#nxtsoordinary

It didn’t matter how many times she swore she turned onto the right streets, or how many times she looked at both a paper map and her phone, she was completely and utterly lost. The fact that she was driving on the wrong side of the road wasn’t helping things, either. And, seeing as this was a strictly personal excursion, she didn’t want to keep wasting time. She had to get back to work soon. So finally she dialed Matthew’s number, waiting until he picked up to say, “Hey, it’s me. ...I need a favor.”

“Technically I didn’t use anything you taught me. It was all about the archery and I taught that shit to myself.” He tried to angle himself away from her jab but he wasn’t quick enough. He rubbed his side as if she had dealt him a near-fatal blow. “That Thor guy, though? I’ve never seen anything like him. His muscles had muscles. Pure 100% beefcake.”

          The pub was sparsely populated, but the agent sat beside Duncan uninvited and ordered a pint from the bartender. “Are you here for business or pleasure? I have work to do, and I need to know if our paths are gonna cross on this one.” Normally, the details of their work was never to be discussed, but, as a Kingsman knight, his job was saving the world and it would be infinitely harder if he interrupted a hit while carrying out plans of his own. Worse, a valuable witness was killed before they could be questioned.

charles almost can't breathe when he steps onto the tarmac. no, seriously, he can't breathe. the air is something unreal, and he needs to take several gasping, deep inhales before it doesn't feel like he's going to pass out at any moment. he'd like to say he was a little more robust than that, but it's one thing to glean the knowledge from his copilot's mind and quite another to experience literal oxygen deficiency, because christ it is hot here. it's incomparable to the balmy summers of westchester, new york, that's for sure, and it takes zero point five seconds before the sweat begins to crawl down his neck, curling the hairs at the nape and sticking his clothes to his skin. his companion grins over at him knowingly, rocking back on his heels, hands stuck in the pockets of his pressed white slacks. he's been here a while, judging by the new spread of freckles over his nose and skin two-shades darker than usual. daniel shomron's been voluntold to give him the grand tour, but the man's friendly and perfectly willing to assist-and his british lilt is one comforting-familiar thing in the desert-scape. it's not hard to tell who's been spared the relative hardship of the times. daniel's hale and hardy, not whip-thin like a few of the ex-irgun guys he had the unfortunate pleasure of shuttling it here with, and his posture is relaxed and confident, mirroring charles's own, but his family were killed in the blitz and he's just as pissed off as the rest of them. as they head further from the landing strip, the sky is white above them, old yishuv-storelines dotting manicured streets with painted on hebrew and smashed-out windows. shop-owners are peeking curiously out of their stoops, broom and dustbins in hand. the colors are so much more vivid and intense, flowers curling in-bloom like an added detail to an oil painting. "right on, shall i show you to your accommodations?" his bushy eyebrows arch playfully. the rehabilitation center is code for we gave you like five tents and some first aid boxes, behatzlafuckingcha. give us a state and we'll give you hell, they said, but they can't keep the damn plasma banks stocked and they can't build houses fast enough to put the people in them. they roll to a stop just outside one of the designated construction zones. "you're bunked with lehnsherr. he's alright," shomron's glowing recommendation is not, shall we say, encouraging. "he was in the 7th." that probably should tell charles something but the impressions from shomron's mind are all a blaze of metal and careening, twisted vehicles. "little bit hard, but he's a solid worker and won't natter on endlessly. through here, yeah?" shomron pushes open the flap to the army-style barracks, a veritable lean-to ruffling in arid wind. lehnsherr is seated on the bed, fiddling with a metallic coin between his fingers, wearing a white T-shirt tucked into khaki pants and laced up boots on his feet. his hair is long enough to brush the underside of his jaw, and his five o'clock shadow has an auburn sheen. his eyes are bright green. "ah, professor xavier." his grin is sharp and sarcastic. "baruchim habayim." he bows and sweeps his hand to his chest elaborately. "don't be an asshole, erik. we need all the help we can get and you know it." "mmm. nayim me'od," he waved dismissively. "that one is yours." he pointed at the empty cot next to his own.

“You’re back!” The boy said excitedly as he looked up at her with a grin. 

He’d come in any minute now, regular as clockwork. And maybe, Bucky thought, this would be the day he’d confront him, tell Steve he was ready to pack up and go to Wakanda. Tell him he was finally tired of running and looking over his shoulder. Maybe.