8094/East and West, Noodles and Bullets

East and West, Noodles and Bullets
Date of Scene:	02 October 2021
Location:	Cafe Kashkar
Synopsis:	A renewed psychic bond to deal with Bucky's ongoing trauma leads to possibilities of dancing and much philosophical musing.
Cast of Characters:	Wanda Maximoff, James Barnes

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
<Text to Bucky: Have any dinner plans? :)>
<Text to Bucky: A heap of noodles, black tea, and your company sound like a perfect night to me.>

Two messages fired across the aether seek out one James Buchanan Barnes, no doubt via another burner phone from an established line protected by Starktech. That's how it goes when one works with Tony Stark. You get the privileges of protection from the government. It's not like Wanda lacks her own suite of burner phones, cheap things that she can dispose of easily. But a more direct message works well.

Her undisputed favourite place in Brighton Beach other than a teahouse is here where east meets Slav, Russian mores crashing into Uzbeck love of noodles. She absolutely lives for the dumplings, and Cafe Kashkar doesn't have too many tourists. She already hovers in the foyer, waiting for Bucky or committing herself to a booth in the back. A particular one with clear lines of sight between front door, washrooms, and the kitchen. This is meant to be a place that's safe, after all.

James Barnes has posed:
Time to oneself can be eye opening. To Bucky? It was just the opportunity to suffer in peace and grapple with his nightmares until they go away. If they go away. He remembers much but so little all the same. Every night he sees their faces.

Hears their last words. Remembers the feeling of pu-

His phone buzzes and Bucky wakes in a cold sweat, his hand on his pistol as he holds it towards the door. Metal fist clenched and at the ready, until he notices the glow of his phone in his peripheral vision. He reads the text messages as his gun lowers to the floor, the burner keeping this line secure...and a few other clever methods. He hesitates a moment before replying.

<Text to Wanda: No plans. I'll meet you there.>

Phone put down, Bucky gets moving. About a few minutes later, not too long of a wait, when he arrives at the Cafe Kashkar, dressed in clothes that keep him anonymous, complete with a worn Yankees cap and thick jacket to help hide the arm, paired with dark gloves. He approaches Wanda downwind, perhaps a bad habit, a gentle hand on her shoulder, briefly lain and swiftly removed. "Hey." His voice is soft. Lacking the kind of warmth that Wanda may be used to from other friends. Must've been a rough night.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Time to oneself isn't always helpful. For the likes of a happier person, perhaps that offers time for self-reflection or pursuing hobbies that bring happiness. Painting's hard to do with company; perfecting a Hendrix riff on an electric guitar best done in privacy until the strings sing. For a twin, there might be no such thing as loneliness or alone time, especially those bonded as strangely and metaphorically as the Maximoffs. But Wanda understands it, in some ways.

Knows the corrosion that falls in having abundant time and turmoil to deal with. Feels the pervasive breakdown when it comes, sometimes.

A slow smile touches her lips, widening when a response brings the phone to quiver the once. He doesn't get an excessive ringtone after all.

<Text to Bucky: Cafe Kashkar. The usual spot. I'll have a pot of tea ready.>

"For two," she confirms when bestirred.

She wears a weathered gold ring on a simple necklace along with her cozier attire, something best suited for autumn showing up. A light knit dress over leggings won't be too stifling or inhibit her from running should enemies of her father, her family, Avengers or mutants care to make an appearance. She doesn't exactly jump when Bucky's hand falls on her shoulder, probably proof to the senses beyond the norm operating for her. Or she's good at hiding the startled response with that white-haired speedster brother of hers. "Hey to you too. Ready?" A gesture to the booth. They can pull out at any time. It's always been so.

The Uzbek-Russian family running the place get to work. It will be just as promised; tea already there with a plate of dumplings, a side of sour cream to go with them. Menus waiting, though the heaps of glistening, glossy wide noodles that are the calling card for the place really don't require much difference here. Otherwise, she leads the way, giving him something of a shield. Laughable, isn't it? One shot, she'd be down. Good luck getting it off, though.

James Barnes has posed:
Sometimes they've had too. Bucky's eyes have always been on every exit, ninety escape plans always at the ready and just waiting to be enacted. Sometimes, he doesn't even remember himself. The only constant is always ever his training, both HYDRA-based and what he learned from his time in the US military. His hands are still, as are his feet, even his heart...but his mind is racing. Stressful. Too many people, too many eyes potentially watching...everywhere, anywhere, he could be watched.

Anywhere, everywhere they could lunge forth.

But he felt a little calm around Wanda. Something about teammates, something about a teammate as capable as Wanda there to help watch his back gives Bucky a sense of...ease as he keeps his eyes on her as she speaks. "Yeah."

His replies are short but to the point, with no urgency, Bucky turns and moves, though Wanda's guarding of him is not unnoticed. In fact, it seems appreciated, glass cannon or no. Eventually, Bucky arrives at the booth proper, sliding into it until the rapid stop as he settles his weight, his hands rest in his lap. He may have forggotten ports of his life, but he's never ignored his manners. One of the things that stuck, one supposes.

"How are you, Wanda?"

Short, but with no small amount of sweetness to it, Bucky's working on getting himself out there more socially. "I appreciate the invitation."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
HYDRA's lessons never come cheaply or freely. A lifetime of service forced on someone stripped of their humanity, stored away on ice when convenient, leaves for little grounds for trust. Those comforting norms everyone else in the genera populace surround themselves cannot survive brutality, and rebuilding them might never be entirely possible. Too many eyes, too many faces.

The witch has far stronger empathy than she lets on, the smallest enchantment governing her ability to read the colourful patchwork quilts of people's auras. Any other sensitive might only recognize a mild fizzy hum around her; her eyes don't glow and certainly nothing else gives her away. For him, though, she offers that smile. Meeting Bucky's gaze obliquely, "Thank you for coming out. It has been a few days, and so easy for me to get lost in everything." She takes her seat, sliding in so easily she ends up against the wall. Oops. A laugh brims at her lips, soft, a confessional secret between them both though neither likely subscribes to the right kind of faith.

