meadowlarklogs | ( closed ) it's not much of a life you're living

Entry tags:

( closed ) it's not much of a life you're living

WHO: Bucky & Others
WHERE: varius
WHEN: IC: May 7th & later. OOC: June & July
WHAT: catch-all !
NOTES OR WARNINGS: violence, language, adult themes, will update if necessary.

pretentious fanvid disguised as cut text

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ To probably no one's surprise, Bucky's back at the safe house the second day after he gets off work. The newly displaced have calmed, mostly, now that information has been largely disseminated. Their expectations have been set about the outside world, about having this place as a safety net, about the things in their chests and what they can do. They've been fed, had a night's rest, and now the place is filled with that familiar quiet waiting energy.

Nothing to do but hang out until they can leave. Try and quell the anxiety however they can. For most people, however they can means drinking. A few people partook probably too soon, got absolutely trashed that first night and have spent the morning puking it all back up again. The more steady of them usually wait until the second, and he's counting on that to be the case when he grabs them a bottle of something off the bar. Couple of glasses, too, while he's at it.

Privacy's a little hard won here. The mini bar itself has a small congregation around it, the eating area is taken up with people using it for its intended purpose, so they wind up sequestering themselves into one of the empty corners behind a partition, sitting on the same side of a dusty table it seems like nobody's used in a few months. He sweeps it off with the sleeve of his jacket before he shrugs it off, and that's where they start wading into the exploration of Steve's alcohol sensitivities these days.

He's goddamn fascinated to find out, frankly. Before everything, Steve was a buck ten and he could drink about as well he could breathe. Afterward, all the liquor in the world didn't do a goddamn thing. Who the hell even knows where on the spectrum he'll fall now?

He leads into the conversation at the top of drink number three. He's been waiting for the right time to bring it up, but it's been in his head since the first hour of the first day. ]

Listen— I have a place already. An apartment.

[ Do you see where he's going with this? Doesn't take a cartographer to chart out the course. ]

[ Turning to alcohol hadn't been his first, second, or third thought. This body's been his for close to a decade now. What drinking he's done over the years has all been of the social kind, never alone (though he'd be lying if he said he didn't crave something to numb his thoughts every so often)— and nothing's given him so much as a buzz save for that Asgardian stuff Thor let him try once.

Bucky's fascination with it is— the way he leads them into this, well, kind of funny to him. They could probably argue over how much of a lightweight he was back then. Perspective and all. And now here they are, holed up behind a partition in a mess hall, and it makes the whole thing seem a little clandestine. A little nostalgic (though he tries not to say it). All they need to do is bum a cigarette off of someone for Bucky and start passing the bottle back and forth.

He's been smiling for at least fifteen minutes straight by now. A lazy, lopsided sort of curve to his mouth slips into a no shit sort of teasing, raised eyebrow look, his chin dipping a degree.

Kinda guessed that when you didn't try to get him to bunk with you here, pal.

His smile widens and he lets out a soft puff of air, letting his gaze wander beyond the edge of the partition, but some of his relaxed, lazy amusement mellows. ]

I gotta see where Natasha's gonna land.

[ First. He's not leaving her here, alone. Not that he's somehow convinced that she can't handle herself— but things are off. Doesn't feel right to head out first. ]

[ Nothing quite kicks a nicotine habit like seventy years in a freezer and waking up to find out they give you cancer. They used to give those out for goddamn asthma. Even if he'd considered picking it up when his lungs were probably immune, that'd be out the window now. He's back to baseline.

Sense of smell got too sharp anyway.

Doesn't matter, it isn't a thought on his mind. What he does care about right now is the fact that Steve's smiling like all's right with the world, like he's forgotten they're five hundred years off and their lives have been sort of like nails on a chalkboard. It's a good look for him, it sets a little calm in Bucky's posture too. Mirroring, relaxing into the old familiar feeling he'd half worried would be gone.

It's not.

Can't really put into words what a relief that is. ]

Two bedrooms.

[ Is his follow up, a little tilt to his head like he's trying to gently sell it. ]

Figured it was a package deal. Let her have one. We can figure out the rest.

[ Share, if they gotta. They've bunked before. Granted that was a lifetime ago and it was usually in a tent rather than a bedroom, but still.

