Notes:
TW: flashbacks, war etc.
Birthday cake not withstanding, Bucky hated the fourth of July. Fireworks that would have delighted a young Sargent Barnes now tormented him. The taste of gunpowder, echoing gunfire followed by the whistling scream even the flashes of light were reminiscent of an artillery battery. So, Steve didn't press him to stay at the compound, just flashed sad eyes at him as he strapped a helmet on and drove away into the dusk.
The watch on his wrist read 10:43 when he pulled up to the gym. A glow from under the office door alerted him to Stone's presence but he kept on down the hall, not wanting to talk.
Screaming men, screaming guns, Bucky looked down the scope of his rifle, tuning out everything but his target, watching men scurry like ants through the Hydra stronghold. He had no hunger, no pain, no fear, only the rifle in his hands, he was the barrel, the chambered round, the gunpowder waiting to be struck, he was the ice-cold trigger, waiting, waiting… Two slow breaths in and out, then he held it, counting his heart beats as they slowed.
Around him earth erupted into showers of mud and men and machines, but he was not there.
Fists on leather beating the time ignoring the distant retort of fireworks and shouting celebrants down the street.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, he pulled the trigger, thump-thump.
Down among the scurrying ants a helmeted figure saluted him.
A higher scream of a rocket ripped through the air and the door of the office squeaked.
"Mind if I join you?"
Bucky turned to examine his mysterious companion. She wore her hair in a braid, a long-sleeved shirt and pant set that looked like something cut from the pages of those ridiculous 'inspirational' magazines he'd seen in the locker room of the compound's gym. Stark would have whistled, Sam might have flirted, Steve would have tried not to let her see him admiring her toned physique. Bucky was more interested in the clarity of her eyes and the unblemished knuckles. There were no signs of recent late-night terrors or binge drinking, but she flinched when the next rocket screamed outside.
"No."
"Great, how do you feel about music?"
He was ambivalent, but if that's what she needed… He shrugged.
Stone pulled a phone from her pocket and music began to play from speakers overhead. It was unfamiliar but he recognized elements of the genre Stark liked to pump weights to, still this was different, a heavy bass beat that reverberated in his chest, the lyrics were simple enough but the tones were dark, moody and aggressive. She turned the volume down apologetically, "I like it loud, installed soundproofing and everything so the neighbors wouldn't complain... just let me know if you want me to turn it down more."
He shook his head slowly, tried to offer a sympathetic smile and fearing it came out more like a grimace explained haltingly, "it was fine before, the volume- the way you had it at the beginning I mean."
She grinned at him and turned it up again, drowning out all sound beyond the walls of the gym. He continued working the heavy bag, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
She stretched long and deeply, more flexible than he'd have guessed, though not up to Natasha's exacting ballet standards. Stretching done she graduated to warm ups, push-ups, lunges and squats, a pair of small weights joined in and she performed a very complete regimen of arm and shoulder strengthening lifts. She moved from one set to the next without hesitation, working on resistance, bobbing her head to the beat and breathing deliberately.
Merely beating the pulp out of a heavy bag began to feel oddly inadequate as Bucky watched her intentionally working through muscle groups from head to toe. Super serum meant he didn't have to work on muscle tone, so long as he ate enough, they remained stable. And yes, he'd pulled a fair share of muscles in the fights he could remember taking part in in the last decade, but with a healing factor that would resolve it by morning and a tolerance of pain gained from years of torture, it didn't seem important to do preventative maintenance.
Now though he was beginning to question why. Doctor Kilne would probably tell him it had to do with his twisted perception of justice, that Bucky had been conditioned to expect the pain, that he perhaps still felt as though it was deserved. Penance.
Still, he stayed at the heavy bag, hitting it in mindless tedious repetitions just so Stone wouldn't notice how much attention he was paying to her. This was more difficult to accomplish when she hung a slim bag directly across from him and gave him a wry grin while she wrapped her hands and then launching into action.
She wasn't fast, instead she seemed to put her whole body into each impact, flowing from the windup into the punch and then a follow through that would throw a grown man off his feet. As before, every movement was deliberate and automatic, in time to the rhythm of the music and between deep breaths. A dangerous dance.
"You alright, Sarge?" She asked, waving at him to break the trance he'd fallen into.
He was standing there like an idiot, holding the punching bag and watching her. "What? No, I was just…"
"Didn't mean to throw you off your groove," She laughed, turning the volume down so they could hear each other a little better. "Want something to drink? I got more of those electrolyte things you like."
"Not orange." He said quickly, then rubbed a hand over his face as she laughed.
"Is grape, okay?" She smiled again when he nodded sheepishly and walked off to collect the bottles in question, tossing a light purple one at him as she returned. "So, is it just the heavys for you, or is there anything else in my gym I should think about replacing in the next month?"
Bucky looked at her blankly and twisted the top off.
"It was a joke, well, mostly anyway, I just wondered if you've been using anything else, I didn't figure you for a one trick pony."
"I'm not a big fan of the machines." He answered slowly.
"Yeah, I figured that. I was just wondering how an Avenger trains, figured if I can get the right gear in here, Falcon might stop by and autograph something for me."
"Him?" Bucky tripped over the idea, nearly missing the rest of her intimation, "sparring and weights, they do a lot of fighting, but Falcon? Really?"
She laughed and took a drink from her water bottle before shrugging, "you're not about to tell me he's an ass, are you? Dang. Well, you know what they say, never meet your hero's."
Bucky smirked a little at her disappointment, but a nagging voice in his head that sounded a lot like Steve's wouldn't let the lie stand. "No, he's… He's not an ass. I didn't expect… I though Steve would be more your speed."
