Wounded on a Shore

Wounded on a Shore
Date of Scene:	29 June 2017
Location:	New York City
Synopsis:	Sam Winchester's efforts to protect the Winter Soldier from the shadows brings him face to face with the a man. Bucky Barnes struggles to break through the cracks in the walls.
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Sam Winchester
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

---

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier went to ground, after that attempted recapture the Black Widow unexpectedly helped him evade. She had offered him information on some safehouses she used, but he avoided them for the time being. She helped him-- expressed a desire to keep helping him-- but he cannot be sure what kind of surveillance she might have on such safehouses. It might be a ploy to lure him into the clutches of SHIELD.

Gratitude for unlooked-for assistance did not necessarily equate to full trust. Especially not among people like them, who live such dangerous duplicitous lives that they have forgotten what it is to not be paranoid.

Not even the Soldier can hide in a bolthole forever, however, especially not when his only objective is not to flee-- but to get answers. He's changed out his clothes since the last time anyone else saw him, and he's putting his number one talent as the Winter Soldier to use: blending in seamlessly with an American crowd.

Nobody really pays him a second glance as he makes his way through the evening traffic on the streets of Brooklyn, head down. But after a while, the press of people gets too much for him, and he veers away into the solace of a small park.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam Winchester has been trying to watch his back in his own, singular way. He'd spent a lot of time thinking on how to do that.

He can't track Barnes in any conventional way. No means of investigation or spywork are going to help him, because James is too skilled for that. And he doesn't want to spook him, or send him running, as Claire had suggested might happen. Really, it's not vital that /he/ speak to the soldier at all, or it wasn't. Because his main objective is to keep James' enemies off of his back.

To that end, he has braved headaches to try to really take control of his visions. To force them. And he found he could. He /could/ trigger them. The exercise leaves him just as strangely ravenous as the telekinesis does, so it's not entirely /pleasant/, but...he can do it. He's able to get more details, find more markers of time and place.

Which is why two Hydra operatives that would have spotted James by chance are now sleeping off their ICER shots in a dumpster not far from the park.

But it's not perfect. He got the visions of the operatives. He did not get the vision that James was going to go spend time in a small park.

If he had, he wouldn't be sitting on a bench in that park now. He wears a grey t-shirt and a leather jacket, jeans, combat boots. He's not hiding, because he doesn't think there's anything to hide /from/. He is instead alternately chugging down Advil after Advil with a large soda while unwrapping hamburgers and tearing at them like the sin of gluttony made manifest. Four empty wrappers sit next to him. Except he finally throws the sandwhich to one side with a grouchy and pained grimace, wiping his hands on the paper napkins that came with them and finally just clutching his head, fingers digging circles into his temples as he tries to rub the pain away.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Those visions give Sam Winchester enough of an edge, in terms of erratic movement and pathing, that the Winter Soldier is not immediately aware he is being followed. At some point, however, that ineffable sixth sense that makes a good operative starts to itch. It drives him away from other people, somewhere more quiet.

Somewhere Sam, not expecting to cross paths with the man he's trying to look after, is taking a short breather.

The Soldier becomes aware of Sam long before Sam is aware of him. He circles widely around the young man, studying him in silence, sniffing for threats or traps. He can't find any, but that doesn't mean there might be some snare he cannot detect or see. The last time he tangled with this boy, he did something-- strange--

He stands in silent indecision a moment. He should go. Yet the last time he was in proximity to Sam, something else happened. Something important.

There is no sound to alert Sam. Not until the familiar voice that speaks warily behind him. "You following me?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
He jumps, nearly bonking himself on his cast, thanks to the fact that he had his head bent rather close to his forehead. He turns around, and he opens his mouth, closing it. He lifts his hand a little, showing the lack of a weapon there-- rather unnecessarily, no doubt. He's painfully aware of all the things Barnes could have done instead of speaking. He can imagine a bullet through his head, a stilleto through his throat. Instead, he gets a question.

"No," he says honestly, since it was the men hunting Barnes, not Barnes himself, that were his target.

He could try to explain the other thing, that he's trying to look out for people who might hurt the soldier behind him, but he can't think of a way to do so that makes sense, that doesn't reveal that he and Claire have spoken. Instead he says, "I was around hunting someone else tonight."

A pause. He finally decides it's safe enough to say, "When you chose not to kill me, I chose to revise my stance a little. Thank you, by the way. For my life."

Winter Soldier has posed:
There is a lot to be read into the fact the Soldier is speaking within Sam's easy reach, his hands open and weaponless, instead of just putting a bullet through the boy at two thousand yards. A lot to be read into the wary, sidelong way he's looking at Sam now, his body half-turned like a wolf still undecided on whether to approach closer, or flee back into the safety of the woods.

