onlyforthedream

Experience should steady Bucky, but experience doesn't always matter. Where the return from Russia all those months ago was no less sudden or disorienting, the circumstances of the shift were, comparatively, more desirable. The darkening sky of Tabula Rasa at dusk is a a familiar sight, but not a comforting one, his body on this prison of an island, even as his mind is still struggling to tear itself away from the horrors of the North Atlantic.

Phantom pain explodes in his shoulder, and he clamps his flesh and blood hand over the joint, fingers pressing into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, almost clawing at the material until he hits the trigger that turns off the hologram, his skin seemingly melting away to reveal the gleaming silver arm of the Winter Soldier, metallic fingers flexing outwards as his knees give out, and he catches himself on the worn dirt path they'd been walking on before all this madness started. The nausea hits almost as an afterthought, but there's no stopping the bile that rushes to his throat. With a cough that's equal parts sob, he turns his head away from Steve at the last second before getting sick, not wanting to subject him to the sight.

He's hurting, clearly, and I want to go over, but I can't move.

That's ridiculous. Pull it together.

"Bucky," I say hoarsely, taking a few stalking steps until I'm at his shoulder, but once there I freeze up again. I don't move to help him stand, I don't kneel and do something as basic as put a hand on his back to try and steady him. I just stand uselessly by.

Bucky swallows, though it burns, and closes his eyes; he remembers what he had for lunch, and doesn't need the reminder. The pain subsides as quickly as it arrived, but he's no less shaken for it, his body trembling from the shock of dying and being brought back to life once more. The fact that it was all in their heads doesn't count for much when it all felt so real, and even as he's cursing himself for taking so long to get it together, he knows there's no shame in it. Even so, he isn't the one who needs the help right now; what happened was as much Steve's nightmare as it was his own (more so, arguably), and Bucky's of no use to anyone on the ground.

Forcing himself to sit up, he drags the back of his real hand across his mouth, and looks ahead, half-expecting the drone plane to fly over the trees any second, so much so that he waits for it, listens for it. Only once he's satisfied that nothing is coming, that they're alone, does Bucky make to stand, taking a moment to find his footing (and even then, he ends up relying on a tree to keep from toppling over).

"M'fine," he says finally, his voice sounding no better than Steve's. It's a lie, but a necessary one. Bucky can process what happened on his own time; Steve is his first priority. "Just disoriented. Are you--?"

Edited 2011-10-27 01:53 (UTC)

I make some noise, something low and aborted in the back of my throat, but I can't answer him, as such. Now that he's got it together, more than anyone who just went through that should be able to, I can't look at him. My fingernails are digging into my palms so hard I can feel bruises forming, my body is rigid, my pulse is pounding in my throat and my temples and my jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching my molars together.

I still feel like I'm going to be sick, but I know what's making me feel that way is too deep and too in me to be gotten rid of, now.

I stand utterly still but for the barest sideways shake of my head. I can't find the words. There are no words for this.

Edited 2011-10-27 02:01 (UTC)

There's no protocol for this. The military likes their plans, but him and Steve and the rest of the Invaders, they were always breaking new ground, weren't they? And nowhere, in any manual, are there guidelines for how to proceed from here. It's been a long time since Bucky's had to follow orders, but he wishes, in this moment, that there were someone to tell him what to do, because Steve's body language could very easily be mirrored in Bucky's own were he to let it.

But he can't.

Taking a step forward, Bucky reaches for Steve's arm, careful to use his right hand, his left curled into a fist so tight it's a wonder that the metal hasn't warped around itself. He looks up at Steve, searching his face for some clue as to how to handle this, but finding no obvious answer. With a sudden, unsurprising fury, Bucky wants to seek out the sons of bitches who sent them off on their trip home and make them pay, wants to take solace in some violent act of revenge, but he can't do that, either. There's nothing to fight save for his lingering nausea, and he could scream if he weren't otherwise occupied.

"We did it," he says, because it's the only reassurance Bucky can think to give, being that it's the only one that's true. "Steve-- Look at me."

Edited 2011-10-27 02:51 (UTC)

"How can I?" I reply, though the words barely make it out of my throat. The only reason I don't jerk away from Bucky's hand is that if I move I might start running.

Actually, the thought has some appeal.

"After- How could I have-"

"You got us out of there," Bucky interrupts, voice firm, and grip firmer. "You got us out of there, Steve, do you understand?"

