James Buchanan Barnes
Bucky
Ice Cold Culture Shock
This was all too much.
From the subway ride to the city lights—it was daytime for God's sake, why the hell was there still so much brightness. Brooklyn wasn't as bad as this. And finally, to the giant crowd of people in front of an equally giant head quarters. Sure, superheroes saved lives and all that, but the amount of publicity they were currently getting was just overkill. It was an obscene amount that made James give an internal cringe. He'd have to try harder today to maintain his stoicism and nonchalant attitude, if only to keep from completely succumbing to the carnal urges raging inside. If there was anything he currently wanted to do the most, it was to slap each and every damn one of those flashing devices out of the hands of every civilian currently gawking at the costumed heroes and heroines about to get initiated into some kind of... team, or something. It was nauseating and not because he was an antisocial, sociopathic bore—Bucky didn't mind people in a moderate amount—it was because there were so many people and so many things happening at once. He really did feel like releasing the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk.
It seemed Steve caught the twisted look on Bucky's features and a large hand caught the kid's attention as he looked up at the Captain. Arching a brow, his eyes fell on the hand then back to Steve's blue eyes in bewilderment.
"Are you okay, Bucky? Nervous?" Steve bent down to his height as he spoke, smiling reassuringly at Bucky.
Nodding, he shifted his gaze to the side, "I'm fine."
"Are you su—"
"Yes, Steve," Bucky snapped, "I'm perfectly fine."
The Captain paused, looking at his charge for any shift in expression, almost wondering how to respond to such a blatant disregard to his authority. Of course, being dutiful didn't mean being a complete stickler, especially not in regards to an old friend. Steve simply smiled and planted his hand on Bucky's back as he pushed him forward slightly.
"Alright," he started, gesturing in a different direction with his head, "I guess you're fine enough to get to know some of your new friends, right?"
Inhaling sharply, Bucky looked up in protest, but made no move to stop. He did, however, vocalize his disagreement, "They aren't my... friends."
"Not yet, they aren't."
"Sure," Bucky mumbled, leaving his Captain to converse with his fellow teammates as he lumbered off to find his own.
Planting himself far enough away from what seemed like a trio, Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and looked off into the distance. He'd work with them for now, but getting chummy with them would take time. People tended to forget that the boy was still acclimating to his surroundings. The initial culture shock had warn off, but that didn't mean Bucky knew what the hell a damn iPhone was for or how to grasp the nature and complexity of just how far technology had come since the 40s. The people were as much alien to him as the current century's society was, so making friends with strangers was kind of a big deal for Bucky and kind of a hard one, at that. So, he made do with seeming like he was just unbelievably cold, almost too good for conversing with his teammates, though that was far from it. Better they think of him that way, than of someone needing to be babied, though. If he wanted to get used to society on his own, then he'd have to figure this out for himself.
William "Billy" Kaplan
Wiccan
Fangirling All Over the Place
Was that Batman?
Holy crap.
And... and Captain America?
Tony Stark?!
If only he could just touch one of them, just once—
Oh God, Thor and Superman.
Was it even possible to have that kind of muscle mass and still be able to wear that tight of spandex? Or was it latex? Or what even was that fabric? God, he wanted to know so badly. He wanted to touch it, to feel it, to.. .to...
"Who're you?"
Billy's head snapped to the side, having been taken out of his own ruminations and daydreaming by what seemed to be a rather gangly looking adult apparently sizing him up. Arching a brow, he turned toward the man to better respond to him and to peel his attention completely away from the various men in overly tight outfits. Ahem. He opened his mouth to talk, but was immediately cut off by the man's second comment. Comment because it was obvious the question was rhetorical.
"And what kind of outfit is that? The hell are you supposed to be? Some weird variation of Thor?"
Well, of course he wouldn't have been noticed, not like he tried to stand out anyways—that was furthest from what he wanted to do. But, this kind seemed to be blatantly insulting him. What kind of outfit? He thought it was obvious that it wasn't some cheap knock off or something; the fabric and material was legit and the design was more intricate than most costumes of the same variation, even. And Thor? Really? He looked nothing like the guy. Of course, what was he going to say? It wasn't like anyone had heard of him or anything and he obviously hadn't done much to accomplish anything. In fact, he had no damn idea how he was currently standing where he was, about to become a part of a team of superheroes who were probably leagues more accomplished than he was.
Oh, there it was again.
It wasn't the man's comment that seemed to get to him, but it certainly looked that way—or maybe it was the man's fault. Billy had turned his sights away from the guy, knitted his brow and was almost frowning as he began fiddling with his own hands. How wonderful. He was beginning to doubt why he was even there in the first place, beginning to worry about things that shouldn't have even been accounted for in preparing for something like this. Billy had gotten asked to join and that was that; there was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. But, here he was, letting a man's comment further slice into any shred of confidence he had in himself and let him plummet and fall into a sea of doubt.
Finally, however, Billy came to his senses, gave the man a glare and proceeded to walk to where a small group of what looked to be people around his age forming. It was most likely the people he'd be further working with. Arriving, he could finally put names to faces... or rather, masks and one face.
"Batgirl?" Billy asked, tapping the girl's shoulders with a wide grin on his face. It seemed any thoughts prior to seeing one of the famed Dark Knights, aside from Batman himself, had completely vanished in a flurry of fanboy glee.
"Oh wow," he could barely breath, "Hi, hi! Billy Kaplan. Uh. Yeah. Hi! Wow. Is that outfit the real deal? Did you make this? Or did Batman? Or was it someone else? If forgot. Just... oh my God. Oh, is that a real utility belt? What's all on it... is that where you keep all those things with bat nomenclature? Can I see a batarang? Or... or..."
He was projecting way too hard. He had to tone it down a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. Be the actual Billy Kaplan instead of the overly nerdy, super touchy, apparently, Billy that he was currently being. He'd effectively manhandled Batgirl, of all people, and intruded on her personal space way too hard, especially as a damn stranger.
"I'm really sorry," he stepped back a bit, cheeks a deep, deep crimson, "I'm William Kaplan, and I'm a part of the crew, if that wasn't obvious enough—I guess I gave off the maniac vibe a little too hard, there. Sorry, again." This time, he distanced himself from the female and held out his hand for her to shake, giving his best smile to ward off the anxiety creeping at the back of his mind.