I do not own Captain America anything.
But the digital copies are all mine! Mine, I say!
I Am Machine
Grounding
"You know me."
The floor of the plummeting Helicarrier shuddered beneath his feet.
"NO, I DON'T! "
Glass shattered and flew everywhere.
"Bucky, you've known me your entire life."
Columns of metal supports groaned as they ripped apart.
"Your name is James . . . Buchanan . . . Barnes."
Debris crashing down all around him.
"SHUT UP!"
And the sound of his own screams of desperate rage ringing in his ears.
"I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend."
The blue sky and dazzlingly bright sun temporarily blinded him to the sight of The Target.
"You're my mission!"
Defiantly submissive and unmoving as his deadly opponent smashed his face in time and again.
"YOU! ARE! MY! MISSION!"
Which only served to heighten The Asset's confused rage and blind determination.
"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you til the end of the line."
Almost like a living, breathing, writhing thing itself.
"RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
In the dreamworld, The Asset completely broke control, smashing in The Target's face with his fist until that face's bone structure was unrecognizable and the metaled appendage dripped blood not his own.
Then the fog of confusion cleared and he beheld the still corpse of Steve Rogers.
Shot, stabbed, and beaten to death by his own two hands.
And he gazed in horror at the mutilated visage of his best friend.
A fast forward clicky 12 mm film reel of his life with his little pal Steve raced through his mind.
Never giving up, never surrendering.
Not to anybody, not to anyone.
Morphing into a larger, muscle built, impervious powerhouse of a man.
Who, for the first time, gave up the fight, unto his last breath, to break his stranger friend free of the chains of HYDRA .
And Bucky rent the sky with his gut wrenching, gutteral cry of all consuming anguish.
Reaching down with both hands, metal and flesh alike, to pull up and embrace the lifeless body.
Steve, I'm sorry, Steve, Steve, I'm sor-
And when the crash came, he simply lowered his head, held tight and allowed the hungry river water to rush up.
And consume him, fill his lungs with the suffocating drowning release of death.
As he clung to the corpse of Steve Rogers.
And let the river pull them down to rest together at the bottom of the river.
In reality, Bucky Barnes awoke with a hoarse cry.
And metal buried up to the forearm in a plaster wall.
Lightening flashed and thunder crashed with a fury, rattling the building.
Shaking, he was shaking.
Gasping for breath.
And pouring sweat.
The mattress on which he lay was pushed against the wall.
So that he lay cradled on his right side.
Wrapped in a sleeping bag.
Facing the blank wall.
Which now, as he withdrew his left arm, sported a fist sized hole punched nearly through to the outer brick.
Drawing ragged breaths, he sat up.
Flinching as the lightening illuminated the newspapered windows.
Get control, get control, gotta get control . . .
His heart was hammering, pulse racing.
Get control, get control now . . .
He jerked an arm up, fumbling for the lamp.
And nearly ripped the cord off in a desperate attempt to find his way out of the darkness.
Get control, ground yourself, this is reality . . .
He cast about looking, looking.
And focused his vision on what he could see.
Focusing desperately.
Couch. Sagging couch with pillows. Two lumpy pillows.
Shelves. Long wood and concrete block shelving across the room. Mostly empty.
He didn't own anything, couldn't own anything worth saving.
Radiator in the corner. White, rusted metal.
Gave off slightly better heat than before he had tinkered with it.
He reached out his shaking human hand.
And touched.
The neat circular hole in the damaged plaster wall.
The slick outer material of the sleeping bag in which his lower body was still encased.
He eased out of it and stood shakily, putting his bare feet on the hardwood floor.
It was smooth and worn by the many, many transient tenants before him.
And cold.
The lightening flashed again and he reached out and touched the newspapered window.
It crinkled slightly under his fingertips and left a slight ink residue on his callused fingers.
His ragged breathing nearly drowned out all other auditory input.
But he did manage to hear the thunder as it rolled across the sky in rumbling waves.
The sound of late night radio show playing in the adjacent room.
And the muted, unmistakable sound of two very enthusiastic partners engaging in relations in the room above.
He drew a deep breath, smelled his own body odor, heightened afresh by the emotional reaction he was experiencing.
And the cleansing smell of rain creeping in through the cracks around the windows and backdoor.
Bucky Barnes slowly raised both hands and ran them through his long, sweat-damp hair, pulling it back from his forehead and out of his eyes.
Wiped the sheen of sweat from his tanned face.
And took another deep, stabilizing breath.
He crossed the room and opened the refrigerator.
Removing a precious bottle of pop from its chilly insides and closing the door once more.
Swigged the dark liquid with his eyes closed, leaning against the counter.
The acidic bite of the liquid jarred him a slightly, the sugar rushing through his veins, already metabolising.
Ahhh. Okay.
Ice cold Coca Cola.
Bucky Barnes opened his eyes.
And knew where he was.
He set down the pop and took down his current notebook from its place atop the fridge.
It was almost full.
He opened it, forcing himself to slowly leaf through it.
Little slips of colored adhesive stuck out at particular intervals, signifying sections he wanted to frequently revisit.
For the light they brought to his darkness. A thought or remembrance he wanted to explore further at a later date.
Encouragements, statements, reassurances.
Things not to be forgotten again.
The notebook, one of many, was almost full.
He hunched over it, looking for all the world like an overgrown schoolboy dutifully setting down an essay, perhaps for history class.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
I like to be called Bucky.
I did not kill Steve Rogers.
I am not The Winter Soldier anymore.
He penned the third sentence very precisely, pressing harder with the pen than on the previous words.
Because it was important.
Because it needed to be remembered.
He wrote for a while, sometimes slowly, starting and stopping and halting. Even putting down his pen and staring a thousand miles beyond his surroundings.
Sometimes he wrote in a burst of scratchings.
He stopped. Ate a candybar. Drank more pop.
And continued writing.
When he was done, he closed the notebook, now filled to the brim with pieces of himself.
Pried up the floorboards.
And placed it in his hidden backpack.
Careful to avoid the few defensive weaponries he kept in there in preparation for immediate escape.
Reset the boards carefully.
And went to cleanse his body of the now dried, sour, panic sweat in which he had awoken.
When he emerged from the washroom, steady rays of clear light caressed his covered windows.
It was almost dawn.
He pulled the mattress out so it stuck out from head of the wall. Where he would only punch empty air if he woke up again swinging.
And went to retrieve the needed supplies to patch the damn hole.
So I thought of this chapter while watching the apartment scene in Civil War. Because I watch Captain America too much.
And because I'm relatively certain Bucky has some dark nights. Which we will return to at a later time.
Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, and OnYourLeft107 for so graciously reviewing!
Thanks also to vivalamiia89 for adding your support to this story.