Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

[grimvisaged]

Idle hands are the devil's playground. It was Sister Mary Theresa who had been obsessed with that particular proverb, like a dog with a damned bone. As a kid, it seemed like Bucky had heard it from her daily, half the time with a good whack across his idle knuckles to drive the point home, and if he thought about it much, he'd probably have to give the old girl at least some credit for the fact that he was crummy at staying still long.

Like now, for example, his idle hands flipping through a magazine instead of holding the rifle they were meant for, the backs of his knuckles itching like they expected a ruler to slap down at any moment. Nearly a month in this place, and he'd been spinning his wheels the whole time, looking for an out that never seemed to turn up. Contrary to popular belief, even a fella like Bucky could only go so long drinking and flirting with pretty girls before his stomach started to sour with guilt. Most nights he spent on the floor beside his high-class bed because the cleanness of the sheets and softness of the pillows kept him up instead of lulling him to sleep.

The real rub, though, was how he felt ungrateful, too, like he was snubbing his nose at a God who'd dropped him in the middle of every childhood fantasy he'd ever had. What did it say about him that he'd rather be in a ditch somewhere getting shot at than have a few weeks of free food, good booze and eye candy? Steve would tell him to be patient, but Bucky'd never been great at that, and seemed to be getting worse by the day.

One of the few things he'd allowed himself to appreciate about the hotel, though, was the future. Not his own future, but the future in general—The technology, the politics, even the way people dressed. He had a telephone in his pocket right now that wasn't attached to anything and still worked. Rang like a real phone and everything. One of his favorite things was plastics, which seemed to be everywhere, from the tiny bottles that held his shampoo to the stir stick he had lifted from the bar and was presently chewing on.

Seated on one of the fancy sofas in the middle of the lobby, Bucky had a copy of Time clamped in his left hand, cover folded back, one booted foot braced against the edge of the coffee table. His expression sharpened on the page and then went slack as he pulled the mangled stir stick from his lips.

"I'll be damned," he said, and then flicked a glance up, peering over the top of the magazine at who had joined him.


[Please make sure you've read this first before deciding to tag in!]