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The uppermost suite in the Albert Chambers building, one of the tallest in Greenwich short of the university, is nigh owned by Scarlett. Others come and go but her hippie twist owns the rooftop garden. A knock at the door might go without comment elsewise in the building, but here, a response is required. Protections and varied guards might be found in hidden places. A deadbolt, a chain, a flip of a lock might be heard… after the owner glances through the small tube of glass and brass peering down upon the hall outside, a fisheye view.
Not for nothing is the bohemian called such in a minidress, nothing unusual there. But she puts her hand to the door and cracks it open. "Hello?" The girl sounds almost sleepy.
*
He looks, truth be told, like a revenant. Ragged leather jacket, jeans, t-shirt a hair too large (or maybe he's lost weight he can ill afford to spare). The scruff of several days without shaving, hair down past his shoulders, now. The blue eyes all the paler for being sunken….and that dimple of a bullet wound, tucked into his cheekbone like a clown's painted on tear. Just looking at her in mute appeal, as if he's forgotten how to speak.
*
A revenant and yet soul knows soul. The chunk of him forever embodied in her veins and her atomic structure is but a whisper to the real man. Dormant state allows that which is James Buchanan to rest in the crystal prison of the mind. Pandemonium murmurs build on a staccato pathway, switchback logic careening around perceived absolutes and flexible impressions. In her life, short as it is, Scarlett has seen much that would quantify impossible or improbable. A certain adaptability allows her to survive, and perhaps thrive. Palm put to the frame of the door, she gazes up at him, a man seen in broken mirrors and dim windows, squats and hobo camps on rooftops and forgotten alleys. It doesn't even cause her a moment's notice.
"You cannot be seen out there." Words enough as she takes him by the arm and pulls him in, the implicit insistence important. The wraith might be warned; her hand is bare, but she goes for the clothed part of his sleeve.
*
He lets her draw him along, without protest. Still him - he smells like dirt and sweat, the former an unpleasant tang too reminiscent of a fresh grave. That might well be where he's been sleeping, though his clothes aren't too filthy. A silent nod at that….and his tread makes the floorboards creak, softly. Real enough, physical enough.
*
Dirt and sweat and death: the fragrances are all too unfamiliar, and disturbingly not. There are memories she will not explain. Scarlett tries to remember those things locked in her skull, the personae haunting her in the night, occasionally whispering their illicit secrets at the darkest corners of her soul. She can tell him, if Bucky asked, what fresh gunfire smells like or the taste of blood and adrenaline. How death inflicted feels like, and what it's like to put a man into his grave. Just not him.
The interior of the apartment, then, is a bohemian dream captured in a swirl of dusky colours, lit by precious few sources. A lamp, a few candles, evidence further whatever she did involved little activity or animation. The door shut, the auburn-tressed girl rounds on him. Not entirely violent, but rather faster than she usually would allow except on the slipstream of shock. Surprise. "The stories in the news… the… you are here." Wide-eyed curiosity is going to get the better of her one of these days, surreal green eyes almost luminous in the low light, shedding more light than they receive. "Do you need anything? Food? Drink?"
*
He doesn't need blood to speak, not here, not now. But he swallows hard, a couple times, and what comes out is a creaky rasp. "I need…" A beat and he looks down and to the side, the searching for memory flicker she's seen so many times these last few months. "Yeah. I could use a drink. I mean, real water. For now. And….food." He's all but reciting this, as if it were some alien formula to importune her for aid.
*
Her apartment maintains a simple layout: the kitchen has a separate recess with full-sized appliances, ingredients stored in the cabinets and a full-sized fridge forever expecting someone or something. The plunder happens quickly: a platter under saran wrap pulled out, glass and pitcher of water offered, iced tea held at the ready in case he wants something further. "Sit down, and I can carve up some of this roast into a sandwich for you. Unless you would prefer spaghetti." The choice of a first meal she made when they were trapped together by riots for almost three days may be deliberate or not, a test. "Something else?"
Ice is scooped out from a round bowl, set beside the glass for him. The round table may be a prime place to sit, or the balcony, or one of the couches, or the ceiling. Anything is possible. She seems relatively unconcerned about a gun being drawn or a knife turned against her pretty little neck. Scarlett operates with a certain confidence on home ground that might has its reasons.
"Sit wherever you want," she murmurs. "I can bring it over to you. I don't stand on formality where injury is involved. When was the last time you slept?"
*
"Couple days," he allows, still in that mutter full of grit. He's seated himself at the table as if his joints were half-rusted, the Tin Man, indeed. He…doesn't seem to be armed. But then, so much of his weaponry has always been carried concealed. Buck props his head on his hand, the unwounded cheek on his gloved metal palm. "I think. Sandwich is fine." But he drinks with a kind of desperate thirst, after a moment's hesitation.
*
"Sleep deprivation can kill you." Again. If it already hasn't. Scarlett carefully reaches for a carving knife from a block, spearing the exposed roast with a fork to ease shaving off thin slices onto a plate. It takes her a little time, the boeuf bourguignon savoury even in a cool state. One might forgive her for serving cold beef rather than heated, though the least sign of complaint will have her turning on the stove. The bohemian sprinkles a few of the red wine-laced juices with the aid of the fork, and then presses the sandwich together. A diagonal cut carves it in twain, presented on the plate. "There might be a few croissants left, and one of the eclairs if you need a hit. Otherwise, bananas, strawberries, salad?"
She delivers the plate in front of him and circles around to the other side of the table, settling into a chair. Her chin rests upon her palms, elbows on the table, a scandal beyond imagining. "It's good to see you. I should have said that straight up. A relief… mais non, something even superior to that."
