10582/In The Bleak Midwinter

In The Bleak Midwinter
Date of Scene:	30 December 2019
Location:	Bethesda Terrace, Central Park
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Magik

---

Winter Soldier has posed:
Buck has always hated winter, even before he got stamped with that particular, horrible alias. A time of cold and wet and chillblains and fever spots on Steve's cheeks. Of watching his friend get frailer and frailer, life burning away like a dwindling fire. Of being more conscious of their poverty than in any other time of the year.

Then spending years frozen, waking from winter to winter, something that lived in the taiga and out on the white wastes....no, nothing's ever endeared this season to him. The frenetic celebrations of Christmas and New Year's don't help, either.

But all that aside....he's alive and free. So he's sitting on the steps of the Terrace, having brushed clean a little space, watching the snow fall on the Angel of the Waters. He's got his face half-buried in Lili's ruff, arms around her. It's foolish to be vulnerable in public, to be out where anyone could take a shot at him....but there's just enough left of the young man he was to discard his now ingrained paranoia for a moment, and let him rest, and watch the snow pile up.

Magik has posed:
Winter (n.) the coldest season of the year, in the Russian hemisphere from October to May.

Illyana laughs in the face of winter such as New York knows it. At least she chuckles under her breath while it steams in the air. Wrapped in a moto jacket, a patchwork of leather and smart, thick cotton lining, the petite blonde can pretend to be warm. Her mittened hands rest in her pockets as she scours a path through Central Park.

It's -quite- a bit different in the southern end than it was yesterday. A massive sweep of scorched earth replaces the dormant greensward, though much of that may be vanishing. Suggestions of the Lake's waters being lifted and hurled at a dragon are surely overstatement. Then again... it might not be the case. She crosses the arched bridge in front of the terrace, gaze faraway.

One footstep after another, that's how to live in the chaotic bustle of New York. Her teeth grit and set as she stares off over the placid trees and the enormous wall of glass and steel flanking Fifth Avenue in the distance. A forest hemmed in by civilization, the tamed natural world at her knees. Illyana exhales under her breath. <<I should have let Fafnir have it, shouldn't I?>>

A shadow responds, pooled around her feet. Nothing to see there, not without help. //No.//

Winter Soldier has posed:
Furry ears prick up at the sound of a voice she knows, and Lili's turning, tail wagging. It's jarred Buck out of his reverie, and he looks up, blinking. "Hey," he says, lifting a gloved hand. "Hell of a mess out there?" Like commiserating about whatever super-powered mess New York has just undergone is the equivalent of chatting about the weather. Lili unbends enough to woof cheerfully in greeting. She's in a pink coat with reflective piping and service dog patches....and matching booties.

Magik has posed:
Words that cut through the reverie might be identifiable to her, immediately known among the less-known. Plucking the sound of the accent from memory, Illyana halts on the threshold. A brief momentary blink settles her back into her own space and time, not long enthralled by the forested ramparts and the wizened canopy under the eyes of glassen sentries.

"Messier," she agrees, "than it should be." English will suit where Russian has no business being, but the silhouettes trail along the words, settling underneath the meaning with lavished purpose. The trail of her fingertips scuds lower, lower to the back pockets of her pants, hooking in. "Hello," she adds to Lili.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He's used to stillness in a way that only a sniper is, generally. But when attempting to pretend to be sociable, he's more restless. It's not Winter's leaden affect, but a thread of Buck's own energy. He doesn't ask if she minds if he smokes - they're outside. But he does wordlessly proffer the pack of Luckies, first. Courtesy of a sort. Then he's lighting up with a battered Zippo. Experience tells him that's a massively bad idea - the cherry makes an excellent guide to target.

Lili grins her doggy grin, exposing pristine white fangs. Someone gets her teeth brush every bit as religiously as her master's. "You have a good Christmas?" Idle chat, he offers, as bare fingers scratch the dog's ears.

Magik has posed:
Stillness might be hard for the demon queen of Limbo to attain. Maybe. She approaches with the slow care of someone picking their way across a frozen lake. Is the ground stable enough to support her or should she just slide on, trusting that the inevitable momentum will keep from dumping her in the cold water. A frozen sort of care follows the extended offer, cigarettes held out. "These things kill you," she says, shaking her head. A product of the modern age that even someone here, Russian-born and bred, might resist. "Must keep my teeth white."

