Chapter Text
Fighting was not all aggressive; it could be graceful, well-timed, a leopard punch sprung out of pure, carnal desire for competition. The conditions for learning and practicing fighting are too judgmental, scared of the truth that lays beyond ‘self-defense’. Your hands were the pillars of justice, trained and trained for savage fights that never seemed to end in your metal cage; opponents always appeared just as the surface of the blood scabbed. The conditions that brought you strength weren’t peaceful, not borne by hobbyistic or fickle ambitions. They were midnight strikes, tiger claws and crescent strikes, stumbling around for days on end with the propane of powdery ‘energy bolsters’ and fear of the other side of the ring. Any door not leading to your cot was a place you would rather cut off inflow of air than enter, so your days not spread on tables or passed in ways you couldn’t see were spent in a ring of hatred. A marriage to the angle, kick, pull mantra that was the buzzing ceremony music, soft violin of invisible tasers, spotlights just on you for the watching crowd (cameras) and flower petals (merlot stains not yet removed) beneath your every step. Each calculated, weary step that was always too much for the body to handle.
Falls were not signs of sleep deprivation. The adversaries were not contenders for your worth; look them exactly in the eyes and deliver the final punch. Straight into the sockets of their last glimpse of color. The weak are always among us, монстр. Another hit. He is unconscious. Punishment for failure. Will you disappoint us?
Of course, you would not, so as patchy purple hues crept along your periphery, sinking into your veins, making your feet trip just an inch over the dilapidated mat as cold, hard lead filled the holes in your bones, you gazed passively at the last slips of white in his eyes hide behind discolored lids. There was no passing of the spirit, auspicious moment that caught your attention; he merely slumped and gradually slipped away from reality. His hand stopped twitching. Shirt sagged against his still chest. And then he was gone. Hail.
Losing was a privilege you had to earn the right of. No one simply lost-- they would perish with the short span of what they were given, taken before any taints could be marked upon the fighters. Misplacing your worth and receiving survival was a reward, something given to the highest ranking combatants, recognized by scars stead metals. Buzzed cuts. Inky, gray swirls around the pupil. Lines of dark-carmine stretching from the collarbone to the sternum.
You could remember quarreling Bucky once (though you were sure there were numerous occasions, none too friendly) and having a small doubt in your mind-- just a nag in your insides, pressing down stiff enough to cause a moment of apprehension. Faltering dubiety towards your next action; he was your foe. A rival of your gains that kept you alive each day, yet he was familiar in a way that seemed to crush your liver, prod your bones out of your skin gently but consistently.
Then he was pushed into the humid ring, metal-arm hid behind him as if stitched in with a stigma, and hobbled towards you with a soft circle of relief above him that caught the light in the room oddly. He was too bright, looking right at you as if he was searching for a pipe dream on your stolen body, searching in your eyes, beginning to offer a small, hesitant smile when he was suddenly down on the mat. Spinning hook kick.
Small, traveling drops of a thick, red substance began traveling down his face, drawing an uneven path of maps that led down to his neck, starting to color his white shirt. At this, he seemed surprised.
“(Y/N)? Please, no. I don’t want to do this with you.” He struggled standing up.
Knee strike.
“Snap. Out of it! Don’t--” Axe kick. “--Gh! I won’t hurt you. I can’t--”
Overhand punch.
On you.
//
Block; punch; move left, aim; roundhouse kick: blocked. Try again, faster, harder, better. Walk; kick; dodge; kick. Again. Again.
Maim, kill, destroy.
This was your reputation, this was your plain mission, and be damned if you had the willpower to think past strategy and precalculations of your opponent’s next move. Nothing was for your future, no hopes and gritted teeth in faith of your next morning, simply there to fight and block and: flying back kick. Dodged.
Your contender was well-trained, nimble, only managing to take a couple jaw hits. Panting, mouthing something, looking more scared than they should. It may be a quick fight.
The buzzing was back. Pleas, reprimands, begging. Weakness.
Cornering the combatant, you went for the final move: chokehold. Lifted them up, grasped their neck with one hand, watched as their eyes began to droop, straight into the middle of the irises without judgment. Too easy. They struggled, clasped your arms and attempted to kick back, failing each round and losing quicker each time. The oxygen was fading.
Yet there were voices not coming from either of you.
Your name.
Your other name.