"No." I shake my head and find I can't stop shaking it. I think all of me is shaking.

"No, I didn't. I couldn't. Not- not when it counted." Half a century ago.

This isn't his area of expertise. He can't inspire people with words the way Steve can, Bucky's natural tendency to be flippant not lending itself particularly well to comforting those in need. He stumbles over the words in his head, trying to figure out the right thing to say when there's nothing to do, but each possibility sounds more stupid and trivial than the last. There's no mission to rush off to, no distraction they can take for the respite. For once in their lives, they have a chance to breathe, but Bucky would rather suffocate than suffer through watching Steve fall apart.

The difference in height makes the gesture awkward to initiate, but not impossible. Quickly, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve to still him, his chin just clearing his friend's shoulder. His hands clasp together behind Steve's back, the end result more of a hold than an embrace.

"I forgive you," Bucky says, as though he ever blamed him. (He didn't. How could he? It was always Bucky's idea to jump, right from the start. He's the one who ought to be apologizing, but he knows it won't be accepted.) "You did what had to be done and I forgive you."

Edited 2011-10-27 04:01 (UTC)

"I'm sorry," I say, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice, after a while of nothing. The only reason I'm still on my feet is Bucky keeping me there, and for that I'm grateful. And something else.

"Thank you," I say, louder, if not much. As hard as it is for me to accept, especially in the wake of what-

What just happened-

The words are both an anchor and a wall. It's a weight I don't know how to navigate.

Struggling to keep my breath steady, to loosen my throat enough to speak takes effort, and I'm having difficulty concentrating, focusing on any one thing. I keep seeing Zemo's forehead crumple with the impact of the bullet under the purple fabric of his mask, and wish that had been the way of it in real life.

"I'm sorry-" I pull away from him, and start to step back.

"I have to-"

He's running. The bastard is running -- or trying to, at any rate -- and Bucky can't even blame him for the impulse, because it's one he knows all too well. The only problem is, there's nowhere here to run. The damn island's only ten miles across, and with the way Steve's built, let alone the he speed with which he moves, he can't go for long before running out of sand.

"No," Bucky says, grabbing Steve's arm again. Neither of them should be alone right now, even if it's their natural inclination to isolate themselves, to fight, to never, ever stop. Were their positions reversed, Bucky doesn't have the slightest doubt in his mind that he'd already be gone, but maybe there's a chance to get Steve to stay. (And if there isn't, Bucky'll end up tracking him, anyway, not out of concern for Steve's safety so much concern for everyone else's.) "You don't."

My body is vibrating with rage and hurt, and looking Bucky in the eye now is practically an impossibility. Months ago he tried to run and I barred his path. He lashed out and I took it without hesitation, but that's not going to happen here. If I hurt Bucky Barnes in this moment it would be the last thing I ever did.

"I can't- Bucky, I can't shake this-"

Edited 2011-10-27 20:11 (UTC)

"And where are you going to go?"

It's a struggle to keep everything contained, to keep his voice even when he'd surely rather scream, but he hopes his staying quiet will lend him the command he needs to break through to Steve's better judgment. They're both stubborn, both shaken and angry and susceptible to inflicting some major damage on whatever crosses their path, but it's in the interest of the world around them that only one of them give in to their baser instincts at a time.

"Take it from the guy who's ran," says Bucky, reaching out for Steve's other arm once more, mindful of the strength of his left hand. "You're not going to find anything out there."

Edited 2011-10-27 20:55 (UTC)

"It doesn't matter," I grit out.

"Anywhere. I can't- God damn it, I can't be here." I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden blossoming of a headache, behind my eyes and in my temples. What I mean, of course, is that I suddenly feel so trapped, in what the past made of us, in the vestiges of my life, that I could tear my skin off and it wouldn't help. There isn't anywhere to go, Bucky's right about that, but even so, standing still feels like torture.

"I'm sorry that I dragged us back there. I'm sorry it wouldn't end until-"

"Don't you dare," Bucky replies, cutting him off. Whatever façade of calm he's been wearing cracks, but doesn't shatter, though there's no hiding the rage burning bright in his eyes.

"I swear to--" He stops, coughing out an exhale to collect himself, though when he speaks again, his anger's no better hidden. "You didn't bring us there and I will not stand here and listen to you apologize for someone else's sadism."

