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thisavrou_log2016-05-02 10:16 am
dislocked) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-05-02 10:16 am
Entry tags:
the truth remains lethal, a lie made by man.
Who: Bucky Barnes and YOU
When: Throughout all of May.
Where: Pretty much just in front of Steve's cryotube.
What: Steve goes into cryofreeze, Bucky chills in front of it like a particularly scruffy guard dog.
Warnings: Well, aside from the standard PTSD, trauma, brainwashing, and all the horrors that come with experimented on, nothing much. Will update as necessary.
[ Good things are transient, like soap bubbles that shimmer and catch the rays of the sun before they disappear, taking their beauty (and, perhaps, a measure of hope) along with it.
This is a lesson children don't learn; this is a lesson Bucky Barnes understands better than most. He doesn't need hope or happiness to stay alive, in fact, the latter seems obscene in the wake of all that he has done, the pain and tragedy he has wrought upon far too many people for too long. But when Steve Rogers is taken from him, this small, small shimmer of hope, this little bubble that he refuses to allow himself to touch until it's gone, the loss of it still hurts.
He realizes something's wrong when there are no texts, no updates from Steve, who sends them to him without hoping for a response (or maybe he did each time he sent it, but it's children and bubbles all over again). Radio silence for twelve hours, the longest Steve has ever gone, and when Bucky finds him, Steve is asleep, frozen over in the cryotube in an obscene echo of his own history under the Atlantic and Bucky's.
The world (his world) bleeds out the last vestige of something that resembles warmth; things had not been perfect between them -- there are tensions, distance, with Bucky often vacillating between distance and drawing close, the shining moments of reprieve when nothing else matters but the present, the birthday celebrated in an empty cafeteria with a small cake, candle, and Steve's quiet determination, the way they seem drawn into each other's orbit time and time again. The look on Steve's face when Bucky turns up for the mission to the prison colony, when they sit together after the terrible illusions, the scream throttled in his chest like all the others that had come before it.
Bucky lies, when he pretends he doesn't remember. He remembers everything.
Steve is youthful in repose, but Bucky knows the look on his face -- it's the same look that made him jump in after him as the helicarrier burned and rained down debris all around them. It's the same look that made him grip him tight and haul him to the surface (Rogers doesn't die today), the clarity of that powerful purpose blindsiding the Winter Soldier because he had been created to sanction and exterminate, not protect and preserve.
It's the look that makes him punch the cryotube again and again, metal slamming into unyielding glass in his overwhelming desire to rescue him from his prison (not today, he doesn't die today either, and sleeping is a lot like dying). He tries all ways and means to break him out, but that was hours ago; and when panic loses its iron grip on Bucky's throat, he retrieves Steve's shield, a fresh set of clothes (because Steve will need them when he wakes, please let him wake), his own rifle, and he settles down before his tube, keeping vigil, silently keeping him company and guarding him from anyone who'd try to exploit this moment to their advantage. After all, there still are unknown elements in this ship, and Bucky would rather not take chances.
His knees are drawn up to his chest, Steve's shield propped by his side (with the rifle on the opposite side) like there's nothing more precious to Bucky Barnes in the world than this, than the man who sleeps behind him and refuses to open his eyes no matter how Bucky tries.
He waits, and thinks of bubbles on a sunny day.
Wake up. ]
When: Throughout all of May.
Where: Pretty much just in front of Steve's cryotube.
What: Steve goes into cryofreeze, Bucky chills in front of it like a particularly scruffy guard dog.
Warnings: Well, aside from the standard PTSD, trauma, brainwashing, and all the horrors that come with experimented on, nothing much. Will update as necessary.
[ Good things are transient, like soap bubbles that shimmer and catch the rays of the sun before they disappear, taking their beauty (and, perhaps, a measure of hope) along with it.
This is a lesson children don't learn; this is a lesson Bucky Barnes understands better than most. He doesn't need hope or happiness to stay alive, in fact, the latter seems obscene in the wake of all that he has done, the pain and tragedy he has wrought upon far too many people for too long. But when Steve Rogers is taken from him, this small, small shimmer of hope, this little bubble that he refuses to allow himself to touch until it's gone, the loss of it still hurts.