Maybe it's too easy a sin. The rest of her would suffer if she went down that easy slope. A snap of flame and the smell will do. The looseness of the gesture presenting her hand to the dog is controlled all the same. Lili's erstwhile reflection isn't visible anywhere, which is probably a good thing. Looking into her shadow and finding the barghest would be awfully upsetting for most people. "Not Christmas yet. Another week to be official. I don't celebrate often but this year..." A shrug of those slim shoulders follows. "Failing at cooking a proper meal."

Winter Soldier has posed:
"Plenty of things kill you," he observes, without a hint of asperity or defensiveness. "These won't make a dent in me." And he grins, shrugging. Teeth white as Miss Marlene's fangs. A blink for that declaration, then he nods. Right, the Orthodox calendar.....

Silent, shoulder-jouncing laughter for that confession, as Lili stretches her neck and sniffs delicately at the offered hand. "What do you count a proper meal?" he wonders.

Magik has posed:
"Most Sochevnik dishes are barely palatable." Somewhere, the shadowy leader of the Russian Federation is personally tearing up her citizenship papers. "My kutya focuses more on sweet than not. Wheat, honey, chopped dried fruits, as a start. Borscht for those who will drink it and that part is easy." She ticks off her fingers. "Pelmeni, of course, and pirozkhi. Salmon in a beggar's purse, since it is easier to stuff with rice than kulebyaka I tried. The bakeries serve plenty of bread, so bobal'ki and honey. Pryaniki. Do you just want me to send you a box?"

It sounds like such an easy thing.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The grin's mostly gone, but it's still lurking at the corners of his mouth, in the lines around his eyes. "That does sound really good," Buck says, and he even seems to mean it. "I honestly kind of do. I only ate really good Russian food a few times...." Why would they waste good food on something that was basically an organic weapon system, after all?

Lili thumps her tail and licks her whiskers, as if in sympathy with her human. But then, Buck does eat, when he can. He can put it away like no one's business, in support of that amped up metabolism.

Magik has posed:
Lili is too hopeful. Maybe Bucky is too. Illyana grimaces a little, and then tips her head to the side a degree. "I am not a good cook. But the people helping me know how to bake and use a thing called a crockpot. I have not died by my own hand or theirs." Such flying colours and success accompanies her statement that he might want to reconsider. "There are twelve courses. Mine will be a little more palatable because unseasoned potatoes fried up to a pancake are not good for many. I can have it sent by as soon as it is out of the oven. Or pot."

Which literally means delivery faster than Postmates, the Flash, or Pietro Maximoff. It's a good backup job: food from her oven to yours at the speed of thought. Her hands curl together. "If it's too bad, no one has to know."

Winter Soldier has posed:
More wheezing laughter at that. "Nah, don't put yourself out," he says, more gently. "And crockpots are pretty neat. I have one, and cookbooks to go with it." .....now there's an image, Bucky dealing with a slow cooker. But then, he always cooked for Steve. "I cook a bit, myself. Things've changed a lot here, since I was young. Food's much better than it was. D'you like Chinese food?"

Magik has posed:
She tips her head again. Illyana's eyes are winter-pale, smoldering with a rim of arctic blue to distinguish any colour at all. Her brother's are the jewels worthy of a Tsarina. "It really is no trouble. Unlike the firestorm here." A subtle roll of her shoulder gives an indication of what 'trouble' looks like where she comes from. As in barely noticeable, perhaps. "Chinese food from China or Chinatown? I like Szechuan." Of course she might; it has fire, flavour, and vim to it. "And Cantonese. The place where you can get a hundred types of steamed bun is good. You know anywhere worth trying?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
That gets an odd little look from him. A beat or two where he has to confer with those past versions of himself. What does he like? He's eaten Chinese food in China, but does he *remember* it? Doubtful. Winter doesn't remember things like that, mostly. Things not relevant to the mission. So he settles on, "Chinatown, mostly. Uh, a few places."

Then another little smile, and he wonders, "You like the spicy stuff, huh?"