“It’s me! It’s me, (Y/N)!” You gripped the opponent tighter and clenched your other fist tightly. There should only be a few more seconds of struggle. Then the voices would go.
“Bucky-- you- your friend, with you always! Until the end of the line!” The voice was desperate. A rough hand began to shake your shoulder, pulling you away from the other agent.
“Stop it. Just let her go, go back to your normal self, doll. Darling. No one wants to see ya get hurt here.”
Red curls bounced. Slower.
“My mission.” Raspy.
“No mission. No HYDRA.” The voice had a face, and it appeared in your vision hesitantly, pleading and still struggling against your strength.
“Izmennik.”
“You. Are. Free. Let Natasha go-- she’s your friend. We just want you back. I don’t-- I--”
Your face twitched, mouth curling.
“Damn it!” The voice-face growled and was suddenly nearer to yours, striking down your arm and tackling you to the ground. The other person was dropped.
“Snap out.”
He pinned your arms down, his metal one catching the light.
“Traitor. You are sabotaging the operation.” His face hardened and softened at the same time, grunting as he used his full weight to keep you down. “I will kill you.”
A blonde appeared in your vision with a syringe, offering you pitying eyes as he asked something to the brunette. They were comrades. You would report this to HYDRA.
“No-- Just--” The brunette responded, shaking his head. You took this moment to grab the knife you had hidden in your waistband and angle it. This place was familiar but you knew one thing: it was full of enemies. People that jeopardized your existence.
The brunette scowled and turned his eyes back to you fully, seeing the knife a moment too late.
You attacked, then everything was melting and fading as the ceiling collapsed and the dirt covered your face, covered his, and smothered everything in ash.
//
“Shestnadtsat.”
A sigh from the left.
“Otets.”
There was shuffling, heavy boots drawing near you; you were lying on a table. Thin sheets by the feel. You couldn’t open your eyes, but the grinding sound of irregular beeps and cold, undisturbed air in the room was enough to make assumptions. Base.
“Instruktsii.” A slight tremor whipped your hair to the side, either because of someone's hand or the trigger word, you didn’t know.
“(Y/N), that’s not going to work.”
“Istrebitel.” You spit at the voice that brought a disrupt of the peace you were veiling your mind in, trying your best to ignore the sadness that lied within his words.
“Tsvetok.” A few needles danced on the palms of your foot as your face began to relax and let the waves wash over you.
“Why go back? Why make yourself-- (Y/N), please. Doll.” A rough hand gently caressed your cheek and you restrained yourself from biting at it. You had to focus on the words.
“Vremya.”
You heard a grunt, then a scream-- your own, muffled against his hand. His body smothered yours, twisting around and keeping your lips pressed shut as he tried to cover your flailing legs with his. Body movement was slowly diminishing, washing away with the last bits of the tide, leaving only your eyes and ears subject to his futile appeals.
Bucky scrunched his nose up, studying your face closely. He apparently was satisfied after a moment and began to talk, an apologetic note in his attitude.
“I knew this would happen eventually. I’m so sorry-- Darling, I-- I’m sorry. Really, I shouldn’t have made you fight Natasha. You weren’t ready; it’s my fault. I just want to see you-- see you safe.” He swallowed thickly when you attempted to sink your teeth in his hand, switching it off to the metal one effortlessly. It seemed more melancholic than angering.
“There’s a lot going on, I know. So many things to change, to remove to make your life what you deserve again. I just-- I want HYDRA to leave you!” He was more vicious. “No more trigger words, fights for your own sanity, I can’t. You should be living the life you always dreamed, not stuck here with me and some doctors… But, Doll, just a little bit longer. Promise. Wakanda is slowly sharing its tech-- they’re much more advanced than we thought-- and I think we can get you better, we can stop these lasting effects of those… monsters. Don’t give into the dark.”
He softly kissed the top stroke of your forehead, and you took that moment of vulnerability to flip him over.
“Fuck you, Barnes. Traitor.” You shook, head spinning rapidly and legs trembling against his torso as the bed seemed to toss, plastic wires ripping out of your limbs and falling to the ground ungracefully. He seemed strangely calm, only chewing his lip in disappointment; he was in another life. “Gonna have to tape my mouth shut, or I guess I’ll-- I’ll fuckin’... ugh-- Barn--!”
