pennysheets | Dreaming Forever - Circus Port continued

Even if he'd been remotely considering turning the guy away, he wouldn't be anymore, not with that expression, not looking like maybe his whole world might fall apart if he looks at it wrong. Tugs the heartstrings something fierce. Goddamn lost little ducklings.

Buck pushes up from the fence and offers his hand. "Come on, brother. I'll set you up with a space in my wagon, see if you like it." He looks Steve up and down. "See if you fit," he amends, only about half-joking.

Steve immediately feels a very strong mix of both relief and embarrassment. He'd normally try to cover it with humor, but just at the moment, all he can say is - very genuinely, "I can make do outside, if there's no room. Just need a couple of blankets and maybe something at my back, honestly."

He has seen those wagons. He... is a little worried he might not fit. Some days, that's still a really, really weird worry to have.

But regardless; "Thank you," he adds, because - well, what else can he say?

He'll definitely have to duck a little, but he's not that much taller than Buck is, really. Just broader. Damn, where did he even get shoulders like that. "Don't be stupid, we'll make it work. Hell, if you're meant to be here, the circus might even make my wagon bigger for us."

Which is apparently a thing that can be done. Buck wouldn't be surprised.

"You want to be here?" he adds, possibly a belated question, since he's already tugging on Steve's hand to lead him inside. "Or you rather I try to set you up somewhere outside in London?"

That's interesting; maybe a little too like the Barge for Steve's comfort, but at least this time, he's got a choice in things, and he can choose to ignore that little bit of concern for right now, maybe because Buck's already got a hand on his.

"What? Yeah - of course I do," he says quickly, hopeful that the fact he's letting the other lead him along is proof enough. "Yeah, I want to stay here."

He knows Buck isn't Bucky. He can accept that and live with it. But he's still been kind and generous and somehow, the thought of the Circus leaving town and leaving Steve behind here is a horrible one that he doesn't want to come true. "I'll do whatever needs doing, any job, I promise."

That's what you get when you move from one magical setting to another, Steve, you get self-adjusting wagons. Maybe. It might not cooperate, who knows. Steve might just have to curl up small in his bunk, exactly the size it is, now.

"Considering what I saw with you this week, I've got a couple ideas." Buck tosses a sharp smile over his shoulder at him, pleased despite himself at the answer. He'd rather not have people stuck to the circus if they have other options, but it's certainly better than a prison ship, Christ. "How do you feel about tossing people around, brother?"

"Oh yeah?" Steve can maybe guess at those ideas, even before Buck says anything - this is a circus, after all, and there are admittedly stereotypes. He's not entirely surprised by the question that comes next, even if he still is, maybe a little.

It makes him laugh, as he answers, "I feel just fine about it. I don't know how they'd feel, but I imagine we could work something out? I do have some performance experience, I should tell you, although I can't exactly give anyone a resume."

And then, "You're really sure no one's going to mind me just... joining out of the blue?" Hell, maybe that's how every performer gets here, but he doesn't know for sure.

"You didn't come to join us bleeding or on the run from the law," Buck says. "Or with a demon attached to your shoulder." All three of which had been Buck's experience. "This is pretty good, actually. And I apparently have a reputation for this, so nobody's going to be surprised."

He gives Steve a considering sidelong look. He's still got his hand, and maybe he shouldn't, but you know what, Steve isn't protesting. "Performance experience, huh? What did you do?"

"Those all seem like... very specific circumstances," Steve says, admittedly suspecting that they might have been Buck's, or maybe even those of someone close to Buck. (He has not yet learned about Buck's demon arm, so that may be an interesting conversation, someday.)

"Although I guess in a sense, I am on the run from the law." Actually, funny enough, he definitely is back home - not that it really matters, here. "But I don't think that's going to be a problem for the circus." Which is really what matters, here.

And as for his experience... "Mostly stage plays," Steve decides, because trying to explain either films or war propaganda for a war that hasn't happened yet seems like a bad idea. "They did involve lifting very heavy things and several people over my head."

Try "when they get to the wagon", Steve. Buck isn't letting anyone make that final decision about sleeping within arm's reach of him until they know the truth. "Eh. Your ship left, I doubt they'll bother coming back for you. Unless your mutiny was in England, you're probably off the hook for that." He gives Steve's hand a reassuring squeeze, at that.

