( closed prompts )

[carmesi]

Who: Wanda and others
What: Eclipse, magical madness, quest
Where: Solvunn and Horizon
When: A bit after the eclipse, mid-March.
Warnings: Will include in top levels if necessary.

Comments

[carmesi]

Was that Rogers again? Always getting into trouble.

[wanda's eyes look away into the horizon, as if reading a cue card, provided only by the expected response that would be drawn forth from bucky's thoughts and memories—anything to make this interaction feel real.

she raises a hand, pointer finger up, in sudden realization, and heads into the background, bringing back with her a box—clearly the mail—with a huge stamp that simply read 'JAMES B. BARNES JR.' and no address.]

This came for you today! It looks real important. [an exaggerated tone. the box itself is no bigger than a 12-inch ruler, five inches tall. she rattles it some next to her head.] I'm curious to see what it is.

[freightcars]

( From the completely empty audience seats, canned laughter — that Rogers. The running joke of Bucky's life, because Steve's trouble is his trouble practically every single time. Bucky sighs, head hanging down through the laughter, shaking it at the floor.

He waits patiently and expectantly as Wanda disappears, and furrows his brow when she returns with a box in hand. That confusion is real, unscripted, more than a little uncomfortable. )

Great. ( He says dryly. ) Love getting surprise packages in the mail. It's almost never a bomb.

( Cue laugh track.

Back home, he had to put a restriction on his mail. The sheer number of death threats and uncomfortable fan mail sent to James Barnes was staggering in volume, and not exactly great for his mental health. Most of it addressed to his old home in Brooklyn from 1938, conveniently forwarded by the US Post to his new place until he put a stop to it.

More than once he got an official contact about a package withheld for something less than pleasant.

He accepts the package with no small amount of trepidation. Strangely enough, it takes no effort to open. No packing tape, no seal, just a simple matter of unfolding the flaps to reveal the contents. )

[carmesi]

Oh.

[it's a knife.

wanda's smile grows, out of place, and the audience draws in with a concerned ohh and still into silence as its brought up to be seen, the glint of the spotlight catching onto the blade.]

Must be a knife day to be getting that in the mail.

[she puts her hands on her waist, thoughtful, as if wondering what the point of it is at all.]

You can add it to your collection.

[freightcars]

( He gets the feeling he's meant to perk up, like this is meant to be a light moment. Funny, or happy, or excited — something. Deeper down, though, churns a subtler gut feeling of discomfort.

Not sure why he doesn't like it. Just that he doesn't like it.

Instead, he pushes through a tight smile. )

You know, I think that finally puts me in double digits.

( Was his hair shorter a minute ago? It's fuzzy, he can't remember. Feels the distinct impulse not to think too hard about it. )

[carmesi]

Isn't that worth a celebration?

[his smiling is tight, is what wanda notices with a grimace, but that lasts for the tiniest of moments before she's back to sporting a playful smile, heading over towards the fridge to pull—

that's right. an entire already-made cake from within its confines. it's gaudy: a three-tier cake with spirals of red and blue icing, keeping to a perfect shape. there are sparklers atop it, come alight the moment wanda—with a huff and feigned trouble—sets the cake down on the table.]

We should take advantage of the fact that father isn't here yet. [she grabs unto that thought, the bare threads of discomfort as she tugs and tugs, waiting to see what will unravel. a family of sisters and a brother, a mother, an angry father. what else is there?] Who knows what will happen when he arrives.

[grabbing the knife, she offers it to bucky, the handle pointing his way.]

[freightcars]

( Father isn't here yet; something uncomfortably cold runs through his stomach. A twist he hasn't felt in a long, long time. Funny how you can forget something for so long, only to have it come rushing back with perfect clarity.

The serum in his mind doesn't help.

Wait- the what? He didn't have that back then. Now.

Don't think about it. Just take the knife. Cut the cake. He should be happier about this, it's a happy looking cake. Happy looking sparklers. Happy looking sister.

He doesn't look all that happy himself when he slowly takes the knife and spends a too-long second looking down at it.

George Barnes is going to be pissed, he knows it already, but they only have so long for something good before he bulldozes his way in and shuts it down. His wife won't do much about it; Winifred is a spectre who will watch on, called in to reinforce George's point whether she agrees or not. Her most significant contribution will be you knew it would upset your father.

He wants to give this to her anyway, because his sister needs to be able to feel the good parts of life, not just the cold steel of it. He can deal with the fallout. He resigns himself to it, balling up that cold with fatigued acceptance, and forces a smile back onto his face. )

Yeah. Guess we better.

( He cuts a perfect triangle slice from the bottom tier, television-pretty, and moves it carefully onto a plate that he offers out to her. )

If you hear him come in, take it to your room, okay?

[carmesi]

[when wanda takes the plate, her hand captures his arm, and she wonders, amidst all this, what exactly could drive bucky to reveal more. she draws close to him, the lights dimming, a spotlight on the knife still held in his hands.]

Why hide when you could kill him?

[—she says, but not in english—in sokovian, like a warring whisper in his head, echoing, perhaps, these thoughts that james b. barnes has kept to himself lest he gives them sentience.

but just like that, the lights return to their bright nature, and wanda takes the plate with happy complacency, urging bucky to cut another slice as she passes him another perfect porcelain plate.

the front door's handle rattles, and wanda beams, asking in the perfect brooklyn accent:]

What will you do?

[freightcars]

( Why hide when you could kill him?

He could. It'd be easy, god knows it wouldn't take much. Two or three seconds and it'd be over, problem solved, no more walking on eggshells around the house. No more worrying about whether or not he'd ever escalate past verbal. Waiting for the day he snaps and tries to raise a hand against any of his sisters or his mother.

It's the only solution that makes sense.

He thumbs at the edge of the blade, smearing icing along the flat of it.

"James," comes the warning voice, already an octave too high. He exhales through his nose slowly, resigned. )

Go to your room.

( It's a murmur.

She doesn't need to see this. )

[carmesi]

[perhaps bucky's sister does not need to see this, but as the 'character' sweeps off stage, from her pulls forth wanda, actually, standing where the spotlight doesn't reach her, watching the scene unfold.

but before bucky can even think of using the knife, there's a snap of fingers.

darkness.

another snap.

and the lights turn back on, loudly.

the stage is the same: the kitchen, with the gaudy cake, but with a new addition now: there is a man on the floor, bucky's father, a pool of blood forming under him, and his sister is above him, driving the knife into his chest, over and over. there's a smattering of mischievous glee in her giggles, finding herself unable to stop.]

I did it! I did it!

[she exclaims, her hands soaked in blood, bruised from the impact into her father's chest.

and the lights turn off, again, but her laugh ricochets regardless.

the scene changes now, into a world more modern, brighter, more colorful. the apartment is small, but there is a clear choice of style here, of a happily married couple, with plans and dreams and expectations for their future. wanda's hair is not a shade of orange, but the dark auburn from when she first met the avengers. there's a ring on her finger, and she joins bucky, who finds himself sitting on the couch when the scene snaps to life.

she sits close, legs crossed, knee bumping against his thigh. she hands him a phone.]

Food will be here soon. [her accent is immaculate, american.] Who says we can't have fun night ins? We should send the kids off to sleepovers more often.

[an ideal life, realized, without the pains of the anticipation and the waiting.]