WHO:WinterWidow WHERE: James & Jefferson's apartment WHEN: The evening immediately following this WHAT: He's remembered something, and he wants to share with the class. WARNINGS: Vague references to amputation, not-nice treatment from HYDRA, TBD STATUS: Ongoing
Although it was getting easier to sort out programming from his own thoughts, remembering what was him and what was the Soldier was getting progressively harder. He'd get brief flashes, raising a gun or sitting near a fire or testing out his arm. The arm, at least, belonged to the Soldier--James had distinctively sorted out the memory of having the remainder of a damaged arm being sawed away by Zola and his technicians. It was fuzzy, gruesome, but definite.
But on occasion, he remembered something that was so distinctly Bucky that it made him pause.
He'd not touched the piano; Natasha and Jefferson had both spoken to him about it, but every time he got near it, he'd turned sharply on his heel and turned away. He didn't understand this aversion, why it spiked up when he got near enough to touch the keys. Maybe it was ingrained, leftover programming, some deeper recess he hadn't ploughed through yet.
With his programming fading, James had developed... glitches. He'd yanked his door off its hinges unintentionally, crushed several mugs, zoned out and lost track of time--it was like simple things were triggers for pushing out things he'd initially taken for granted. The ability to think, to modulate pressure, to do anything but exist until orders were issued.
It didn't take an idiot to see that the Soldier and James weren't integrating fully. Maybe it was a few regions of his mind that had programming or defences that hadn't yet been torn down. Maybe he just wasn't ready to face some of it.
Whatever the case, sometimes it gave way to the good things. He'd remembered Christmas music--even if he was still pretty sure Santa Claus sounded like the Mayor to him--and he'd begun to associate certain things in a positive light.
Still, the memory that ripped through his mind and left him grinning like an idiot meant more than associations or Christmas music. Something that raced through him and left him feeling not exhausted and raw but alive and exhilerated. Dancing, specifically a really energetic type he thought was maybe called the lindy hop. Something with limbs flying, something that required such focus it pushed out a lot of other things--something that let him feel without analysing because who had time to analyse when they'd just thrown a girl up in the air? (It'd certainly already done wonders to erase his unease at certain parts of the conversation he'd had via device with Natasha earlier.)
He was filled with energy as he waited for Natasha. Not a nervous energy that had he could only remember feeling during times of uncertainty, but a deep, thrumming energy that skittered under his skin and made him feel... what, like he was maybe in charge again? Like conrol was his. And wasn't that an unexpectedly good feeling?
He'd taken to not quite pacing the floor, but definitely not staying still. He'd actually sort of been dancing across it, to a beat only he could hear. Motion that was superfluous, that wasted energy. Shut up. Motion he had the authority to let himself engage in. He felt a little more alive already.