[III]

[onlyforthedream]

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?”

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[onlyapassenger]

There’s not a whisper of warning. A single shot announces Bucky’s presence, the bullet missing Steve’s head by a matter of inches, and lodging itself deep between Zemo’s eyes.

“No,” says Bucky, stepping out from behind the alcove he used for cover. “You weren’t.”

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

I’ve watched Baron Zemo die before. I took no satisfaction from it then, either. I almost let his body fall in my momentary shock, but I catch it by the shoulders and set it on the catwalk. Not especially ceremoniously, but I don’t just discard it, as much as, moments ago, I would have been happy to. I turn to where the shot rang out from, where Bucky’s standing, gun in hand.

“Bucky, why-”

[onlyapassenger]

He wants to toss the gun, but not knowing if he’ll need it again, practicality alone keeps the Walther P38 he lifted off one of Zemo’s goons held firmly in Bucky’s hand. His steps are heavy along the catwalk as he makes his way forward, deliberate and echoing against the stone walls. There’s no pleasure to be taken in the kill, no sense of fulfillment. The thrill and the glory of combat is what Bucky lives for, what he believes himself born to do, and even so, there is no joy in this, only the bitter certainty that comes from knowing something was necessary.

The beginnings of a bruise color shade his jaw a dull purple from where Steve struck him earlier, but the cold fury burning behind Bucky’s eyes has nothing to do with a bit of friendly fire. His heart’s sitting in his throat as he spares the briefest of glances down at Zemo, then looks back up to Steve.

“Because I had to,” he says, and isn’t that the same old refrain?

’It had to be done... So I did it. Simple as that.’

“Because that’s what I was trained to do. What Captain America-- What you couldn’t... Or shouldn’t do.”

[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

I won’t justify what I was just doing. Could I have killed Zemo with my bare hands? Maybe. Honestly- Maybe. Did I intend to? I don’t think I did, but God help me it’s hard to say. What I do know is-

“There has to be another way.”