Jack would also like to say this isn't normal, but frankly? At this point in his life, he's sort of come to accept that he's never really understood what normal is, and he probably wouldn't recognize it if he saw it. This is closer his version of normal, although... yes, admittedly, it's jarring even by his own loosey goosey standards to wake up in an unfamiliar apartment — or to wake up at all. He has a sleep thing, it's a long story.
In any case, their processes are surprisingly similar: search the place, wonder if it's aliens, gods, or cultists (his big three), pocket the phone and the key, and grab the biggest kitchen knife he could find. From there, he strides determinedly out of the apartment into the hallway and then around a corner-- only to come face to face with the most swole man he's seen since Benjamin the Monster Hunter, and it's luck more so than skill that has him jerking backward before he can accidentally poke his own eye out on his own knife.
"Ah!" He says — unfortunately 'says' is, stupidly, the correct word. He doesn't yell it, it isn't a yelp or a scream, it's a very mild, very apathetic sounding tone that does not at all match the actual sentiments of the message.
The young man in front of Bucky isn't much to write home about. Skinny, late twenties to early thirties, green eyes, dark hair. A hoodie and ripped jeans that puts him probably roughly from the same time period Bucky just came from. A few things are probably noteworthy: the dark, sleepless circles under his eyes. The way his left hand is missing an entire finger, with the pinky just gone. A glint of metal from behind the tears in the denim that reveal a prosthetic metal leg from his right knee down.
He's a scruffy mess, obviously confused, exceptionally wary, and as his heart rate spikes upon meeting a buff stranger in a creepy hallway, he can only think to vaguely gesture at Bucky with his borrowed blade and repeated, "Ah?"
But this time in like... a more questioning tone.
Damn it, he's supposed to be good at this shit now. Quickly, he amends, "I mean- who?"
Which is not much better, and so he quickly-quickly amends-amends again, "I mean- hey, what the fuck?"
back again;
In any case, their processes are surprisingly similar: search the place, wonder if it's aliens, gods, or cultists (his big three), pocket the phone and the key, and grab the biggest kitchen knife he could find. From there, he strides determinedly out of the apartment into the hallway and then around a corner-- only to come face to face with the most swole man he's seen since Benjamin the Monster Hunter, and it's luck more so than skill that has him jerking backward before he can accidentally poke his own eye out on his own knife.
"Ah!" He says — unfortunately 'says' is, stupidly, the correct word. He doesn't yell it, it isn't a yelp or a scream, it's a very mild, very apathetic sounding tone that does not at all match the actual sentiments of the message.
The young man in front of Bucky isn't much to write home about. Skinny, late twenties to early thirties, green eyes, dark hair. A hoodie and ripped jeans that puts him probably roughly from the same time period Bucky just came from. A few things are probably noteworthy: the dark, sleepless circles under his eyes. The way his left hand is missing an entire finger, with the pinky just gone. A glint of metal from behind the tears in the denim that reveal a prosthetic metal leg from his right knee down.
He's a scruffy mess, obviously confused, exceptionally wary, and as his heart rate spikes upon meeting a buff stranger in a creepy hallway, he can only think to vaguely gesture at Bucky with his borrowed blade and repeated, "Ah?"
But this time in like... a more questioning tone.
Damn it, he's supposed to be good at this shit now. Quickly, he amends, "I mean- who?"
Which is not much better, and so he quickly-quickly amends-amends again, "I mean- hey, what the fuck?"