"Me? Too caught up in my head. Daydreaming. Considering things. Maybe I have an idea to get out in the air with someone who can say this is foolish or exciting," she offers, if a bit vague. She pours tea from the pot into small glasses, she gestures to his if he would like any. Conversation halts whenever the server comes by with napkins, water, the niceties. They are largely left alone; it's the benefit for being a regular and from a culture that appreciates privacy heavily, quasi-nomadic as they are. "How about you? A rough day, a quiet night?"

She pulls the necklace from under the collar of her dress. It hangs there, pale gold and terribly unremarkable. But it's the device for the telepathic rituals often used, a thing never left anywhere but her neck these days.

James Barnes has posed:
Or kindly, for that matter. Bucky...doesn't have too much trust left in his body. Few people have made it into that zone, most firmly Steve Rogers, but some have managed to put their pinky toes in the water, like Wanda and Sam. Sometimes, even when you don't have too many people in the world you can truly, desperately rely on, it's nice to at least crack the door open so people don't have to force their way in. Sometimes...you just had to take a leap of faith.

Even the strongest hearts can push through the membrane of past evils on their own. "Too easy...miss one day, you miss everything." He knows that a bit more deeply than most. "Thank you for inviting me. It's been...difficult." he leaves it there while Wanda shares her news with him. While his focus is...extended, he does pay attention. "Whether it's foolish or exciting depends on the perspective. But you are free to talk about them with me."

His eyes drift lower than hers, not getting a peak or anything unchivalrous, but rather eying the necklace she seems to pull into his view. He's slow to answer the question, as if deciding his best course of action. "...nightmares." His eyes drift back to hers, silently nodding. A permission.

"I see...faces. I know them. I feel like I should. I remember their words...but not their names. Missions. Weapon placements, strategy, shooting positions.."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Desperately rely on; isn't that a painful truth? Wave-toss'd monsters like them must find their paths together, clinging together in a battered vessel. Built strong, for certain, but misuse through the years or a failure to perform regular repairs has left such an uncertain to brave dangerous waters. Is it enough? Ah, but it needs to be. Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith, pointing at a far horizon, and daring the unknown.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Wanda speaks softly in Russian rather than English. In her slate of languages, it's far more familiar than English sometimes. Likewise more obscuring. She reaches across the table offering her hand, palm flipped up, still warm from the teapot that leaves two equal glasses. "Difficulties come and go. We committed to working through them together, didn't we? I am not going anywhere unless you ask me to and mean it. But do not think you can shake me off so easily." Winking, her amber-green eyes brim with affection and a bit of the sassiness known in the family line, though she is by far the most gentle.

Chivalry is appreciated, though she isn't afraid of Bucky's survey, nor any lingering gazes. Her smile remains steady, a place of security. "Nightmares again. I was hopeful we might see success with some mundane sleep rituals. Do you prefer blackout curtains or slatted blinds? White noise, does it help? Small changes like these can ease your mind." Make it so unlike him sleeping fitfully in a safe house or under surveillance, being shocked, hurt, watched. An asset, not a man. The Asset. "Renewing the stronger alternative is overdue." Her fingertips glow for just a moment or two, a gentle promise. "Where it is safe for us to walk in dreams and see what paper tigers and shadows rest in there, the ones we can remove or face together. Or maybe we walk through the details, and see what gaps are there. Like a puzzle, once we have some of the picture, filling in the rest can be easier. It is all about giving you tools and agency. Letting you decide, rather than being confronted by the unknown."

Or screaming halfway across a country or continent for help, and finding that bond sending her through a portal to tumble to his booted feet. Either way.

James Barnes has posed:
Painful truths are often necessary despite the very pains themselves to accept them. A child who feels none of the village's love will burn it to feel it's warmth. Bucky was forced to burn down the village, even though he felt the warmth of stars from them. How can he repay that? How can he move on? It's a difficult thing, to seek the redemption of actions that were not under your own power but were performed by thine own hand all the same. It's one that is easy to argue, but hard to live through. Harder than any.

The words of Russian rather than English does earn a smaller look of approval from the former Winter Soldier. It was easy for him, a myriad of languages learned through his programming and experience, yet at the moment, it was familiar. At times, more familiar than English was. It made him hate it, but sometimes? Sometimes...it had it's uses.

This is one of them. Helps to ensure that fewer ears, if any, can listen in on them. It was smart.

Her words do not fall on deaf ears, however. "Blackout curtains. My bed it's...it's too soft. Unfamiliar. I usually sleep on the floor." one of many symptoms of PTSD, as if to mimic his conditions from before to feel safe and comfortable. "Small changes, maybe..could see what happens with it. Might help." His eyes close a brief moment as he deeply inhales.

Trying to condense.

Whichever works fastest. "White noise makes me feel deafened, like I can't hear. Feel trapped. Don't know..." He narrows his eyes. "Maybe...maybe the telepathy will need to be used again. Find a way to push through."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
The child who burns the village may be accounted the worst of villains. But is that always the story? Was the village constructed as a ring of barriers to keep someone buried inside, dark secrets fomented by a community perfectly aware of the wrong it did? Things are rarely so black and white, especially where the betrayals and treachery of HYDRA's insidious psychological, biochemical, and spiritual warfare can be considered. How do you move on when you were the instrument in the dark empire's hands? Is the instrument responsible for the actions taken, when the reprogramming and the treachery undermining its capacity to act have ever been erased?

Asset. She's seen some of the files. Learned some of the tales, though never enough. It is a dark ocean to cross, though never alone, and is not Wanda the kind to lash herself to the mast and brave the cold? The heaving salted waves, the raging wind could threaten, but she dares to face Bucky down with those clear, wide eyes evenly holding his ice-blue gaze. "I remember the camp cot. Though your couch is more comfortable," she replies, breaking into a faint chuckle. To normalize what might seem not. "Blackout curtains then, do you have enough? You can adjust your mattress easily enough, too. We can pull something softer off and add a thinner one, so the platform feels more solid. Though I could also be talking nonsense and it doesn't make you feel better at all."

Her lips part, a breath slipping in, and out, cycling through the realms of a contemplative taking an assessment over the world. "I don't mind. Your mind does not terrify me. What happened might, but -you- do not." A stress made carefully, insistent. "I know you are worth fighting for, and a good person. Now, you might want to decide your order while I do this, mm?"