He might not know her all that well, but he'd bet money she won't be able to get any sleep here. Maybe Steve won't either, but definitely not her. From the first real conversation he's had with her, he's picking out she might need somewhere she can lock the door before she'll even come close. ]

[ Oh. Both eyebrows raise, and he genuinely seems stunned by the offer. That fades too though, back to soft, fond amusement he's been wearing. He blinks unevenly the way he does when he's especially pleased by something, been called out— or both, eyes going half-lidded as he stares at his half full glass. ]

I know this's the part where I usually argue but honestly—

[ He gives a one-shouldered shrug, eyes flicking up to meet Bucky's again. Drinking used to make him go red. Still does, apparently. A warm flush to match his expression. ]

— think I kinda like the idea.

[ Having both of them around. Call him selfish. Feels like an imposition, and not just on Bucky's generosity— he might love them both like the family they are to him, but that says nothing about how the two of them feel about each other. And rooming so close. But for him? Couldn't offer him a better option.

He tips his head to the side, leaning back and staring at his drink again. ]

She might say no.

[ Even if it weren't complicated, he get the sense she likes her own space. ]

Edited 2020-07-13 06:58 (UTC)

[ He'd meant it when he told Natasha he was glad Steve had her. Apparently she sticks around for another seven years, that's not something to take lightly. Whether or not she'll accept is another matter, sure, there's a little bit of a history there. A scar from a bullet wound, two subsequent near-murders. Seemed to get along okay yesterday, though. He's kind of banking on anything being better than communal living.

In the meantime, he's just gonna bask in the details here. Steve's expression, the flush that's still there despite the way nearly everything else about his physicality changed. The mostly-affirmative answer he's giving without Bucky having to work all that hard to convince him. ]

Maybe try mentioning to her it only took about six hundred years for you to finally come around to the idea?

[ A wry drawl.

And-- really, would you goddamn look at them now? How long ago was it he offered this the first time? It'd been all brick buildings, steel fire escapes, alleyways and poverty. Now they're in a city he's pretty sure is taller than it is wide, they finally figured out how to make a goddamn hover car work right, and if he clapped a hand down on Steve's shoulder the wrong way they'd start swapping feelings.

What the absolute hell?

Realistically, he concedes with no small amount of understanding. ]

Wouldn't blame her if she turned it down. It's her choice. I want to, though. It'd feel good to finally...

[ And he doesn't even know how to finish that sentence, aside from just a vague shrug.

To finally give instead of take for the first time on this side of the timeline. To have something to offer, to pitch in and take care of Steve, and by extension Steve's friends. He owes her more than one.

It'd feel good to chip away at that debt a little. ]

[ Six hundred years earns another soft, playful scoff. Yeah, yeah. He had his reasons back then for needing his own space, paid for by his own money that he earned. Knew he'd always have you in his corner if things got rough, knew you'd never look down on him for asking for that help— and god, he appreciated that, no matter how much he sometimes made it seem otherwise.

But the thought of needing to ask always hurt. Rubbed his pride a little too raw. And he was proud of himself, in the end. His first shitty tenement apartment, with the windows on the inside walls and the bathroom down the hall. The money he started to save.

He never wanted you worrying about him.

Steve studies his features again as Bucky trails off, shrugging away whatever else he doesn't say.

You don't gotta worry about that.

But it's kind of the same, huh?

He uses the break in the conversation to finish his drink. Downing the rest of his drink and clinking the glass back on the table. Tilts his head again, eyes narrowing slightly, crinkling at the corners with amusement at something. ]

Alright, well, before it happens by accident— [ Seeing how they might be having three people to a two bedroom place. Nevermind that his assumptions about space might be wildly off. He's feeling good and warm, and like he actually wants to try this thing— ] ... show me how this works.

[ He's extending a hand forward, like he means to shake. ]

Edited 2020-07-14 06:41 (UTC)

[ People peg him wrong sometimes, when they try and pin down his motivation back then. They look at Steve's before pictures, they look at the glimpses in time that remained of Bucky, any they assume he wanted to wrap Steve in cotton like he had glass bones or something. They assume he was some sighing, clucking mother hen trying to block the guy from whatever dumb thing he was trying to do.

Not the case.

Nobody on the planet knew better than him just exactly how much Steve could handle. Seen the guy take more punches than he could count, some real brutal ones, then drag himself right back up to his feet. It was less him nagging Steve out of trouble and more rolling up his sleeves to join him in it.

