ic contact ★ i'm just a shot away from you

[lostsoldier]

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"JACK DAVIS"
"FRED MONROE"
"SHIRTLESS MAN ON 005"
"MISS C4 2015"



James Buchanan Barnes

[ text ★ voice ★ video ★ action ]

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[lostsoldier]

[ Basing his texting teenager impression on Ellie after 3 hours sleep may not have been the best choice, all told.

Nonetheless.

There's a couple seconds' delay. He's not sure what he expected, really, but when the door slides open to the soldier's clammy lean against the frame, the expression on his face is somewhere between puzzled and too tired to argue. His eyes are bloodshot and poorly focused, previously muscled torso starting to edge toward lean and sinewy, but there's a quirk to the corner of his mouth, too. Still in good spirits, to an extent. ]

You really brought me soup. [ What kind of person brings a total stranger soup? ] I'm touched.

[adhesion]

I said I would, didn't I?

[ The soup is offered out, Peter's attention necessarily taking in things like metal arm, not a teenager, not Gwen Stacy, not in that order. Peter himself has that vaguely adolescent quality of being upright and in denial of being unwell, his hair damp with sweat, but bright focus in his eyes isn't fever.

He should probably be lying down, regardless, and wearing something more forgiving than a sweat shirt. But he favours sleeves. ]

Not like I made it, lucky for you.

[lostsoldier]

Hell, if it's warm, I'd eat it.

[ Wearily grateful, he reaches for the offered soup with a nod of thanks, eyes flitting to damp of the kid's brow. The soldier is beyond a great amount of concern for stares, although apparently not beyond noticing that certain adolescent stubbornness. (His own is less adolescent, but just as stubborn.)

It's not that he feels bad, exactly, but– ]

You want— I've got space mac 'n cheese in a can and stuff. Trade you. [ he offers, stepping aside to offer a glimpse into his humble abode — stark and depersonalized as a hotel room, save for the basics: clothes, water, shivs stashed under the mattress, a small mountain of canned goods. ]

[adhesion]

Oh! Yeah, sure, thank you.

[ Peter doesn't enter the other man's room, as if some mysterious unknown instinct encourages him to keep a little distance, but it's not markedly apparent. The rooms are small. They're complete strangers.

Speaking of which-- ]

Uh, Peter.

[lostsoldier]

[ It's a wise choice, all things considered. He doesn't seem to mind. ]

Peter. [ he repeats, rather than, say, offering his own name. Two cans are swiped off the table in one metal hand, then offered out as he crosses back. ] You've got to stop being nice to strangers on empty floors.

[ Just saying. A n y w a y. ]

Try some of these orange things, too. They taste like nobody'd bother canning 'em if they weren't good for you.

[adhesion]

You got it.

[ --manages not to sound at all like 'I can take care of myself' or 'why'. He's got a gift for playing the hapless teenager, probably from a whole lot of experience. (He chooses not to press for a name, tracking metal arm with a bright sort of curiousity that he doesn't manage to conceal by the time the soldier is turning back to him.)

His smile is crooked, sheepish, shy about being caught out by an adult, but he takes the cans, weighing them in his hands and looking them over. Cool. ]

Oh, delicious. I dunno, I've had to eat a lot of my aunt's meatloafs over the years. They taste like she was feeding an army, and not 'cause of quantity, but like you could kill a man with it.

[lostsoldier]

[ Stares he can handle, although his own, while mild, is distinctly unwavering in response, like maybe Peter ought to follow example. ]

You know you could do that with a D-ration.

[ Probably joking. (Probably.) Either way, his mouth flattens in the exhaustion-edged approximation of a smile. ]

Get some rest, kid. Thanks for the soup.