"It was putting me through my paces. It was driving a point home to me, because I can't accept, have never accepted, that I lost you that day." It's the truth of it, not that I ever wanted to lay it all out like this. Of the people I've been closest to in my life- Tony, Sam, Sharon- Bucky, for all the time we spent apart, will always be different. Our relationship exists on a fine line of silent understanding and the knowledge that we can be honest with each other, even if that means we don't always have to be.

"The fact that you were there, that you had to live through that again- and again- I can't swallow this, Bucky, I can't stand doing nothing in the face of it all."

There's nothing at all groundbreaking about the confession, little that Bucky hasn't pieced together for himself in the time that he's been returned to his right mind, but to hear Steve actually say it, to put it out on the table like that, almost gives Bucky pause. The truth is, however, that they've never been the best at communication, because they knew one another so well that it wasn't necessary most of the time, and this is no different.

Instead of listening, instead of giving what Steve's said the weight it deserves, Bucky steamrolls ahead, his grip on Steve's arms tightening as he jerks him forward just enough to grab his attention, his own expression so fragile that it could break at any moment, his breaths coming in a short staccato.

His words all but tear themselves from his throat: "Look at me."

This is why I wanted to get out of dodge, this feeling. I don't want to say anything irreparably damaging and I don't want to see that look in those eyes. I'm looking now, though, and I can't break away. I owe him that much.

"I'm right here," Bucky says in almost a whisper, a desperateness clinging to his words -- one he can't shake. He's not whole, he's clinging to the edge of sanity by the tips of fingers, but he's here. Maybe it won't be enough, but it's something, one of the few good things this island has given them both, for all its torture; Bucky's not lost, and he hasn't been for a while.

He's right, of course.

I've tried to tell him more than once, tried to make it clear, that having him back in my life, a friend and himself, again- even if it's a self he feels has been tarnished, or too shaped, by his time as the Winter Soldier- is the thing I'm most grateful for. He hasn't made it easy, and I haven't known how to go about it, really, but it's true, and if anything it's even more obvious in this moment. How many times have I relived that day, how desperate was I when the Avengers woke me for the first time? And here we've gone through it again, and for the first time at the end of it, he's not gone.

I barely nod before I pull him in, clasping his shoulder tight. He's solid, he's breathing, he's himself, he's here. He'll go back to Natasha tonight and teach a class in the morning, he has a life and he's living it. Whatever hell this place wanted to put us through, whatever message it wanted to drive home, damn it all, because nothing trumps this fact.

"It's okay," he mutters, returning the embrace. It's not, of course. There's nothing okay about any of this, but it bears saying nonetheless, the type of meaningless platitude that's necessary after a crisis. A false hope. "It's okay."

After an extended moment, I pull back, nodding again, slightly, more to signify that I heard him than to agree. Neither of us are that delusional.

I ease away to sit, slowly, not as wearily as I feel, on a boulder half buried in the soft island earth. The fingers of my left hand immediately dig into my knee and that's where the tension stays. I run my other hand over my face.

"...I didn't mean to lose it, like that," I say, when my voice seems steady enough.

"I apologize. Are you all right?" I ask him, lifting my head.

The honest answer is no, but Bucky can't bring himself to voice it; not that there's much use in hiding the truth that's written plainly across his face. It's only through some miracle that he manages to stay on his feet once Steve goes to sit down, but Bucky's in no rush to join him, choosing instead to keep the slight distance and lean against the nearest tree, his shoulder pressing into the bark. Gaze turning to the ground, his chin tips downwards, and he shakes his head, the movement so slight he's not even sure it'll register.

With Steve calmer, it's more difficult for Bucky to tamp down his own ire. His skin feels tight from the effort, his every muscle tensed. It takes him a moment to pull together an answer he can stomach.

"I'll live."

Edited 2011-10-28 05:26 (UTC)

That's about the most I could hope for.

"...Want to get a drink?"

Not that it'll do a damn thing for me, but Bucky looks like he could use one.

The noise Bucky makes isn't quite a laugh, but it's close enough to count, humorless as it is. He looks up, though not at Steve.

"I want to get a bar."

"I think that can be arranged," I return with the same hollow tone that could, under completely different circumstances, have been filled out with humor.

"..." I stand, finding nothing else to add. I don't want to go off again, and I don't know how long I can stay steady, but for the moment we both seem to be breathing- coping, somehow- and given circumstances that means we're batting a thousand.

[After]

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