onlyforthedream | The Truth Hurts.

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The Truth Hurts.

It's been three days since I've seen Bucky, and that's enough. I leave the house with the sole intention of finding him, preferably without bringing Natalia or Jason into it- what's about to happen is between the two of us, and I don't want to answer questions, nor do I want to set him up to be asked any. By all accounts, the influence that caused people to speak out against their will should have passed, and I find myself somehow disinclined to wait around for Bucky to come to me. I find Virginia in her stall, which is all the evidence I need of his return, and set off for the house, hoping to find it empty of anyone but him, for convenience's sake. When I don't find him there I strike out for the beach. Bucky's not an easy man to track, and I'm more counting on the general region, knowing his schedule, and the size of the island than anything so obvious as a telling trail of partial footprints and snapped palm fronds.

I can hear the ocean through the trees though I can't see it yet, and it's pushing through some low hanging vines and stepping onto a relatively clear swath of dirt that I find him.

"Bucky."

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"I accepted who and what you were," I say, taking advantage of the silence, however taut it may be, the words coming out metered and careful for all that they feel like they're pouring out in a stream beyond my control, "from the moment we were introduced and I never looked back. Not until the world finally beat it into me that you were gone."

I lift my gaze from where it had been hovering about three feet off the ground to Bucky's face.

"You can call me blind, but I know you, Bucky. I knew you then and I knew you when you came back. The last good thing I did before I came here, the last good thing, was asking Tony Stark to save you the way I couldn't," I say, the memory bitter for the knowledge that it was the right call to make, that I had to turn to Tony, of all people, to reach out to Bucky. I reach out to him now, to catch his shoulder, hoping that we can find a way to talk instead of following our natures and training to a foregone conclusion.

"The good old days are gone, Bucky, and if all that's left is you then the rest of them can go hang, because I'm glad."

"You're... glad," echoes Bucky, quietly, the word awkward in his mouth. He understands, on an intellectual level, that Steve means that he's happy Bucky's alive, of course, but in context, it has a slightly different meaning. Because what Steve isn't saying is too important to ignore; Bucky jerks back from under the weight of Steve's hand, the movement almost skittish, like a feral cat cornered in an alley. His gaze turns uncertain.

"The last time you saw me before you showed up here, I tried to kill you. And I'm not flattering myself when I say I nearly did."

This is not the first moment it's occurred to me that I'm screwing this up spectacularly.

"Bucky-" I start, knowing as I do that I've already lost this round, in the ways that count. I didn't say what I meant to, what I needed to. It's like watching an iron door slam shut and searching desperately for anything to keep it wedged open.

"The fact that you were alive meant there was a chance where there hadn't been one, before."

"A chance for what?" Bucky asks, confusion plain on his face, though he doesn't raise his voice again. He imagines he'll get there soon enough, with the way Steve's carrying on.

"If the Cube hadn't been there--"

"If that plane hadn't exploded," I counter, cutting him off.

"The plane did explode," shouts Bucky, not caring if he's just invalidated his own argument in the process. Having so recently relived the aftermath of his death in full technicolor, having so recently been strapped to another plane that might have seen him die again, his temper easily finds its second wind, just as he expected.

"And the Cube was there," I say.

"It was all I could think of to do."

"Bring back the kid you knew?" says Bucky, brows shooting upwards.

"No," I say, my own voice raising, angry that even if it isn't true, I can understand why he said it.

"To make you remember who that was, so that you could look at who you'd been turned into and decide for yourself if that was who you wanted to be."

"Except what I'd been turned into wasn't just erased," Bucky says, Steve's anger only fueling his own. It had taken him a long while to not just view the life Steve had returned to him as a burden, and about as long to not simply wish himself dead rather than be forced to reconcile his own beliefs with his actions as the Winter Solder. His memories of being a Soviet operative are fragmented, splintered, but they're still there, just under the surface, haunting his nightmares like his own personal ghost.

"I still did those things, Steve."

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to tell him that using the Cube to make him into the Bucky I knew would have been tantamount to what the Russians did. Making him over in an image I wanted, discounting the changes, however painful, he'd gone through.

The life he'd lived, if it could be called that. But I have to believe, have to, that it's worth it. He's still alive, and he has the chance to be whole, however long and hard a road it'll be to get there.

"Bucky, those weren't your choices. That wasn't you."

Bucky could scream. It bubbles in his throat, but he bites it back; his hands curl into fists at his sides, and he takes a step forward, close enough, now, to be within striking distance. Steve's spitting back his own arguments, but coming from someone else just drives home how foolish they are, how hopelessly naive.

"I was only a passenger in my own mind," Bucky says in a low growl, "but they were my hands. And that is what you don't understand."

The guilt could crush me if I let it, I swear to God. The look on his face alone is so ragged and raw I can barely stand it- but this is about Bucky running, not me standing still.

"No," I agree, "how could I? But I do know something about blaming yourself for what's past, and all of it was out of your control. You have to square with it, Bucky? I understand that. But you cannot keep blaming yourself, or you'll drown in it!"

"You think I don't know that?" Bucky retorts, taking another step forward. There's not much room left to move; either one of them will need to back off, or their detente will have come to a very decisive end.

"I'm not blaming myself. I'm not blaming anyone!"

I'd feel relieved, if I believed him.

"No?" I say, straightening minutely, but not moving forward or backward a single inch.

"Is that why you're carrying around that much rage? Because you don't have anyone to direct it toward?"