*
He eats mechanically - and indeed, it does seem to be an extreme exhaustion that has him in its claws. "No, this is fine," he says, once he's downed a mouthful. Then he looks up, and it's as if she's just appeared out of nowhere, again. A moment's blinking surprise, as he peers at her. And then he explains, "….I was already dead," Utterly matter of fact. I was vacationing in the Catskills. I was visiting Steve in Brooklyn. I was in Limbo with the souls of the dead. "It….but I'm back, now." He takes another deliberate swallow of water, nudges the plate away….and then, absurdly, bursts into tears. The sobs are silent convulsions of his shoulders, his hands coming up to cover his face, nearly knocking the water glass over.
*
Scarlett, of all people, might not expect that. She tilts her head slightly, and the only choice remaining is the obvious one a being with any kind of humanity will pursue. Even the Soul-Thief. Palms drop to the table and push her up, and she goes for a pair of gloves left on a shelf among plants. Long practiced movements peel open the thin cotton and pull them over her hands, stretching them up to her sleeves, for reasons unaccounted. Footsteps barely register, the infinitesimal tilt of the world to dolorous agony a weight for the wages. "You have done nothing wrong. You're always welcome here, James, always," she says softly, as though that absolves Bucky of anything, shriving him of anything in the past few days or years or lifetimes.
Circling behind him is dangerous. Who knows what instincts remain to lash out or dread her interference? She approaches then from the side, her hand landing gently on the hunched line of his shoulder. The other skims along his living arm, brushing down until the convergence gives him a sideways embrace. With her chin atop his head, the world carries hues of her neroli perfume and the sprigs of hydrangea in her hair. Sometimes the best rescue one can offer falls far short of the mark, much too late, but she closes the circle of her arms firmly. And that's considerable, if rarely witnessed.
*
There's still only the sound of ragged breaths, the silent sobs wracking him in spastic jerks, hands still over his face. An almost childish gesture towards privacy. But he doesn't shove her away, or recoil….and slowly, slowly, he relaxes in her embrace. There's his own scent, beneath the sweat and the dirt, metal and whatever's just him, under it all. Bringing his breath under control. He offers no excuses, no replies. No way to play this cool.
*
What can one do? Pull away wet hands, turn up the face of denial to a sun he doesn't wish were in the sky? Hide, then, but find the psychopomp to the brighter and darker realms waiting anyways. A guide in the night, she holds fast. Bucky can try to throw her off, rise from the seat, or sit woodenly giving a stony glare at fate. His lead is hers to follow. Faulty comfort remains in the heat of the skin through diaphanous layers of clothes and his worthy of being burnt, a steady beat of her heart murmuring at a slightly accelerated pace out of concern, agitation, and the pervasive surprise. Meditation aids her, the pattern of controlled breathing: she inhales, holds for three seconds, and releases as steadily as a machine mostly. Cheek still against his long, dark hair, that alone keeps him from possibly slipping unconscious accidentally. It might seem impressively normal, but for the flirtation with mistakes.
"You're okay here. Everything else comes later." A promise, and panacea. Is it even worthwhile to say? "You're here. Norns, that means something."
*
A last shaking breath, and he lets his hand fall to the table. There's an odd patch on the back of his head, as if someone had shaved a swath bare, and it's only now sprouting stubble to replace what was lost. Then he's not rising, but turning his head to look up at her, the blue eyes made all the brighter by the red rims around them. "Yeah," he agrees, and there's a hint of real feeling in there, not that automaton's lack of protest.
*
Given she's hugging him sideways, Scarlett stands on her toes to accommodate the willow bend of her body against his. She's invaded Bucky's space and knows it, thoughs he guides how soon she disengages her arms. In some things, human contact trumps societal rules. "A very philosophical guru, a sage of great wisdom, told me this: shit happens." Profanity so rarely comes to her lips. "When it happens, we deal. You aren't alone, and you can count on that." Another rough rub of her cheek to the top of his head is probably altogether like a cat's whiskering, and then she leans back slightly. The sandwich seems essential and she nods to it. "I have more of that tea you like about."
*
Bucky has apparently no urge at all to drive her away. Certain barriers have been broken down,and human warmth is a palisade against that eternal cold. He shudders, a few times, not the mere shivers of chill. But there's the ghost of a smile. "Sure does," he agrees, wearily. "I know I smell like dirt. I was hiding out some pretty rough places." Then he's eating again, still slowly, but with more attention than he's shown before.
*
"So what if you do? I like gardening, and that means sometimes being dirty." Scarlett's pragmatic side is rarely shown, but sometimes serves in good stead. "You could smell dirty and of chocolate eclairs, and I doubt anyone would compare. We have this incredible invention called a shower, and you might take advantage of indoor plumbing and hot water." The mischief present survives only a few moments, but remains nonetheless. She doesn't feel any need to hover over him while he eats, but going to recover herself a croissant is probably the best of worlds.
*
Bucky cocks a look at her, out of the corner of his eye. The one that Peggy used to know as presaging some sort of mischief. "I will," he says, with a nod. "Soon's I'm done with this, if that's okay. And then….sleep," Under a roof, with someone present to offer clarity. It's like Kai and his lover call him, that stray that can't resist the occasional temptation to bite, even after being fed.
*
The stray; oh, indeed. And so cute! Those big soulful eyes, the need to smoosh that face and hug it and call it Buckerroo and make sure no one shoots it randomly. These are the truths of a laughing god somewhere.
"Of course." She dips her head. "You can go in my bedroom if you want privacy or we can set you up out here, though I cannot promise the same degree of defensive value." More windows, of course. "Or you might sleep on the roof if you want, but it's a bit chilly at this time of year."