#ccmplicatedweb

It's been two days since the Soldier was taken into enemy captivity. People come and go, assuring him they're trying to find a way to help him eat so he doesn't starve to death. Sometimes they ask questions, yes or no, but he doesn't answer. Remains curled in the corner of the room, covered in blood and filth from the Potomac. They gave him thin pajamas to wear and a blanket to wrap around himself. The room is cold. Stares at his feet, bare and oddly vulnerable-looking without their combat boots. Taps a steady rhythm on his knee.

The door opens and a woman steps in. One he hasn't seen before. Red hair. Lithe. The confident movements someone who has seen combat. The Soldier stiffens and presses himself further against the wall.

No, he signs in the signals Hydra created for him. No, please, no.

She'd gotten tired of staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that felt it would never come, and had decided to get an early start on her shift. Very early. Two in the morning, early. She liked working. It helped her feel useful, in a way that didn't hurt anyone. It gave her a sense of purpose. She just... felt the stress ease some, when she spent time tending to the plants and animals. It still lingered, of course. And it reared it's head often. But work helped. Still, maybe she was relying too much on an otherwise good thing. Maybe Derek saw the bags under her eyes from all the way on the porch, or maybe he'd been keeping track of her hours, she wasn't sure. But he seemed to think she needed a day off.

So, she'd returned to her mobile home, managed to get a few hours of shut eye, and woke stressed and anxious, as she normally did, with a paw and wads of fur smushed in against her face. The soldier hauled herself up off the floor. She trudged over to feed the insistent Zebra, who'd spent the night otherwise snuggled on the blanket, between her legs. Then, with the cat satisfied, she returned and spent the first couple of hours awake, curled up under her blankets. That was, until her stomach growled furiously. Toast was made. Leftover bbq Derek and Oline had shared was sprinkled over top, topped with a slice of cheese, and eaten unceremoniously.

The restlessness and thoughts started to build up as she ate, so as soon as she was done, she went for a walk. She'd slept in her work clothes, so she didn't see an urgent need to change. She did take her hair out of it's pony, and re-tie it. So, that was something.

Some time later, the sun was high in the sky and she was grateful for the coverage granted to her by the trees in the nature preserve she'd stumbled across. She appreciated the sounds of nature, birds singing, leaves rustling, shoes on gravel-

so shoot her. (she’s an idiot.) take her out, right here, right now. she could take a bullet right between the eyes and the last sight they fell upon would be enough to consider her life wonderfully lived. she grips scarlet between her fingers and watches it run between the dividends, strands of bloody red that make her want to feel nothing but desire. her mangled fingertips beat with it. they’re a fulcrum, she thinks, tossing control back and forth in a way that’s only distinct between two just like them.

He leaned against his doorway with one arm, posture far from the straightened soldier position that’s been long ingrained in him. He’s tired— no, drained, that’s how he feels. Gas tank on E. Which is why he holed himself up in his apartment, to keep it his own problem and no one else’s. He doesn’t know how she heard about it, but he’s not surprised. Just like he’s not surprised she knew he would be here, after going radio silent for the last 36 hours.

The mission went to shit. His own hubris was on full display, and everything turned onto it’s head. He held onto an innocent injured man caught up in the middle of everything, collateral damage in an attack meant for Bucky. He tried. He tried. ’Hey, stay with me, kid’ on repeat. The anguished scream of a family member rang in Bucky’s ear, ice going up his spine as memories flickered of every devastated cry his hands have caused. The guy didn’t make it, and neither did two other civilians.

He reaches out silently, grabbing hold of her shirt and gently pulling her towards him, pulling her into the his dimly lit sulking chamber. He pushes the door closed with one hand, the other still holding onto her shirt as his forehead drops down against hers. He breaths.