She touches the ring at her throat, and then unsnaps the chain with one hand as the other is extended to him still. Bit fussy to work with but eventually it comes free, the old wedding ring -- not hers -- placed flat between them. A survivor of the Second World War, carried out and worn by a Roma sorceress, is meant to have meaning. Her fingers flick, forming a bond.

A knock at the mind, distinct.

<<May I come in?>>

James Barnes has posed:
Asset.

He's been identified as that for so long. Asset. The Winter Soldier. The Man on the Wall. The Snowman. Zimny Soldat. The dark oceans of Bucky's mind are dangerous, shark-infested waters to cross most certainly. Dip so much as a pinky in that pond and it may be very easy to be sucked right in with no hope of escape, drowning in the depths of the deep negative emotional and physical manifestations of Bucky's suffering.

"You would be among the few to say so." Bucky admits softly, even as brown eyes meet her emerald hues.

She says he's worth fighting for. Is he actually? Would his victims say the same? Would the families of those who were brutally murdered by the Winter Soldier be agreeable to such a thing? It's a heavy weight to delve through, one that is difficult to share the wait of. "I don't think I'm worth all of this effort, Wanda." Bucky tells her with sad eyes. "...but I'll trust you."

His gaze then seems to shift a moment to the old wedding ring she draws forth. Her reaches for his hand, he offers her his right as if to hesitantly take it. The knock at the mind doth toll...and Bucky opens the door for her. <<You may.>> The voice rings back into her mind, the bond set and set in strength it does. <<But you won't like what you see. I don't.>>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Asset. Shadow. Hidden names, esoteric tales so the terror hidden behind the long-fallen Iron Curtain could always be a dagger waiting to be drawn from a cloak. The intelligence community still harbours dark memories of those times, though so many of his targets or would-be opponents are gone to nursing homes, doddering back rooms, or the grave. By rights, those oceans should never be plumbed and one sorcerer holding a light at her hand or an emboldened opinion of her ability to help surely might be devoured by any of the antediluvian terrors locked therein.

But who better to know suffering than one born of it, birthed in the death's blood of her mother, raised to be a nightmare's favoured vessel? None of these things matter. "You've nothing to fear," she voices that with utter certainty.

A nudge of her confidence and serenity leak through their connected minds, a two-way surface bond that leaves vast swathes private unless he literally opens the door. The mind likes to compartmentalize itself, generally. Whether he gives her an image of a tenement building, the sprawling Hermitage, a prison or a forest, it matters not. The soft voice in his head never wanders beyond the confines established without need. Would the families of those brutally assassinated agree? Well, all things considered, this has Captain Rogers' blessing so the really prominent ones might have to contend with something more than a triviality. Steve /knows/. Hell, they've had dinner together with him -- a barbecue, really -- and discussed it later. "That is the voice of doubt instilled by others. They would not want you to believe you have worth, because those who think they are worthy fight back. Their identity and their values will not lie down. Yours have not, you know that? You fought back. The man in there," she gestures while picking up her cup of tea, "has been scratched, scarred, maybe needs a fresh coat of paint or two. But you have so much greater strength and endurance. I can see it. If only you could see through my eyes..."

He can, of course. In more ways than one. "You might think different about yourself." She gently curls her fingers around his, and the equalization of their auras takes a few moments. Murmuring her incantations here has its risks, but who knows what the heck Enochian sounds like? What ancient tongues of magical yore are? Shaping the sounds in a murmur allows her to filter her magical energies through the halo of life energy around him, using the ring as a central focus to link them back together again. It's rather like putting on a warm sweater or finding the comfy spot in the bed on a cool winter night.

<<Like has nothing to do with it. I promised my help to you and you have that. More importantly, it means you can live in peace with yourself. What is worth more than that in life?>>

James Barnes has posed:
"I'm not afraid."

That one sentence from Bucky tells a great many things. Firstly, he's lying. He's scared that she'll become scarred and and hurt by his own memories, that she'll be so invested that she'll find his pain in his own actions. That she will flee from him and never return, turn back on her word like so, so very many before her. Bucky wouldn't be surprised. His mind is...a hellscape, for lack of a better term. There is only the moon as a source of light in his mind's eye, as if the night is the only place he could even begin to call home.

She tells him that he's worth it. Was he truly? Or was this simply the result of a friend of a friend? Who could say. If he saw through her eyes indeed, maybe he'd see a different man...if he even considers himself a man at all, more like an empty shell of one. Though he frowns a long moment...he feels the curl of her fingers around his. The soft touches as their equalization and balancing of their auras take place to yoke them together in more ways than one.

<< This feels....strange. >> Bucky averts his eyes, even as the sound of gunfire, screams, and the voices of past victims begging for mercy starts to more easily be heard. Their last words, their final moments, all coming together in one giant pool, like a prism of glass that splits into many others. 65 -years- of being their thrall...and their scars are still there on his mind.

A hand comes up to his head, trying to compartmentalize, trying to put everything in it's box.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
His mind is a hellscape. Wanda, on the other hand, is the darkest of the Elder God's chosen plaything, a daughter as much of him as Erik Lensherr; otherwise, called Magneto. Not exactly a place barren of broken avenues and horrors constructed in the mockery of all good and fair and fine. Neither of them lived happily in suburbia, wanting for little, wrapped in the white-bread, two kids and a dog existence. A blasted space to walk through means its own challenges to face.

She fortunately can bring her own light, the pale stars and the red spinning around her, for her psychic daimon -- a projection into his mind -- is almost always normally herself and that dancing coronet that alone hints her true nature. Can't hide being the Scarlet Witch here, as if she would have any reason. Someone might need to tell the polite, reserved server to order noodles this or that, and she might even have the words to make it happen, even while invested in another plane altogether. Not the equal of a true telepath, though. Tethered to Bucky physically, she puts her fingers on the ring and gold swallows up the spell, anchoring the ritual. Energy poured in from her mystical reserves doesn't change the equilibrium he might sense, a whole ocean of arcane power lapping around his ankles proverbially.