"So you did stage work," he muses. "Were you any good, or was it mostly just window-dressing for the strength? And by 'good' I mean 'not horrible'. This is a circus, standards for acting ability are not very high."

"Oh, they wouldn't come back. I think I'd just disappear," Steve admits. "But I also think I would've by now, if it was going to happen." At least, he hopes so. He doesn't think anyone's made it very long off the Barge without snapping back to it. Maybe the Admiral's just finally fed up with him, and happy to leave him for someone else to deal with.

Either way, "No, I definitely didn't break any laws in England."

Although he huffs a bit of a laugh at the question; "It wasn't entirely window-dressing," he decides. "And I don't think I was horrible." Not award-winning, no, but he thinks he eventually managed to do all right for himself. Maybe not his favorite part of his long and storied career, but not completely useless, either, it turns out. "I think I can manage whatever you want to throw at me."

Maybe literally, depending. "Although I might want a little input on my costume," he adds, with a sly smile.

"You're asking the guy with antlers on his hat for costume input? Really?" But Buck won't say no, either. He might wear antlers, but his fashion sense isn't that bad, either. The terrible purple hat is specifically for being terrible, he knows how to look good when he wants to. "Anyway, I'll help. And get you into a show or two, maybe even mine."

They've passed the main performance tents, now, and the smell of campfires and campfire cooking is wafting through the line of backstage tents. Then they're through, and Steve is treated to maybe twenty wagons circled in four little cul de sacs around four big fire pits. The area is bustling with people, some half in costume and come in completely casual clothes, many sitting around the fires eating or hanging things up on lines strung between said wagons.

"Welcome to our humble abode, Steve," Buck says, not sounding theatrical for once. He's glad to be "home" after the night, and tired, but fond. This is a place he feels comfortable.

"I mean, clearly the guy with the antlers on his hat knows how to turn heads," Steve puts in with a laugh. That's showmanship if ever he saw it. Especially because the antlered hat seems to disappear after the shows, which means it's more of an affectation than a daily style. That tells him a lot, too.

They break through past what the crowd sees, and - there's this weird feeling that sort of stops Steve in his tracks. It's not the first time in the past few years that someone has tried to offer him a place with them, but it is the first time that he's felt like maybe he could really earn that place. No one here knows him or expects him to be a certain way. No one here is looking to him to be better than he thinks he can be, right now. And... it feels a little cowardly, but it's what he desperately wants. He guesses it's also exactly what he has, and he'll have to worry about the rest of it later. He's sure he will.

"Yeah," he says, glancing around. "I - thanks." He isn't sure what else he could possibly say, except, "It looks great."

"It probably looks terrible, to a fancy escaped prisoner from a ship like that," Buck corrects with a wry smile. "But it's still a good place. You hungry? I'm hungry." He drags Steve along again, this time to the nearest fire pit, where there's a pot of some kind of stew simmering, along with a number of spitted, roast birds. Probably pigeons, given the size and number of them.

Here is where he finally lets Steve go, to scoop up a bowl and fill it with whatever's in the pot. "Take your pick, brother. I'll show you to my wagon, and we'll have a chat before I get you settled."

Steve huffs. "It does not look terrible - and I am always hungry," he adds with a soft laugh, again letting himself be dragged, and not balking in the least at what's on offer. He decides to do as the Romans do, so to speak, following Buck's lead and going for the stew, because he doesn't want to take something better from someone else without being able to compensate anyone for it just yet. Maybe he'll feel differently, after a day or two of real employment.

So, once he's got his stew in hand, he turns to Buck and makes a little head tilt, to say, lead on. He'll follow.

The wagon Buck leads him to is no bigger or smaller than the others, hung with a little flag of a sign with a red star on a white triangular banner. A bit familiar, there, maybe. There are targets of various shape and size slung around it, all with lots of score marks on them showing they're used frequently, and the roof is decorated with shingles painted in many colors, mostly blue and red and gold. Steve never did get to see it and do repairs, in the end, so this will be his first time seeing it.

"Have a seat," Buck suggests, kicking out the collapsible stairs that lead up into it, making a good place to do just that: sit and eat their dinner. He sets the antlered hat aside and flops down, somehow not spilling anything. "So before you actually decide to shack up with me and Merlin and Clinton--" The archer he shares some of his shows with is, in fact, a Clint Barton analogue. Sorry, Steve. "--I should tell you that the whole specific circumstances thing you noticed is pretty much my circumstances. You're also shacking up with a thing that might be a demon, or might be something else, who the hell knows, really."