Later, offering up his place to Steve, it was the same principal. It wasn't that he doubted Steve's ability to provide for himself, not in the slightest. It's just that he wanted to help. However he could, and that was the most obvious way. It was easy, it was practically nothing, no sacrifice on his part. He had to ask. Three sisters growing up, being the oldest son in a family, some traits just become ingrained. Taking care of his own is part of that. It helped define him, and maybe that's why it stuck around and it's shining back through again now. It's embarrassing how gratified he feels about it maybe working out this time.

Which, of course, is exactly the moment Steve veers them down this path.

His eyebrows hike up skeptically. He could make a joke here, deflect, but instead he'll opt for cautious. ]

You sure?

[ Most people do anything they can to avoid it. Bucky himself has been an avid dodger of all skin-to-skin contact, and he's grown pretty adept at switch-hitting with his left.

But he'll do it. Three drinks in is apparently just enough to loosen his rigid hold for Steve's sake. It's just once, just for a minute, it isn't catching him off-guard and it's during a good moment for him. All things considered, it's the most ideal time for this to happen, if it's gotta happen at all.

He's willing. Proves as much by lifting his own hand, except it hovers in the air a few inches away to give Steve a second to re-think. Not that he usually abandons his first decision.

If Steve follows through, that caution and tentative reserve might be the first things to come through, but they're also the most shallow. The thinnest in the spectrum, transitioning through reluctant optimism and nostalgia. Fondness and old love. Darker, self-analytical insecurity as he tries to micromanage what emotions he's letting slip through himself. ]

[ You sure? is answered with another look, a silent, teasing c'mon with nothing but confidence in his lazy half smile. Who else would he try this with?

He pulls in a breath as he clasps his hand around Bucky's, and with that air comes with a soft rush of something more. Like wading into a river, gentle banks giving way to deeper water— but he's not entirely in control of his own direction, or how far in he can reach. The sense that there's a barrier, a filter, and even if he knew how to press beyond it, he doesn't try. Just basks in those first rays of the spectrum, muted but warm, familiar. The parts they try to put to words, sometimes forgetting the language was always half unspoken to begin with.

His lips have been parted since that first breath, and he lets out a shaky exhale, his gaze fixed on their hands without actually looking at them. It's slight surprise that comes from him first. No reluctance— but otherwise almost a mirror. A warmer, hazier reflection of the same optimism, a gentle, smoke-scented nostalgia, and from beyond there he's less careful and controlled than he might've been without the buzz. His fondness is just as deep, his feelings in the moment unconditional, rooted down deep.

The memory evoked is short, old to a degree that the image has gone blurry, from before his recall was perfect. What held together are sensations and the odd visual detail: the weight of a skinny arm around his shoulder, the smell of the pavement after the rain, the flash of a grin, the staggering warmth blooming in his chest.

There's nothing special about it. He's not even sure anymore it's the first time you surprised him like that, but it was when it was still a surprise to be pulled in like that by someone— by a friend.

The images flicker in and out of space, fading again. ]

[ Yeah, yeah, he knew what the answer'd be before he even asked. Figures he'd take that rip off the band-aid approach, in hindsight. Bucky'd been game to avoid it forever if he could, Steve's knocking it out on the first weekend.

Not that Bucky's been wholly successful. He's had exactly two experiences with it, one less than pleasant and the other... weird. Just, mostly, weird. Neither of them were with people he knew, not with people who had any real reason to feel anything in particular when they made contact.

This time's a little different. It's not the abrupt prove you're displaced from Jason, not the efficient encounter with Daisy doing her best to push memories through to him with the empathy part being an afterthought.

It's exploratory. Thoughtful. Slower, so he actually has time to experience the layers of it. The depth -- though that may just be because of who's on the other end and the history they have.

It makes something inside him ache, but in a way that isn't necessarily bad. He's had a lot of time to doubt himself, before Steve hunted him down. A lot of months to question who he was, if he deserved or wanted to be that same guy, if he deserved the bond that would've come through with it. If Steve even wanted it anymore, particularly after what he did. He knew better after he woke up with his arm in a hydraulic press, but a few days doesn't really equalize a set of scales that have been slow to level.

This bumps them pretty hard.

