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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.