The Truth Hurts.

[onlyforthedream]

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."

Comments

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

"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."

[onlyapassenger]

"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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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."

[onlyapassenger]

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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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!"

[onlyapassenger]

"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!"

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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?"

[onlyapassenger]

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.

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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.

[onlyapassenger]

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?"

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

"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.

[onlyapassenger]

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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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.

[onlyapassenger]

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?"

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

"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.

[onlyapassenger]

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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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.

[onlyapassenger]

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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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.

[onlyapassenger]

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?"

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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.

[onlyapassenger]

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.

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

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."

[onlyapassenger]

"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."

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

"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."