"Steve Rogers? I guess... Falcon is real to me, your Captain America was a legend I grew up with, a hero, never really thought of him as a regular guy. I mean, you and him, the howling commandos, legends I never thought I could meet, but I heard about the Falcon when I was in the service, his ops were considered the gold standard in Pararescue training."
His inclusion in the ranks of hero's and legends rocked him a little and he pounded a combination into the bag. Sam was a veteran, that wasn't news, but somehow, he'd never thought of the quippy sideman as a leader in his field. The modern theatre of war was foreign to Bucky. Espionage and assassinations in the dark shadows of political dramas? yes, battle with aliens and superpowered people? yes, but how much did he really know about the war Sam and Stone had served in. He was a sniper; it was his job to thrust all feelings aside and take out the opposition one gun position at a time.
What was it like to infiltrate the frontlines of war to extract critically wounded soldiers under fire. To be responsible for saving lives, to have that blood on their hands even though they hadn't fired the fatal shot.
"You worked pararescue?" He asked finally, taking a long drink and eyeing Stone where she sat on the raised edge of the boxing ring, her arms hanging over the ropes like a punch-drunk boxer, breathing heavily.
"58th rescue squadron, yes-sir." She gave him a little salute.
"How long?"
"Two tours, got sent home a month into the third." Stone answered disentangling herself from the ropes to roll under them and onto her feet in the ring. "How do you feel about hitting a moving target for once?"
Shaking his head before she was even finished answering the question, Bucky ran a hand through his hair, wishing it was still long enough to hide behind.
"Those pop rockets outside have at least another half hour in them if last years block party was any indication, so there's no hurry on my account."
"That's not…"
"What. Don't think I can take a hit Sarge?" Stone grinned and raised a wicked brow, "not sure you could land one."
"I don't, I haven't… I only spar with Steve."
"C'mon Sarge, pull your punches a little, I'll survive." She tilted her head like a wild cat inspecting its next meal. "Or are you scared of me?"
"A little." Not for the reasons she might be thinking, but Bucky was worried. Stone was unpredictable at best and goading him into a fight was the clearest case of risk-seeking behavior he could imagine. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
He couldn't help the gravity in his voice or the haunted shade his eyes took on when he gave that last plea and she stilled, watching him.
"Another time maybe." She said eventually, slipping back out of the ring as he returned to beating out combinations in time to the music. "I'll leave you to it then." She walked away down the hall and into the women's change room leaving the music to play overhead.
Bucky left quickly, depositing the drink bottle in the recycling and locking the back door behind himself. Something like disappointment worked away at the edges of his mind, distracting him from the street revelers and continued pops and bangs. She hadn't been angry; if any expression had crossed her face, it was a microsecond of sorrow but he couldn't be sure he'd interpreted it correctly.
It would have been a mistake to agree to it, the hinge upon which that certainty rested was immoveable. The fireworks and flashbacks joined to the loud music and the aggression of fists flying at him could have triggered a defense response, and any response from him could be lethal. He needed more control, more certainty, more confidence, and a sparring partner with less of a death wish.
"This friend from the gym, what's her name?" Dr. Rob Kilne asked, leaning back in his chair and tapping the pencil softly on the pad of paper on the low table between them.
"Stone, that's what she told me to call her, nickname she picked up in the service. Stone-cold."
"What exactly has she said that worries you?" The doctor sighed and shook his head gently, "don't bother lying, I can see your concern."
Bucky enumerated their several strained first meetings, sparing no details in describing the strange fixation she seemed to have on testing her grip strength and the broken sentences she'd spoken in an alcohol and dehydration fueled daze about her failure to save Buddy.
"I can't say anything without actually speaking to her, you understand?"
"Yes."
"That being said, I would certainly encourage her to speak to someone, especially if the self destructive behaviors don't abate."
"I gave her your number, she's the reason I came in the first place… I thought if I went, maybe she'd see it was alright."
"But you don't think she's open to it yet?" Rob shrugged and looked up at the place where several nerf suction darts circled with the lazy blades of the ceiling fan. "Well, short of any actual evidence of a desire to self harm, I'm afraid there's little we can do except encourage her to open up, your friend Sam has worked with veterans, perhaps he can give you a few pointers on talking to this Stone, but we are here for you today and I don't think there is any more we can do for her at the moment."
"I didn't mean to waste your time." Bucky answered reflexively.
"Not at all my good man, not at all. And I must say, I think it a very good thing that you are able to empathize with others."
The rest of the session went as well as such things could. Lancing the abscess and draining himself of the horror and shame and guilt, washing the wound clean with a clinical detachment; Dr. Rob was good at pointing out the bare bones truth.
Bucky felt guilty, that was true, but that feeling wasn't based in the reality of his imprisonment. He had not made the choices necessary to claim culpability for Hydra's orders. It was a familiar routine by now, and he was allowed to empty a magazine of suction darts as an alternative to voicing his disbelief in his own innocence or goodness.
When the nightmares woke him that night, he decided to go for a swim instead, planning what he'd say to accomplish the goal he had in mind. Arguments and counter arguments and explanations ran through his head and he sorted through the possible reactions to the words most likely to win over his quarry.
Stone would talk, he would make sure of that.
And if she didn't want to talk to him? Well, he'd just have to find someone who could change her mind.
Notes:
I know it's been ages since I posted anything for this story, I realized I hadn't figured out the ending yet and was struggling to find the direction for the characters. Bucky I understand, but I haven't really explored Stone's motivations very well, so that'll be the next step, getting her to talk. Posting may still be somewhat sporadic but I feel like we're finally getting somewhere.
Thank you to all my faithful readers, I hope you're having a wonderful spring (or fall for my Kiwi and Aussie friends)
Stay hydrated, stay safe and stay kind!