Bucky Barnes | Winter Soldier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hesaghost) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
makinglies2014-04-12 07:02 am
hesaghost) wrote in makinglies2014-04-12 07:02 am
Entry tags:
Two ancient losers
To anyone else, he'd look like some homeless person camping out in front of the World War II memorial, he certainly looked the part. He wore torn jeans, dirty shoes, a t-shirt that only had the virtue of being somewhat clean because he'd 'obtained' it recently and a faded hoodie he wore to cover the arm he couldn't stand to look at. He'd shaved all of twice in the last two months and only because he was aware it was getting too long--something that had always been taken care of for him--but now it was grown in again, a steady layer of scruff that couldn't be called a beard but was no where near simple fuzz. He looked like he wasn't taking care of himself...mostly because he wasn't, he only half remembered how. It didn't seem important compared to everything else that consisted of the static in his head.
It had been two months since he'd first noticed someone was trying to track him down. He assumed the reason he hadn't been found before that was because the person doing the tracking hadn't expected him to stick around D.C. initially. But he'd needed answers.
Unfortunately, those answers weren't too quick in coming. There were flashes--there had always been flashes--whispers of color strung through a black and white existence that had no context, made no sense and had no place in a world full of orders and pain, so they'd been discarded. At least until one man had claimed to know him and he knew the man back, or rather he felt he knew him. It was the strongest flash of color yet and it had given context to some of those whispers.
They had tried to kill those colors, to wipe them clean of his mind and they'd succeeded for a time. But now that he was looking for them they easily came back, never truly wiped, just buried. There were so many of them now, flashes of things he thought maybe he remembered but were still out of place, feelings he could name and knew he felt at one time but now couldn't tell if he was truly feeling them or if he was simply remembering.
There were too many holes. His mind was a wreck, a patchwork that had come undone and he couldn't find the needle and thread to sew it back together. He was confused, frustrated and lost. There was a disconnect between the man known as The Winter Soldier, the unfeeling, remorseless assassin and the man he'd read about, Bucky Barnes. He knew them both and could remember enough of each to know he wasn't either of them anymore. He didn't know who he was.
But maybe there was someone who did, someone who knew both and could take all of those patches, line them up for him, and hand him the means to fix what wasn't permanently broken. And if they couldn't, he at least knew Captain America would be strong enough to eliminate the threat he knew he still posed. Just as in some ways there was some Bucky Barnes still in him, there was some Winter Soldier as well; he was still at fault for all that he'd done and he was still a weapon--a tool-- that could be picked up by someone else and used again if he couldn't find his own way.
And standing here in front of this memorial, staring at a name that deserved to be up there with all of those other heroes--those other sacrifices--while he was left forgotten in the shadows, he didn't know that he could. So he waited.
He waited because he'd made certain he'd been spotted so there was a thread to follow, something for Steve Rogers to pick up and maybe lead him to the ghost he'd been chasing for who knew how long. He didn't know how long it would need to wait, but it didn't really matter when he had nowhere else to go.
It had been two months since he'd first noticed someone was trying to track him down. He assumed the reason he hadn't been found before that was because the person doing the tracking hadn't expected him to stick around D.C. initially. But he'd needed answers.
Unfortunately, those answers weren't too quick in coming. There were flashes--there had always been flashes--whispers of color strung through a black and white existence that had no context, made no sense and had no place in a world full of orders and pain, so they'd been discarded. At least until one man had claimed to know him and he knew the man back, or rather he felt he knew him. It was the strongest flash of color yet and it had given context to some of those whispers.
They had tried to kill those colors, to wipe them clean of his mind and they'd succeeded for a time. But now that he was looking for them they easily came back, never truly wiped, just buried. There were so many of them now, flashes of things he thought maybe he remembered but were still out of place, feelings he could name and knew he felt at one time but now couldn't tell if he was truly feeling them or if he was simply remembering.