It feels like relief. A little like exhaling after holding your breath. He knew, he just... didn't know. Could never have really known, and now they both do. It's undeniable, concrete reciprocity.

And then Steve hits him with a flood of old memories, a patchwork quilt of recognizable sensation. He fills in the gaps by instinct rather than by choice, Steve's memories trigger an automatic reflex, a knee-jerk pull that pairs Steve's half with his own. The other side of it; pulling him in like it was as easy as breathing, because he felt fond as hell, because he had that teenage feeling-spike of you're my best friend.

It's a little overwhelming for someone who always keeps a rigid leash on his emotions, on his thoughts. His fingers flex in Steve's grip, like they'd been about to detach on their own before he realized it and schooled them back down again.

He doesn't wanna screw this up.

It's good, it's just... Jesus, it's pricking at something in his heart. It's piling onto him things he wasn't-- still kind of isn't-- sure he ought to be allowed to have. It's a lot to swallow, and his heels grind in to try and find that happy medium. To not withdraw, but to dictate how he processes it all. He wants to keep the good, but he wants to manage what he's giving away in turn, because all these deeper, more complicated feelings he thinks might ruin it. That guilt, that second guessing of himself, they're private things he doesn't want to open up for anyone else's commentary. Things he doesn't want to foist on Steve, things he doesn't want to be comforted for.

You can't put a mask on a goddamn empathy bond, and he doesn't know how to handle that right off.

In the back corner of the Displaced safe house, Bucky closes his eyes and does his best to course-correct this train back onto the right tracks. After a breath or two, he's successful. That brief downward spiral kicks back toward better ground, and he pushes through a memory proper.

Steve, throwing his guts up behind a roller coaster. Couple of lifetimes later and he still thinks it's hilarious. ]

[ Pieces interconnect: two fleeting halves of a single memory, a small piece of a larger picture that calls to something bone deep, on instinct and trust and all those notions that are built over time on the foundation of acts and words, shared looks in silence, a shared history and implicit belief that I know you, as much as any one person can understand another. As tangible and concrete as anything built on memory, body language and feeling can feel, unquestioned because these are the senses you've got to perceive the world around you, and it's the same for everyone else.

This isn't like gaining another sense. It's not like going from colorblind to seeing the world in full color. It's not like seeing a Micheangelo in the museum for the first time, or any other awe-inducing moments in his life.

He's got no words for what it feels like to know. To call and be answered back, like to like. For reciprocity, and the relief that breathes from them both in the aftermath. The pinpricks that in the moment he can't tell are coming from him or you, the feel of fingers twitching as it all begins to shift— he doesn't resist, he can't tell the direction at first, only the sense of being led to a more muted space, then down, the bubble of humor in the back of his throat in the same instant his stomach does a little lurch.

He started this, so it's probably right that he pulls away first. His eyes start blinking back to sight as he wriggles his fingers out of Bucky's, gently disentangling them. Pulls the back of his arm to his mouth, trying not to laugh or gag. ]

— Christ, hope you can taste that too.

[ Hot dogs coming back up the wrong way. You know he couldn't stand the smell of them for weeks after that.

He doesn't sound mad, and from behind his arm his eyes are still crinkling with amusement, his face just as flushed as it was before. A warmth radiating from the whole of him, buzzed on something more than alcohol. ]

Edited 2020-07-15 01:33 (UTC)

[ It's weirdly comforting to feel that relief come off of Steve, too. He's got this notion in his head, this misguided belief that he's the only one swirling around with doubts or insecurities. It makes sense to him that he's afraid Steve will have changed his opinion on it, after everything. His own relief tracks with that. It doesn't make sense to him that Steve might be worried about Bucky's end of things, he hadn't really even considered it.

He's just had it built up in his head that Steve's confident about almost all of this. About himself, about his own feelings. That he doesn't feel those same kinds of pricks splintering in from time to time that Bucky does.

But he does.

Damn, it's good to have somebody else understand— or to just know they understand each other. It's just so goddamn reassuring that they're going through the same deal, and he's not just a basket case.

Well, he's not the only basket case if he is. Can't attest to their collective sanity.

It ends, and though it was good in that inherent way that you just know something is good — children, angels, dogs, Sam Wilson — it still leaves him a little antsy. A little out of his element, being an open goddamn book like that. Mostly open, anyway. More than he's used to.

