onlyforthedream | Escape Attempt.

It's been over a week since I woke up in the clinic on this island, and I haven't set a single foot out of doors. Well, that ends tonight. I like to think I'm a patient man, or that at least I have the ability to be one, but it's really gone on long enough. It takes a minute of standing to get my legs under me, really under me. I'm creaky after being bedridden so long, but after a few steps across the floor, I feel practically limber again. Reaching for the scrubs is painful, sure, but I've felt worse. I pull them on, as silently as I may and more gingerly than I'd like, and move back to my now vacant bed. I bunch the sheets tellingly over each other and ride them up the pillow, just in case one of the doctors pokes their head in for a cursory glance. Anything more will reveal my absence, but then, I'll be gone so there won't be much they can do.

I'm not trying to set off for anywhere in particular, anyhow, although I would like to look at the ocean at night. I just need to breathe fresh air. I pause by the door, crouching a little and ducking out of the light cast from the hallway. Someone wanders past in the direction of the kitchen. I wait a few moments, then step out into the hall, straightening up and walking with a nonchalant ease-

The wrong direction, apparently. I arrive at a door that opens into a room with a jukebox, a pool table, some sofas and a bookshelf and a piano, but no door that leads outside. It's late enough that it's largely empty, some people on the far side of the room passing a news reel between them and talking. Not wishing to draw attention or interrupt, I back out of the room on silent footfalls to try the opposite end of the hall, turning back the way I came.

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I'm still standing. After a few seconds, it's the only thing I'm certain of. I look at Bucky, hard.

"What?"

I wait for relief, for gratitude, something to wash over me. I'm a little surprised to feel angry though.

It probably speaks to their familiarity that Bucky doesn't flinch, that instead he makes himself comfortable in the chair, and gestures for Steve to get back in his damn already. The news is jarring, he realizes, which is why he hasn't spoken of it in any detail before this; a lot's changed since that bullet tore through Captain America's shoulder, and Bucky's only qualified to tell some of that particular story.

"I told you that you're the Head of National Security, Steve. You really think you'd take that position if the SHRA was still being enforced? If people hadn't realized what a piss poor idea it was in the first place?" he asks, his expression dubious. "The Act gets overturned. Not saying it was easy, but it does."

"I know I wouldn't, and I assumed it had to have been undone somehow but- how long," I demand, not taking one step more toward the bed.

"Until it was. Who made it happen?"

"A little over a year," says Bucky, straightening slightly in spite of himself, because old habits die hard. "And that's a complicated question to answer, which probably gives you an idea how confused the people were in the midst of all this madness. Bottom line is that it was you, but if you want the whole story, you're going to need to sit down."

It's a cheap move, but he made it because he's not stupid and I'm feeling in desperate need of some more fresh air. Bucky knows me, knows I need to know this, and so even though it rankles to return to it so quickly, I walk around the bed to sit on the edge of it, facing Bucky. I rest my elbows on my knees and watch him.

Possibly it's not a good thing, to press for this information, to learn so much about a future I'll never live for being here. I've made the choice, though. He offered, I'm taking him up on it.

"Stark didn't keep his job for long after your alleged death," Bucky starts, and in this, he's more comfortable than reciting another man's words. He's used to giving reports, used to condensing information to the barest essentials, and that his own part in this story is mercifully brief, there's no underlying hesitation. He's matter of fact. Direct.

"There was an incident with the Skrulls: a global, long term secret invasion in which they infiltrated every organization. Starktech was compromised, which meant Stark himself was compromised. This allowed for Norman Osborn to worm his way into power; his involvement in the final battle against the Skrull Queen was critical to our victory. The President recognized this, and through a questionable leap in logic, made him the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., which Osborn promptly dismantled, and renamed H.A.M.M.E.R. While popular with the public, Osborn didn't receive the same warm welcome from the people he was persecuting. Adopting the persona Iron Patriot, he led his own team of Avengers against us a number of times before laying siege to Asgard. You were resurrected, for lack of a better word, shortly before this, and as Captain America led the real Avengers against Osborn and his cronies. Once his insanity was revealed to the world at large, you were asked by the President to step in, and clean up the mess that Stark and Osborn left behind. The Act was thrown out, and the Avengers were restructured into a number of different teams, each serving their own purpose."

Edited 2011-04-22 20:51 (UTC)

A lot can happen in a year. I'll need time to digest that, to really turn it over in my head. What's most daunting is the sum total of what Bucky must be leaving out.

"God," I say quietly.

"Makes you miss the War, doesn't it?" says Bucky, the sentiment absolutely sincere for all that his tone's wry. In reality, it was no less complicated, he supposes, but they were in their own time, then, starting on solid footing.

"It does. Is that terrible to say?" I murmur, running my hand over the back of my neck and leaving it there, head bowed.

"I'm in no position to judge," says Bucky, unconsciously mimicking Steve's posture when he runs a hand back over his own head, coming to a rest on his neck. That he still considers the War the good old days himself removes any sort of objectivity he might have had, after all; it probably is terrible when it comes right down to it, but while Bucky's adapted well enough to the modern age, that doesn't mean he feels all that comfortable there.

"What a waste," I mutter, still wishing for that gratitude, that relief. It doesn't come. All I see is Bill Foster's wasted body, being lowered into a hole by a crane. Everything both sides went through and it took a Skrull invasion and an attack on the realm of the gods to get the thing overturned. The people who wanted it put into place undid it themselves with shortsightedness and ego, which is almost always the way of things, but even knowing that...

My head aches with the sudden onslaught of scenarios I can't help but run. if I was even half decent company before, this officially marks the end of it.

"You don't know the half of it," says Bucky, equally as quiet, and he moves to stand. He came into the conflict as an outsider; while he lived through the chaos he's merely describing to Steve, he can't help but think that it affects his old partner more than himself. True, Bucky started to establish himself in the existing order before he arrived on this island, but there's a history with most of these people he's lacking, for all that he likes them well enough (even Clint Barton, frustrating a bastard as that man can be).

"But I think I've said enough for tonight."

I don't respond for a minute. The weight of this new information is unexpected. It shouldn't be, maybe, but it is. I don't move from where I'm seated, elbows on my knees, one hand folded into the other, gaze locked ostensibly on the floor but in actuality untold miles away.

"Good night, Bucky."

Escape Attempt.

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