The bed was flipped. Sheets streamed down towards you slowly, white filtering through the edges of your vision until it all took over and the cold of Winter Russia was back, snowflakes too fine to grace your bodice; they dotted along the sides, whispers and silhouettes of pledges; Bucky was just someone you knew. Someone gone, just as you were.
//
You couldn’t breathe; the light air-- yellow and pink air-- surrounded you and drew all your wonder out. This was it. Perfection handed to you in a glass, the acme of your stress all boiled down to a sugar that floated around you; what could you have to be afraid of anymore? HYDRA was gone, you could finally exist again, and you had the best man in the world at your side, now forever.
A white strip of velvet laid down for you to walk on; rows and rows of guests, family, and friends smiling and laughing; elongated green vines of pastel flowers and golden blossoms affixed to the arches of the room; and Bucky. Beautiful, dashing Bucky standing at attention in just as much stupor as you, smiling at you with dopey eyes as you did the same. It was almost official, and for every step you took behind the flower girl-- Bucky’s great-niece-- you thanked the world for every blessing you had been given. Freedom from your past, Bucky, a job where you get to help those in need, loving friends, Bucky, the destruction of HYDRA, aid from Wakanda, Bucky. Always Bucky; he helped you achieve everything you had now.
It wasn’t fall-in-love-immediately; you were dangerous. You still didn’t know how the hell he put up with your constant threats and flashbacks, all the fuckery you put the team through, but he was never away from you. Bucky helped you through your incessant flashbacks, kept you close when you couldn’t bear to look outside, offered you a hand when he could’ve asked for so much more. The years kept passing, and eventually, you went back into the field (you couldn’t just sit in the tower anymore and not make up your wrongs) with him. It was a dangerous profession that was accompanied by only deadly risks, but you knew it was what you had to do; the bodies burned into your mind of those by your hand were too much to forget. Bucky insisted it wasn’t your fault, but he always respected your decision.
Several years passed before you officially ‘dated’, but you knew from the first date he wouldn’t leave you. Ever. Bucky knew that too, and nothing seemed to bother you afterwards; he was your love, the man that would protect you, and you him.
You, the ex-HYDRA machine, would take a bullet for him anyday, and that irony… It led you here.
Bucky couldn’t stop grinning, chuckling with tears in his eyes as Steve began quietly crying off to the side at the sight of his best friend finally getting his best girl. If anyone was going to get a happy ending, no one would have guessed Bucky, but damn did he deserve it. You knew you would spend your days making him believe that he was worthy of your love and the nation’s, and that he was not what he saw in the mirror every morning. He was so much more, and about to be your husband.
“Buck…”
His smile quivered, almost beginning to cry, and you nestled him into your chest tightly with soft murmurs, stroking his shoulder gently. This was almost too happy of a moment for you two, but certainly not in a bad way.
“It’s alright, baby, I love you.”
“Mm lu you too.” He mumbled against your neck, slowly backing up to see your face and beaming even brighter. You straightened his tux jacket and met Natasha’s happy, hawk-like gaze in the bridesmaid row. The moment was almost a dream, like a Disney film, your life renewed and sparkled-- where was your Fairy Godmother now? If only you needed one.
Bucky nodded to the wedding officiant, never looking away from you, and you stared at the curves and coloring of his face as the speech was given. The words didn’t matter; you had gone through literal torture for each other, and you couldn’t imagine doing it differently. In sickness and health and fights and love, you would always be holding his hand.
“I vow…” His voice cracked, and he chuckled, “To never leave you, Doll. You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever had the honor of setting my eyes on. I have to catch my breath to believe this is real, that I am marrying my true love, my heart's desire, and my best friend. This has never been easy, and I think we both knew it would take a lot of work and dedication to blossom into a life together, but we achieved it, darling. God, through all the hardships we went through, an’ I can’t seem to regret any of my life if it’s led me into your caring hands. It’ll still be rough, doll, we’re two beaten people, but we can help each other through it. Always. We’re about to be together forever now, and I-- and I will never leave you. I vow to that, and to always cherish you, and listen when you need me; no words can possibly-- can possibly, can even express the vow that I give to you now-- it’s an ineffable part of myself that I place in your care as we join together. I love you, (Y/N) (L/N) Barnes. I really…” Bucky swallowed with tears, stroking your cheek. “I love you.”