There were too many holes. His mind was a wreck, a patchwork that had come undone and he couldn't find the needle and thread to sew it back together. He was confused, frustrated and lost. There was a disconnect between the man known as The Winter Soldier, the unfeeling, remorseless assassin and the man he'd read about, Bucky Barnes. He knew them both and could remember enough of each to know he wasn't either of them anymore. He didn't know who he was.
But maybe there was someone who did, someone who knew both and could take all of those patches, line them up for him, and hand him the means to fix what wasn't permanently broken. And if they couldn't, he at least knew Captain America would be strong enough to eliminate the threat he knew he still posed. Just as in some ways there was some Bucky Barnes still in him, there was some Winter Soldier as well; he was still at fault for all that he'd done and he was still a weapon--a tool-- that could be picked up by someone else and used again if he couldn't find his own way.
And standing here in front of this memorial, staring at a name that deserved to be up there with all of those other heroes--those other sacrifices--while he was left forgotten in the shadows, he didn't know that he could. So he waited.
He waited because he'd made certain he'd been spotted so there was a thread to follow, something for Steve Rogers to pick up and maybe lead him to the ghost he'd been chasing for who knew how long. He didn't know how long it would need to wait, but it didn't really matter when he had nowhere else to go.
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It had been about a week since he'd moved in on Steve's couch and during that time, the blond had rarely--if ever--left Bucky's side. It had seemed a little suffocating at first mostly with Steve hovering and constantly giving him the look Bucky had decided he didn't like and Bucky himself struggling with the flashes of memory he was getting more and more of as well as his general feeling of displacement, but things were getting better. More natural, at least, like they'd found some echo of that rhythm that had always been between them.
It was inevitable that Steve would get called away for some thing or another as the world needed Captain America to save it and he understood why it was better that he be left behind--he wasn't really what could be called 'stable' right now and the others that he'd be working with had zero reason to trust him, much less rely on and that was a little necessary.
But it meant Bucky was left alone in the apartment to wonder if Steve was going to be all right or not. Logically, he knew his friend could take care of himself these days--that was one memory he could have done without for a while: the memory of feeling like Steve didn't need him anymore, he hadn't shared that one--but he still had that overwhelming need to watch Steve's back, a feeling that had only grown stronger with every memory he regained. Instead, he was left to wander around the apartment, relying on forgotten instinct as he cleaned and straightened and generally wasted time.
At one point, he sat down and picked out a couple of the books Steve had listed as things Bucky should read and he'd even gotten a small portion of the way through, but that feeling returned and made it hard to focus.
He should be there. These days, he had really only one use and he could actually do something with it that could help and he was left behind.
What if he could save someone? Would that help with just how many he'd killed? It certainly wouldn't hurt. What if he actually could save Steve? That feeling he'd remembered was from a time when he'd just been another guy with a few talents that didn't seem like much compared to a super hero, but now he was more useful. Yes, predominately, he was just a weapon now, but a weapon could still be useful when used for the right purpose.
At some point, he'd started to gear up, not the same outfit he'd had as the Winter soldier, but something he could fight in and his boots and it wasn't like he'd gotten rid of all his guns and knives, he'd just stashed them in his things and kept them out of Steve's sight. Probably not the best move, but it was too late now.
It didn't take too long to hack into what he needed to find out where they'd gone since Steve had been very sparing with the details--despite what his friend might think, Bucky did know how to use a computer, just not for much more than getting the information he needed. His destination in mind, he headed down to Steve's bike, thankful he'd gotten a ride instead of taking it.
Maybe he wouldn't be much use once he got there, but at least he'd be doing something and trying to make himself useful.
no subject
The fight is ongoing when Bucky arrives, Cap unaware that his friend is even there as he's fighting for his life against four Chitauri warriors, all armed with staves and trying to surround him for an easier kill. Two SHIELD agents lay against opposite walls, one with blood streaming down her unconscious face and the other twisted unnaturally, his back clearly broken. Cap seems to be having a hard time just deflecting blows, the star emblazoned on his chest bisected through the middle by a shallow cut that has already stopped bleeding. The enemies weapons make clanging noises as they clash against Cap's shield, but they're slowly able to flank him.
