[I]

[onlyforthedream]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, although I also know it can’t be possible. Or shouldn't be, at the very least. My hands are gripping the handlebars of what I recognize, from the sound of the engine as well as my memory, to be a DKW NZ350. A ‘43. I know this bike.

God help me, I know exactly where I am.

I’ve had this dream. Correction- I’ve had this nightmare, more nights than I haven’t, since I woke up to a post-war world. This, what’s happening now, this isn’t a nightmare. This is living it. I know. I can tell the difference, by now.

I also know I’m not alone. Even as the end of the runway, the sharp drop off of the cliff looming ahead of us, rushes up to meet us- as the experimental drone plane that ended the war for me pulls away by critical, creeping inches to my left- I’m turning my head to call over my shoulder to the only other person who could be here with me.

“Bucky?!”

Comments

[onlyapassenger]

Wind is whipping through my hair and past my ears, nearly drowning out the din around me: the rumble of the motorcycle, the roar of the plane, the crash of the water below. All I see, though, is army green. My eyes are locked on someone's back. My arms are wrapped around their waist... And I'd say I don't remember when I put them there, but that's a lie. I know exactly where I am, and who I'm with...

I just don't remember when I fell asleep... And judging by the fact that I can feel my left arm, my best guess is I didn't. This is actually happening, inasmuch as whatever sick S.O.B. sent me here can make it happen.

The question is if I'm alone... Or if Steve remembers where we ought to be, too.

"Cap!" Bucky shouts, voice already raw though he knows the true horror's only just begun, if this is anything like Russia. He tears his gaze upwards, catching only a glimpse of Steve's face before his attention is quickly diverted towards the plane, his body already moving through the motions it's done countless times before in every nightmare imaginable . His right hand rests on Steve's shoulder, his left outstretched before them both as he pulls himself up, and it's sheer force of habit that finds him adding, "I can make it!"