when eliot stopped to help this motorcyclist, he was trying to do his good deed for the day — instead, he called out, " need a hand? " seconds before noticing, you know, bucky's metal arm. then there's an awkward pause and, well, shit, how do you come back from that? " i . . . uh . . . sort of know my way around an engine . . . ? " yeah, that'll do.
' damn. damn! ' though bucky's accrued some measure of handiness in his time, skilled labor demanded as an aspect of his plied trade (more than once, the winter soldier was injected into the field bereft of weaponry and tools, supplemented by on-site procurement), he certainly didn't boast a mechanical know-how comparable to some of his friends. he's sure logan would've had his harley purring again in a handful of minutes, but he can't expect logan to abandon his obligations and come packing his way down some foreign highway. no, this trouble was his and his alone.
bucky exhales a frustrated breath, thankful he has the foresight to keep a multitool in the saddlebags. he crouches beside the cooling center frame, working at unbolting the transmission housing, when a voice catches his attention.
natal hand tucks into the depth of his riding leathers, coasting over the textured grip of his biometric pistol, stare snapping to intake the approaching silhouette. no firearm pointed his way, barnes relaxes a mite, unfriendly seams popping like loose stitches. he sighs.
need a hand?
all of bucky's features scrunch to one hemisphere of his face, cast into an amused grimace. he darts his tongue over his lips contemplatively. ' this one does the job pretty well. ' the prosthetic could have the housing cover off in a second, but then that would fray the metal vertices and wound his ride even more. at least it lets him appraise the hot pipes (they reminded him of steel intestines) without injury. ' .. alright. long as you got a gentle touch, you can give it a shot, sure. and--i know i'm out here alone, but don't try any funny business, fella. '
@onlyfiends