh as he lets his arms fall akimbo to his side. Taking a pointed glance toward the fellow, he gives the slightest cock of his head in a show of concerned inquiry.]
Hey. You okay there, pal? You look a little... I dunno’. Lost. [It all comes out in a comfortable drawl, like someone who lived a satisfying life might, but it feels foreign on his lips, even as much as it came so naturally, like it used to a world ago.]
[ Clark adjusts his glasses. Not that he needs to, but the movement makes him feel more normal. Less unsettled in his own skin. In this new world, he has no idea where to start. And the idea of beginning from scratch when the horrors of his death still left its marks. ]
I . . . think I am.
[ Still, he flashes a faint smile because Clark doesn't want to make people worry. ]
[He doesn’t exactly want to be pushy. He knows how it can be, sometimes easier making it on your own than being helped. But something about the man’s smile keeps him rooted where he is. A slight hesitance, maybe? Or at least the way it seems to be only polite and nothing more.]
If it’s anywhere around here, I don’t mind lending a hand. [It comes out as a question, the fact of the statement being an offering rather than a requirement.] Big place, after all. Easy to feel like your drowning when you don’t know where to go where you need to.
[ Clark opens and closes his mouth, purses it with a frown. He's not entirely sure where he is, though he knows a few seconds of listening in will give him some answers. Even if it's not the answers he really wants. Folding his hands on his lap, Clark exhales quietly. ]
Just seems like you could use some company too, if I’m being honest. [Softly, trying not to overstep as a clear stranger.] Like. Like you’ve got something heavy weighing on you that you don’t know what to do with.
[He hesitates then, feeling a bit too forward.]
Sorry if that’s all too presumptuous. I’ll get outta your hair if I’m just buggin’ ya. [He takes a small step back, invitation to be ignored. That's how it is these days in New York. Everyone has their own business, and strangers should stick to their own.]
[ Clark does not smile overtly. They have always been soft, fragile things, easy to crush like a butterfly's wings in the palm of your hand. But if you held it open just a little longer, they grow, strong and gentle, a humbling river. ]
[Surprising hardly describes the reply, the words coming from anyone else likely seeming a joke, but the way the man carries himself tells Bucky the answer is earnest, genuine. His heart races, the feeling of being recognized as human so very different now from the way people regard him as a stranger, even in the most accepting and polite ways. The astonishment shows briefly, his brows raising, and a second later he smiles, instinctively honest. Maybe they will part ways in an hour, but Bucky knows better than to waste the respect he's been given for once. Even if he doesn't deserve it. (And he doesn't. If this man ever knew the truth, he'd likely run in fear like the rest.)
Stepping closer again with the slightest saunter, he presses his hands into his pockets and gives something of a sheepish shrug.] Don’t worry, pal, I can swim for us both. Just leave it to me.
[He gestures with his head gently, asking permission to take a seat beside him.] Mind if I...?
[ Clark inclines his head politely even as he folds his hands on his lap. All his senses were still in flux. All Clark ever needed was the yellow sun to feel out of place but he supposes that without one, he'd feel odd all the same. Never quite being human and never quite being not one. It is a frequency in his mind, a constant hum of life around him. ]
Please.
[ His gaze swivels away briefly. ]
I'm not sure how I got here. And I am even less sure where I am meant to be.
[Given permission, he walks in the rest of the way and mindfully seats himself, not too close, not too far. Even if they’re strangers now, he doesn’t exactly want to convey he hasn’t any genuine concern. Bucky’s eyes trace the other man's features while he looks away. The words that follow feel strangely familiar, and for a moment, sorrow flits through his mind.
Some seconds pass as he chooses his next words carefully.]
Sometimes, being where we’re meant to be means being anywhere at all. [Alive, breathing. In pieces perhaps, but surviving.] Other times, you lose it and have to make something new for yourself. Not that deciding what that is or finding it is always easy.
[The reality of course is that he doesn’t know the details, and given that he’s just met the man, he doesn’t really have the heart to pry too deeply too quickly. It leaves him with needing to speak through generics, but the fact does little to deter him from continuing,] Can you tell me what you were doing before? The bits your sure about.
[ Clark looks at his hands briefly. Not long ago, they had clasped the kryptonite spear. The one made expressly to kill him. Being hated was one thing, but Clark never pictured driving someone to murder. But hadn't he done that before? Zod's ringing anger will never be forgotten, his zeal to prove a point to Clark. He can't save them all. And they would resent him for that. After all, what good is power? And what good can power hold? ]
[It’s rather surprising to have that particular question put to him. He really doesn’t expect anyone to anticipate his actual circumstances, but with the weight of their conversation, the way the man also seems keenly aware of what Bucky is, even if not who, somehow the guilt eases back a step, just enough for him to want to answer truthfully.]
Yes. [It comes out a bit flat, as if he doesn’t quite believe the answer himself. So he tacks on,] Something like that.