<<It's unsorted and not filtered. You can push back by focusing on just one.>> Quiet, instructive, her mental voice doesn't demand, holding the same gentle tone as her speaking save when animated. <<Do you want me to show you how to create a focus? Or we can simply practice breathing, and see how things sort out. Three in, hold for five, out for three. Do it nine times, which should give you a little space.>>

Her fingers curl around his, thumb briefly on his wrist at the pulse point. Just enough to remind where they are. <<They can walk right past us, not knowing we're here, if we need that. Fancy trick, not as good as yours, but it will do.>>

James Barnes has posed:
Perhaps she won't be surprised by what she sees.

Perhaps she won't consider this to be terrifying as Bucky might expect. Maybe she won't leave and tuck tail in the mindscape and leave him to his own demons. No, but maybe it takes someone with intimate experience with a demonic entity to understand the demons of a broken man. Bucky takes a deep breath in this mental space, even as she syncs them up as best as she can with the ring serving as the focus for the ritual.

Hopefully onlookers think they are praying or something and otherwise leave them alone.

<<It's too much...it's too much. They're too many. Too loud. Can't get a new vantage. Can't get a new perspective. Just noise...just noise." Bucky narrows his eyes a long moment, though the touch of her fingers curling around his and the thumb pressing against his wrist reminds him of where he is. It lets him center himself. Tkae a mental knee if you will, even as he looks around, even as he follows her instructions. He performs the breathing technique -to the letter- and tries to give a little bit of space. The voices don't seem as loud and as jumbled. A few memories seem to stick out now. A foggy memory of him looking out for one Steve Rogers, when he was a skinny kid from Brooklyn. The others seem to involve much more...bloody circumstances.

<<It will do...>>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Perhaps she will be surprised, and perhaps she will weep later for the harm done to others she cares for. The notion of a scapegoat taking on the sins of the community is never far from hand, pushed aside. Not her culture, not her future.

Belief, sometimes, is all there is. Sometimes that alone energizes the soul enough to push on, a secret reserve meant to breach the gap when physical reactions would recoil away. Whatever else, Wanda has said she won't go. So she will stay. Bucky heard as much, didn't he? <<I'm here.>> That has to account for something.

She palms the ring, other hand still firmly in his. Either could wear it. Nothing stops him from taking the trinket or chain it's attached to. Her touch retreats with it until catching the teacup and bringing that to her lips, a practiced act so different from a hit list playing out. Because he needs something, many things. An audience to watch, a therapist to listen, a guide to walk. Are any of those even right?

Fall down the rabbit hole, ascend into space. <> Focused images, a walk backward. It can be a street between the horrors, the bloodshed and the space of a rough roof, a dark alley, a harrowing succession of punches, kicks, shots all around. <<We are not merely battles. Those are the pauses, the spaces between. I want us to walk together past those. Even if it's a still frame, live inside that space. Find the details. The taste of the air, the feel of the ground underfoot. Maybe you were lucky enough to be in a city, on a bus. But let's explore a moment. And if you cannot find one? We will make our own.>>

James Barnes has posed:
Take the blue pill and go along life as normal...take the red and see just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

The rabbit whole goes deep. So deep that one could be lost forever looking through it. Bucky hears her voice in his head, gentle and calming, just the slightest inkling that she's there. Her presence alone, guiding him, walking with him through this darkness...perhaps that counts for something. Maybe it always has and Bucky just never realized it.

Until now.

<<In autumn...there is no autumn. There is only Winter.>> Bucky replies in the way of shapes, echoes of his mind, even as in one moment, he looks as he does before her...the next? A man in black tactical gear. Metal arm exposed, mask covering his face from the nose dose. Eyes with dark rings around them focus on Wanda and long hair falls wildly to his shoulders. He reaches for her, but it's held back.

An urge. An impulse. A flashing death that approached and was told 'No'.

The next moment, they appear to be in Budapest. Bucky is sitting in a van as he moves, the drivers are not speaking the native language, but rather Russian. Bucky seems to be waiting...just waiting for something to happen. It's a calm before a storm. A moment in which through all of the programming and all of the training..he questions why he is there.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Red is best. Does anyone doubt that? The Scarlet Witch is true to her name, regardless.

She gently curls her fingers, weaving them tighter with Bucky's, though he could do infinite damage to her if he so desired. Even the one of skin and bone is strong, the other an alloy meant to tear through steel and concrete callously. What of her life?

The thought of harm never happens. She will treat the prosthetic hand the same as the living one, held firm. Water and tea are forgotten. Noodles may be delivered, along with beef and lamb liberally spiced. It's probably easy to mistake their work less for prayer and more for a very infatuated date -- not unreasonable. She at least might be known for work among the Avengers, and Bucky's looks are enough to make it something not to question.

In Bucky's mind is another story.

No? Critiquing that denial means reaching out, leaving a whisper of gold around them before the plunge when he shifts the mindscape. Winter Soldier. He should frighten her; he does. He does not. She meets those shadowed eyes, a faint nod to acknowledge, 'I see you.' He is. Of course.

But then Budapest assembles around her, the swaying back and forth of the van over old city streets humming softly. Sketches in shadow are filled in places by a pallid blue sky, clear and crisp. Beaux Arts domes and handsome facades, the kind never found in Russia, are assembled by memory of a woman who has walked those streets. <<You could just kick open the door,>> she notes. <<And we tumble out into a street. Here will work. It will not matter what happens ahead of time. We are here, now. In this moment, only this matters. Were you comfortable? Did you smell diesel, petrol or the scent of coffee as you passed? Small touchstones are all around you. We assemble more of them, we get a stronger grasp on what has been.>>

James Barnes has posed:
In the real world? People just see two people holding hands. Honestly, even if Bucky's looks weren't a factor, Wanda's are, and people pay no more heed to them than someone who might flash a photo or some such at the pair if they recognize the pair of Avengers. Thankfully, they remain undisturbed. Even if Bucky possessed greater physical strength than Wanda, he is not unfeeling towards her touch. He feels her fingers squeeze his ever so tighter, ever so -stronger-. But his eyes remain fixed on one point in space and time. He doesn't move from that point, his consciousness being rested on the woman in front of him.

The focus.

