[ it's at least past two in the morning. the music is still blasting loud from the speakers, the dance floor is still crowded and pulsing with the beat, and James (as he's determined his name to be, that much has been made abundantly clear and "Bucky" just doesn't sit well for some reason--) is enjoying himself, for once. he's not entirely certain how long it's been since he'd left Hydra's control and struck out on his own, but then again, he's also not sure how long he's been at this club. he's not even sure why he's here. but he knows what he's doing.
he's making his own damned decisions, for once. he's not here because it was an order, he's not here because there's a target in the building, he's here because he wants to be. and he fucking loves it.
not having all of his memories back is helping out here. he doesn't recognize anyone, and he doesn't have to. if he wants to cozy up to a sweet gal at the bar until she buys him a drink, or slaps him to make him go away, that's fine. if he steps between a couple on the dance floor and he can't determine whose hands are feeling him up, that's fine too. no one knows him here, no one's watched the news in recent weeks or is too drugged up, high as a kite to recognize him. he's well on his way to joining them; it started with the drinks, then the smoke in the lounge, and after a few hours of dancing he'd pretty sure the others weren't sugary candies.
his head is swimming as he heads back to the lounge, his hat and coat long since disappeared, sweat across his forehead and a madly content grin on his lips. he can't even remember being happy. but he is now, he's free and he's having fun. he needs a breather, and he's sure the stranger he's flopped down next to is used to similar crowded-lounge-type situations. everybody does this sort of thing once in a while, right? right. ]
(nsfw) for broil;
[ it's at least past two in the morning. the music is still blasting loud from the speakers, the dance floor is still crowded and pulsing with the beat, and James (as he's determined his name to be, that much has been made abundantly clear and "Bucky" just doesn't sit well for some reason--) is enjoying himself, for once. he's not entirely certain how long it's been since he'd left Hydra's control and struck out on his own, but then again, he's also not sure how long he's been at this club. he's not even sure why he's here. but he knows what he's doing.
he's making his own damned decisions, for once. he's not here because it was an order, he's not here because there's a target in the building, he's here because he wants to be. and he fucking loves it.
not having all of his memories back is helping out here. he doesn't recognize anyone, and he doesn't have to. if he wants to cozy up to a sweet gal at the bar until she buys him a drink, or slaps him to make him go away, that's fine. if he steps between a couple on the dance floor and he can't determine whose hands are feeling him up, that's fine too. no one knows him here, no one's watched the news in recent weeks or is too drugged up, high as a kite to recognize him. he's well on his way to joining them; it started with the drinks, then the smoke in the lounge, and after a few hours of dancing he'd pretty sure the others weren't sugary candies.
his head is swimming as he heads back to the lounge, his hat and coat long since disappeared, sweat across his forehead and a madly content grin on his lips. he can't even remember being happy. but he is now, he's free and he's having fun. he needs a breather, and he's sure the stranger he's flopped down next to is used to similar crowded-lounge-type situations. everybody does this sort of thing once in a while, right? right. ]