The Stash
Day 10 at the Retreat
The perimeter alarm had gone off in the early hours of the morning. Bucky took the opportunity to give Taylar some space, taking it upon himself to go check the fence lining the property in person. The cameras in that vicinity didn't show anything, but he didn't want to take any chances. Tay watched impassively as Bucky geared up. He paused, ejecting the clip on a nine-millimeter handgun. Satisfied that it was fully, and correctly loaded, he housed the clip again, and racked the slide, before flipping the safety on and offering it, grip-first, to Taylar.
She didn't reach for the weapon. She was drawn and tired, and her head ached, and the last thing she wanted to do was handle an instrument of death. When she hugged herself, Bucky took the hint. He laid the gun down on the coffee table.
"If anyone other than me comes through that door, I suggest you have that ready." He told her quietly. Mute, Taylar nodded, but waited until he had moved towards the door before venturing forward to take the weapon. Bucky glanced back to see her checking the chamber and safety before tucking it into the back of her borrowed shorts.
Taylar didn't move for five or six minutes after Bucky left. Her head was throbbing, the kind of dull aching sensation that one got from crying oneself to sleep at night. Except, she hadn't slept last night, not a wink. It took a few minutes for Bucky to drop off her internal radar. It was getting concerning, how impossible it was becoming to ignore his presence. She shivered when she finally could no longer sense the unique mixture of worry, anxiety and determination that existed around Bucky most hours of the day.
She'd wanted to remember what it was like to be truly alone, but she didn't remember how bereft the feeling was. She'd never done well alone. Even her adulthood was full of companionship and camaraderie, not to mention the near constant awareness of anyone in a thirty-, or forty-foot radius of her.
The quilt that Bucky normally used as part of his bedding was folded and neatly draped over the back of the couch. In a bid for comfort, she grabbed it and draped it around her shoulders. It wasn't as soothing as his arm had been yesterday, sitting in the grass, in the aftermath of … of that. He didn't know. She kept reminding herself of that. And it wasn't his fault he didn't know what kind of reaction he'd get from pinning her like that.
It was all too familiar. She had been fine until he flipped her over, until Bucky had the upper hand. But she'd remembered that night, when Chesterfield had broken into her room, and tried to assault her. Tried to. Operative words. He'd gotten nowhere, because, much like Bucky, he'd been reduced to a screaming mess. But unlike Bucky, Chesterfield had stopped screaming at one point, because he'd stopped breathing. Taylar felt dirty, remembering how she'd ran, instead of facing any consequences.
Her skin was still crawling when she finally forced herself to move away from the couch. She promised herself that she'd apologize to Bucky as soon as he returned from checking the fence. In the meantime, constructive logistics needed to be on her docket. Figuring out an equilibrium was important; figuring out control was crucial.
She couldn't just pitch someone into agony every time she got pissed off at them. She started making the correlations last night. The red fog was her anger, while the black had been fear. But despite finally grasping that, she couldn't manifest the energy no matter what she'd tried. She just had to figure out the specific triggers.
Popping the whiteboard off the fridge, she set it on the kitchen counter and proceeded to take stock of what was left. Sam Wilson was in charge of supply runs for them. She'd liked him the few brief times they'd met, but Sam wasn't the type to stick around if he wasn't needed. She'd pointed out the mistrust once before, and had settled on that lack of trust being the reason for the frosty interactions between the two.
Rooting around in the cupboards, Taylar wished that she had her phone, or even that the computer in the corner were connected to the internet. She wanted tikka masala but lacked the ability to make it without guidance. She didn't think it would hurt to add the requests to the list. How many of them would laugh to see a secure internet capable device on the supply requisition form?
Opening a pair of the top cabinets, Taylar climbed up onto the counter to get a better view of the contents. It took her a few seconds to figure out what she was seeing, but one of the cabinets wasn't as deep as the others. She never would have noticed if she hadn't opened both doors at once. Curious, she began to pull the contents out of the shallow cabinet, setting the jars carefully by her knee. Tapping against that panel revealed it to sound hollow, or at least hollower than it should have. Then she carefully started poking around the edges, running her fingers along the seams looking for some kind of catch or latch. Nothing at first, but then she gave an experimental push in against one of the sides, and felt something give. Another couple pushes and finally a hidden mechanism clicked, and the door swung free.
"Oh, hello beautiful," she breathed softly as she reached in to retrieve the first mason jar. Clear, with the slightest blue tint, someone had labeled the jar with a Sharpie marker. "Blueberry moonshine." Taylar read after wiping dust off the lid. The second jar was similar, except faintly pink. "Watermelon moonshine." Five jars total, but Taylar left the other three behind, as she closed the secret door and replaced the items into the cabinet.
Sitting on the counter, holding the two mason jars full of booze, Taylar had a why-the-hell-not moment. Why shouldn't she get to have a liquid breakfast today? Life had been nothing but a mess of stress and anxiety and emotions that weren't hers to begin with, lately.
The giggle she let out felt diabolical. The universe was sending her a message, and telling her to stop worrying. She'd refused to let Bucky add any alcohol to the list of supplies for days now, but some was yet delivered by provenance. She'd stopped believing in God a long time ago, but there were moments like this that she sometimes wondered if there wasn't perhaps a divine hand after all.