The Winter Soldier fades for now, leaving only the Budapest region that Bucky seems to have either remembered or suddenly put together to avoid Wanda having to deal with a manifestation of his programming. Bucky saw it...he -felt- it. Strange. Bucky was still on mission, even as he exited the van and moved through the streets. Incognito work. <<Plenty of guards. 21 to be exact. Each bearing medium ordinance. Threat level minimal. Suggesting alternate entrance to target->> She doesn't get a more legitimate reply. She gets strategy. Tactics. How he moved into his perfect killzones that made him feared...and how that fear made him a legend.

<<There is no sun. There is no moon. There is only Winter.>> Bucky repeats, until he seems to widen his eyes as if startled. <<Coffee smelled like chocolate. Cocoa? Dab of espresso. Gas station nearby. Diesel and gasoline fuel. People unaware. Don't notice. Never notice. Street cobblestone, rough on the feet. Wore perfect shoes. Door was triple bolted. Kicked it down anyway, gun lifted, honed in. I aimed for her forehead, was kicked in the hand as I pulled the trigger...hit her eye instead. Confirmed kill.>>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Isn't that such a sweet image to construct? No one is likely to flash photos here. The heap of noodles in the front window attended by a chef would be a physical deterrent. Children of fallen and risen empires, the Soviet era leading to the Chinese and Russian hegemonies, have almost a century of dodging invasions of privacy for fear of repercussions. Anyone sneaking a phone here risks a pot of boiling-hot dumplings or tea dumped on their heads, then banishment from a close-knit community already aare of exile.

All this to say, Wanda seems to trust the dining public. She certainly trusts Bucky himself. If he offers words or silence, either she treats with complete equilibrium as she can find, perhaps a few seeds blooming deeper and guarding the good impression of him in her mind against the Winter Soldier's clinical, unchanging reconnaissance profile. <<Steve would be impressed.>> He probably would. Maybe the Soldat needs the Captain to gauge how effective those permeable barriers became when the assassin slipped through security cordons with such ease. <<You knew how to keep yourself safe. Even when they did not, you protected yourself. It is not much different here. You protect the man, the mind, the self. Do you find yourself thinking about others or what you need to be doing right now, if you are not following a strict schedule?>>

Questioning him is gentle. She nods approvingly when he plucks details from the whole. <<Chocolate, real chocolate, in Budapest. They would be offended by cocoa powder if mass produced. You melt it down properly at the bottom of the cup, under hot wine, espresso or coffee. I'll make you a cup.>> Her promise comes lightly. <<You can tell me about getting the balance right. Remember that, put a footnote there.>>

She can say that, even knowing he put a bullet through someone's eye socket. A her. Some woman, with family, a name, a place in the world even if papered over in lies. Like he stalked the witch herself in Russia, from a belltower overlooking the Kremlin. As she looks straight over the table now, and slowly nods. <<Go back to the cobblestones. Perfect boots. Stand there. What do you feel and see?>>

James Barnes has posed:
An image that is far too sweet to the senses.

Too kind. Too kind to this slayer of men, women, and children. Too sweet animate for one whose lifetime has been pain. What had he done to deserve this kindness? Does anyone know? Perhaps only the dead will ever hold that secret.

<<At what cost? Entrances, exits, security, weapons, explosives, ordinances...targets...all pieces of same puzzle...all cogs in the same machine. All part of a monster that should have died when...the guy Steve called his friend died.>> He's silent a long moment. <<...I read my obituary in a museum. Barnes....I was the only one.>> Bucky's voice turns saddened as his mental scape reacts.

Wanda helps.

She keeps his focus where it should be. <<Cold. Bitter wind. Rocky streets, easy to slip. Makeshift weapon, could kill with a good fall. People smile. Don't know. Won't know.>> He looks then at the Kremlin. <<Dark. Mysterious. Secrets.>> Thoughts that leave his head.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Far too sweet? Too sharp, perhaps, the way she defines the boundaries of a simple pleasure enjoyed by millions of people. There could be a long discourse between them on the cost of the cacao industry, how chocolate has itself murdered the aspirations and plunged African economies into thralldom to a dominant force, or wiped out hectares of virgin forest to a rapacious western appetite. But she doesn't go there.

Chocolate. A whisper of espresso. The bitter bite of coffee -- another deadly cash crop. Let them all melt together on the palate as he would imagine it.

Wanda weathers the questions from Bucky, for it's only fair. He can answer or turn them back, and the spirit of the inquiries is her business to suss out, like the complex melodies of a Roy Orbison song. <<Is it fair to judge the actions of the past by the clarity you have in this moment? Is there any satisfaction or something to be gained by saying how you would have done things differently then?>> Her eyebrows raise and she nods to the plate of savory dumplings near them, delicately laid out in a fan across the porcelain. <<You are still James Buchanan Barnes. The young man you were during the war isn't the same now, but that never would have been the case. Steve isn't the same man as 1944. I'm not the same girl I was five years ago, when you come down to it. The soul is fluid and advances, growing and changing in response to your experiences, thoughts, and such. The sum of what makes you yourself did not perish in the snow or wash away in the years you were lost to your friends. It remains with you now, a flame burning so brightly inside you that it radiates out for any of us to see. You say there was no sun in Budapest. I beg to differ! But that's a special cost of using magic, I see the soul magic inside you and others sometimes.>>

Let him then reside in a city on the other side of the world, basking in the Beaux Arts and the unusual ornamentation, even if he happens to recall spaces that were harsh and dark. <<Step back. Freeze the moment where you want it. This is an exercise in controlling what you recall, like the sights anchored on the street or the shapes, spaces, and colours surrounding you. I want you to decide what you want to notice, and conjure that in as much detail as you can in your mind's eye. It can be anything. But you will find that where the holes are in your memory, your mind will fill in what it can if there are gaps. If there are suppressed or hidden things, they leave a different shape you can explore. Feeling those shapes, like a familiar room in the dark, might tell you what is there.>>

James Barnes has posed:
As sharp as the finest blade.

But Bucky is not as much of a chocolate lover as Wanda is, though it is a pleasant treat. He particularly enjoys Italian chocolate the most. You have no idea how much willpower it took to avoid saying 'German'. A whisper of Espresso. A bite of coffee. A pang of energy. Palate all melted together as he imagines the taste of it, a narrowed-eyed gaze as he stares into his own desires and wants...yet even still, they are locked in a cage.

