Now came the time when he needed to decide how much to keep and how much to give away, if he should admit that here he had yet very few secrets to keep. It was always dangerous to give such information away to anyone, even to friends. Weakening one’s position knowingly was a foolish thing. Though being a stubborn smart-ass came with being Bucky too, despite all the emptiness that had been forced into his head over the years.
Of course, blatantly lying wasn’t such a good thing either. The book was only about an eighth filled. That it was new and he had only recently begun recording was something that any keen eye would pick up, especially given the fresh state of the reed and mostly filled bottle of ink. With that given, the circumstances called for some misdirection.
“I’ve filled dozens of books already, but they were taken from me not long ago. The people who took ’em didn't even need ’em, but they weren’t in the habit of returning things to begin with.” That was the government for you. “But I’ll be damned if that stops me from writing.”
As if to prove his point, he picked up the reed, dipped it smoothly, and began writing again, not to dismiss the man in front of him but to show him how quickly the words flowed onto the page. The guy seemed clever enough, so it likely should have been clear how much Bucky was capable of writing, even in the span of minutes. There was no way he could have lied about filling books, even if they weren’t physically there as evidence.
“Thankfully,” he started again, still scrawling quickly and easily onto the page. “...I don’t need books to remember.” Because even though he had only started writing to make sense of his past, the fact that he had written it down solidified that knowledge for him, regardless of how little those details mattered now.
no subject
Of course, blatantly lying wasn’t such a good thing either. The book was only about an eighth filled. That it was new and he had only recently begun recording was something that any keen eye would pick up, especially given the fresh state of the reed and mostly filled bottle of ink. With that given, the circumstances called for some misdirection.
“I’ve filled dozens of books already, but they were taken from me not long ago. The people who took ’em didn't even need ’em, but they weren’t in the habit of returning things to begin with.” That was the government for you. “But I’ll be damned if that stops me from writing.”
As if to prove his point, he picked up the reed, dipped it smoothly, and began writing again, not to dismiss the man in front of him but to show him how quickly the words flowed onto the page. The guy seemed clever enough, so it likely should have been clear how much Bucky was capable of writing, even in the span of minutes. There was no way he could have lied about filling books, even if they weren’t physically there as evidence.
“Thankfully,” he started again, still scrawling quickly and easily onto the page. “...I don’t need books to remember.” Because even though he had only started writing to make sense of his past, the fact that he had written it down solidified that knowledge for him, regardless of how little those details mattered now.