#swreid

Bucky is gone. 

Not dead, he thinks -- not yet, not with Steve Captain America so intent on his safety and well-being, plus... Bird Guy, whatever his name had been. The Captain had gotten both of them taken in alive, but Remy figures it doesn’t quite matter that Bucky is still alive out there, somewhere. There’s no way he’s going to see Bucky after this, even if they can’t pin the bombing on Bucky. Remy is alone again. He’ll probably end up in juvie, but maybe the foster care system if he’s lucky (easy to go back to the streets, then) or with the doctors who’d patched him up before he was stuck in this room. They’d had a bunch of tests they wanted to run. Experiments. They’d probably feed him, and people being fascinated by his eyes is better than people being disgusted.

They’ve asked him a couple of questions -- the nurses and doctors and some people who were clearly law enforcement of some kind. His name (”Remy,” he’d said. Last name? “No,” he’d said. “Jus’ Remy.”) and his age (He’d shrugged. “Twelve?” Back in New Orleans, they’d said he was found in a dumpster as a kid.) and if ‘Barnes’ had ever hurt him (”No.”) or touched him (”No.”) and then a couple of other things he’d refused to answer, about his family and his time with Bucky and where he and Bucky had met.

Remy is in disposable hospital clothes, delicate and useless paper scrubs, because the bullet graze to his arm had kind of wrecked what he was wearing. He and Bucky hadn’t had time to grab his go-bag, and now he’s definitely not even in Bucharest anymore, so he’ll never see any of that stuff again. They’d taken his knife, his shoes, and even the friendship bracelet one of the little girls in their building had given him. It had been on the arm that’d been shot, and probably soaked in blood, but Remy still wishes he could have kept it. That he could have kept something. Something permanent, to prove that at least for a little while he was with Bucky. 

[text: dad]: Well of course he has a name nearly every American has a name.

//pats u gently

emily no i’ll only fall asleep fASTER UR NOT HELPING

@irascibledoctor replied to your post: gosh someone pls pay attention to me……….

*looks at* There attention

well buddy at least u tried

‘twas an unwanted bath of COLD milk that washed over her. a sensation of dread that wasn’t wholly dread, but an odd and stupid kind of feeling — desire to disappear into an ABYSS. that prickling sensation one gets when they regret absolutely everything and can do nothing about their situation.

cold prickling of thorns, but her face was hothothot — eyes remaining locked on the hundreds of multi-colored pens before her ( truth: she did simply want to add to her collection of writing writing implements. now: compromised plans. new plans, perhaps. ) lore could feel wing beats in the pit of her belly, couldn’t stop her gaze from fixating on the back of the doctor she’d met, praying to fifteen different gods he didn’t notice her skulking in the pen isle.

               swallow your  p r i d e  girl ... ( not that you have any to speak of ... )

she retracted from her stationary shopping — so much stationary — and  s l o w l y  waltzed toward the other. cautious as always, but more-so for his sake. wasn’t sure if he was the kind to get SPOOKED. leaned against a shelf, and held her tongue for a moment, bottom lip trapped between her teeth in thought.

-- but no one ever really would know eliot. guys like eliot spencer -- they were personal and well kept to themselves. of course, it doesn't /lessen/ the blow, not when garcia texts him to say 'we need to talk'. and it doesn't lessen the blow when he finds out that garcia only knew because of hardison. and spencer feels sort of strange. it wasn't the first time he lost someone he didn't know well -- there were plenty of students he knew in school who died (suicides mostly, tragic, but he didn't know them, so it never hurt). but he didn't know eliot, but it still hurt. spencer doesn't -- isn't dealing with it, because he's not sure how. and more over, how do you explain to someone you're mourning a criminal, most would be glad was gone? eventually, he moves on, makes a trip to portland with a sort of lie about an 'old friend', and he finds where he's buried, and he doesn't leave flowers, but rather, a bottle of beer and a book, dog eared and old -- 'five people you meet in heaven'. and he leaves, as silent as he came, wondering, for a moment, if eliot was really dead, or if he was just vanished -- and people like him did 'died' for a few years and mysteriously resurfaced. but somehow he doubted it.