Magik has posed:
What does an assassin of the worst Soviet black ops project like to eat? The oilest noodles, Singapore noodles doused completely in dark curry rife with flavour? Something like beef and broccoli, or a crackled glaze on duck breast? There are a dozen opportunities, something they might all partake of. "Chinatown is not so far. I like any recommendations you might have," she adds with a soft-spoken purpose. "Finding good food in this city? It's like finding a gold coin in the Volga." That damned river is known for drowning its troubles, isn't it?

"All I have ever had. Not many people go for food that is oily," she says quietly.

Winter Soldier has posed:
"I know a couple," he says. "I can write it down, or....we can go get some now, if you want? Or some other time?" There's a quizzical, uneven lilt to his voice. Like he's bemused that he's making such an overture to a near-stranger. It's mirrored by the cant of those dark brows, puzzled. Lili, meaning to reassure, lays her head on his knee, and he strokes her ears, absently.

Magik has posed:
Illyana's smile is a rare, fleeting thing, sunshine in the middle of November or a brief overnight low of 17'C in northern Scotland yesterday. (Right, global heating isn't an issue.) But there it is, short-lived and tentative, though not fully unkind. "I would like that. Nothing else so important to night. My kitchen is a mess, like a giant ran through after a dragon." If he has any capacity to tell guile -- or Lili does for that matter -- it's missing totally from that sentence. Completely.

She nods to the lovely hound. "I hope they will not be bothered by our friend, da? Is there any law about it? If so, I can help with it."

The bemused gesture might be something she isn't so familiar with. Maybe she is. "I'm Yana, by the way. Not sure I told you much in the past. Illyana if you want the whole mouthful. Most don't."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Finally, he unfolds himself from his seat, gets up. He doesn't tower - the serum bulked him up, gave him muscle mass and endurance that a half-starved sixteen year old would've killed for, but it didn't make him much taller, at all. Not like Steve.

"Enh, it's a law, they gotta let her in. I know a few that are okay about it, don't give you grief." Then there's that weary little smile. "I'm James. But I mostly go by Buck, or Bucky. And you've met Lili, if I remember right." Which isn't always a given.

Magik has posed:
Illyana acts like she stands somewhere around six and a half feet tall, maybe more. The benefits to a born Kryptonian or Asgardian she absolutely lacks, but the height that normally follows a Russian doesn't apply in the Russian Far East where shortages and food scarcity are realities as much as methane release and bad roads. She nods slightly when Bucky rises, naturally slipping back to open up a healthy amount of space between them on the terrace. Water splashes in the basin and the faint scent of ash dances on the air. Such is the price and penance of burning things.

Of burning curses. She doesn't go too much more into detail, again feeling for the cracks in the ice. They are near strangers and in some way not, willing to shoot and hurl trouble into the teeth of their aggressors. Violence has a way of binding those who are its children, Ares ruling over all. "I have. Lili, hello. Xraxre sends his fondest greetings."

//Fondest is a bit much.//

"And he means it. Lead on, then. How do you want me to call you?" she asks.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He's got Lili leashed, the leash dangling from his hand. Pauses to stub out the cigarette, stow it behind his ear, unthinking parsimony. "Uh, Buck, please. James is.....for formal situations, really."

Like war crimes trials.

Lili casts a look over her shoulder, grins, then faces forwards again. He sets a careful pace, not his usual ground-covering quick march. Hell, he could summon a cab, if he wanted one.

Magik has posed:
Times teach people. Too many instances where holding onto the heel of bread or the last of the beans would get someone through hardship. Put the knife in your boot; bring another sweater just in case. Oh, the tales Bucky and Illyana might share about their adjacent troubles. "Buck," she replies. It sounds odd on her tongue. It needs practice for all her English would put a don of Cambridge to shame if she really wanted. Thanks, Xavier, for the gift.

She isn't as tall as him. She can move fast enough to make do, hopefully no trouble for hitching his stride much. "Makes sense. What takes you out this way, just looking?" Assessing the damage?

Winter Soldier has posed:
It's mostly not a people name, here. His own insistence on it is courtesy of firstly a whole slew of Jims, Jimmies, Jamies,and even Seamuses in his school....and secondly Jack London. "Buck," he confirms, with a glance over his shoulder.