No, is Sam's reply. The Soldier's head tilts, his eyes narrowing, obviously studying the answer, trying to read for dishonesty. He doesn't find anything amiss, but some men due have a profound talent for lying.

He says he was hunting. Someone else. The Winter Soldier's eyes go a little distant, maybe with reminisce. His expression, confused and despondent, hovers somewhere between half-tamed dog and bewildered child. "I... hunt," he says, slowly, as if testing the veracity of his own statement by saying it aloud, and listening for any wrong notes in the delivery. Trying to lie detect his own voice, the way he did Sam's a moment ago.

But the Winter Soldier's eyes hood a little at Sam's expression of gratitude for his life. The look in them sharpens a bit, some of the clouds dissipating. He does not look pleased by the sentiment, though he obviously struggles how to express why it bothers him. "I didn't gift it to you," he finally parses. "I just didn't take it."

He looks briefly, profoundly confused why he would do such a thing. "I saw something, fighting you," he eventually decides as a reason.

Sam Winchester has posed:
It's a little heartbreaking, watching this man try to piece together who he is and why he is doing things. The bewildered child, saying he hunts. Not even sure of the words coming out of his own mouth. It fills Sam with another burst of enormous compassion, a compassion that radiates out of his eyes as he stands to face the Winter Soldier. Slowly, very slowly, in a way that betrays no threat. He's armed-- that jacket holds a multitude of weapons, in fact, weapons that the Soldier's eyes can pick out with ease-- in fact, the jacket itself is lightweight armor, now-- but he keeps his hands far from his jacket. He's just standing to carry on a conversation head on, rather than trying to crane his head so that he's twisting to look behind himself.

He hesitates to ask, because he is reminded of the reasons why he thought Natasha and Claire should handle this. The psychology here is so tricky, and one wrong word could undo all of his hard won progress, give the edge back to whatever his torturers did to implant certain behaviors in his mind.

But if the man wants to talk, Sam Winchester can't see that as a bad thing. He ultimately decides on a strategy, one he at least hopes will not cause pain or problem.

"What did you see?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Soldier tenses visibly as Sam starts to stand up. He eases half a step back, his body turning infinestimally more, but ultimately his retreat arrests when Sam makes no threatening moves other than to turn around. Blue eyes flick distrustfully between those two open hands, then back up to Sam's face.

He is a far cry from the confident, cruel creature Sam first met weeks ago, who mowed through his opposition with nigh-joyous contempt with the bold assurance that can only come from a unity of purpose and mission.

There is nothing but disunity in his eyes now, a fragmented bewilderment that speaks of too many irreconcilable thoughts banging around in his head. Sam is correct to be concerned about the psychological handling of all this, especially given he's only met this man so far in clashes of physical violence; a fact the Soldier obviously remembers, even if he does nothing else.

But the assassin seems willing to listen, at the least. To think about the answer, when Sam asks that question.

"War," he says, eventually. "Wounded men, on a shore. The ocean."

He licks his lips, a nervous gesture. "It doesn't belong. I was somewhere else, then." So he thinks.

Sam Winchester has posed:
How can he help this man? What assistance can he provide, beyond the plan that's already been laid out? Sam doesn't know. But the more he sees, the more convinced he is that trying to save James Barnes is the right thing to do.

He makes no further moves, takes no further physical steps. He in fact holds his good hand out at a slightly awkward angle still, as if to keep it very clear that he means no harm.

"You said shut up," he observes, just...leaving it there, that observation. Providing a little avenue for Barnes to perhaps remember who he was saying shut up to, or why he was saying it. The strategy he is adopted is mostly to let Barnes lead this conversation, to gently ask questions or to lay down further invitations to speak without trying to lay down any pronouncements or force anything. "But you weren't telling me to shut up."

His eyes remain steady, full of interest, still so full of empathy.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier absorbs the information about what it was he said, like black cloth absorbing light and reflecting nothing back. There is little to indicate what he thinks about it, if it's triggering anything at all in that mind of his. Only that continued wariness, that sidelong tilt of his head like he's trying to understand how to fit together two puzzle pieces that are completely the wrong shape.

"Someone was talking," he eventually says. "Someone was always talking back then. Telling me what to do. How to do it. How to..."

He trails off. "Someone," he says again, and falls silent.

He sways a little on his feet. He doesn't seem to notice. "Everyone wants to 'help' me," he says eventually, the ghost of a bitter laugh in his voice. "That what you out to do?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
He does, but...Sam can hear the bitterness.

He thinks about Dean. And how Dean would feel about people wanting to /help/ him. How even he, himself, might feel humiliated and small to have people approach him in that way, especially if something was happening to him that he didn't understand, and that he couldn't stop.

"I think," he says slowly, "that something's going on with you. And I think you deserve space and time to figure out what that is. I think most of that probably has to come from you. But...You hunt. I hunt. And yet...people are also hunting /you/. I think I'd like to have your back so they don't succeed so you get that space, and that time."