“ didn ‘ t think i ‘d ever end up in this shithole again. “

camille almost winces at the cliche as soon as it comes out of her mouth. WRONG throbs from dead center on her chest , an ache so raw sometimes she thinks a fresh wound is easier than the slices and lines adora can see and not see. the bar ‘ s buzzing with the ugly sizzle of neon swimming just underneath the drunken warble crooning ring of fire unsteadily. bars are the best places to get people to talk. the atmosphere loosens up the tightest mouth. how , in some places , she just doesn ‘ t know , when she ‘ s shit - sure that the bourbon she ‘ s nursing lovingly is more water than the bottle of vitawater that is filled with vodka sitting in her cup holder. her head swivels aside to keep a glance at nat , but it ‘ s really john keene she keeps in her periphery. the off - color love is a burning thing rasps. the man ‘ singing ‘ , if you can call it that , looks exactly like you think he would -- almost slobbering heineken and closer to the microphone than camille would deem sanitary. not a word anybody understands in a place like this. the ridiculous dance floor in the middle of the place doubles as a stage. john keene ‘ s expression is distant. the look in his eyes says that if feet were supposed to be on the ground his are still planted in natalie ‘ s bedroom. ( it ‘ s a look you wear when you know what it ‘ s like to see a ghost. it never leaves your face. ) 

there are eleven bars in wind gap. there ‘ s not exactly tons to do. each has its own theme -- hog - slaughterers screaming at a staticky sports game , hog - slaughterers planted so long on their asses for the night the prints are left long after , hog - slaughterers , evidently , taking turns howling from the beer - soaked centerpiece that ‘ s an eyesore in a place like this. john keene holds the neck of his beer for dear life. it ‘ s the only thing keeping him on the face of the earth. 

adora ‘ s face is still haunting her. camille ‘ s voice thickens with the molasses syllables of her old accent making itself new. chicago ‘ s never changed her voice. wind gap takes her back unquestioningly. 

" momma sends her regards. “ 

no she doesn ‘ t. nat already knows that much. she assumes , pretty fairly , that the two are going to get on like a house on fire -- something immolating itself and falling apart at the foundation. just like old times. the cool burn of bourbon slides down her throat. she circles the glass ‘ s dirty rim with the tip of a finger. the bottles glint behind the bar , put up against a tacky mirror covered in fingerprints. it looks like a crime scene. the bartender grins at her when she catches his eye and camille busies her mouth with another swallow , leaves behind a mona lisa smile that could or couldn ‘ t be one. the notepad beside her hand is flipped open and damp with the sickly amber slosh of an errant beer. the music flips from johnny cash to carole king. amma sounds like adora. camille hangs up on the subject of her kid sister. her middle name is adora ? it won ‘ t stop bugging her.  it ‘ s the stupid jealousy of a child -- it abates underneath another mouthful of ‘ liquor ‘. the mirror and her glass are both littered with smudges. they ‘ re clear when the last swallow of bourbon gives way to the soapy aftertaste left behind from a dish rag. she ‘ s out. 

“He’s not moving.” Ringo said, folding his ears back to his head and sniffing the stranger cautiously. When the man didn’t move, she slid down from Grani’s back and crept closer.

“He’s breathing.” She whispered. With a gentle hand she pressed against the vein in his wrist. “And he’s got a pulse, but it’s faint. Grani.”

She whistled to the stallion, who laid his ears back in protest. He was not so inclined to kindness and pity. The two locked eyes, silently engaging in a battle of wills that she ultimately won. With a snort, Grani lowered himself to the earth by the stranger and allowed his witch to hoist him up onto his back.

“You’re going to be ok.” She said, sounding less sure than she would have liked to. Her fingers dug into his jacket and held him firm as the golden stallion grunted and pulled himself up. It was awkward, and more than once Grani ended up stepping on her toes, but she held the limp body up on the horse’s back all the way into the depths of the forest and back to her cottage. The real challenge was getting him inside to the little guest bed built into the wall by the fire. 

She pulled his boots off and washed the mud away from his hands and face before going into the kitchen and pulling a brown flask down from her medicine cabinet. 

Hello! Here at Rolescape one of our core aims is make rolescape more accessible in so many ways including but not limited to font sizing! Please check out our accessibility page for more information about features we are currently working on. 

❛ --- 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆, ❜  he grumbles, fingertips tangled in the locks that curl over the nape of his neck  &  shag over the tips of his ears.  he’s used to a military-close cut that tapers from his temples.  his jaw is a shade too dark, too.  there’s a foggy mirror that he uses to inspect his reflection  &  the time since everything changed is evident in the obtrusive bruises under his eyes  &  haggard thinness of his cheekbones.  he still isn’t used to the way he has to pin his left sleeve up to cover where his arm used to be.  

a pair of dull kitchen shears that he’s used for more than cutting hair in the past few months sit on the sink that doesn’t give them running water anymore.  he picks them up, a hopeful lift in his brow.