He would have liked to spend his time on the road sleeping, but it was too cramped and too noisy. The quiet was better; he didn't have to worry about distractions, he could just focus on his own thoughts, or think about nothing at all, if he felt like it. But he was crammed into a confined space with other people, so, grumpy or not, he had to make the best of it. At least there was room to stretch his legs out, so he did, occupying most of a couch with his guitar in his lap as he tuned it, his hair pulled back into a tiny bun.
It had taken a lot of practice to get used to playing guitar with a prosthetic arm; he could feel the strings with his metal fingers but he couldn't feel them. It had taken him a while to memorize the way the guitar felt under his hand, how much pressure to use, but now it was as easy as breathing. He felt like he'd been doing it his whole life, even if he couldn't quite remember when he'd started playing. That wasn't the important part though, was it? What mattered was that he was here now, and he was good at both guitar and singing. That was all he needed.
He was quiet, both in person and on the news. They didn't have much to report on him, except when he went out to clubs, danced with people, took them home. There were rumors about what happened after they left the club, how many people he slept with, but he refused to comment. His life was his own, and what he did in the privacy of his own home was his business. The truth was less interesting, anyway.
►B2)
Bucky hadn't been doing anything different than he usually did. He didn't bump into anything or knock anything over. So the glass abruptly falling to the floor and shattering at his feet was really fucking alarming. He jumped back with an undignified shout, pulling away just in time for another glass to shoot off the counter, go whizzing past his head, and shatter against the wall, spraying glass shards across the floor and one of the chairs.
"What the hell's going on?" he demanded of no one in particular. He didn't expect anyone else who'd seen that to have an answer, unless this was some kind of prank.
Bucky Barnes | MCU
He would have liked to spend his time on the road sleeping, but it was too cramped and too noisy. The quiet was better; he didn't have to worry about distractions, he could just focus on his own thoughts, or think about nothing at all, if he felt like it. But he was crammed into a confined space with other people, so, grumpy or not, he had to make the best of it. At least there was room to stretch his legs out, so he did, occupying most of a couch with his guitar in his lap as he tuned it, his hair pulled back into a tiny bun.
It had taken a lot of practice to get used to playing guitar with a prosthetic arm; he could feel the strings with his metal fingers but he couldn't feel them. It had taken him a while to memorize the way the guitar felt under his hand, how much pressure to use, but now it was as easy as breathing. He felt like he'd been doing it his whole life, even if he couldn't quite remember when he'd started playing. That wasn't the important part though, was it? What mattered was that he was here now, and he was good at both guitar and singing. That was all he needed.
He was quiet, both in person and on the news. They didn't have much to report on him, except when he went out to clubs, danced with people, took them home. There were rumors about what happened after they left the club, how many people he slept with, but he refused to comment. His life was his own, and what he did in the privacy of his own home was his business. The truth was less interesting, anyway.
►B2)
Bucky hadn't been doing anything different than he usually did. He didn't bump into anything or knock anything over. So the glass abruptly falling to the floor and shattering at his feet was really fucking alarming. He jumped back with an undignified shout, pulling away just in time for another glass to shoot off the counter, go whizzing past his head, and shatter against the wall, spraying glass shards across the floor and one of the chairs.
"What the hell's going on?" he demanded of no one in particular. He didn't expect anyone else who'd seen that to have an answer, unless this was some kind of prank.