"Yeah," he adds. "Curiosity. And I wanted to get out of the house. I.....this time of year makes me restless."

Magik has posed:
All those little boys, modeled after a saint, then a Stewart who might have been. Another lifetime, would he have been the leading man and the brigadier general with his faithful marriage and the spotlight gently turned aside to the golden-haired hero of Europe and America? Maybe. Life has a funny way of screwing around with others, when the dice are thrown again from God's great Yahtzee cup.

A click of the words follows where she makes surprisingly little sound. Those boots don't allow for much and she smothers the rest, drowning it. "Too many people around. All of them distracted, it is not good. So much money being wasted, so many things enforcing festivity. It feels false."

Winter Soldier has posed:
She's startled him, with that one, and he looks at her for a longer moment. "Yeah, it does. It was bad enough when I was young, and now it's an absolute orgy," he says, simply. "It really is." His tread's heavy - crunching where the crust of ice warrants it, shushing along in softer snow. Lili picks her way with a daintiness more generally attributed to cats. She doesn't like it. Not at all.

Magik has posed:
How old are their eyes, mutual vessels to a soul? Not much to speak of there, but for the peculiar diversion between physical age and the realized experience. Him, rimed in ice; hers, buried in hellfire. Two broken Russian dolls, in their way, nested in the work of much darker, older powers than their own.

Snow is snow. Chinatown is no mere walk from Central Park, either. It isn't her nature to fill the space with empty conversation. "An orgy of excess, wealth and obligation. And no pleasure, either." Ooh, if that isn't disconcerting.

Winter Soldier has posed:
"Right," he says, voice smoke-roughened. He walks the way few men walk now, with a fighter's intimate knowledge of his own body, the young boxer's cat-footed tread. "Exactly. I.....never liked being poor. And we were starving poor, more than once. But now that I'm out of it, I feel like....it makes things now keener. I was a prisoner, and now I'm free, and sometimes just the air here, in New York, is sweeter than good wine because of it."

Magik has posed:
"Is it so bad when everyone else is?" This, the voice of reason informed by five-year plans and the collectivization of the fields, rings out easily enough. "Make the most of what you have. Everyone shares a dish at Christmas Eve. The hand-me-downs are washed and folded with care. Maybe a new bit of fabric or better buttons to make them special. My mother, she could change a sleeve with a few pleats like no one." The memories are old and worn, unfolded for the sake of holding up the paper-thin recall to the light. "Everyone here says that 'enough' is not enough. You find enough and the..." Even though she's perfectly fluent in English, Russian sometimes makes it easier to say. <<The goalposts move. You have to keep up with a further line.>> A slow twist of her shoulders and Illyana pulls her coat a little slower, the collar never meant to stand high. "How many people starve now because they are trying to have so much?"

She casts a look up at the sky. A hint of a smirk follows. "The air here is filthy. But if you can breathe it without someone leashing you, powerful. I know what you mean."

Winter Soldier has posed:
<<I feel like that's the disease of America,>> he says, quietly. <<It was true then. I remember the twenties. The first....the 1920s. How drunk and giddy this whole city was. And then the crash came and .....everything sank like a stone in a well. Yeah. Now it's worse, it's an age of false fronts and life lived on a screen.>>

Buck pauses, turns his face up, lets the snow fall there, melt on his cheeks, star in his lashes. "Yeah. It's a dirty old town."

Magik has posed:
"The Twenties were a time with excess everywhere, da? I don't think it has changed very much. People are still people. They confuse want for need. They cannot tell the difference between having something important or salivating over something else becuase it looks important." Her blonde bangs falling over her face, Illyana makes no effort to really brush them away. Maneuvering through the city with her hair in her face shouldn't be all that hard. "False fronts, lies, stories built around emptiness. It will come crashing down sooner than later. Ugly to think about, worse to live through. In the meantime, we have..."

He's stopped, face to the snow. Breath to the wind, freedom even in the ugly soot-stained rise and fall of relentless mercantilism. She goes quiet, content to watch. Rather like admiring art from a distance, or up close, as though too afraid to breathe or else the image might be harmed, dissipating to nothing.