The Long Journey Home

19: We are made of every moment that tried to break us

[ Chapter notes: TFATWS 1x06 ]

In Riga it hadn't seemed to matter to him if his metal arm was visible or covered. Maybe, though, that was a byproduct of his attention being focused on the next argument with Sam and trying not to cave to Helmut's continued attempts to provoke him.

As soon as the thought occurs, you backtrack. Your first encounter with Bucky in Madripoor was an instance of having his metal arm on full display. But then on the flight out... even as preoccupied as you were at the time you clearly remember him acting much the same way he has been all day walking around Brooklyn: very carefully keeping the dark metal hidden from view. Now that you're trying to focus on it you can't quite settle on a memory, one way or the other, from the series of days spent in Riga. In the residence you half-remember moments of him having his arm uncovered, but then you also might remember times when he was dressed much the same way he is now with a sleeve keeping his arm hidden. Much like Helmut, didn't he sometimes wear gloves?

Why would it matter one location and not another? Why would it matter one moment and not the next, and why can't you simply ask rather than shuffling it into the queue of questions backlogged in the already overcrowded and tumultuous space that is your internal landscape. The answer to both, to the whole string of questions, is simple: because.

Because for some reason it matters. It matters for avoiding lingering looks and for attracting them. It matters for reasons that aren't yours to bring up, because it's not your place, figuratively and quite literally. It's tenuous, this thing that might be a friendship that is developing between the pair of you... and you're beholden to him. Risking no longer having that assured place to sleep, that assured roof over your head... No. You'll let him keep his reasons, and do your best to pretend you don't notice the quick flick of a scowl when he has no choice but to use his left hand to open the gate to exit a ride, or hold said gate for the next person coming along, or the way he exhales and jams his hands back into his jacket and casts long glances back in the direction of the carnival stalls.

That. That's something you're more than happy to bring up, something you're more than happy to harp on -- so long as you can continue to succeed in keeping him from veering off to argue more with the vendor that was all too glad to take his money and give him looks that all but screamed: die mad about it.