The first thought in Bucky’s mind, possibly the first thought that’s always in Bucky’s mind, is simply, haven’t I been kidnapped enough for one lifetime?

He’s survived enough shit that he’s not that concerned about drowning in the impenetrable black void from which he emerged. Sure, drowning would suck. It’s not an experience he’s seeking out, which is why he backed down after his first attempt to steal a guard’s sword. But at this point, he’s pretty confident that someone or something will just keep bringing him back. The USSR fell thirty years ago, but the KGB still has a room full of Black Widow clones to wake up whenever one gets axed. He can only assume there’s a yellowing photocopy of Bucky Barnes laying around somewhere, too.

But he hates this. Hates being acted upon by strangers who want something from him that he doesn’t want to give them. Hates being reminded that so much of his life isn’t really governed by his own choices. Hates being stuck in a weird place with weird people and no mission parameters. Bucky doesn’t have a dossier on any of these fuckers, and even if he did, he doesn’t have his gear.

Speaking of which, his second thought is, where are my guns?

It’s the thought he has whenever he wakes up in a strange environment, particularly if he doesn’t have pants on. (Which, honestly, isn’t that often. Bucky tends to eschew romantic subplots unless they involve people he’s known for at least half a century.) Right now, he doesn’t have any of his things, and his arm doesn’t feel right, either. That is, his human arm feels fine, but the metal arm feels— like the human one. Which isn’t right. Something about inter-dimensional fountain travel has clearly thrown him off his game, and stolen his favorite jacket. The good one, without the blood on it.

It’s fine. Steve will look for him. Probably. Once he knows he's gone, which could take a while since he's been trying to respect Bucky's boundaries. Natasha— might look for him? Really depends on what kind of day she’s having. Sam and Sharon are solid maybes. Fury… might or might not be alive, at the moment. Who even knows.

Fuck. This is what he gets for disappearing all the time without telling anyone where he’s going. And— faking his death, that once.

By the time he makes it to the Barracks, he’s still angry, and still wet. He puts on his uniform and drapes his damp robes across a bed to stake an arbitrary claim to it. He knows they're all the same, and that it doesn’t really matter, but it makes him feel a little bit more in control.

Wandering outside and looking out on the military base around him, he feels faintly (frustratingly) at home. He was raised on one of these, cut his teeth on the obstacle courses at Camp Lehigh, sold stolen cigarettes to soldiers to pay for bottom shelf whisky and dented cans of corned beef. Before he ended up being pulled into a war that wasn’t really his to fight, and spending the next several years in the barracks. This is just history repeating itself (first as tragedy, second as farce.)

“Fuck.” He allows himself, out loud this time, dragging the heel of his boot through the dirt outside the training grounds. He hasn’t had a cigarette in 60 years, but he wouldn’t say no to one now.

Bucky isn’t sure if someone has asked him to play with a therapy cat as a covert way of getting him to tone down the justifiable homicide energy he’s giving off. But if that is their plan, he has to admit, it’s kind of working. He likes cats, even has one at home, who he really hopes someone is feeding. Although if they aren’t, maybe it’s a good thing he never quite got around to handling that mouse infestation. And by now, she’s probably taught herself to use the can opener.

As irritated as he might be about his current situation, the cat is clearly an innocent in all this. Maybe even as much a victim of circumstance as he is. She’s done nothing to him except be a very small cat with a tiny little moth face. And Bucky is kind of a sucker for tiny animals. (Even the human ones that try to kill him.)

“Hello,” he offers, holding the cat in the palm of his hands. Somehow, he feels socially awkward about this. Like the cat knows what the appropriate greeting is, and he’s messed it up. But she merely chews on the flesh of his thumb in response, which is fair enough. He wiggles the fingers of his metal hand a little, as if in demonstration. “Just so you know, you don’t want to chew on these. It’d hurt you more than it’d hurt me.”

He sees a human-shaped shadow cross in front of him, and pulls the animal closer to his chest, protectively placing her inside of the front of his coat. Unwilling to appear vulnerable in front of a stranger, he tries to draw himself up to as much of his full height (so, 5'10") as he can establish under the circumstances.

“You need somethin?” He eyes them suspiciously. He can look very cold and sharp-edged on a dime, but the air of danger is somewhat undercut by the fact that he’s sitting on the floor with a mewling cat in his jacket.

When Bucky hears that there’s a place he can travel through a portal between worlds, he jumps at the chance. He doesn’t know how much that relates to the magic that brought him here, but it sounds like a lead. He came here through a strange, dark void. Norwich is shrouded in eternal darkness. Those ideas seem a least potentially related. Even if they’re not, he needs to collect as much intel as he can on this place and its magic.

Turns out, it’s not immediately useful. And for the moment, there isn’t much to explore. But he can’t say that it isn’t informative in its own way. There’s a pretty big difference between this place and home, but he still knows what a field hospital looks like. And this one, clearly, has seen some shit. Even before the locals started to dismantle it.

He doesn't get much information from them about the reason for the hospital, maybe because they're too busy to entertain the same several questions from every confused guest who wanders through. For a lack of anything better to do, Bucky offers to stick around and help with the cleanup. Seems like there’s more work than there are locals to do it, and he’s a helpful guy.

(Also, Bucky’s not yet sure how much he’s going to need to beg, borrow and steal his way through this place, and a medical tent seems likely to have supplies.)

He’s dutifully packed up a couple of crates and loaded them into a waiting wagon when he sees an opportunity. The local he’s been helping has wandered off to start dismantling a tent, leaving Bucky alone with a box of bandages, some crackers, and something that looks like it might be antiseptic. He stuffs a few in the pocket of his uniform jacket, hoping no one was around to notice. (Or at least, that no one was around to care.) Then hears something break behind him.

[ hit me up here or on plurk if you want to do something else/something specific ]