{9}
Through the distress ripping his soul, Bucky was twisting inhumanly and thrashing rapidly in the folds of drenched sheets, tangling his limbs chaotically and growling uncontrollably as he unraveled himself, rolling to the edge of the mattress, feeling the gravity pull him to the floor. His back teeth grinding dangerously, jaw clenching and his eyes screwed painfully shut as he convulsed in the lapping waves of torment, drowning further into the abyss as he struggled to breathe, skin hot and entering a degree of combustion as it felt like a knife penetrated in layers of sweaty flesh.
"You think that you can escape from us..."
Bucky violently jabbed his arms upwards, snarling out gibberish of Russian and coiled his metal hand instinctively around a throat, feeling a pulse beating as he squeezed against the windpipe, cracking the bones of the trachea. He heard a yelp enthralling in the darkness, and a bullet sounding off, as his metal was forced down against the mattress. He was restricted by a pair of hands, pinning him down as he fought, until a prick of sharp point stung into his neck.
"Bucky..."
He heard the frantic, strained voice of Steve Rogers echoing in the rifts of darkness as another crack of thunder sounded in the room.
"No..."
The shattering cries rippled through his vocal cords, Bucky snapped his eyes mechanically open, like plugged in burnt- out machine switched on for activation, drawing out sharp seething breaths. He blinked out the graphic and vivid images of his subconscious, conjuring haunted memories of torture, blood and raging inferno.
Squeezing his lids shut to seal off the burning wetness coating over his feverish azure irises, his metal hand fumbled over the covers, and clawed at firm skin of his thick pectorals. His body was slack with sickening sweat.
Unfamiliar emotions crept through his bones; he unclasped his right hand, disregarding the laden bunch of sheets to cascade off the bed frame.
"Your rebirth is perfection beyond human expectation. You are the first of many to evolve into the ultimate weapon."
Shaking, Bucky covered his face with both hands, digging his fingers into his sculpt, fighting the throbbing pulse of his brain battered against his skull. Memories of fragments of scattered faces turned into shards of ice once the bullet cut through slabs of lifeless bodies, snowy and barren landscapes and blood collected into clusters, drowning his mind with tantalizing flashes of conjoining nightmares of his tenebrous past. His mind was screaming like growing fire scorching within the cervices of his brain.
*Slap*
A massive hand pounded violently against his battered cheek, rattling the jaw bone as his head jerked to the side and blood spewed out of his swollen mouth.
"You failed your mission," Pierce said, in displeased parental voice; sharping the edge of his regal tone. His words scraped against Bucky's ears like daggers slicing through the skin; invasive and condemning. "You disobeyed a simple, direct order."
Bucky remained deathly silent.
"I hate to do this to you," Pierce's tone grew a pitch softer. "...but if you want to survive another decade, you will obey."
A knife slashed over his right arm, opening the skin and allowed the tickles of blood to drip out and paint his shaking fingers with red.
"It hurts..."
He had been a lifeless husk, a victim of HYDRA's systematic tortures that marred every ounce of his humanity; erasing his existence with switch of a button, a prick of a needle and lashes of a whip. He bled and starved for his freedom from the shadow of his superiors. He felt the rage encase over his bones, molten and ice, and he tasted metallic spooling down the walls of his raw throat when he screamed out his pleas of mercy.
...Steve.
Bucky stared down intently at his metal hand, frowning, and clenching his jaw, all torment exposed. Sitting indolently, he pressed the bare planes of his sore back against the dresser, rehashing air back into his scorched lungs, his eyes darkened into ire coals with smoldering blue fire devouring the squares of light out of his ominous glower under drapes of matted strands of hair.
The unsettling stench of blood wavering in the air made him carnal, teeth gnashed, and jaw flexed as he dared himself to shift his gaze at the tiny drops of blood seeping through the cracks of the floor. His blood.
Alarmed, he chanced a stare at his right arm, and stared at the red scrapes; maroon was seeping from the gashes and sliding over his fingers. "No," he heaved out a breath, folding his alloy fingers over the blemished skin, his words had grown spastic and damaged, "I didn't mean..."
He tried to calm himself down, but he caught in a trance of the spatters painted on the floor and the force of his metal arm pressed against the mattress made his chest ache. Discomfort made him release coattails of pants. He couldn't escape the delirium clogging his mind with disturbing imagery of ivory skin coated with blood, names written on vacant gravestone. It was a constant hurt, his bare chest was glazed with sweat, hardened with fear and straining to rise as he drew out heavy gulps of air. He felt remotely lost, cloaked into shadow and battered by his demons spearing molten hate within the barriers of his torn soul. He needed an anchor to guide him back into the light, away from the torturous nightmares that dragged across his heart. He needed Steve.
"Steve..." he faltered, remembering the name of his friend, he forced out a breath, and it was hoarse and audible. He swallowed against the constriction of nausea twisting against his tightening stomach and he reserved an expression of dismay. His sharp exhale was accompanied by the sound of the metal plates swiveling as he clenched his hand into a rigid fist. Blurry blotches of red clouded the razor edge of his peripheral vision as he acutely scanned the bedroom, "Steve! Where are you?" he hollered out in shrills.