And then you opened your mouth, and the bees came, and lifted you up; the velvet walkway was streaks of blood, the flowers were opening and opening and opening--
Bucky’s metal arm took yours, squeezed, and the glints of your promise rings weren’t a grandiose, lustrous shine. They were metal.
You screamed. And screamed. And the sky fell, and the clouds settled in the billows of your dress, and you clutched at your eyes before it all defrosted into warm liquid.
//
“Rough night.”
You couldn’t talk.
“An’, no, I ain’t speaking to just myself.” There was much sadness in his voice; you stared at the peeling ceiling, imagining the flakes raining down on you like soot. Anything at all, any movement that would comfort you. The man shifted but didn’t appear in your vision.
“‘Can’t come in too much, but looked like one hell o’fa dream. Nightmare, if you rather. I…” He sighed. “I’m sorry. Really. This shit you have’ta go through now: a goddamn muzzle. But you can’t sabotage yourself again-- I hope you can at least see that in the future. I can’t imagine a worse pain than becoming… I’d never be him again. Willingly or other, I don’t-- They’re not letting you out soon. Dangerous.”
You screamed, but couldn’t hear it.
“Dangerous to yourself.”
Ripping against the restraints, kicking your feet up, putting every bit of your strained voice into the quiet, buzzing room; nothing happened. The wall flakes stared down at you.
“And… others.”
Okay: think. There’s almost certainly an IV post next to the bed; unlikely to be loose medical tools, but if you could escape the bed, tearing a drawer down wouldn’t be difficult; there’s a window to your side, likely bulletproof. A camera by the door if you could remember correctly-- last time you had looked, there was fire to accompany it.
You had a maximum of five seconds before security was called, and that didn’t account for the poignant Winter Soldier watching you.
“...Remember the first few months you were here? Well, really the couple after that-- I dunno. Thought I could help, maybe make you feel things you never allow yourself ta’ know well, bring back those good ol’ days. I was just wishing. And, sweetheart, I thought I was doing somethin’ good for ya, helping create some sort of relationship between us-- ya never told me to stop. It’s on me, I-- I thought there was something I could do.”
He was about seven feet away. Sitting. His chair was not bolted to the ground, so it could very well be his weapon of choice. Note: duck, then attack.
“If there was a way I could help, doll, I’ve tried! I’ve kept by you, I’ve held you when you needed a space to wallow, cried along with you-- damn, I ain’t free of the demons either, baby. I wanted to be with you ‘till the end of the line, an’ I still do. ‘Course. But this ain’t your show-down, an’ I can’t… smothering you. Can’t keep suffocating you. If my presence makes you end up here…”
You had to remember your unreliable limbs; they have not been in use for a while. At least a day. Move them around as best you could against your chains to warm them up…
“...Mm. No. I don’t want to be the death of you, or me.”
And the arms as well. Overtaking his metal one would be tough, but you knew it was possible. By physical or mental efforts. Your major advantage over him was his emotional troughs, the lines that creased his face as he looked at you, his clenched fist when you had trouble even glancing at a mirror. His soft smiles when you let him stroke your hair. The rough, brute side of him when Sam took the last of your favorite cereal. Affection was his weakness.
“But, doll, I don’t have a clue what to do from here. Fuckin’ pass ya over to SHIELD like a… like a deserter? They won’t give ya what ya need, not a bit, just half-assed therapy and illegal tricks snuck away from the public’s eye. No one knows what shit goes on there, and you don’t deserve that. I can’t let ya be traded over, and if I can’t be by ya, how’m I s’posed to protect ya? Even just talking is makin’ me sound like a Brooklyn boy all over ‘gain, not knowing what ta’ do with my life. There’s all these alleyways, streets offered, and all got somethin’ wrong with ‘em. But you are the only choice I got.”
Yes. Slight tremor in his voice, precarious cadence: he would be crying soon. Exemplary opportunity to strike. He would be occupied, even more upset when he saw you move-- the average human may deem it as an illusion out of their own mind.
Bucky was not average.
“An’ I know I’ve told you about Wakanda before. Beautiful, from what I’ve seen, a world away from our own, elaborate. Sort of like a secret garden. I’m working on seeing T’Challa-- we aren’t on the best’a terms, but I think there’s a possibility there. Some kind of future. I spent a bit in cryo, and… it might be for the best. Just waiting. Neither of us should really be here, or out in the open, or… Well, it’s a hard choice, and, doll, I wish I could hear your snarky comment right now, some kind of consolation to my aching heart. Confirmation on your thoughts about this; it’s not easy deciding to ice someone away for who knows how long. We’re old ‘nough as is, and to wake up in another century wouldn’t do well for us, maybe it would-- Though T’Challa and Shuri wouldn’t let that happen.”
