“No, man, okay – time out, alright? Time out.”
Bucky keeps his gun trained on the guy, now he’s managed to throw him far enough away to use the damn thing. He shakes his head impatiently, flicking sweaty hair away from his eyes, blowing impatiently at the strands that won’t shift.
“There’s your problem, right there,” he’s told, the man’s palms held high and facing him like surrender, like some kind of weird blessing. His voice is all soft Southern vowels pulled somehow tight and angry and out of place, like he’d sound better singing. It reminds him of the archer, and Bucky has to flex his fingers around the weapon in an effort not to lower it.
“I’ve got no problems, buddy,” he says, first time he’s spoken, and he’s met with a snort.
“I don’t even know you and I know that’s a lie.” He steps closer and Bucky makes no movement – he’s watched enough of this century’s television to know that taking the safety off is always used like a threat, here, but Bucky’s not stupid enough to pull his gun on anything he’s not willing to shoot at. The man stops, in any case, like the stillness tells him more than it doesn’t.
“Look, I don’t want to fight you,” he says. “You’ve got the look of a man only killing’d keep down, and I don’t do shit like that any more.”
Stand down, Steve says in his ear. They’re friendlies.
Really, really, overly friendly, Sam adds.
Redwing? an unfamiliar voice says, high with excitement, Can I take him apart? Can I pet him?
When Bucky lowers his weapon the guy releases tension that looked enough a part of him that his smile is a gut-punch surprise.
“Eliot,” he says, holding out a hand.
“What’s my problem?” Bucky asks him, squinting, suspicious, as he holsters his gun.
Eliot shrugs and drops his hand, mutters, “it’s like another goddamn Parker, I swear. Here.” He fumbles something from around his wrist – a loop of elastic that’s wrapped in black cotton. Bucky takes it, regards it, absently pushes his hair behind his ear.
“That and conditioner, man,” Eliot tells him. “I swear it’ll change your life.”