Steve maybe can't help the way he smiles at the banner, eyes roving over the wagon, taking in the details and how they just seem to fit. Small though it may be, it looks comfortable and lived in, and that's weirdly comforting - just like the mention of Clinton is, because Steve would bet a hell of a lot that yeah, he'll recognize the face when he sees it. (Merlin, too, quite honestly.)

Once he's seated, though, his hand pauses with the spoon still in the bowl, giving Buck a wry, sideways look - yeah, he'd had a suspicion about those specific circumstances, but, well, obviously one of those circumstances seems much more important than the others: "Can you... uh, elaborate on the demon, a little?" He doesn't seem hesitant or concerned, but he is curious and not entirely sure what to ask.

"Want to show the nice young man your tricks, pet?" he asks, not of Steve, but of... his arm. He holds the bowl in his right hand, and the left comes up and... changes into tentacles. Seven of them, rather than the perhaps-expected five. They don't have suckers-- they look kind of like snake tails, more than something out of the ocean-- and they wave bonelessly at Steve before coiling up around Buck's forearm up to the elbow. "It can do all sorts of things, this is just its go-to unless I ask it for something specific."

That is... that is really something, Steve thinks, maybe staring a little, more out of surprise than anything else. Mostly because it's just not what he'd expected, even though maybe he should have learned by now that what he isn't expecting is always what seems to happen. He should just stop having expectations, really, because they're generally overrated, not to mention insufficient.

"Oh," he finally says. "That's... pretty impressive," he finally settles on, because it is, in lieu of anything else to say.

Of course, then he maybe asks the obvious, "How did you - two meet?"

"Remember the other circumstances of me showing up at the circus?" Buck says, voice going less animated. He hates talking about this, but he did offer. He did say he'd explain, and Steve should know. "Bleeding and on the run from the law? That was me, too. There was this group of us-- kids, really, just a bunch of stupid kids. There were these sailors and they had this chest. They were trying to sell it to some really fancy science types, so my pals figured, must be valuable, right? Broke in, jimmied the chest open, and out pops... well, this."

He shrugs his left shoulder, and the not-arm ripples under his sleeves, not even remotely arm-looking. "Except not pretending to be an arm, at the time, or even just a handful of squigglies like this. It, uh. It ate everybody else. Left quite a mess. From what I've found out since, the sailors were some kinda sea witches, and they'd been starving it to keep it weak? And we, dumb kids that we were, came along at just the wrong time."

Steve can tell it's going to be quite a story, just by the way Buck's voice goes quieter, more subdued. And he's not wrong. His eyes maybe go to the arm again for a moment, but they don't stay there long before his gaze flicks back up to Buck's face.

"I'm sorry," he says at first, just because... that feels like it needs to be said. But once it is, he moves on, because clearly Buck has done all right for himself, and he seems at least okay with the arrangement he's got now. "It's funny, how life just -- does things you aren't expecting like that, huh? How sometimes it all comes down to luck." Whether good, bad, or dumb.

"So you two have been acquainted a while," he concludes, because Buck's not an old man, of course, but he isn't a kid any longer.

At the apology, Buck dredges up a smile again, a little rueful-- nobody's actually been sorry about a weird eldritch not-arm eating four boys and then his own left arm in years. Then he has some of his soup. He isn't bothering with a spoon, just drinking it like the bowl is a very large mug.

"Little over twenty years, now," he says after a swallow. "We get along, now, for the most part. It hasn't eaten anybody I didn't give it permission to in almost that long. But I didn't want you moving in not expectin' the extra wagonmate. And if you'd rather I find you somewhere else to stay, I can work that out."

There's a lot of information packed into those few simple statements, and maybe they'd give someone else pause, but Steve just shakes his head. "No, it's fine. If you trust it enough to let people stay, then I trust you." Maybe he shouldn't, but he does. He feels like if Buck had wanted to double-cross him, he'd have done it well before now. And he also wouldn't have explained the arm to make sure Steve was okay with it.