Panic started to fold over his bones, he eased himself off the ground, regaining his full height, and moved to the doorway in sluggish footing. His metal shoulder nudged against the wood frame, and he whispered in a hushed voice. "Steve?"
Bucky didn't wait for a response, he slowly moved down the hallway, a baleful expression flickered across his face, as he removed his combat knife from a pocket of his pants, curling his metal fingers over the handle, and took a momentarily glance, acutely observing his surroundings, and became aware of intimate danger around him. Begrudgingly accurate by the ominous sense crawling over him, he maneuvered closer to the living room, in ghost-like and methodical strides; his blue eyes carried a vicious gleam as his sculpted frame mixed with the ambiance of shadow veiling over his menacing face.
He felt his heart reach a standstill as the wafting smell of stale blood entered his nostrils, fighting his gag relax, he glared at the trail of maroon underneath his feet, his fierce and determined blue eyes scanned the floor. He was on the verge of unleashing the Winter Soldier, he advanced closer, climbing over the obstruction of smashed furniture, and he froze, dead in thought as a distinctive smell landed against his nose. Covering his mouth with his bruised hand, Bucky wasted no time, and moved to his destination. He sealed his lips shut, focusing on his breathing as he searched frantically over Steve under the haze of odorless gas.
His feral, darkened blue eyes scanned the area as strands of matted, disheveled brown hair fell over his gleaming forehead.
He advanced closer to a pile of steel beams, with each calculated step he stalked followed a trail of blood drops, and he felt his strained muscles coil with tension; his nose crinkled against the poisonous that permeated through the air. There were lots of puddles of blood on the floor.
"No," he growled out, his traitorous heart thudded to a halt against his rib cage.
Breathing frantically, he staggered through the pile of debris and narrowed his blue eyes down at the gleaming alloy shield of Captain America tucked underneath a board.
With one fluid motion and every ounce of his blood pumping, he crashed to his knees, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest, the rush of dread and doubt weaving the fabrics of his soul, the way his heart pounded with a dull, familiar ache, forcing the adrenaline to cease in his veins.
He was despondent, numb and uncertain. His body was still recovering from the tortures he faced and the abuse of his captivity with the most inhumane and deranged scum of humanity. He was finally free from the programming; the mind swiping, shock collars, starvation and ice baths-he recovered his existence, discovered his true name, and found his redemption in the eyes of a face he remembered from a stolen life.
Bucky lifted up pieces of wood and metal, tossing them aside and narrowed his glistening blue eyes on the unconscious body of Steve Rogers, underneath, shifting and severely wounded.
A thin layer of blood covered the navy blue of his shirt, blood dripping from the crown of his head and tendrils of ruffled and drenched golden hair had fallen over his eyelids. His youthful and chiseled face littered with bruises and smears of maroon stained his high cheekbones and jaw line. His lips had a breath tinge; his chest was rising and falling. It was the only reassuring sign that he was alive. The bullets encased in the graven muscle of his abdomen gave a grim disbelief that Steve wouldn't survive without proper medical assistance.
"No," he snarled, blood simmering his veins. Biting hard on his bottom lip, Bucky eased his metal hand on Steve's starkly ashen, clammy and benumbing face. "Steve..." He growled with a loud and powerful voice, clenching his jaw tight, he used his other hand and checked Steve's pulse. It was growing faint. "I'm going to save you."
He wrapped his arm around the broad span of Steve's shoulders, easing the body of the limp captain gently up, gritting and cursing under his breath, he heaved Steve up, and did a fireman carry to the balcony. He kicked the door down of the fire escape opened and quickly vaulted down, using his metal arm to grip the walls, the scraping of his hand created sparks as he slid down to ground level; blood was starting to pour out of Steve's mouth.
"Hang on," he breathed out with a gentle imploring tone. "Just hang on. I've got you, pal." he gritted.
"Bucky..." Steve's chilled lips parted, he whispered in a strained voice. His eyelids fluttered. He coughed and bloody water trickled from his mouth and rolled down his throat.
He was growing paler by the minute, his jaw rubbed over the blemished skin of friend's shoulder. His eyes closed shut and he drifted while Bucky smacked the bare soles of his feet hard on the pavement.
Bucky winced against the impact, bones jostled as he managed to carry Steve to a safe corner, gasping over air, as he emptied the airborne toxin out of his lungs. They had been under attacked.
"Steve," he whispered, looking down at his friend's laden form, he was starting to lower the super-soldier down when a massive explosion thundered in his ear drums. He absurdly whipped his head to the direction of the shattering noise, and shielded his blue eyes while he stared intently at the firebomb rising in the distance. He blinked the wetness out of his eyes, and looked at the shape of a skull with squiggly lines in the plume of smoke hovering over the city.
Securing his best friend against his shoulders, Bucky coughed out blood, feeling the sturdy muscles of his calves suddenly fail to support both of their weight, he unceremoniously crashed to the ground, weakly reacting to the unraveling images spindling in his disconnected mind. His eyes grew heavy, as he realized the gas he inhaled was an incapacitating agent that had been somehow administered into the apartment.
HYDRA.
