onlyforthedream: (but we sure make noise)
Steve Rogers ([personal profile] onlyforthedream) wrote2011-10-25 12:38 am
Entry tags:

[III]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. The North Atlantic. I would know where I am just from breathing in the air, though finding myself just here, on this bike, chasing this plane for the third time in what feels like moments removes any need for guesswork.

The words ever again are dying on my lips when I turn the bike, hard. I have a better sense this time of what I’m doing, of how far we have til the bike careens over the edge, of how fast we’re going. There’s a new smell, one of burning rubber, as the little German motorcycle scrapes along the battlement. I turn, grab Bucky across the chest, and throw us both to the ground as the bike loses its balances and goes skittering away, off into the ocean. We land, and skid a ways, on my back, where the shield is covered by my enlisted man’s shirt. When we’ve come to a stop I roll onto my side and start to rip off what’s left of the shredded khaki uniform.

“Buck,” I say, “you okay?”
onlyapassenger: (ss :: jesus christ)

[personal profile] onlyapassenger 2011-11-03 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
This is turning into a cluster%$*. We’ve been thrown back to this moment again for the third time in as many minutes, and I’m still at a loss at what to do. There’s no changing this day. Even if we could -- and Steve seems to think we can, if that little stunt was anything to go by -- the repercussions our actions would have on the future would prove catastrophic. And while I know this isn’t real... Know we’re just being screwed with... That nothing we’ll do here will have any effect on anyone but us...

Bucky’s already picking himself up from the ground, a bit sore from being manhandled off the bike, but otherwise in better shape than the last time. His mental state could claim otherwise, of course, mind still reeling from everything that’s happened, but that’s not what Steve’s asking about.

Fine,” he grits out, anger drawn into every line of his face. “Are you?”