He was not crying. Unfortunate. You couldn’t see another viable distraction that would present itself, so you would have to create one. Noise wouldn’t work, but a substance would. Tears of your own.
“An’ Shuri! An angel, darling, too smart for her own good. She helped me with my arm, talked to me while I stayed there for a bit while out of cryo, the brains behind so many operations. I feel that you might like her, your cynicism and her playfulness. ‘Should see about that, I suppose, maybe take my leave. Can never tell what you’re thinking, doll. If I could just…”
And then his head appeared: worn, hair matted, face dry, but still jovial at the sight of you.
Then he saw the water running along your cheeks.
“Oh, baby, baby, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I… Please, don’t cry. It’ll be alright, we can make this better. I’ll-”
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckmovepleasemove
dead.
//
A scientist snuck you up on the roof, a thin skeleton of lab coats and Cheeto-fingers, smiling at your compliant movements. He held a wicker basket, too heavy to hold just sandwiches, criss-cross of fine beige lattice, guiding you along a hallway more bright than the part of the facility you resided in; you walked and walked and walked. The HYDRA corridors ended at a door of steel, promptly propped open by his bony leg, ushering you through quickly. Wind greeted you.
There were breezes around you: a warm one on your neck, hand rubbing your shoulder, an itch crawling up your spine: snake-like, begging to be sated, but pushed down by the man’s grin. Your superior, your owner, HYDRA member…
“Doll, I hope you like sparkling cider. It’s quite hard to get it around here, so how about we keep it a secret, hmm?” His trimmed beard was scratchy against your hand as he kissed it briefly. “Just you and me and nature… I managed to get both grape and apple, so whichever you prefer, beautiful.”
You followed him to the edge of the roof, taking the cue to sit on the carpet rug he’d obviously prepared beforehand. You focused on the skyline behind him, the snowy trees and still sky, the lack of birds. Anything but him.
“Apple.”
“Great choice. You must be both beauty and brains, hmm? What a score.”
“Thank you.” For the flattery or full glass, you didn’t choose; the pines were quite intriguing. Keep looking at them. Don’t move.
“You know, you were actually scheduled for a mental check-up today. I was mixing the tubes just this morning, but I thought you’d like a nice time outside instead. Wouldn’t you? I didn’t tell that to Volkheimer, of course, but that’s quite a big risk on my part, hmm? So, doll, as you can see, I think it would be in your best interest--”
Sleep. Wake. Sleep:
//
Bucky.
Your hands felt for a material: a hand, a sheet, a pillow, a puff of dust. They scavenged around, north, south, every direction, above you-- they found nothing. No air. No gravity.
No body.
It’s not your fault, Buck. This was never your problem.
Then, were you correct to call them hands? They were farther down than where you seemed to be thinking from, but that may not be a correct assumption. Were you thinking at all? With a brain?
I thought you were dead. And you thought the same for me. Now, I’m not sure who is what. Shall my life be a broken clock, something only you can fix? Fix me, please.
It wasn’t a space for the ideals of time; you couldn’t sense night or day. You could’ve been there for eternity and still walk away clueless, still not subject to any quandaries you had solved, still wandering and meandering away from your purpose. And that was?
My hands are broken. The hours and the minutes. The numbers are gone, Buck. I think time is up. I think it’s gone. Maybe I’m just waiting to be back in my physical vessel, lashing and screaming words that will make me feel everything-- nothing. Just the heartbeat of unity, what you’ve been after this whole time. That’s all I want.
Metal. Flesh. You felt for the connection between them-- none. No burned fission, nothing tethering you to a split of reality. Freedom… tasted like absolutely nothing.
It’s not a choice for me. For you, yes-- and your choices are all about mine. Will you take away my decision and call it an alternative?
Fingertips began to pad, strumming against the slowly ventilating oxygen.
No…
//
You were asleep, and then you were not.
Simple.
But when you rose up, blinking against the harsh lights, scrunching your nose and digging your heel against the ingot floor, pressing your palms against the cylindrical glass surrounding you, you didn’t reach for any hand. Just your own.