"It's a hell of a way to lose an arm," he finally says, mostly only using his own spoon just for something to do with both hands, a way to make his meal last a little longer. "But a hell of a companion to pick up. It's probably hard to get the drop on both of you at the same time."

Not that he's trying; he's more trying to say that Buck's wagon is probably safer than the average, if that were a thing a person cared about.

Buck squints at him a moment, then cracks another grin, this one a bit more relieved. "You are one optimistic fellow, ain't you. All right, if you're sure. I don't really think it'll hurt you, or anybody who isn't trying to hurt me, just so you know. Clinton's been in here for ten years, now, not a peep-- Merlin almost three. But I didn't want to bring you in without you knowing all the facts."

The not-arm reforms itself back into a normal-looking hand. Well, mostly normal. There's an extra digit on the pinky, and it looks like it forgot fingernails again. Since they aren't going out in public for a while, Buck doesn't make it change.

"So you have any questions, before I go make sure Taura's all moved to her partner's wagon so you got room?" He did, at least, finagle to make sure if Steve showed up he'd get the biggest of the bed cubbies.

"Sometimes," Steve admits with a smile that's a bit relieved, too; although it is a little easier to be optimistic off the Barge than on it, and he can't pretend otherwise.

And now that he knows, it's not like Steve's going to complain if the arm doesn't want to look entirely like an arm when no one who isn't in on it is around. Everybody deserves a break, and if it works for Buck, then it works for him.

"No," Steve's shaking his head, before he backtracks and, "I didn't mean to kick somebody out of their sleeping space, though."

It... sounds like everything's okay, there, but still. He hadn't wanted to cause too significant a disruption. But - this is a different Taura, he reminds himself. Maybe she doesn't mind.

"Nah, she's been wanting an excuse to move in with her partner for months. And, you know, I asked if she'd do it before I even knew for sure you'd show up." Or Misty would show up. One of the two. If both of them had, he'd probably be shit out of luck, though. "She jumped on it, so."

He shrugs, smiles all lop-sided. "Everybody knows about my problem with adopting people. I don't think she was even a little surprised."

That does make Steve laugh, relaxing a little now that it sounds like he's not putting anyone else. "You have a problem with adopting people?" he says, with this stupid, knowing grin that isn't really hidden very well, even as he goes to spoon more stew into his mouth. "That sounds like an interesting problem to have. And one I guess I'm pretty grateful for."

"You'll be number three. Possibly four, if that poor gal who followed us from New Orleans shows up tomorrow," Buck admits, not looking particularly embarrassed or ashamed of it, at all. "Guess I'm just a big softie who can't say no to a pretty face. Finish that up, now, and I'll show you your bed." He makes good on his own words, too, by slurping the rest of his up, still spoonless. His table manners are slightly less pristine than Bucky's are.

"Thank God for my pretty face, then," Steve says, teasing. "And your generous heart."

He does as he's told, finishing up by, admittedly, following suit and giving up on the spoon, just tipping the rest into his mouth.

"Good to go," he says, once he is, standing up. He does keep hold of the bowl and spoon, given that he assumes he should wash or rinse them and not just leave them lying around. He is trying to be pretty conscientious of the fact that he's new here, and hasn't done anything to earn his way yet. Not really. "Lead the way?"

The way is right up the steps into the wagon. The door opens in two sections, so you can open the top half without opening the bottom half, though Buck goes ahead and pulls them both. The inside is cramped but... in a cozy way. Buck doesn't have to duck, but Steve will. Taura would have had to bend practically double.

The wagon is split into two sections. Just inside is a small open space in the front with a table and benches and cupboards for storage, like the kitchen area in an RV, only with hooks dangling not only kitchen implements but knife sheaths, bundles of feathers, and a quiver of arrows. Beyond that a narrow passage with four bunks, one on top of the other on each side, just tall enough to sit up in and just deep enough to include a little personal shelf and locker against the wagon wall. Underneath each are more cupboards, presumably for more personal storage, and across each one is a little curtain that can be pulled for some illusion of privacy.

Buck beelines right to those, and pats the top bunk on the left. Its curtain is bright green with little blue wavy lines on it. "This one here's yours. I'm right underneath." A red curtain with little white stars in the pattern. "Merlin and Clinton get the other side. We can, uh, get you a different curtain is green ain't your thing."

Dreaming Forever - Circus Port continued

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