He realizes something's wrong when there are no texts, no updates from Steve, who sends them to him without hoping for a response (or maybe he did each time he sent it, but it's children and bubbles all over again). Radio silence for twelve hours, the longest Steve has ever gone, and when Bucky finds him, Steve is asleep, frozen over in the cryotube in an obscene echo of his own history under the Atlantic and Bucky's.
The world (his world) bleeds out the last vestige of something that resembles warmth; things had not been perfect between them -- there are tensions, distance, with Bucky often vacillating between distance and drawing close, the shining moments of reprieve when nothing else matters but the present, the birthday celebrated in an empty cafeteria with a small cake, candle, and Steve's quiet determination, the way they seem drawn into each other's orbit time and time again. The look on Steve's face when Bucky turns up for the mission to the prison colony, when they sit together after the terrible illusions, the scream throttled in his chest like all the others that had come before it.
Bucky lies, when he pretends he doesn't remember. He remembers everything.
Steve is youthful in repose, but Bucky knows the look on his face -- it's the same look that made him jump in after him as the helicarrier burned and rained down debris all around them. It's the same look that made him grip him tight and haul him to the surface (Rogers doesn't die today), the clarity of that powerful purpose blindsiding the Winter Soldier because he had been created to sanction and exterminate, not protect and preserve.
It's the look that makes him punch the cryotube again and again, metal slamming into unyielding glass in his overwhelming desire to rescue him from his prison (not today, he doesn't die today either, and sleeping is a lot like dying). He tries all ways and means to break him out, but that was hours ago; and when panic loses its iron grip on Bucky's throat, he retrieves Steve's shield, a fresh set of clothes (because Steve will need them when he wakes, please let him wake), his own rifle, and he settles down before his tube, keeping vigil, silently keeping him company and guarding him from anyone who'd try to exploit this moment to their advantage. After all, there still are unknown elements in this ship, and Bucky would rather not take chances.
His knees are drawn up to his chest, Steve's shield propped by his side (with the rifle on the opposite side) like there's nothing more precious to Bucky Barnes in the world than this, than the man who sleeps behind him and refuses to open his eyes no matter how Bucky tries.
He waits, and thinks of bubbles on a sunny day.
Wake up. ]
no subject
He glances at the tube he's going towards, unsurprised -- Bucky had wondered about the large monster in the tube, asleep just as peacefully as Steve is. ]
I'm waiting for whoever took him to come back. [ He says at last. Someone took Steve and put him in here, possibly hurt him in ways Bucky hadn't figured out yet, because he knows better than anyone else that the most brutal kind of torture takes place in the mind. ] No one would put them in here if they didn't want to use them.
[ Right? But this stranger is reading a book to his friend, and Bucky's confused. He gestures to the book after a moment. ] Does that help wake them up?
no subject
This? [He holds up the book, pointing to it, before chuckling quietly.] Nah. I wish, right? She just likes bad jokes. Even if she can't hear 'em, I like to think it helps make her feel more at home.
[Drumming his fingers on the floor, his mind can't help drifting back to Bucky's prior comment. Took?]
Hey, uh, did someone... hurt your friend? I didn't hear about any trial, but I was kinda out of commission for a week or so. What happened?
[A pause. Sans leans back against Toriel's tube, suddenly more casual.]
... None of my business, of course. Just curious.
no subject
They sleep, and it's its own form of death. ]
I don't know. [ He looks over at Steve, jaw clenching. ] There's no trial. Nothing. There's just -- this. [ But it cannot be anything else; someone wants to hurt him, someone wants to use him like they used Bucky. Maybe it's Hydra, maybe they're here, and if they are, he has to find a way to destroy them before they hurt anyone else. Fixing his gaze back on the stranger, he asks. ]
How did she end up here? Wasn't she taken, too?
no subject
Hm.]
She passed out. [He explains, flipping open his book.] Worked herself too hard. It was a precaution, them taking her here... least that's what they told me. [He frowns.] Did you ask the medbay? Maybe it's the same story for your guy.
no subject
I was waiting for them. [ And if they made the wrong move, he'd take them down. Bucky doesn't trust medical staff very much, even if the ones he'd met didn't seem the sort to be associated with Hydra. Then again, appearances deceive, and Bucky knows that best of all. He looks tired, but this time he's gazing at the skeleton's friend. ] Do you believe them?
no subject
So he doesn't trust them. Sans couldn't blame the guy, really, even if the rifle was probably a little much.
Then again, maybe it wasn't.]
Think I shouldn't?