bracchium | c o n t a c t

[Bucky stares in silence a little longer before following Steve's gaze to the notes on the table. Oh. Those. He picks up the closest bunch of them and fans them out across the table. On the papers are names and extremely sketchy faces, accompanied by descriptors. In the corners are a few series of numbers but scribbled scribbled out enough times that he gave up on trying to give them a concrete timeframe.

Bianca. Blonde. Blue eyes. 5'6". Ukraine. 1970s?

People he killed. People he should never forget.

Art was never his thing, but it's the least he can do.

With a sigh, he carefully sits on the floor beside the table and leans his back against the wall. He's almost knee-to-knee with Steve from how narrow the dwelling is.]

Targets.

[ He sucks in a breath, the impulse to sort through the notes suddenly gone. ]

All of them?

[Bucky nods, once more looking away. Seventy years of kills builds up very quickly. Steve's own sheet is a few underneath Bianca's, right after Nicholas Fury.

He could say he doesn't do that anymore, but he's already got evidence to the contrary that he can't ignore. ]

[ He leaves them where they are, taken aback by the number of them rather than specific faces. After a moment he steps back, bumping into the cot and sitting down, rubbing he heels of his palms into his eyes again. He's noticing again that his head never stopped throbbing. ]

[~~Awkward.~~ Bucky sits still and silent for a beat or two before he collects the compress from the table and offers it to Steve again. He can't tell if the weight Steve's wearing is due to grief or pain. Guilt boils through him again. He can't make this right, he shouldn't be allowed to either. Almost every single face on the papers didn't get the chance to do much more than beg or scream, yet here he is with a Steve so small he can't hardly hold himself up.]

You should go back.

[ He stares at the compress. Right. ]

You should come back with me. [ Brick wall. He's not going otherwise, no amount of arguing is going to change that. But he does accept the compress again, pressing it against his face. ] We'll talk about it tomorrow.

[Bucky swallows down the brief surge of frustration, but silently admits that Steve hasn't changed from what he remembers. Tomorrow. We'll practice tomorrow. Tomorrow means sleeping and sleeping means nightmares.

Maybe he can fake it.

With another sigh, he slides off his jacket and stuffs it in his pack to use as a pillow.]

[ The frustration rolls past Steve. Tomorrow. More time to think too much - more time to let this stop feeling like he's about to wake up. It's difficult for him to fall asleep on the thin cot, first lying on his back, then his stomach (he'd argue that he should take the floor, but he's picking his battles for now).

The sounds of the city outside are a comfort, the lack of it on the Station had been so noticeable at first. Eventually, he drifts off. ]

[Ever since he emerged from cryo for good two years ago, Bucky's not been much for sleeping. Even in the first few days on his own, nightmares haunted him. He certainly didn't deserve restful sleep after all he's done and the same holds true now as he stares up at the wall, listening to Steve tossing and turning on the cot. With half a mind to run again, Bucky pushes his eyes open when they start to droop, but soon he can't fend off sleep anymore than his friend.

They begin the same as always: with a rising curtain of glass. Steam billows out onto the floor and cuts between moments of clarity. He falls, always falling, and then he's seated in the chair. Electricity sparks around him and his head goes fuzzy with agony. His fists clench but they can't pull at the manacles closed tight about his wrists. Everything he remembers is disappearing again, slipping down into the vortex. Russian fills the Siberian air and then his mind is crystal clear.

'Good morning, soldier.'

'Ready to comply,' rumbles from his own mouth in reply.

'I have a mission for you. Confirmed kill in ten hours. Steve Rogers, Captain America.'

He stands on the catwalk overlooking the glass belly of the hellicarrier, target across from him. The pistol slides out from his holster first, short raps accompanying each shot until the gun is knocked out of his hand by a shield. A knife follows but that, too, is rebuffed by the shield. Without options, his fury pushes through him as he tackles his target over the metal railing separating them from a ten foot drop onto support columns. They brawl closer and closer to the edge and he knocks his target down. He presses his limited advantage and finds himself crashing against the glass below.

He's found his pistol and he's shooting at the shield again, then the knife makes a return appearance, this time biting into his target's shoulder until he knocks the latter away. He dives for a tiny chip on the glass but is picked up by the throat.

'Drop it' a familiar voice fills his ears as his fingers clench tighter around silicon and aluminum.

His fleshy arm snaps and white hot fire burns through him. Bones break and his throat creaks at the pressure applied to his neck. Stay awake stay awake stay----

He's up again and pulls the trigger at his target, who stops and stumbles and his mission isn't complete yet. Not until... not until...

Steel rains from above, trapping him, but his target returns to his side, does his best to lift the column trapping him to the glass. Blood oozes from his target's wounds, but he strains all the same.

As soon as he's free, he attacks his target again. Fire dances around them, sparks fly, and he's launching assault after assault.

'You've known me your whole life.'

Metal demolishes bones, breaks blood vessels, cleaves tissue.

'Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.'

Another hit, broken eye socket, and his target stumbles back to pull off the blue helmet adorned with an A. Blonde hair is matted and his face swollen.

'I'm not going to fight you.'

It's not his choice, really. Bucky charges and fist after fist rains down upon the face so familiar and yet so distant.

'Then finish it. Cause I'm with you to the end of the line.'

Fire takes both of them.

