[ The steady proliferation of Starbucks over the years has been annoying, unseating so many local coffeeshops, but at least it'll get him his fix. Bucky gets dressed quickly enough, waffling over his clothes for a moment, before finally just going for functional exercise-wear: joggers and a long-sleeved shirt, with a frayed hoodie tugged on over it. Gloves, as always. When he gets on the subway to Brooklyn, he's yawning, but the early-morning sunlight starts to scour away that tiredness. He's lost in thought when the train goes over the bridge; he stares out through the windows, automatically looking for the Statue of Liberty out in the water. It's a clear enough day that he can catch a glimpse of it, a distant washed-out green.
It's cheesy as hell, but he always looks for it. These fleeting glimpses over the bridge. Like a steady lodestone in his surroundings; something familiar to anchor the rest of this strange world by, to remind himself that some parts of New York just don't change. He hasn't irrevocably lost the city he grew up in.
When the subway's swallowed back up underground, Bucky lets himself drift a little: head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed and half-dozing while he waits for the last stop. Eventually, the train spits him back out at Coney Island, and he moves through the station — sunlight glittering through the murals, the rush of morning commuters, he's feeling almost dizzy and disconnected again, but maybe that's the sleep deprivation talking — and he beelines straight for the Starbucks. When he spots Daisy already in line, he moves up to join her. Flashes her a smile, approaching: ]
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[ The steady proliferation of Starbucks over the years has been annoying, unseating so many local coffeeshops, but at least it'll get him his fix. Bucky gets dressed quickly enough, waffling over his clothes for a moment, before finally just going for functional exercise-wear: joggers and a long-sleeved shirt, with a frayed hoodie tugged on over it. Gloves, as always. When he gets on the subway to Brooklyn, he's yawning, but the early-morning sunlight starts to scour away that tiredness. He's lost in thought when the train goes over the bridge; he stares out through the windows, automatically looking for the Statue of Liberty out in the water. It's a clear enough day that he can catch a glimpse of it, a distant washed-out green.
It's cheesy as hell, but he always looks for it. These fleeting glimpses over the bridge. Like a steady lodestone in his surroundings; something familiar to anchor the rest of this strange world by, to remind himself that some parts of New York just don't change. He hasn't irrevocably lost the city he grew up in.
When the subway's swallowed back up underground, Bucky lets himself drift a little: head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed and half-dozing while he waits for the last stop. Eventually, the train spits him back out at Coney Island, and he moves through the station — sunlight glittering through the murals, the rush of morning commuters, he's feeling almost dizzy and disconnected again, but maybe that's the sleep deprivation talking — and he beelines straight for the Starbucks. When he spots Daisy already in line, he moves up to join her. Flashes her a smile, approaching: ]
Hey. Morning.