”Wha’s the currency here? There’s a pancake stand over there fuckin’ callin’ my name but I only have liras righ’ now.”
There’s diginified entrances, and then there’s popping out of thin air and muttering;
”— fuck, where am I, where’s the bathroom, I’m gonna throw up —”
"Think you must have me confused for someone else. You and I— we’ve never met."
Ah shit — bollocks, forget lit’rally everythin’ I jus’ said. This conversation never happen’d. Gimme your flashy thingy. I need t’flashy thingy you.”
”That’s potentially paradoxical, and I wouldn’t want to risk it for the sake of one little mistake. I think I’ll just go find my own Tuesday instead.”
”Paradoxical? You never given advice t’your younger self? Fuckin’ hell, iunno ‘f I’d be alive if I didn’t help m’self out when ‘m older.”
Is he really expected to believe this?
( So why isn’t he dragging her by the elbow out the door? )
There’s a woman in his home he doesn’t recognize— And Bucky has a good memory for that sort of thing — who seems to know his name, strangely craves toast, and is claiming to have been teleported there by random happenstance? He keeps his bare feet planted and shoulders spread in front of the door.
"Teleportation," he repeats, head dipping.
It’s an echo, conviction faint as his mouth twists from unyielding to unbelieving. Arms still folded tightly, calves straining tightly in preparation should she try anything, he tracks the flimsy bandaid on her arm and the blooming knot on her brow.
"I won’t try to hurt you," he insists. "But I’m gonna need a little more to go on. Since you seem to know me, least you could do is share a name."
Then, he’ll reevaluate the toast situation.
It’s been a long, long time since she’s expected someone to believe her.
”Teleportation,” she affirms with one curt nod, pushing the hair back over her shoulder and leaning her head on the back of the chair. Either he’ll kick her to the curb or he won’t, but the suspense is unbearable. She taps the tip of her shoe arrhythmically and flecks of mud fall to the floor, and she shoots him a quick 'sorry about that' look while making a mental note to clean up after herself.
”I don’t have a name — you gave me one last time we met. Sorry, time travel, d’I forget to mention that.” This is getting less and less convincing by the second, but there aren’t many smoother lies she could come up with that would explain her presence more logically. The chair creaks and she jumps a little.
”I was about… eighteen, I think, and I had short boyish hair — so try being nice to the next ginger tomboy you meet, she’s had a rough few weeks. This will all make so much more sense when you meet younger me, fucking hell.”
"You’ve given me no trouble, miss. Least I can do is return the favour."
But what in the hell was a Blues Brother?
”You did it last time.”
Who let this ignorant gingernut meddle with the time-space continuum.
”I only found out like, three years later. Don’t do it again, ‘kay?”
[more unconsciously than not, his legs shift loudly underneath him.]
Bother. Like getting blood from a robot stone.
“‘cause you don’t want to or you think you can’t?”
Oh Rassilon she’s right. Years of academy training, wasted!
”Wha’s it matter if you get th’date wrong? Jus’ go back in time, tell your younger self not t’fuck it up an’ start over.”
”— NO. Nuh-uh. Stay back. I am no’ gettin’ flashy thingied again, Blues Brother.”