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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"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.

Whereas before the blows that connected were the exception, not the rule, it's the opposite, now, the dynamic changed. Though Bucky doesn't let his thoughts linger on that fact for very long, it's hard not to notice that more of his shots are landing without resistance, that Steve's keeping himself vulnerable and open to attack. For what cause, Bucky's admittedly unsure.

A better person might have taken it as a sign to stop or slow down; he doesn't. If anything, he lets himself fall deeper into his rage, not drowning, but reveling in it, too blinded to pay any mind to the guilt that's begun to gnaw at him. This isn't right. He's more than this. But with everything that's gone down, he's committed to seeing it through, because he's knows of no other way to get his point across, and it's a point that should be made.

"Fight back."

Edited 2011-06-15 02:25 (UTC)

I block one blow and take two, but he sees it, now, and still that blind fury he carries with him all of the time presses him onward. Grimacing, I purposefully, pointedly drop my defense and take a shot that sends me staggering, but I do not fall.

Nor do I raise a hand again.

The opening presents itself, and Bucky doesn't hesitate for so much as a second. His left hand's around Steve's throat in the blink of an eye, long before Bucky even processes what the hell it is he's doing -- though when he does, he stays the course, nevertheless. With the strength of S.H.I.E.L.D. technology, he's able to lift Steve clear off the ground, his grip necessarily tight, but not enough so to kill.

Buckys reminded, suddenly, of the last time he fought a man with Steve's face, and how that ended: three bullets aimed with a deadly accuracy. This isn't how heroes act, he said then, and while he knows that to be true, even now, he's been messed with too many times over the past few months with no chance at retribution to care, his frustration at the island's unseen forces locked onto a cause far from noble. He's less convicted with every passing moment, but it's just too late.

Breaths equally as labored from unbridled anger as they are from the fight itself, Bucky's body is all but shaking as he stares up at Steve, his throat raw and his eyes burning from unshed tears.

"Is this the making of a good man?" he demands. "Is it?"

If I caught his arm with both hands and braced my feet on his chest, I could get out of this. It wouldn't be pleasant, given how tight his grip on my throat is, but it would work. My hands go to grip his wrist, fingertips pressing hard for purchase, and I look him in the eye.

No.

"Your... choice..." I grind out, and let go.

Considering the words for the briefest of moments, Bucky drops Steve without ceremony, and takes a staggering step backwards. The significance of what was said isn't lost on him, but Bucky doesn't quite know what to make of it, his gaze turning from Steve to his own misleadingly steady hands.

"I chose to steal the shield from Stark," he says, his voice quavering. "But I didn't choose to be Captain America... That was chosen for me. First by him, and later... By you. And I did the best I could. I live the best life I can live. But the funny thing about my life, Steve, is that it's always downhill. Because every time things are finally stable... Finally good... Something sudden happens to wreck it all... And then I learn to live with that. And after a while, worse-off becomes the new normal... And then it all starts over again."

Sucking in a sharp, shuddering breath, Bucky quickly drags the back of his forearm across his face to wipe away the tears that have fallen, his expression pained not from any injury, but from his own revelation.

Edited 2011-06-15 05:16 (UTC)

It's difficult to say what cuts more deeply, the tears or the words. My breathing is labored, and moves raggedly through my throat. I can feel the parts of my body that want to shut down, that are already swelling and bruised. My shoulder, which I had thought so well recovered, is afire with pain. My eyes are stinging, and I assume it's from sweat.

"...sorry..." I rasp out, only part of a full sentence. My throat isn't cooperating, just yet.

Even though I know the words I'm saying before they're out of my mouth, it doesn't feel like I have much control over them.

"...failed you," I say, unable to say 'I'. Not that it matters. Hearing the words out loud are possibly as great a shock as Bucky had hearing his own.

"So many times," I press on. I remain on the ground, on my knees, where I landed.

"...So sorry."

Edited 2011-06-15 05:35 (UTC)

"Don't," says Bucky sharply, searching Steve's eyes with his own. It's a mistake to look at him, the full damage Bucky just inflicted not yet revealed, but still devastating to behold, and all by his hands, by his choice. The rush of guilt is overwhelming, threatens to swallow him whole, and it's everything he can do not to run again. His body, though, has other ideas; his legs are unsteady beneath him, his feet too heavy to move. He's stuck on the spot.

"This-- This isn't your fault."

"It is," I say, managing to speak more clearly, the muscles of my neck relaxing as I get my breath back.

"I failed you in the war, I failed you after," I think, remembering the Cube in my hands, the way the power had felt and knowing what it could do, and not thinking, not thinking past the moment, "and if I ever leave this place, I'll fail you again by burdening you with something I couldn't even carry myself, in the end."