God knows he's always been good at schooling his face to hide that, though, and he opts for wry this time. Gently narrowed eyes, the uptick of one corner of his mouth. A steady, dry drawl that doesn't really belie his unsure footing. ]

Nope. Just cotton candy and Lucky Strikes. Combination doesn't really stand the test of time.

[ He's just gonna distract himself and occupy his hands by uncapping the bottle and topping them both off. ]

[ He pulls a face. Reaches for the glass as soon as it's full again and takes a drink to burn the phantom taste out of his mouth. When he sets it down again he leans forward, propping himself up by one elbow against the table, studying Bucky with a half-lidded look again, his body and features relaxed in a way that's almost cat-like, smug and satisfied. Like he's hardly ruffled by what just happened. And he's not— or at least he's not antsy about it in a way he can pin down with any specificity.

He's not worried.

Tomorrow.

He bumps their knees together under the table. ]

Not like us.

[ He's still smiling to himself as he refills his drink again, against whatever better judgement he might have had earlier. Brings the glass to his lips and raises both eyebrows. ]

I'm getting a hoverbike.

[ Look who the booze is hitting. It's just amusing enough to start easing off his own tension, and he settles back in his crooked-faced chair with his left forearm against the table's edge and one leg stretched out long beneath it.

Their knees knock, and the corners of his eyes go a little more narrow in a way that looks more affectionate than anything.

He's got the glass at his lips right when Steve says hoverbike, anything he might've had in his mouth gets cough-laughed right back into the glass. ]

Jesus Christ, of course you are.

[ God have mercy on his hair, no longer so immune to going gray. ]

You know you're not indestructible anymore, right? We got that established? You're just regular old.

Who's old?

[ His mouth twitches at the corner as he fights a losing battle to keep his grin from widening, from laughing when he wants to pretend to be sour.

He looks anything but sour.

Not a damn thing in the world could sour him right now. ]

Look, we'll get a sidecar.

[ A flying sidecar. So you can ride along with him.

It'll be fun. ]

[ Technically speaking, Steve's probably lapped him by a year or two. Thank you, two year time differential and nomadic lifestyle. He'll be pleased to stumble onto that little fact, once he gets over the initial weird disappointment of being slightly out of sync. ]

I think you're a little too big to fit in a sidecar now, pal.

[ Because if anyone's going in that damn thing it ain't gonna be Bucky. He'll shove his metal hand in the hover-spokes and crash them on principal like a stick in a bicycle wheel.

Imagine his dour expression and hulking form staring out of one of those unhappily. ]

[ Probably kinda close to how he looked squeezed into that back of that Volkswagon they drove to the airport.

He scoffs, shaking his head and taking another drink. Sets it down slowly this time, chin dipped, mulling over something as he stares at the glass, flicking his gaze up with both eyebrows raised in question.

More exposed this time he asks. More exposed than even when they were touching. ]

One more time? Real quick.

[ He holds up an index finger in the space between them. ]

[ Don't think he isn't cataloging exactly how sappy Steve's getting with every progressive drink. Not a bad thing so far, but definitely ammunition to use against him later. Makes a mental note to shove a gallon of water down the guy's throat before the night's out, too.

Made that mistake the first time. Forgot what a hangover felt like. Learn from him, buddy, live a better life than he does.

All the same, raw as he'd been afterward and as uncomfortable as it is being seen...

It was good in a way that can't be put into words proper, and there's no way in hell he could turn Steve down with that expression on his face.

He agrees wordlessly, bypassing index finger in exchange for hooking thumbs because what the hell is that? They're doing hand clasps or nothing, man. He's never seen E.T. but he gets the references.

There's a little extra curiosity on the top this time. ]

[ E.T.'s the last thing on his mind. Some kind of logic got him thinking maybe fingertips would be acceptable, less intense this time, go a little further in convincing him to try it again so soon.

So he's surprised when Bucky claps their hands fully again— and that's the first thing that pulses from him. A flash of surprise that gives way to the same kind of heady warmth and deep affection from before, hazier now with another drink and a half in his system but still just as strong, just as grounded. Like it's part of his sense of self. Wordless, unconditional welcome, a fleeting rush like adrenaline just because they get to do it again so soon.

He doesn't mean to hold on long. Urges him, breathless: ]

You let go first.

