[For Bucky] Look, he's having a breakdown

[living_proof]

Wakanda is a blip. Were it less so, I might be more ashamed to admit that I couldn't even remember at first what continent it's on. (What? It could have very easily been a Pacific island, okay?) The really shameful part came later, when it took me a full five minutes to find the place after putting it into Google maps. And sure, maybe that's more a reflection of Google's inadequacies than my own, but I still felt a little bad about it. Like it was Mrs. Foster delivering me this letter straight from sixth grade geography instead of the mailman, sliding it into the mailbox with that look she got like she'd just eaten a whole box of Lemonheads.

...damn, I miss Lemonheads.

But I digress. The place is miniscule, and everything I could find about it was pretty vague. Apparently self-sustaining, no real trade happening. They have a lot of goats. Well, a moderate amount of goats. An appropriate amount of goats for a country that size. Definitely not a bastion of medical science. You can see how I might be skeptical.

I spent almost a week thinking I was being scammed, and I don't think anybody could blame me. The letter came off more than a little like that one Nigerian Prince got sick of the internet and decided to kick it old school, tactile-like. The seal looked legit, though, and that's the only reason the offer escaped the trash. Or at least the main reason, just ahead of my dubiously-piqued curiosity.

But of course, the letter was just an opening salvo. Day six I got a phone call, right to my personal cell — Not the one I use for work, which is the number I give out to patients and their family members. No, they called the one that has Candy Crush and that good picture of my cleavage. Do you know what the caller ID said? "Wakanda." Like the whole country was on the line.

In actuality, it was just one person. A woman. A woman who knew that I was a zombie. And that? That was a teensy bit more concerning than her having my personal number.

Virtually no one knows I'm a zombie. Not even my best friend knows I'm a zombie. But apparently Wakanda knew, out in the middle of Africa with their goats, and by golly gosh did they have a dilly of an offer for me.

I said no. Of course I said no. It was crazy! There are reasons — Very good reasons — why I keep my affliction to myself, and not ending up a test subject is right on top of that list. I had no way to know if the offer was genuine — Maybe I get there, give a little blood, do a few tests, get to notch some interesting medical experience on my belt and it's a grand ol' time. Or maybe I end up in a cell. With the goats.

Except the next day, the woman is there at my door and she's like hey, check out my sweet-ass ride, and her sweet-ass ride is a hoverplane that looks like what Tony Stark thinks about when he's jerking off. Hell, I might think about it next time I jerk off, that's how impressive it was. Is. Because I am in it now, flying to Wankanda after lifting off from the dog park down the street from my apartment.

Yeah, I don't know whose life this is, either.

"There's no name on this," I say as I glance up from the tablet (also sweet-ass) poised across my lap. Seems like a strange omission on medical records this thorough.

"James," I'm told with a backward glance from the pilot's seat.

Biting against my bottom lip, I look down again, flip past a few pages with a sigh. "Alright then, James," I murmur to myself. Better than calling him Hot Mess, probably, even if it's technically accurate.

Comments

[freightcars]

"Still on my shoulders," He answers blithely, nodding her a little further into the apartment. The couch may be what the cool kids are calling minimalist these days but it's at least comfortable — and one of the only things not made out of fucking metal in the joint, apparently.

If he's honest, he's glad to be doing their session here rather than in an exam room. He's got a sort of thing about people in coats in clinical settings, so the familiarity (slight though it may be) does take the edge off.

"You want a drink? I've got water they apparently add electrolytes to and bacon flavored whiskey."

[living_proof]

Okay, so good on the erstwhile Winter Soldier — I actually do a double-take, because I know for a fact I did not ask for the whiskey to be bacon-flavored. I falter, brow briefly pinching, and then huff out a soft laugh through my nose with a roll of my eyes. "You do not. Unless you shoved your breakfast in the bottle." And god, what a tragedy that would be, considering I requested the really good stuff.

"I see they brought the table," I say, stepping over and giving the padding on top a little pat. "You feel like jumping up here and we can see what we've got?"

[freightcars]

His lips twitch up a little when she calls him out, because she's right, he's a hundred percent joshing her. No bacon whiskey, but he's got to admit whatever she picked is good — even to him, something of a picky whiskey drinker. He takes her answer as a no and ambles over toward the table, scrutinizing it somewhat warily.

He gets what it is and what it's for, it's just... you know. A little intimate, a little vulnerable, and he stalls a little by asking, "Shirt on or off?"

Wouldn't want to assume and look stupid in front of a hot doctor.

[living_proof]

"Off would be helpful, but I can work around it if you'd rather leave it on," I say as I pull the strap of my bag over my head and drop it next to the table. "One thing that has been made abundantly clear to me is that we have all the time in the world, and you're my only patient, so we're going at your pace." Granted, shirt on might be better for my personal sanity and the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship, but I might as well just gird my loins for that inevitability now.

"I thought today I could get a look at your arm, and maybe do a little massage. Nothing too intense, just getting the lay of the land, and then we can go from there. Sound okay?"