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thisavrou_log2016-03-19 01:08 pm
dislocked) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-03-19 01:08 pm
Entry tags:
because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping.
Who: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers.
When: 19/3
Where: Cargo bay.
What: Bucky receives a text to deliver something to Steve Rogers. He does not take kindly to what's in it.
Warnings: Two supersoldiers with seventy years worth of trauma and heartache and pain. Possible mentions of war, low-key depression; brainwashing, and everything that comes with being a) an icicle and b) a prisoner of war with zero autonomy.
[ The text comes out of nowhere, a gentle beeping at his side. He has a delivery waiting for him -- from whom, he doesn't know; he doubts that even if there's some version of a postal service here, that anyone would be sending anything to him. Then again, he's seen whales floating lazily in an alien world's sky, and was almost accidentally killed by one of the gentle giants, so he supposes judgement, in general, should be largely reserved.
He slips quietly through the ship to the cargo bay, wary and alert for traps. He still trusts little these days, and enters when there's no one around. He picks up a small crate containing his notebook, a spiral-bound, well-thumbed item that's already half-filled with his writing, bound closed with rubber bands he'd found along the way. Five boxes of bullets for his empty firearms; it will come in useful, even if he doesn't plan to kill anyone. He already has too much blood on his hands, he has taken away too much from the world, from too many people.
(He thinks of it sometimes, how much better off the world would be if he had been left to die in the snow. Perhaps HYDRA would have found someone else to do the job, but even so...)
He tucks the notebook into his shirt, the reassuring weight of it pressed against his heart. His memories, the pieces of who he used to be, memories gathered and jealously, desperately kept in case he forgot again. Steve's dogtags, the silvery clink of it on a familiar chain comes as a surprise, and he puts it on, feeling the cool metal against his skin, brushing over the notebook. He finds the dogtags and notebook precious beyond measure, and thinks of war and little red wagons.
The bullets are in their little crate, and when Bucky sees what's in the other small crate sent to him, his blood runs cold.
He remembers the mask, how it muzzles him and hides him away from the world, more a weapon than man, a hunter and a ghost in the night. But in so many twisted little ways, he finds the mask familiar -- a traitorous voice whispering how much more easy it was to be nothing, to feel nothing but the clarity of the hunt, the purpose in the mission; the belief in the lie that he was shaping the world to better ends.
Metal fingers tighten on the crate, splintering and breaking the wood. More importantly is the label, addressed to none other than Steve Rogers. Is it a cruel trick played on Steve, or did he ask for it? Bucky doesn't remember asking for any of this, even though he'd privately hoped to retrieve his notebook once more, his lifeline in a new, unfamiliar world.
When Steve enters the cargo bay, he tenses, crouched by the broken crate; and the conclusion is easy: he must have been summoned, too. ] You have a delivery.
[ He straightens up and doesn't touch it, the crate sliding in Steve's direction after Bucky gives it a light kick with his boot. ] Did you ask for that?
When: 19/3
Where: Cargo bay.
What: Bucky receives a text to deliver something to Steve Rogers. He does not take kindly to what's in it.
Warnings: Two supersoldiers with seventy years worth of trauma and heartache and pain. Possible mentions of war, low-key depression; brainwashing, and everything that comes with being a) an icicle and b) a prisoner of war with zero autonomy.
[ The text comes out of nowhere, a gentle beeping at his side. He has a delivery waiting for him -- from whom, he doesn't know; he doubts that even if there's some version of a postal service here, that anyone would be sending anything to him. Then again, he's seen whales floating lazily in an alien world's sky, and was almost accidentally killed by one of the gentle giants, so he supposes judgement, in general, should be largely reserved.
He slips quietly through the ship to the cargo bay, wary and alert for traps. He still trusts little these days, and enters when there's no one around. He picks up a small crate containing his notebook, a spiral-bound, well-thumbed item that's already half-filled with his writing, bound closed with rubber bands he'd found along the way. Five boxes of bullets for his empty firearms; it will come in useful, even if he doesn't plan to kill anyone. He already has too much blood on his hands, he has taken away too much from the world, from too many people.
(He thinks of it sometimes, how much better off the world would be if he had been left to die in the snow. Perhaps HYDRA would have found someone else to do the job, but even so...)
He tucks the notebook into his shirt, the reassuring weight of it pressed against his heart. His memories, the pieces of who he used to be, memories gathered and jealously, desperately kept in case he forgot again. Steve's dogtags, the silvery clink of it on a familiar chain comes as a surprise, and he puts it on, feeling the cool metal against his skin, brushing over the notebook. He finds the dogtags and notebook precious beyond measure, and thinks of war and little red wagons.
The bullets are in their little crate, and when Bucky sees what's in the other small crate sent to him, his blood runs cold.
He remembers the mask, how it muzzles him and hides him away from the world, more a weapon than man, a hunter and a ghost in the night. But in so many twisted little ways, he finds the mask familiar -- a traitorous voice whispering how much more easy it was to be nothing, to feel nothing but the clarity of the hunt, the purpose in the mission; the belief in the lie that he was shaping the world to better ends.
Metal fingers tighten on the crate, splintering and breaking the wood. More importantly is the label, addressed to none other than Steve Rogers. Is it a cruel trick played on Steve, or did he ask for it? Bucky doesn't remember asking for any of this, even though he'd privately hoped to retrieve his notebook once more, his lifeline in a new, unfamiliar world.
When Steve enters the cargo bay, he tenses, crouched by the broken crate; and the conclusion is easy: he must have been summoned, too. ] You have a delivery.
[ He straightens up and doesn't touch it, the crate sliding in Steve's direction after Bucky gives it a light kick with his boot. ] Did you ask for that?
no subject
There is a gulf between them they're only slowly beginning to breach, but he knows Steve better than he knows himself, this soul that seems knitted to his own soul even when they had been children; and how Bucky loved it like his own. He reaches down to pick it up, this thing that makes his stomach churn and twist. It wasn't so long ago that he was fitted with this, and now he feels too big for it.
He feels too big for it, and every reason why is standing across from him, looking like he wants nothing more than to close the distance between them, or destroy the mask with his bare hands, or both.
Bucky finally speaks. ] No. [ And it's as much rejection as it is confirmation. He will keep this. It makes him feel dirty, this mask, but he's no longer the creature that he was. No longer Bucky, but not the Winter Soldier either. He's... something else, he's just not sure what it is yet. Bucky reads Steve like an open book, his uncertainty, his hope, his hate for what he holds in his hand, his fear.
He makes a soft noise, half-amused, half-frustrated. ] I'm not me anymore. [ And they both know that, too. But he's trying, and the look in Bucky's eyes is softer but more determined than it's ever been; they're lost souls, you see, men out of time, out of place. They'll figure it out someday, and find they will find their place in the world again. ] But you're in so much of my memories. I have nothing left but you.
[ The sole living link to everything that Bucky Barnes had ever been, and all he's ever had. He feels the metal of Steve's dogtags against his heart, and hesitates before he says. ] I have something for you.