#diffcall

               “SO I HAVE good news, and bad news.” She reveled in being able to say this; normally, it was the caped VIGILANTES going out and delivering the good-news-bad-news spiel. 

“Boy. Feels good to be on this side of things!

  ONCE, PERHAPS HE DREAMED OF GLORY. These days, his dreams are messy, tangled ‘round prophecy and things long banished from memory. At best, they are mostly benign and confusing; at worst, Midgard burns, a serpent rises, a great wolf swallows the sun. A titan reaches and breaks the cosmos. A god-killer leaves a trail of blood that he is helpless to stop.

  No wonder he doesn’t sleep often. A god’s luxury, perhaps, to be able to not need sleep as humans do.

  His breathing is even, but he’s snagged neatly between that pleasant haze of satiation and drowsy half-sleep, mind blank but distantly aware of that warmth that still curls through his belly and leaves a pleasant burn at the base of his spine that threatens to want more but when is he ever truly done?

  Fingers on his stomach, shift of weight against him, he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. There’s a question in that sound, low and in his chest, proper words dying somewhere in his throat.

  The answer gets a short huff, more amusement than aught else, but perhaps there is agreement. It is, and he distantly thinks perhaps he should get up, open a window, turn on a fan. He doesn’t mind the heat; it reminds him of a time long ago, vaguely, distantly, when his life was less complicated. Tangled with humans much as he is now, against the crackle of a fire in a hearth and goatskins under them, too hot for comfort but too lazy to move, and the howling Scandinavian winters outside.

  The howling has been replaced with the distant noises of a city that never sleeps, but it slips the same old fondness into his bones.

He was starting to get real ANNOYED with his brother, all his dodging and rolling, things they were taught when they were younger at that circus, things Barney had learned even more in his military days. It was no wonder this fight was just DRAGGING ON longer than Barney had hoped. He thought the shock of his own brother’s survival would have been enough to knock him down a peg but here Clint was, still fighting as hard as ever and grating on Barney’s every NERVE. Why couldn’t the little bastard just hold still and let Barney get on with it?

Oh, right. They both had those damn SURVIVAL instincts that came with the years of being under their father and then various other shady people. It was ingrained in Barney as well, running and flowing through his veins, and his continued existence was proof enough of that. He hadn’t just DIED like everyone had assumed.

❝       The fuck’s it look like I’m doing? Trying to take care of a problem that’s been riding me almost my whole damn life.      ❞     Cruel words, biting words, but Barney didn’t care. They were the words of someone ELSE in his own voice, ones repeated over and over again while he had clung to that last sliver of life, when he had been weakened and BARELY THERE. Not that he knew any better. How was someone supposed to be aware when their thoughts weren’t even their own? Here Barney was, just acting on those thoughts, memories contaminated by unseen hands.

          a list might be useful, to be fair --- if nothing else, to compensate for a short-term memory that has seen better days; someone once called it shit-term memory and, honestly, Bucky has never related more to anything in his life. ‘ well --- i’m listening. ‘ which possibly sounds like irony, if not downright like a provocation, but he does mean it --- as in, he is paying attention and he does want to know what has provoked this little explosion of ANNOYANCE on his roommate’s end, while now sitting on the arm of the couch to start dabbing at the dried blood on the side of his forehead. and before Clint can capitalize on this one, as well --- no --- no, it isn’t anything close to serious, just one of those gashes that aren’t even deep but bleed a lot, and he’s got inhumanly fast recovery anyway. not a big deal at all.

anyway---

          then the bullets topic comes on, and this much he can’t entirely deny... and, for once, he can’t pin it on Steve, ether; what’s this world coming to, good gracious. thing is... that’s not a reference he is in posse of, either --- of a time, somewhere back in 1944, where he used to be more careful. more cautious. more not like jumping in front of a line of fire because he trusts HIS LEFT ARM to deflect them all and, if by chance one or two strike him, he will heal soon as it is. is this terrible thinking? it probably is... and, yet, shedding the weapon mindset is easier said than done. weapons can be replaced, there will always be another asset, only the mission matters. hail HYDRA. hence, now reacting with a little sigh that is made of frustration more than anything else.

BODY IS FLAT AGAINST THE GROUND.  digits grip tightly at military grade binoculars. silently, steve counts off the number of idle zombies that roman around the field. it’s a huge mass of lifeless and purposefulless corpses. why are they all grouped together? are they hiding something? or is it nothing more than a coincidence? rogers doesn’t believe in coincidences.