Bucky is...difficult to read. He was still James Buchanan Barnes? Was he actually? Or is he just the dark shell of a war hero? <<All things change. Nothing stays the same. It's a lie. a fiction. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the eyes that look back into me.>> Bucky denies and rebukes the sweet words that Wanda tries to fill his head with. A hatred lies there in his heart. A hatred of the self; a brutal poison.

<<The soul magic...intricate. COmplicated. Unknown. Can't prepare for magic. Blitzkrieg.>> Bucky enters once again into a tactical mindset, almost as if he's trying to hide something...or maybe it's just instinct. Not used to someone wandering around in his head.

Step back. Freeze. Take it all in.

The sights change once more, and he seems to be sitting in a very plain room. Not the Red Room or anything similar. Just a room. Likely a safehouse. There's no bed, just a blanket on the cold floor, a little cot for himself. All is silent, yet he remembers things. Birds singing outside the window. Rumbling darkness of a storm miles away.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Cages are not broken in a day. A few weeks, maybe a few months. Persistent effort to access them and coax them out, frightened and doubtful, into the light of day is her handiwork then. Trust might bring them forth, if they were not already shy and prone to rushing off again out of sight, and she will not rush the process. If anything, the only rush will be his.

Until patience gives out. But not this day.

<<You are all these things. Denying any one of them fails to consider who you are now. Take another tack, let us consider another person of public prominence, if that would help.>> She inclines her head, dark hair falling around her shoulders and brushing across her brow, not urged on. But this too will wait when he shifts the mentalscape, and the presence of her thoughts stills carefully to a point where they are narrow, thinned, no more than a shaft of sunshine or a stiletto blade. There, but a withdrawal can be easily achieved by refusing to continue. Caught up in a curious regard of what he lays out before, she murmurs aloud, "Tea."

Reflex, to drink it, and let that sensation roll around on her palate. He might just taste it too at a distance, the earthiness of the black steeped leaves, the heat across the tongue. A recognition for spending all that focus concentrated on being, feeling, and not thinking so wholly. <<Be kind to the man you are. Have a care, for you are much more than you give yourself credit for. You are trying, and daring, what few would brave. I see much to be commended in that. No matter how difficult, you choose to move forward. When you fail, you get back up. These are potent and worthy endeavours, aren't they? Would you not encourage me while on a shooting range, every time I missed the mark? A gentle correction, a proper word of advice, and let me figure it out?>>

Step back. Freeze. Begin again. A tidy room, a simple detail. The birds sing. The storm murmurs, petrichor thick on the air. She sits cross-legged on the floor, taking it all in. <<We could be here all day listening to the wind blow. What makes this familiar and comfortable?>>

James Barnes has posed:
Would Wanda's patience give out? Would it be the cause of disdain? Of abandonment?

Barnes wouldn't blame either.

'Tea'.

The words said softly, a gentle prodding, a light whisper in the wind to him upon that soft murmur whose word echoes to his ears. All those things and more. Tea. Peace. Patience. A deep breath in the whisper of the world.

How can he be kind to the man he is if he has no idea -who- he is as a person? Though her words do not fall on deaf ears. Bucky has forgotten how to walk and now? Now she is reminding him how. Reminding him how to think. How to breathe. How to act and react. She's teaching Bucky how to be James Barnes.

To Remember.

The plain room is sat in even still. Wanda on the floor, Bucky leaning against the wall as he looks out the window into the vastness. <<Peace and quiet. A place where nothing happened.>> Bucky stared a long moment, far longer than usual. <<Suppose not. Would help you, just as you've helped me. Make sure your aim was straight. Feet shoulder-length apart. You want to learn how to shoot?>>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Wanda's patience giving out creates a spectacle undoubtedly, the kind of mad creation that would gain much attention from the Avengers and the world at large. Warping reality has that unwanted effect, sadly.

Tea brought to her lips brings the earthy, wholesome flavour to her palate, and the heat grounds her in the moment. They can reach for forks or chopsticks, and make much of the hearty, wholesome noodles and beef before them. Not Chinese or Uyghur cuisine, nor purely Russian, this is wholly a place with lagman noodles in abundance and memories of the steppes colliding with the great Trans-Siberian trains that stretch from civilization into the uttermost wilds of the Northern Hemisphere. She nods to the thick assortment of hand-pulled noodles shot with savory meat and vegetables, smiling. "Try it, I promise you'll enjoy it. You don't have to even let go of my hand for it. Or unlock your lips for long, if you prefer to use them another way."

Ah, there's a simple statement in Russian that uses a Balkan idiom in all the wrong ways. She takes a few small bites herself, the better to sustain her high metabolism that burns almost as quick as her brother's.

<> Practical adventures are brought together. <<You see, I will not condemn you for having missteps or making errors. We will see where we can improve on the circumstances so as not to repeat it again or to learn something from them. I hope you would do the same for me.>> Her smile brightens again and she listens to Bucky's birdsong in the safety of their thoughts, soothed, comforting in the silence. They can be quiet together in mind and in person, and it's no insult at all to her. For her?

James Barnes has posed:
It's true. Wanda had the patience of a saint but the ability to warp reality is a decidedly disliked ability. Can't blame them either, there are many things Bucky can train himself to trust, though even with the power to unmake and remake the entirety of the world...it can be difficult to trust Wanda's capability. But then she sidelines you with her warmth and her kindness.

Tea is brought to her lips, and Bucky pereforms the same. The noodles arrive and he honestly is so hyperfocused on what is happening that the noodles for the moment are ignored.

<<Yourself guaranteed. Others...only if capable.>> Bucky replies. <<Too many variables. Exit points, entry points, ballistics, forensics, be a ghost.>> Bucky replies almost hastily, like he was running. <<Never a liability. Liability is death, a terrible crippling.>>

Then the -silence- returns in all of it's power and might. It's almost deafening how quiet it is -except- for the birdsong.

It's the most wonderful melody. It's less of a birdsong and more an actual song as sung by the bird itself.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Saintly patience? That's the kindest statement to make, though she might no more believe it than Bucky believes himself a man innocent of certain crimes when he lacked the wherewithal to control himself. Changing reality is a conscious act, most of the time, but not always the way one would expect. She can change things unconsciously or the change twists, and who better to understand the sweet relief of acceptance or understanding?