[ This time. ]

[ Maybe it's a little easier this time, because of everything they parsed through the first time around. It's not as surprising, he's got some notion of what to expect going in. He's got the knowledge that they both equally understand there are some complex layers here that are personal to them. Things that they're working through. He's got the knowledge that there's no judgement or any obligation to acknowledge them right now.

That foundation makes it way easier to let those things fade to the background. Easier not to fixate on them, so they drift away in favor of...

This.

This kind of warmth that's the exact antithesis to everything he's felt for the last several decades whenever they pulled him out. It's the opposite of pain and fear, isolation, loneliness. It's the opposite of repression and mechanical efficiency. It feels like everything they stripped out of him, it hurts like spending too long in the dark and stepping out into blinding sunlight. That rare, good hurt.

He closes his eyes, breathing through it.

You let go first.

A flood of amusement follows; like goddamn teenagers on the phone. You hang up first, no you hang up first.

He will.

He's just... giving it a minute.

It feels like real goddamn peace in his head and his heart for the first time in a long time. ]

[ Every hit was worth taking, but god, it's good not to have to fight for once. To not have to struggle to find this place where they meet. To not be scared he's doing more harm than good. This ache. Catches in his throat— for a second his chest goes tight and he thinks he might be overwhelmed, let something spill back that would capsize them.

Grips his fingers a little tighter. Focuses on the sound of Bucky's breathing, letting that guide him too.

Matches it.

Same set of lungs.

The amusement tickles his throat, his chest, loosens the knot building there. He answers back with his own soft pulse of amused acknowledgement, digging his toes in the warm sand to ground himself. To hold his end without threat of wandering. To wait until he's ready to break off.

I'm with you. ]

Edited 2020-07-15 07:21 (UTC)

Alright.

[ Declared maybe abruptly, but it's meant to preface the way his hand breaks away so as to not make it a sudden detachment. His throat's a little thick, there's a subtle rasp to the word, and he clears it softly after.

Presses his palm to his jeans and absently rubs, like he's drying it. Like any of that sensation actually happened in that patch of skin. Not even a little — Christ, the stuff you feel during that makes you forget about the physical sensation of hanging onto someone's hand for a minute. ]

Alright.

[ It's an absent murmur coupled with a gentle shake of his head.

It's more than he does, more than he's used to. It might not've overwhelmed Steve, but it is a little overwhelming to him just for a few seconds after the fact.

That's the kind of thing that takes some getting used to.

Is that something they're gonna get used to? Or, try frequently enough to find out? He passes a hand over his mouth, then transitions it to his glass. ]

Four drinks in and you're a sap. At least we know you're a happy drunk.

[ Hard to know anymore if he's selling casual. Might be kind of funny how it seems like his emotions and his expressions are flipped. Been known to smile at his worst, plaster it on, fake it, and the only thing that tipped his hand was the pained twist to the edges.

And then there's now, hit with a flood of everything good you can feel, practically, but he only has eyes for that glass and he's trying for as neutral as he can.

Doesn't make any goddamn sense, he knows, it's just complicated.

No idea how Steve's doing it and coming out beaming and unselfconscious, the bastard. ]

[ Alright.

The warning helps.

Alright.

His hand hovers in empty space for a few seconds before he lets it rest on the tabletop again. His palm actually is a little sweaty, but he only faintly takes note of it. He's still watching Bucky, still holding his breath— which he swiftly lets out again in a light, distant huff at his assessment, his long running smile lopsided again. ]

Happy drinking with you, pal.

[ It's a good ache.

Like after a long summer's day letting the sand and salt rub them raw, like the burn in your lungs when you can't stop laughing.

He sets his palms flat on the table, pulling himself up straight. ]

I need pretzels.

[ Nuts. Chips. Something salty. Fried grasshopper. He reaches over to clap Bucky on the shoulder before he stands (the room giving the tiniest lurch), tipping his head in question. ]

You want anything?

[ Dryly: ]

My dignity.

[ He's mostly joking. It's not as bad as it could've been, not as bad as he'd have thought. It's actually a lot like now, a lot like tonight -- the drinking, the camaraderie, the fun. The hangover only comes after, and even in the midst of it you have to admit the night before was worth the price you're paying now.

A beat.

Actually, you know what, now that you mention it... ]

Or a cinnamon bun.

[ They're worth about the same amount, probably. ]

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( closed ) it's not much of a life you're living

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