She didn't allow herself any second guessing. Twisting the lid off the mason jar, she started with the watermelon flavor, sniffing the contents before taking an experimental sip. It was sweet as candy and smooth; the alcohol burn only started after she'd taken a longer swallow. Drumming her heels against the cabinets below her, Taylar reflected on both her predicament and her powers as she sipped her way through the jar of moonshine.
Her liquid breakfast was doing what she wanted it to do by the time Bucky returned from checking the perimeter. She was feeling fuzzy at the edges, less stressed. She was generally a happy person by nature, but there'd been so much fear and uncertainty lately, that she felt like a shadow of her normal self. She raised the mason jar to Bucky as he came into the cabin, but he was too busy stowing his gear to notice.
"Good news, it was just a deer. Bad news, she didn't make it, but better news, we have venison for tonight if you like that sorta thing." He leaned the rifle against the wall just inside the door, before shrugging out of his jacket. "What'd you find?"
"Moonshine!" Taylar's answer was cheerful with a little giggle. "There's blueberry for you. You don't strike me as a watermelon kinda guy."
"It's not even seven, yet, Taylar." The cabin wasn't big; it took Bucky only a few strides to join her in the kitchen. "Why don't we get you something real to eat?"
"Cause I'm not drunk enough yet." She lifted a foot to enforce a safe distance; Bucky stopped just before he would need to push it down, respecting her request. "I just want.. a few hours where I know that what I'm feeling is really me. Please?"
Bucky tapped her foot, causing her to lower that line of defense, and he reached out for the mason jar beside her. He wasn't anyone to speak on healthy coping mechanisms. He had plenty of times where he'd wanted nothing more than to drink himself into a stupor. But that'd been before Steve found him in Bucharest, before T'Challa gave him a second chance.
Uncapping the jar, and swirling the contents, he wondered just whose stash they were about to drink through. A split second later, he decided he really didn't care, and tipped his head back, jar to his lips. Long draughts off the jar garnered him an appreciative, low whistle from Taylar. When Bucky came up for a breath, he compared the level of liquid left to what remained in Taylar's jar.
"Can't drink fast enough to get drunk anymore," he admitted with a little shrug. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna let you drink alone."
Taylar lifted her mason jar in reply. "Here's to a seven a.m bender for a lightweight and a dude who can't get drunk!"
Tapping his jar against hers, Bucky settled in against the counter beside her to sip the sweet, candy-like moonshine. He positioned himself to be able to catch her, just in case she slipped off the counter. She hummed to herself softly as she sipped the moonshine, her attention momentarily diverted to the whiteboard that still lay on the counter beside her.
"We need music." She stated flatly, before squinting at him. "What kinda music do you like, Bucky? Think Sam would bring me something if I asked for it?"
"He'd try." Bucky had to admit, that's one thing Sam was good at, keeping his word. When he let himself be rational about the whole situation, he was glad that Sam had been there for Steve as a friend. "But, you're too young to have heard of any one I like."
Taylar immediately straightened, taking that as a challenge. "Excuse me, old man. I take that personally. Now you have to let me guess." She adjusted where she was sitting on the counter, perching closer to the edge as she turned toward him.
Bucky raised his brows and waited for the inevitable wrong answers. She made a moue while she studied him, narrowing her green eyes as she walked her gaze up and down his body. Uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze, Bucky stared down into the moonshine jar in his hands before taking another long draught off it.
"Glenn Miller over Lawrence Welk." She stated suddenly, startling him. "But Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday over Charlie Parker and Thelonius Monk. You're definitely more of a smooth jazz guy, but I don't see you being big into Sinatra, or Bing Crosby."
Smirking at her, he couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, okay, you've got me there. I only listened to Sinatra cause the girls loved him."
Taylar immediately burst out into giggles. Purposefully, she started to slide off the counter, but Bucky's instinctive reaction was too fast. Before she slid the foot or so to the floor, he'd caught her around the waist, pulling her against his chest as he lowered her feet safely to the ground.
For a split second too long, his metal hand lingered, splayed across her lower back. He only released her when she placed her palm flat against his chest, enforcing the idea of distance in that moment. He backed away far enough that she no longer felt the need to press her hand against him for safety.
"Sorry, I-" Taylar cut herself off as she realized she didn't know what she was apologizing for. Setting the mason jar back on the counter, Taylar realized that she still couldn't figure out what she was feeling, despite being comfortably buzzed. What good were powers based off emotions if her emotions were a train wreck in progress?
Bucky reached past her for the jar, replacing both lids, before turning to stow them both in the freezer. "Breakfast first, existential crises later?"
Shaking her head, Taylar let off a watery laugh. "Actually, could I have a hug first? Then we can talk about breakfast."
Bucky's smile softened, and he opened his arms. When she wrapped her arms around his waist, he carefully folded his around her shoulders, taking care not to squeeze, even as she tightened her grip on him. It was nice. Nice that she asked; nice that she was comfortable enough to ask; nicer still that she'd stopped consciously pushing him away.
She smelled like strawberries.
Even as he felt tension in his own shoulders and back start to unwind, he could feel her relax into the idea of the hug further. He hoped she was at content in the moment as he was. The moment her grip loosened, he lifted his arms away, giving her the freedom to pull away. Self-consciously, Taylar wiped her eyes just to be sure she hadn't done something unsightly, like cry. Bucky wasn't bothered if she had.
"Anytime you want another one, just ask," he reminded her, with a wink. Acting like the whole situation was no big deal was the safest course for the both of them. "Hugs are always free. Now, about breakfast..."
