useless issues

[crusaded]

Every now and again, I try my luck with the bookshelf. I know that the only way Lex Luthor has been able to look my way with such knowing is because he's sought out answers from that bookshelf, finding more of them than I personally feel comfortable with. My hope is that persistence will land. That I will have some way of knowing, or at least guessing, how the future plays out. What lies in store for Damian, for Jason, for Cassandra and Stephanie. But as I return to the Compound late at night, a quick sweep of Rapture having landed very little of worth, the bookshelf continue to deny me any news at all.

Feels typical.

It does, however, deign to give me a thick copy of the Sunday issue of the New York Times. Politics seems to be the main topic, all news about the Republican nomination, the few who still struggle to make the ballot. It's far from the news that I want, but at least it's interesting, and I'm invested enough in Obama's reelection that when I flip through the pages, it isn't all for show.

If nothing else, all of this is far more interesting to me than the Council elections were. I stab at a piece of pineapple, wincing at how tart the fruit proves to be.

Comments

[crusaded]

"Yes, and frankly, James, I don't feel that I've given you reason to abuse that authority," I posit, tilting my head and almost curious to hear his answer, although a part of me knows that it won't change anything. "I guess you could argue about my initial arrival if so inclined, but I've been here for some time already."

I offer a passive smile. "Maybe I'm not running for citizen of the year, but I hardly think that I'm getting in much of anyone's way."

[onlyapassenger]

"And you'll note that I've given you plenty of space since then, Bruce," Bucky replies, leaning back. "A courtesy your youngest hasn't bothered giving me, but..." He shrugs, apparently unconcerned with Damian Wayne's semi-regular tracking, much as it grates at times, makes him feel like more of a caged animal than he already is.

"Boys will be boys."

Waving off his digression, Bucky then leans forward, pressing the tips of his fingers together, book forgotten.

"You know how I met Jason?"

[crusaded]

I keep silent on the matter of Damian, though I file the knowledge away for later. I know that he's been trailing after various people on the island, those who have had some manner of interaction with the family, but if he's being noticed, that's something he should know. Either way, I'm not sure Barnes is the one to be trailing after.

"He was bleeding from a wound that I inflicted on his throat," I confirm, keeping my expressive impassive.

I'll be curious to see if he asks further questions about that.

[onlyapassenger]

He says it so casually that I have to wonder if he feels any remorse. The same anger that propelled me to chase after him flares up again, almost knocking me breathless... But then I remember where we are... Remember myself... And tamp it down.

Bucky looks down, the conflicting emotions running through his head manifesting only as a humorless smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. He hums his acknowledgment, needing just a second more to make sure his words come out conversational instead of yelling his reply.

"You don't seem too upset about that."

[crusaded]

"And things are often far from what they seem," I reply in kind, even if the line grates. It's one that's been used against me any number of times, often to gloat, but that's not my intention here. What use would there be in pouring out my regrets to this man? What right do I have to alleviate my guilt in such a way?

The answer to both of these question is: none.

"All men have regrets," I add. "And a parent who doesn't feel that upon hurting their child doesn't deserve the title."

[onlyapassenger]

"So you don't consider yourself Jason's father," Bucky surmises, pushing a little, if only because he wants a straight answer. His skill for subtlety expands only to matters of stealth; when it comes to dealing with people, he prefers something a bit more straightforward than the kinds of verbal gymnastics Wayne seems to favor.

"Same circumstances: would you do it again?"

[crusaded]

"Don't speak for me, Barnes," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. "You can ask the plain and simple question and get the answer; I get no benefit out of lying to you about this. He's my son. And that's not going to change regardless of what mistakes I've made in the past. The only question is whether my presence is wanted and beneficial at this point."

My fingers rest under my chin. "Going in with knowledge precludes the idea of this being at all the same if repeated. If that man was being held at gunpoint by Jason again, I would still try to stop him. But my aim would be better. I would have hit the gun and the gun alone."

[onlyapassenger]

"Better," Bucky echoes, picking up that word clear above the others. It's something he never considered, a possibility he hadn't so much as thought in all these months.

"You weren't aiming for the throat?"

[crusaded]

"No."

Is he surprised? The question reads that way, and I cross my arms over my chest as I lean back in my chair, surveying him from a distance. I wonder why he hasn't considered this before— I wonder why it isn't a possibility that Jason's ever shared. Does Jason really think that I've ever wanted to harm him in earnest?

It might be the easier belief to hold. We all respond fastest to threats.

"I was aiming for the gun."

[onlyapassenger]

"You don't strike me as a man who misses very often," Bucky replies, casually.

But then, he is just that, isn't he? A man, and a fallible one at that. Doubt can be as dangerous as it can be helpful, and in this instance, it's the latter, at least as far as Bucky is concerned. Suddenly, Bruce seems like less of an idea and more like a thing made of flesh and blood.

[crusaded]

I'm not a man that misses very often; Bucky gets that much right. But I know well, and I've known better since that night, which details tend to worm under my skin the most. I know that there is a single person in the world capable of turning everything on its side for me, a man who may arrive on the island any day.

"Then that means I've done my job," I say.