[ His answering smile is soft. Threadbare. It feels like one quiet touch could shatter it like glass, but it is stronger than steel. He is alive. Being alive felt strange and uncomfortable, like a stranger sitting in his skin but Clark has felt that way constantly. Navigating the choppy waters of the Superman and Clark Kent. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anewhope) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
shamechamber2017-02-26 01:16 pm
no subject
At least in a way he couldn't quite process. There seems to be no Gotham, no Metropolis. Thankfully, he managed to find decent clothes as he wandered the streets aimlessly. The newspapers in the distance talked about an "Iron Man" and "Captain America".
And he thought Batman and Superman sounded overrated. With a sigh, Clarks sat down on a bench. He had no idea where to begin again. He died after all.
Was this a second chance or just another endeavour he needs to figure out on his own? ]
no subject
People don’t look you in the eye anymore. That’s the biggest change he thinks. Good when you’re one of Interpol’s most wanted. Bad when you’re trying to find a reason to stick around. Even though he’s spent a good year here already, the people seem just as indifferent and heartless as the day he stepped back into town, and the apathy does little to endear the city he once loved proudly anymore than the once-comforting scent of a push-cart of Sabretts. He doesn’t hate any of it. Actually, the Sabretts are still damn tasty, maybe even tastier. None of it feels right though. Things feel off, almost fake. The life seems to be sucked out of everything, and he can only wonder if it’s his own fault for thinking he could find any kind of peace after the way Hydra had gutted his brain over and over again.
He’s doing his second lap of Central Park. Routine. Something to do to keep him sharp, aware. He practices analyzing people, reading as he’s meant to, anticipating even when he has no intention of counter-interaction. But because New York is ever changing by the minute, it stands out to him when he realizes someone’s taken a seat significantly longer than anyone should if they’re phoneless, music-device-less, bookless, and otherwise without anything that would normally preoccupy one’s attention in this modern new day.
The guy’s still there when he’s on his third pass. Bucky had tried to read the man’s expression the last time, but he found little there to decipher. The usual signals that were apparent with one who was pondering some facet or quandary of life were nowhere to be found, and there seemed a genuine emptiness in the expression. Loss.
Even playing a covert agent these days, he finds it difficult to ignore the possibility that this man could truly use the help. Or the company. Strangers weren’t entirely uncommon in these streets, after all. And every single life mattered, at least to Bucky.
He approaches as he would a wandering civilian, a slight stroll that easies into a pause as he stretches his arms up and back over his head and heaves a sigh as he lets his arms fall akimbo to his side. Taking a pointed glance toward the fellow, he gives the slightest cock of his head in a show of concerned inquiry.]
Hey. You okay there, pal? You look a little... I dunno’. Lost. [It all comes out in a comfortable drawl, like someone who lived a satisfying life might, but it feels foreign on his lips, even as much as it came so naturally, like it used to a world ago.]
no subject
I . . . think I am.
[ Still, he flashes a faint smile because Clark doesn't want to make people worry. ]
But I'll find my way.
no subject
If it’s anywhere around here, I don’t mind lending a hand. [It comes out as a question, the fact of the statement being an offering rather than a requirement.] Big place, after all. Easy to feel like your drowning when you don’t know where to go where you need to.
[Feels that way some days even for him.]
no subject
Do you think I'm drowning?
no subject
Just seems like you could use some company too, if I’m being honest. [Softly, trying not to overstep as a clear stranger.] Like. Like you’ve got something heavy weighing on you that you don’t know what to do with.
[He hesitates then, feeling a bit too forward.]
Sorry if that’s all too presumptuous. I’ll get outta your hair if I’m just buggin’ ya. [He takes a small step back, invitation to be ignored. That's how it is these days in New York. Everyone has their own business, and strangers should stick to their own.]
no subject
Stay.
[ His smile smooths into warmth. ]
I'm not ready to drown.
no subject
Stepping closer again with the slightest saunter, he presses his hands into his pockets and gives something of a sheepish shrug.] Don’t worry, pal, I can swim for us both. Just leave it to me.
[He gestures with his head gently, asking permission to take a seat beside him.] Mind if I...?
no subject
Please.
[ His gaze swivels away briefly. ]
I'm not sure how I got here. And I am even less sure where I am meant to be.
no subject
Some seconds pass as he chooses his next words carefully.]
Sometimes, being where we’re meant to be means being anywhere at all. [Alive, breathing. In pieces perhaps, but surviving.] Other times, you lose it and have to make something new for yourself. Not that deciding what that is or finding it is always easy.
[The reality of course is that he doesn’t know the details, and given that he’s just met the man, he doesn’t really have the heart to pry too deeply too quickly. It leaves him with needing to speak through generics, but the fact does little to deter him from continuing,] Can you tell me what you were doing before? The bits your sure about.
no subject
Is that what you've been doing?
no subject
Yes. [It comes out a bit flat, as if he doesn’t quite believe the answer himself. So he tacks on,] Something like that.
no subject
Something is a start.