Bucky awakes with a soft sound of distress, but his knees are scraping the floor, boots catch on one leg of the cot and jostles the occupant. He sees Steve's face, thinner, less swollen, less broken and bruised and purple and oh god oh god oh god.

He has to get out of here, he has to run.]

[ He's seen this glass before, seen this face. Not in the mirror, unless it's the one from the carnival, a caricature made real. One of the eyes staring back at him is swollen shut on one side, but that's his own voice speaking - that's his fist snapping against flesh and bone with sickening force -

The entire floor seems to shake as something scrapes against the floor next to his bed - not his bed, next to the cot. The hole in the wall Bucky brought him to. His shirt is soaked in sweat, heart pounding with the impulse to run as he sits up, tossing his legs over the side of the cot, but it's like a sound coming from another room, paper thin walls separating them. ]

Buck - ? [ His throat is dry, heart still thumping in his chest. ]

[Bucky is up and moving before he means to, heart in his throat, chest heaving as the nightmare remains in the forefront of his mind. He can see Steve moving, so small and so breakable and it's all Bucky can do to stay in the hovel long enough to stare down the one he pounded into a pulp minutes ago.

He has to go. There's no second guessing it.

He doesn't respond to Steve's question and instead pulls the chair blocking the handle and turns the knob to leave, to move, to run. His right arm is numb, but that doesn't matter.]

Edited 2016-06-04 01:29 (UTC)

[ It's hard to see in the dark of the room, eyes not quite focused with the clarity that comes with being properly awake, but his own panic finally stutters to life when he hears Bucky clamoring for the exit. ]

Stop, Buck - [ He's on his feet too, the room's small enough that he doesn't have to go far, nearly tripping over the jacket on the floor. ] - it's okay, stop.

[ The second stop reaches through the link with a clumsy, desperate sort of force, something caught between a plea and a command. ]

[His only usable arm continues to hang limp at his side from the dream, from the reality he once faced, but when faced with Steve, with a fully awake Steve who sends something through the link, he wrenches the door open. The command settles somewhere between his instinct and his programming, though, and stops him mid-step. Ready to comply rings in his ears and he can't help the shudder of helplessness that ripples down his spine.]

[ The reaction has him recoiling, severing the connection with a sharp twist in his gut, the same words echoing just beyond his ears. ]

I'm sorry. [ He hovers just behind Bucky, unmoving. ]

[Bucky stills for long enough to acknowledge the apology, though he doesn't understand it. If anything, he should be the one muttering apologies. Instead, he's panicking, wrenching open the door and striding out into the street though he's less than half awake. Distance would make this easier.]

[ Panic hits him in a wave again. At first it seems like he means to just let Bucky go, guilt cementing his feet to the floor.

A few seconds later though and Steve's following him right out into the street, the memory of the fight back overriding Bucky's need for space. A lack of training means his feet hit the pavement with heavy steps as he trails behind, but his voice is hushed. ]

Where're you going? [ He doesn't think Bucky has an answer, hoping that might give him some pause again. ]

[Steve's right to second guess Bucky. The moment he's out in the street, he doesn't know where he is or where he plans to go, other than away from Steve. He'll hurt him, he'l break him if he's allowed to stay so close to him. The fresh nightmare in his head collides with his own memories in a typhoon of guilt and regret.
Steve didn't deserve the trouble coming to him.

He stops a few paces from the door, mind still buzzing with sensory overload and the excess adrenaline running through his veins,

He doesn't answer, but it's as much a reply as words would be: he doesn't know.]

[ Steve circles around on his right before pausing, waiting a minute. His skin hums, half charged by that secondhand fight or flight instinct. Eyes close for a few seconds as he lets it roll off of him. ]

That really what my face looks like? [ His attempt at humor is weighed down again, but it's just about the only words he can muster right now that won't be another commanding plea for Bucky to come back inside. Better for both of them that he takes a moment, the past two days are finally catching up to him. The friend he's known almost all his life has a stack of papers covered with names and faces of people he's killed, coming from a future where Steve let it all happen.

They could match guilt for guilt if he weren't locking it down. ]

[Bucky's gaze fixes on Steve as soon as he comes into his peripheral vision. The tangled mess of yellows and reds color the side of the other's face and Bucky sucks in a breath. He did that. He's dangerous. He needs to go, get away from people he can break.

His feet remain rooted where they stand a few paces into the street from the door, exposed and raw like twitching muscle under a microscope.]

[ He keeps holding Bucky's gaze. ]

I still need to show you how to block people. [ It probably won't help if he's unconscious and trapped in a nightmare, but it's better than nothing.

And maybe more of a reason for Bucky not to bolt right this second. ]

[It takes a moment, but eventually Bucky nods, though with obvious reluctance. Blocking people would at the least keep Steve away from things he shouldn't see, nightmares included. Feeling starts to return to his right arm as his brain refocuses on being awake and aware.

The remnants of the nightmare, however, cling tight to the back of his head. He needs to get a hold on himself if he wants to keep from hurting Steve again, but he doesn't know how to do that.

He takes a glance at the silent street around them before turning back toward the hole in the wall.]

желание I know you are the answer, but I forgot the question.	печь There will always be a lie in believe.
один Whatever is static is dead.	рассвет The world is too quiet.

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hope u like novels

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i think u mean oh yes

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