"You fight... so hard... and all the world does is fail you." I bow my head for a moment as my whole body curls over, going slightly rigid with a particularly strong stab of pain. It passes. I reach out, and already leaning forward gives me the extra few inches I needed. I grab Bucky's right hand and hold it tight, then manage to lift my head again and raise my eyes to meet his.

"Your hands- maybe. I can't take that knowing away from you. But not your fault, Bucky. None of it."

In Bucky's estimation, simply looking at Steve is more painful than any of his own injuries. Everything considered, he's come off pretty lightly; save for the bruise that's already forming along the strong line of his jaw, there's nothing he won't be able to cover up with a shirt, nothing that won't feel better after a few aspirin. He's left easier fights than this one with worse injuries.

But despite being a mess, Steve's grip is still strong -- stronger, maybe, than it has any right to be. A million counterarguments are on the tip of his tongue -- that Steve never failed him, that Bucky grew to appreciate the responsibility of the shield and the flag, that he's done plenty of questionable things while in his right mind -- but none come out. Bucky's breath catches in his throat, the abrupt end of a sob, and all at once, his legs give out from under him. But he's a fighter, just as Steve said, and he won't go down so easily. With loathsome, betraying tears streaming down his face, Bucky tries to pry his hand away from Steve's.

"You're wrong."

I don't let go. If anything, I hold on tighter. It's hard not to see the kid I fought beside, because so many pieces are still there, and watching him break down makes the pain in my shoulder seem like nothing. Wordlessly I pull him forward by the hand I won't let go of. I clap my arm across his back, my hand at his neck, pulling him in tight. He can disagree, I expect him to disagree, but at least he's listening.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat that has nothing to do with being held aloft by it, and blink rapidly for a moment. When I'm sure my voice will be steady, I speak.

"It's not your fault."

"You're wrong," Bucky says again, more desperate now for the added contact. The arm at his back is like a vice, and he fights against it, though not in any intelligent way; there are countless efficient ways out of this very hold, but instead he struggles fruitlessly, instincts falling by the wayside, because he doesn't want to do more harm. The danger, though, is that what Bucky Barnes wants and what needs to be done have so often been mutually exclusive concepts that it might not matter soon enough.

"About plenty," I agree, unbending, calling on reserves I've used in a hundred battles to keep my arm strong around him, keep myself upright without using him as a crutch.

"But not this. It wasn't your fault, what they did to you, Bucky. What they made you do."

Bucky wants to say he could've fought harder, that he could've been better, that there are things he did of his own volition just as questionable as any Russian order he saw through; he doesn't. But though the words leaving his mouth are more of the same, his tone changes, his voice smaller, somehow, more plaintive: "You're wrong."

"Bucky," I say, voice lowered. It shakes me, a little, how exhausting this is, how difficult. If I've learned anything in my life, that means it's incredibly important and worthwhile. But then, this is Bucky I'm dealing with, so I already knew that.

"Bucky, it wasn't your fault."

Edited 2011-06-15 17:38 (UTC)

"How--" Bucky starts, but the question's cut off by a sharp inhale, and another useless attempt at getting out of Steve's grasp. "How do you even know? You can't--"

"Because I know you," I tell him, even if he doesn't believe me, even if he still thinks I'm blind. I would be afraid to say the wrong thing, would pick at my words like shattered glass, but I don't know that I have the energy. The truth will out, anyway, however I parse it.

"Because there are people who do the hard things that no one else can do, the things that aren't fair or pretty or match some definition of honorable, but they do them because someone has to. Because people like me can't. You're not a bad person, Bucky, you're a hero. And you were one before you picked up that shield." Unlike me, but I don't say that.

"What was done to you, what you were made to do, that wasn't your choice. And it wasn't your fault. The Winter Soldier wasn't your doing, Bucky. It wasn't. Your. Fault."

Edited 2011-06-15 18:07 (UTC)

He doesn't agree. He's not sure he ever will, but every man has their breaking point, and Bucky's finally reached his. The fight gives from his body so that he goes slack under the weight of Steve's arm. His expression crumples like paper, but he's pushed so hard, for so long that he can't find relief from the release. The road to redemption is long and treacherous, and he's only just begun -- his work as Captain America, with the Avengers, what little good he's done on this damn island... It's a start, but the destination is nowhere near in sight.

His tears fall more freely, and he makes no effort to quiet the sobs that rip from his throat, ones so violent he may as well just be screaming. He's been defeated, not absolved.

Edited 2011-06-15 18:35 (UTC)

We've done this, the both of us, for soldiers before. Held them while they came apart at the seams. It wasn't something we ever had to for each other, though, because we never let each other get to that point. We held the line, no matter what, even if it was only a line of two. I hope arriving here is a good thing. Having never seen Bucky like this, it's troubling, to say the least, but I think... I hope it's a step in the right direction.

So I hold him, pain forgotten, not so he can't get away but so he won't fall.

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The Truth Hurts.

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