<<Each person is dealt with on their own terms. There is nothing wrong with that.>> She smiles over the cup of tea. The thick noodles are starchy, chewy, in every way full of energy. The pair of them surely need it, him with the serum bumping caloric intake and her magic demanding fuel available. Her dark hair pushed back from her shoulder, she leans forward a little. <<What kind of bird is it?>>

A sudden question, a smooth one that's surely easy to answer.

She smiles for him.

James Barnes has posed:
Lacking any kind of control over his own person may make him innocent of the vastness of crimes he's committed as the Winter Soldier, but Bucky still believes that just because he did not guide his hands to kill does not mean that he didn't perform the deed, even if it was not of his own will. Bucky's eyes remain on the environment, though she understands. She -understands- and perhaps...perhaps that is all that is needed in this very moment.

<<Are you certain?>> He asks of her, though she asks a question. A question of the bird itself. He takes a shaky breath as he easily manages to find the bird. <<The sound of it..heard before. Often heard in North America. Goldfinch.>> Bucky answers after a moment of delving through the memory itself. He doesn't seem to notice her moving forward.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Who are they? What guilt is on their hands and rightly on their souls? Questions that may never be answered in a lifetime, or perhaps they are, but it's not a matter to be drawn out in long, careful detail. Not here, over noodles, in a place where the beliefs of the Russian empire, Soviet lands, Communist China, and old Turkic traditions collide. So it goes, philosophy and combative meanderings joined in gentle collisions. What can come out of such fertile soil?

<<I am, yes. We should always aim to treat people well and care for them at some level. I find that when you value the people around you, regardless if they are mutant, super soldier, metahuman or simply human, your mind starts to assess situations with concern for them in mind. That's a good thing. You can learn and adapt from that.>> The lightest comment passes between them as she reaches for the necklace and slips it back around her throat where it belongs. The wedding ring will stay warm and slipped under her collar in time. But for now, it's where he can see it, assuring and warm gold, easily enough. <> Her lips rise, and she nods, then purses her lips. An attempt at echoing the goldfinch song is not perfect; a lot to be refined, but it still has echoes of accuracy.

James Barnes has posed:
Perhaps not until Judgment Day and trumpets sound will those questions be answered. What crimes rest on their hands, what blood stains their clothes, what sins weigh down on them like the most vile chains. He doesn't quite know the situation and happenstance and what will amount to it...but sometimes, sometimes a helpful ear will assist then. Sometimes just someone being -there- is enough to decide whether or not they are truly guilty.

He knows what she's talking about. Though she wraps the necklace back around her throat, though his eyes rest on the wedding ring that hangs at her collar. Once again, his eyes do not travel where they shouldn't, regardless his eyes lift until they lock onto Wanda's. <<...where did you find the ring? Was it yours, in the past?>>

He realizes how little perhaps he is aware of Wanda's background and story, and that is something that frightens him mayhaps. For every mission, even with Steve, he didn't remember personal relations but he had the stats memorized. Even still, she seems to approve of the goldfinch and the meaning behind the names. Then she's mimicing the sound of the goldfinch and perhaps, for the first time in a while, Bucky grins. Then he purses his lips and closes his eyes.

A near-perfect mimicry of the Goldfinch is whistled from his lips.

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
What if there is no trumpet, no glorious call? What if every day is the measured response that someone has to live with, and the only judge and jury resides in the skull? There cannot be easy answers anywhere, even for those with a strong moral compass like men whose names rhyme with Leave. Guilt cannot be gauged that easily from an internal source, in the thick of those dark memories and living moments stained by doubt. Darkness. They are elements of the human condition by those treated by inhumane forces, such as HYDRA can create. They, of course, are not alone, but famous all the same.

His question brings her up short, lagman noodles caught in her chopsticks. Rather than let them dangle like gold-soaked ribbons, she sets the lot back down onto the plate among studded bits of highly seasoned beef, the aromatic presence an appeal to the senses. "Mine?" Surprise, then, and a slow laugh. <<No, I've never married.>> Poignant, that, a thing she cannot hide by averting her gaze in its green hue to the side. <<That requires a serious relationship and the right person. Stars never aligned. This came from outside my family and well before me. It belonged to couple who lived in Germany, or what used to be Germany at the time. It endured the war, though they were separated by it. A potent symbol for what we stand for, time, and why. I chose it for the resonance to sustain the telepathic bond, since the symbolism serves to reinforce the spells. Works that way, by and large, when you find connections.>> A save? Maybe, but then she isn't sheltering from the truth where it might cause her all manner of embarrassment.

For every history, they've got stories coming up. For every tale, there are buried skeletons and ghostly apparitions shaded by truth and falsehoods. His whistle isn't a white lie, a delight for her to laugh aloud at.

"See, that's excellent! I haven't half as much talent with that, and you are convincing. I am now convinced we need a bird feeder out in the mansion yard." Avengers finches, assemble!

James Barnes has posed:
That's true.

Perhaps only in the truest of ends can that answer finally reach its conclusion. Where the mind and darkness finally unite and the curtains draw back to see either a grand design...or the shadows of oblivion. Who truly knows what lies in the great beyond? Perhaps it is the powers of Gods or simply the powers of...vast emptiness that guide where souls go, if souls exist to begin with. A dark truth or a brilliant revelation.

Who could say?

Though he seems to notice that she seems to be slightly flustered if her tone of reply and the way she averts her gaze from him. It makes him smile a moment. <<If it helps you feel better, I never knew love.>> Bucky tells her. <<Not in that way, anyway. Though in my mind, your company is lovely and your heart understanding. I believe anyone would bel ucky indeed.>> To have her, anyway. Though Bucky seems to slightly turn his eyes away from her when he says such, his attention returns to her. <<Or more accurately...I don't remember if I ever did. I don't remember the feeling.>> Bucky frowns a moment then, deep as it was. He lost so much time...maybe with his newfound freedom he'll decide what to do with it.