//Here Sammy. Take this weapon. It's about your size.//

A fragment of a 16 year old daydream about riding to his father's rescue with the very man before him by his side.

"I know you can handle yourself. And I know, to you, that I probably just...just look like some sort of kid. But...anyone can get outnumbered. Or tired. Anyone could use a friend."

He speaks slowly, ever so slowly, feeling his way along this tightrope.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Throughout Sam's slow, careful words, the man he admired as a child stands still and silent, reduced from that fanciful idol into just this: a man, like any other, lost and uncertain and in need of help-- though loath to ever admit to it, nor actively seek it. Sam is familiar with the type already; he grew up with it, all his life.

So he walks that dangerous tightrope-- that narrow line between successfully reaching this broken shell of a man, and inadvertently reawakening the killer that also lives within that fractured mind-- with some degree of relevant experience. And it seems, for the moment... he succeeds. The Winter Soldier goes pensive and silent. Something almost like James Barnes flickers in his eyes.

"They say I need to come back," he starts to slowly relate. "They say if I'm away too long, I'll go mad. My blood will decay without the treatments. At best, I'll rot away from within. At worst... well, they don't know. It's unstable." He shakes his head. "I suppose I'll see." The wager of his life is, it seems, worth some final glimpse at the truth.

His eyes turn to Sam at the young man's final words.

"We were all just 'some sort of kid,' once," he says tiredly, turning away. "What's your name?"

An innocent question, most of the time. With the Winter Soldier -- handing a lethal knife fighter your only blade.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam looks openly skeptical at the blood rotting thing, but sees an opportunity there, one that could perhaps gently send him back to Claire. "Maybe you should seek a second opinion. Find someone who can take a look at your blood." Sam highly doubts that Barnes' blood is about to explode all over the place, but maybe Claire can help him see that these people are lying to him.

Then, the assassin asks for his name. It could indeed be dangerous to give, no matter how adept Sam himself is at living off the grid, dropping out of conventional sight. For one thing, this new thing with SHIELD has removed some of his habitual causes for doing so. He has some of his own money, in his own name. He has a car now that he didn't steal. He has a degree from Stanford, just one year old. His desire for stability comes at the price of leaving a trail, and he knows it.

He also knows this. Sometimes, one must extend trust to earn trust.

"Sam Winchester," he says, letting the ring of truth infuse his words, knowing the man before him is listening for it.

He does not ask the Winter Soldier's name in turn.

He knows his name.

And any other name Barnes could tell him, whether it's Yasha or simply 'Winter Soldier,' is just a lie that's been implanted for the nefarious purposes of people Sam has already decided he doesn't like too much.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier's blue gaze slowly turns to Sam as he makes that subtle nudge to go see Claire. The look in his eyes is that of an old man who knows exactly what the damn kids are up to, and isn't fooled. "What's swimming in there isn't exactly conventional," he says, some ghost of his usual dryness hovering about the wings of his voice, but he doesn't exactly argue, either.

Instead he turns the tables a bit, and asks for Sam's name. The young man's hesitation shows well enough that he knows how dangerous it is-- it gives the Winter Soldier an easy way to find and kill him, down the line-- but sometimes... you must give to get.

The assassin absorbs the name in silence. He doesn't offer his own name in exchange, nor does he seem to expect to be asked.

After a moment, he slowly nods. Or at least, inclines his head. It's transparent he has no idea whether he'll trust this yet-- it could be some sort of lure, or trap-- but he won't dismiss it, either.

"Sorry about the busted arm, Sam Winchester," he says briefly, a statement that encapsulates so much more than just a broken arm, before he turns away.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The Winter Soldier gives him that 'damn kids' look, and Sam does what he always does when he's not being entirely straightforward about something and/or feels caught out in something. He clears his throat, sort of grimaces a little, swallows, and looks away for a sec. But that's not the duplicitousness of a liar who is just trying to pull something for his own gain, but the response of an earnest kid who still nevertheless thinks Bucky ought to let Claire look at his damned blood already.

'Sorry about the busted arm,' the soldier says, and Sam gives a little smile, a soft laugh that is little more than a breath.

"It'll heal," he says...and just as Barnes' statement was so much more than a broken arm, so, too, is Sam's own statement about the prognosis for it.

But beyond that, he makes no move to stop the soldier from going. Space, and time. He is content to give James Barnes both.

But despite the hunger that's making the cold, greasy half-eaten remaining cheeseburger on the bench start to look even remotely appealing, he knows he'll keep right on forcing visions to try to watch this man's back.

//We'll flank them,// whispers a memory. //And the Bad Men won't know what hit them.//

As much prayer as memory, for the man walking away to walk the uncertain minefields of his //own// memories.