Just when Bucky arrives, the smallest Chitauri is poised for attack, his staff swinging down in an arc at Captain America's unprotected back.
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He's off the bike and battle-ready in barely the time it takes to blink, his head full of white noise--but not the kind he'd been trying to chase away--a more familiar type he knew settled in when he was simply acting on instinct than thinking about what he'd do next. He couldn't afford to think if it was a matter of Steve's safety.
Shots rang out in quick succession, one per target because he didn't miss, he dropped them one-by-one, the ones he identified as potentially the strongest. He didn't know what these things were, but some of them looked more formidable than others and he only had so many bullets left before he'd have to--'click.'
The spent gun dropped from his hand and out came his dagger as he jumped into the fray to fight off those that were left while attempting not to go any further from Steve's side than he had to.
no subject
When the dust settles, Steve's left panting and favoring his right arm. He looks to Bucky, a note of worry behind his eyes in case fighting like this caused any unpleasant side effects having to do with the Winter Soldier, but there's nothing chastising there. No quip about how he'd told Bucky to stay behind, just gratitude. He's a big enough man to recognize when his goose would have been well and truly cooked had his friend not arrived when he did.
"Thanks." It's simple but it says everything. Which is good because a moment later he's gritting his teeth and reaching up to clutch his right shoulder, unable to get much else out by way of words.
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"Steve--" He's at the blonds side in two easy strides, one hand curling around his friend's good shoulder to support him while his other gingerly prob what he could reach of Steve's shoulder around the hand covering it. It was at the back and near the top he found the gap and subtle discrepancy that meant told him what was wrong.
"Move your hand, it's dislocated, I need to pop it back into place. It's gonna hurt." That wasn't going to stop him from doing it, but it wasn't fair to go without any warning at all.
But that was his warning and under the idea of 'no warning is the best warning' he barely waits for a reply before his hands take position and push up and in, forcing the joint pack into it's socket.
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"That hurt." It all hurts. He'd been battered and cut pretty badly before Bucky showed up and he braces himself on his friend unconsciously to stay upright and take stock of his injuries. Cut lip, abrased cheek over the bone, slice across the chest, tingling arm (though no longer dislocated), possible cracked ribs, shallow puncture in his left thigh, and various other minor scrapes and bruises that are less concerning but just as painful.
And yet he feels poorly for complaining. At least he made it alive. His backup hadn't been so lucky.
Steve frowns at the bodies of the fallen SHIELD agents (can they still be called SHIELD when SHIELD is gone?). "I have to take them back up at least. You shouldn't be seen. I'll meet you back at the apartment."
It might have even sounded authoritative if he was standing under his own power.
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"You can barely carry yourself, let alone anyone else. Stay here, breathe, let that super-healing of yours kick in and I'll come back for you."
He crouched down in front of Steve and ripped the sleeve over his normal arm off to tie around the puncture wound in the blond's thigh. It was all he could do right this second.
For now, he stood again and made for the bodies. He could carry them both over his left shoulder and probably drop them off where they'd be found without drawing too much attention. With his left arm still covered, he'd be far less identifiable from a distance.
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Not gonna happen, but he still has the thought regardless.
"Don't let anyone see you. We're under 39th, there's a hospital about 10 clicks west." Not that a hospital would do the two dead agents any good, but at least they'd be taken care of and what remained of SHIELD would find their own quickly if they were on the grid. "I'll check in after you get back."
And in the meantime he'll just sit right here and try not to think about his injuries.
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"Yeah."
He stood and gathered up both bodies with relative ease and started west. "Don't find anymore trouble until I get back."
