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, though it shouldn’t be possible. My hands are gripping the handlebars of the DKW NZ350 bike I’m riding, was just riding, have ridden before. A ‘43.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-

No.

I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.

Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.

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He stopped it. How many times over the years have I wished for just this? To change history? To not die this day? Knowing all that follows, of course Steve would have the same regret, but...

A disbelieving laugh that’s easier a cough more than anything else escapes from Bucky’s throat, but he succeeds in swallowing back whatever emotion threatens to take hold of him. Relief, anger, simple, selfish joy: he doesn’t know which, each applicable in their own, unique way. Slowly getting to his feet, he nearly stumbles on his first step towards Steve, his legs protesting from having to walk so soon.

This isn't real. It sure as hell feels it, but it can't be. This is the same trick that sent me to Russia -- it’s the only explanation that makes a lick of sense -- but still it makes me wonder... Is this really my nightmare?

“Steve.”

There’s warning in Bucky’s voice, though his appearance does little to convey it. He’s barely over twenty, his face younger than it has any right to be, though it’s presently painted with dirt and blood. He flexes the fingers of his left hand before swiping at a gash across his cheek, ignoring the sting that follows.

“Bucky,” I reply, looking him over. He’s young. I wonder if I am, too. The way he carries himself, though, the look in his eyes- I’d bet money he only looks young. Which makes next to no sense. This doesn’t feel like a dream. I have to operate under the assumption that it isn’t one. This means it’s still my responsibility to stop that plane, but I will be damned if I can’t find some other way.

“I don’t know if this will make any sense to you, partner,” I tell him, rotating my shoulder a little, feeling the strap of the shield pull under the green of the army uniform that’s torn enough to show blue underneath in a few places.

“But I’m not letting that happen to you again. Not again.”

Looking at him, now, as he was, I’m suddenly reminded of something I told him months back. Physically, he really hasn’t aged much since the War, but his eyes... They’re not those of a young man.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, Cap,” says Bucky, letting his hand drop back down to his side, “but that plane’s going to kill a lot more people than just me if we don’t stop it... And we both know it.”

“Then we fight our way back into that castle and get our hands on a radio, but you’re not going anywhere near that damn plane.” I start down the long barren stretch of rock, back toward the stronghold Zemo’s somewhere inside of, but stop when I’m shoulder to shoulder with Bucky.

I’ve been here before, uncertain as to what was real and what wasn’t. The weeks I was under the influence of the cube, chasing phantoms and waking nightmares, trying so hard to fight its influence and not knowing how... They still dog my steps, some days.

“Is this real?”

At the question, Bucky draws in a deep breath of cold air, holding it in for a moment. Then he lets it out in a rush, and shakes his head, curtly.

"No."

There’s pressure in my throat, like a laugh or a yell wants to rip out of it, but I hold it back. I turn to watch the plane get smaller in the sky and feel that same tension bunch up all the muscles in my shoulders, in my chest. Why are we here again?

“Then why are we here?”

Bucky’s shoulders lift in a small, helpless shrug. It’s a struggle to keep his expression neutral, to keep the conflicting emotions at bay, hidden. He has to be hold it together, for Steve’s sake, if not his own, but it’s no easier a feat than stopping the plane proved all those years ago.

“I don’t know,” he says, but the admission costs him too much. Shoving a hand back over his head, his fingers curl tightly around the short hair above the nape of his neck. “I don’t-- Steve, I don’t know.”

I grimace. Bucky knows who he is, who we are. He knows we shouldn’t be here. I wonder if this is the island targeting him, again, like it did before. We never sat down and hashed out the details, but I have a basic understanding. That it can take you and put you into your worst moments and make you relive them, over and over. Well, that’s not happening to him again. Not today. Not if I have anything to do with it.

“Then no,” I say.

“No. We’re not playing this game. We’re not going through these motions. Not again.”

Edited 2011-11-03 22:44 (UTC)

Steve’s reluctance is understandable, but pointless. Even if it is a game, we’re not the ones making the rules... There are hoops we’re expected to jump through. And while I would gladly -- gladly -- have that part of my life stuck in the past where it belongs, I've been stonewalled out of the decision making process. I don't get a say.

“We don’t have a choice,” Bucky replies, taking a step forward.

“The hell we don’t. I’ve seen this play out too many times, Buck, in my own head and at the whim of whichever villain thinks it’ll be the best way to take me out of a fight! I’m not doing it again,” I say, reigning my voice back in from a yell. I can almost pass the volume off as being heard over the wind.

Head’s still spinning from the crash. From being back here in the first place... Again. I can barely think straight, let alone try to reason. Past, present, and future bleed together like a watercolor, but Steve... Steve is losing it in all three.

“This has to happen!”

“And it did, but it will not happen again!” I’m yelling now, shouting down his objections in a way I can’t ever remember doing before.

“God damn it, Bucky, they can’t have you! I will fight and die for this country, God knows I will, it’s what I signed up for; but I will not knowingly hand over your soul to those sons of bitches! I won’t sacrifice your life, your ability to live your life, ever again!” I say, but can’t hear my last word over the sound of the plane’s engines.

[II]

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