Though he eventually speaks then after heh ears it belonged to a couple in the past. <> His voice is soft and curious, like a small puppy peeking out of it's cave to make sure no threats lied behind the corner. When she compliments his whistling skills, he seems to smile a moment.

"I think Steve would be upset that I turned his team of heroes into a barbershop quartet."

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
The weight of their conversation is best conducted in the mind where doors can be shut and long avenues opened, the room gaining a pathway that wasn't there before or the lights dropping to leave messages buried in mysteries. At least that may be how it is for Bucky, who controls his own mental scape far beyond what Wanda imposes, and that mental palace or a bunker hidden from discovery by unknown forces is his to shape as he sees fit. Truly walking the breadth or length of it would require considerably more effort on the witch's part, putting aside the chance of talking at all and adopting something closer by far to a quiet pose, nearly meditative.

Her lips part, a word hovering there, and her gaze lifting back to Bucky's again. Ice meet the pale green-gold of a spring forest, and she rolls her shoulder lightly under her sweater dress.

<<Magic means changing the world around you, and sometimes reality resists being changed. Something to focus acts like the right tool or instrument for the job.>> She plucks an example from the mind to explain, an image forming in thought rather than in the real world. Explaining why she holds a seed in one hand and visualizes the corresponding tree in another would be awkward if the cafe suddenly gained a new plant. <<When we want to change the tree, having an acorn or a nut that belongs to it makes the magic easier. You can use the nut to imagine the whole thing if you aren't near a tree. Make sense so far? The human mind, however, is a changing, dynamic place. You cannot touch it the same way you can a tree. Your thoughts are fluid and ephemeral, they do not have a physical substance. For me to put them together means using something that acts like a good tool that links two people and carries other symbols. Where I am from, where you were operating. It has weight and focus. Gold's good for something valuable, clear, and often hidden.>>

So goes his first lesson in witchcraft, odd as that might be. Enough to make the basics function. She reaches for the noodles again, chopsticks deft in her right hand. <<Love is a many-splendoured thing.>> Ah, a quote, but one to earn a smile. Two, perhaps, lingering. <<Love is a strange emotion. You can feel it for a fleeting moment or know it your whole life. It comes in so many different flavours. Nothing halts it from showing up now, and nothing in your past bars it from arriving. Such is the blessing of life. And many would tell you the whole meaning of it, something more valuable or worthwhile than any other cause. I'm not a poet, they can have their pretty turns of verse.>>

It's easier to ease out of a smile with that. A gentle nod and a nudge with her mind filters his thoughts through a rainbow overlay from her. <<Thank you. Lest you doubt it, /you/ are worthy of being a good partner too. Never think otherwise.>>

James Barnes has posed:
This is not a conversation for public ears. It's a swift way to keep the things they speak of private. After all, some people may have alternative methods than the norm. HYDRA, for instance, could be watching them right now on recon but not making their move. Best not to confirm or deny any suspicions. That being said, as soon as the mental scape seems to calm itself, its almost as if the light around them is being replaced by shadow that draws nearer and nearer. THe time was coming to a steady close.

Though Bucky seems to shake his head a moment when Wanda believes him worthy of love. << We will find out if I am a good partner when I have...well...a partner. >> Bucky replies with a bit of a frown ever so softly. Though the nudge of her mind fills his thoughts with a kind of rainbow overlay, a brilliant constrast to the darkness that resides in his mind.

Then she speaks to him of magic. <>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
<<You need to understand it to trust it, and to know what I do, just as I've had to learn how medicine or science work. They are important, so you can consent to what I do.>> Just like that, Wanda wiggles her paired chopsticks at Bucky, and widens in a smile. "You'd be at a disadvantage if I were not honest with you. I don't want anyone saying I tried to sneak anything past you! Though that might be hard. You see a great deal, after all. Quite sharp." Her voice comes aloud and the conversation resumes where it will without public attention too much turned in their direction. They sit together, dining, easily mistaken as a casual conversation together. That's entirely the point. "What a pair we make, mm?"

The cornerstone of a conversational point, after all. There could be much that bystanders learn, but so much buried in the secrecy of the mental landscape. With her fingers brought to her lips, she stifles another lough. <<You will find something. You can find a partner. You will always have a dance partner in me.>>

James Barnes has posed:
Bucky seems more than content to stick with bullets, knives, and stones. Magic was...beyond him in that way. If he devoted the time and the patience, sure he could learn. All humans could, technically. But some are just...-built- for it. Bucky was -not- built for magic, but for something far simpler. Or so he would tell you. But alas, even as she tells him that he needs to understand magic to trust it, Bucky huffs lightly. << Then you don't give me a lot of options. Guess I'll have to learn about it to understand it. >>

Though when she speaks out loud, Bucky seems to play along, smiling softly at her. "Well, I don't know how I'd be at a disadvantage. Knowing is half the battle, and I have you down in spades." say what you willabout Bucky, but he knows exactly what he's doing. He's playing along, diverting attention. They are just two people trying their best. "A good one, by the looks of it."

Wanda then tells him that he'll find a partner. Though she offers that he'll have a dance partner in her. <<Knowing me, I'd step on your toes. But I guess that means we need to dance sometime, doesn't it?>> He doesn't realize he unintentionally asked her out to dance, but his attention remains on her.

<<thank you, Wanda, for taking the time.>>

Wanda Maximoff has posed:
Bullets, knives, death. They simply get delivered through another weapon, a strike of a different sort of rare craftsmanship brought out of the depths of the Slavic world. No wonder Mother Russia clings so hard to her children and pulls them back into the Rodina. That dark earth, the primeval forest, leave their stamp on a man. On a woman. <> His chiding statement may be enough to cause Wanda to sit back and reassess him through those bright, curious eyes. Gauging for an insult done, an offence given, she wrests her attention back to trying to sift through.

<<Knowing you... were you not responsible for the Red Room dancers? Are they not one and all ballerinas? I do not know everything there is to know. It would seem I would need to use all the wits and skills I have to match your talent that's there.>> Her mouth quirks. He may not notice; she does. <<So practice shall be necessary. Maybe somewhere we aren't recognized, at least to spare your feelings and your feet.>>

So that's agreement with his sentiments, a possibility they will be connected and off on another journey -- strange or not.

8094/East and West, Noodles and Bullets

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