It wasn't that difficult, the only problem arising when he needed to get back to surface level with two bodies. He'd taken the woman and left her in a spot where she'd easily be found then brought the man up and left him in a completely different spot far away from the first. But while it was simple, it did take him a bit longer than he'd estimated and he found his left shoulder was aching, though there wasn't really anything he could do for that except rest it.
He made his way back to where he'd left Steve, grabbing and holstering his now empty gun before making his way to the captain and offering his right hand to him. "Come on. Your turn for shotgun."
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Drip, drip, drip...
He can't go to a hospital; he probably doesn't need to so long as he has time to rest and recover, but even if he did need the hospital, with SHIELD branded traitors, he'd be arrested on sight.
Drip, drip, drip...
If Bucky remembers anything from the war, it would help. They had field medic training, not to mention years of experience caring for each other's injuries in the field. Can he really trust Bucky to remember though?
Drip, drip, drip...
He's predisposed to trust Bucky. Bucky's always taken care of him...
Drip, drip, drip...
"Stevie, you really oughta have let me fix the sink in the first place, y'know?" He scrubs at that blond hair, trying to get it dry lest it make his friend sick. Well, sicker. It seems like Steve's always sick and then he has to go do things like this- Steve can tell that's what's going through Bucky's head. It's in his eyes, the way his jaw's set.
"I fixed it, didn't I?" He flails his arms under the towel, pushing the brunette away and stomping away to go change out of his drenched clothes. He calls across the apartment, able to still see Bucky's frown in his mind's eye despite the walls now between himself and his friend. "Besides, it's just a little water."
"Freezing water. And the kitchen's half flooded. Look, I'll make a call and have someone c-"
"Bucky, you don't have t-"
"Yeah I do, I don't wanna clean this up!"
"You wouldn't have to, I'll-"
"And I don't want you deep diving in it either." Steve emerges from his room and he has to admit that the grin that spreads on Bucky's face as he leans over to put his hand on the blond's shoulder is a little infectious. "C'mon, let's get a pie."
"But what about-"
"I told you I'd call someone!" He scrapes his keys up off the side table next to the door. "I'll drive. Your turn for shotgun."
"Huh?" Steve's eyes open to a gloved hand held down to where he can reach it and the very same mix of concern and bluster he'd just been dreaming about. He smiles a sleepy smile up at Bucky as he reaches to take his hand. "Yeah, sure Buck."
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The way Steve was looking at him tugged at something, but he focused on taking Steve's hand and lifting him up off the ground, one arm sliding around his waist to help him over to the motorcycle. Once his friend was on the bike, Bucky got on behind him and leaned forward to grip the handle bars, causing it to almost seem like he was holding Steve; he sort of was.
"I don't trust you to stay awake and stay on the bike." Was his only explanation before the vehicle roared into life and took them towards the exit.
He didn't try to talk to Steve until they'd safely gotten back to the apartment. Even then, he was mostly silent as he helped the other man up the stairs and into the loft, only 'putting him down' once they were at the bedroom area.
"You should get cleaned up, then I'll take care of your wounds." He hesitated, by all rights, Steve should go to a hospital or at least see an actual doctor, but Bucky didn't trust either and he wasn't willing to let his friend out of his sight while he was injured.
A little reminiscent of their younger days when they'd get banged up after some fight Steve had started and Bucky wouldn't let the other man out of his sight for the rest of the day.
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But he can't risk anyone seeing Bucky, so that's out.
By the time he's deposited on the bed, Steve just wants to sleep and recover and lord is he hungry. Fighting like that makes him ravenous. But he doesn't really have the mental capacity right now to whine at his self appointed caretaker (when had their roles reversed again?) about food so he simply nods and starts to strip out of his uniform, thinking nothing of the fact that Bucky's still standing right there.
They'd shared locker rooms and army camps and it's easy to forget in his base muddled state that there was ever a time where they hadn't.