The alcohol is doing wonders, or so Bucky will think, looking back on this moment if it clings to the hard apertures of his memory. Such a certain, solid steel thing, now: he remembers the names of the guys he got shipped off with, he'll remember this until he's old and grey, if the day ever comes. Entertaining a life beyond this war almost felt unseemly. It needed to rage and thrash, somewhere, to thrive on in Bucky's breast for the rest of eternity. It was private. It was--something a civilian will never understand, and only denounce as futile bloodshed. Maybe that outside perspective, never entrenched in the musk of death and gore, virgin clean as it was, was bred of the kind of ideals Bucky wanted to follow.
He crosses his legs up into an en pointe, grace in his heels, a feminine arch to his knees, before they settle back down into boyish angles. You can drink back in the states, now, Thomas had observed on his eighteenth birthday last March, meaningless as the sentiment was, whilst Barnes had nursed his favorite German lagers. He'd felt like a grown man for a hell of a lot longer than those minutes spent dawdling after midnight. Free to die for his country, after all.
The way Bucky stares, it burns away his reticence. His curiosity darkens, primordial hunger guiding him into the observations of a panther. Logan is densely muscled. The low light clings to his face, a borrowed oil lantern that would've spelled trouble if the wood was bone dry illuminating his features. Under the gruff and the unkempt shag of his sideburns, or that animal-like affect, there was a handsome man. Brutish, but warm. Blunt, but powerful.
Bucky's throat moves under the tarp of taut skin, an audible shift of muscle that rings up his arteries to his ears.
Maybe Logan could treat him right. He'd proven himself trustworthy, after all--to this day, Steve doesn't know Bucky'd made an unsanctioned attempt on Logan's life, and he never would know. That meant something.
Bucky shifts on his palms, inching minutely closer. The caps of their knees brush. ' I.. uh. I've seen you. It's my job, seein' things. You, stare .. at my lips, sometimes. It makes me, uh.. you know. Have you ever--? '