He's on the edge of a precipice, his heart in his throat, anger starting to blur his vision so that the only thing he sees is Steve's face against an indistinct green backdrop. Bucky's mouth clamps shut, but his breaths are labored all the same, plainly audible as he draws each one in through his nose.

The problem, he's realizing, is that he's trying to communicate in words; that's Steve's domain. Steve, with the voice that could command a God (and has). Bucky's not a speech maker; he's a cipher. An assassin. A fighter. He's been picking on guys bigger and older than him since he was just Camp Lehigh's mascot, and if the past is all they have, maybe it's time for a return trip.

There's a shift in Bucky's stance, subtle to the untrained eye, but obvious to anyone who knows what to look for; it's a feint. He signals right, but the first punch he aims for Steve comes from the left, explosive and powerful, and he wastes no time in a follow up, the movement fluid and unpredictable, like an improvised dance.

And yet, despite this, his rage isn't directed at Steve; the man's just gone and made himself an easy target, and exploiting opportunities is what Bucky Barnes has done all his life.

Blocking a blow from Bucky's left arm isn't an option. If I had the shield, maybe, but letting that land will put me back in the clinic. I move fast, knowing that Bucky knows how I fight, which means I have to not only look ahead but also watch myself for predictability.

Being on the defensive suits me fine for the moment, but I'm not backing down. Not now.

In a fight against Steve, Bucky can't rely on his original training from the British or the Americans, and certainly not any of the skills he learned from Steve himself. It's the Soviets' bag of tricks he's draws from when he gets down low instead of engaging in his usual acrobatics, keeping himself grounded as he strikes again, undeterred and not giving an inch, because that much he's never been taught by anyone.

He's consciously aware of the knife at his hip, the gun holstered on his ankle, but he doesn't make a move for either of them; this isn't about hurting Steve as it is proving a point. Even so, Bucky takes a cheap, dirty shot, and says, "Still think I'm drowning?"

Edited 2011-06-14 18:46 (UTC)

"More than ever," I reply, turning the hit aside with my forearm-

I still fight like I have the shield. God, do I not know any other way?-

-and moving around him, drawing the fight around to the clearing so I'm not backed up against a copse of trees.

There's no eloquence to Bucky's reply, just a mindless, wordless yell that tears from his throat with a savagery that sounds inhuman even to his own ears; he doesn't let Steve get far, putting himself in Steve's path right away, and pushing back harder than before. This isn't a fight between superheroes. There are no costumes, no props or battle cries. No rules or telegraphed moves. It's a fight between soldiers. Brothers in arms, if not in blood.

Steve's falling into familiar habits, and again, Bucky takes advantage of it, targeting the arm that's not protected by any shield.

"You're rusty."

Edited 2011-06-14 19:24 (UTC)

As it happens, I'm pretty much healed up and have been keeping limber, so while it's true I haven't been in a fight for weeks (and I can't remember the last time that was true), I wouldn't call myself rusty.

Although Bucky would know.

"Don't count on it," I say, grabbing his arm as it comes at me and using its own power and inherent strength to throw myself over his head and Bucky past where I'd been standing, hoping I leave him off balance. I'm counting on this so that by the time I'm throwing myself back into fray, I won't be met with a metal fist to the jaw.

I move straight in, close range and direct the way Bucky started off. Dancing around this fight isn't going to get anything done. Bucky knows that, it's why he's keeping it contained, drawn in. Fine.

If that's what he needs, I'll give it to him. His point seems to be that he's stubborn as hell and doesn't need me, doesn't need absolution, doesn't need help. And that's fine.

But he's wrong, and that's the point that I need to prove. No matter what it takes.

Bucky's recovery time is quick, but then, he expected that move, one so predictable, it could be considered classic. It's only when Steve starts to hunker down, steel himself for what has to happen, here, that Bucky could smile -- and does, in fact, though he's showing far too many teeth for it to be construed as friendly.

He leads his follow-up with his left fist, but the right isn't far behind. "Seriously?" he asks. "Do I look like $*%&ing Hydra?"

"Now you feel like talking?" I press, grunting at the hits that land, throwing up my forearm to block another, driving forward with my knee, which is never a place I lead with. The tactics, the scenarios spiraling out in my head are just white noise, flowing. This fight is raw, the punches not pulled except in that they aren't meant to incapacitate, the way we're both capable of doing.

The blow from the knee leaves Bucky winded, but not out for the count. He rolls with the pain, focuses his mind on his next move, though he doesn't need to think hard; this, all of this, comes as easily to him as breathing. As rough as he's fighting, there's an effortlessness to every strike, every counter, a fluidity that's as much training as it is instinct. He aims an elbow at Steve's jaw, Bucky's opposite fist gunning for the wound that's only just healed.

"Not really."

Edited 2011-06-14 21:00 (UTC)

I don't bother blocking the shot, he's too fast. Instead I use the opportunity of being open to get a solid swing in at Bucky's jaw, taking a break from the body shots that are as risky as they are effective, if that arm of his gets in the way of one.

Bucky's always been a tremendous fighter, although I haven't seen him brawl that much. It's no surprise that he excels at this as much as the stealth operations he used to go out on. Acrobatics, however, are not the first thing I learned or the last thing I rely on. The fight I'm putting up is genuine, but as that fist drives into the place the bullet tore through, it confirms with startling clarity how this fight is going to end, for me. Not because of the pain, not because I can't bear to hit a former partner, my friend- my family- as the blow I landed just proves, but for far more important reasons.

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