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[wiintersfist]

HE'S WELL ACCUSTOMED TO KEEPING HIS HEAD DOWN. ' take the bus, james, ' his shrink insisted that morning, eyebrows raised and lips pursed into a tight line that boasted no nonsense, ' immerse yourself with the general public. keep your head up for a change. ' another day, another attempt to penetrate the bulletproof armor that bucky barnes wears snug around his body. only this time, she succeeded. a little bit. barely.

HE WOULD SAY HE LUCKED OUT when situating himself at the very back of a bus that's nearly empty, but it was entirely intentional. maybe he's not utilizing his HYDRA - crafted skill set to infiltrate governments and murder anybody in the organization's way these days, but you can't unravel what's been sewn within each crevice of his brain with such precision. he utilizes those skills to seek out a bus that he knows will be void of screaming children and sweaty men.

HIS HEAD ISN'T HELD UP, but doctor raynor will simply have to celebrate the small victories. instead, the soldier stares down at the notepad in his hands. he studies each name, crossed out or waiting for the chance, with a heavy feeling in his chest and a bad taste lingering on his tongue. making amends should feel good, and yet . . .

MUSCLES TENSE. his head snaps up. eyes closely follow a woman as she ventures into the bus, his body shifting to the very edge of his seat as if he's anticipating the necessity to make a break for it. but she sits down. she's quiet. she's unassuming. like him, her nose is buried within a book ( one that he sourly hopes contains better content than the one balancing between his own hands ) .

HIS GAZE LINGERS. it has the ability to burn a hole through the side of her face. ❝ i know you. ❞ he speaks up, voice quiet beneath the uneven roar of the bus' engine. he doesn't smile. he doesn't exude any sort of warmth. but he elaborates, so as to not scare her out of her own skin : ❝ from the magazines. i read a lot of 'em. you work for stark, right? ❞

@dr-foster ➔ 023, the back of an empty bus.

[wiintersfist]

THE MOON'S BRIGHTNESS is dimmed by the gloom of clouds overhead. they conceal stars from view and selfishly elbow their way to the forefront of the night sky. owls coo overhead and crickets chirp down below. there's a featherlight breeze that makes the trees sway back and forth in a tedious, timid dance. fingers curl into fists from where they're buried deep within his pockets, the muscles in his jaw fluttering beneath the pressure of clenched teeth.

THERE'S A CHILL IN THE AIR. it isn't the kind of chill that makes itself known with a punch in the gut when you open your front door in the morning, but it's there. breeze tickles his cheeks. he shifts his weight from one foot to another. he struggles to quell a tight pull in his chest, just as he struggles to swallow back a lump lodged in his throat.

BUCKY BARNES IS NO STRANGER TO GRAVEYARDS. he's visited plenty since freeing himself from the shackles of HYDRA. it never gets any easier to stare down at a tombstone, trace your fingers along letters that spell out a name you remember too well. but this is difficult in a different way. he's not responsible for the body that lies deep within the earth.

JOHN IS. or, at the very least, he feels that way. the soldier steps forward, attempting to keep his presence unassuming and light. few would use the word light to describe any aspect of his personality, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try. for all of their differences, bucky knows how john walker feels right now. he's felt that same overwhelming guilt eating away at every fiber of his being countless times before.

HE'S QUIET WHEN HE STEPS BESIDE THE BLOND. it's funny, really -- out of the corner of his eye, he very well could mistake john for steve. strong shoulders, boyish hope turned realistic exhaustion, undeniable pain and guilt written across his features. he stares straight ahead at lemar hoskins' headstone, memories of wide, frantic eyes turned lifeless and blood raining down on a city square.

❝ Y'DOIN' ALRIGHT? ❞ his voice is low, his words unassuming. he doesn't push john to talk, doesn't even spare him an expectant glance. it's easier to bottle it all up and bury it deep down inside where it'll never see the light of day again. he knows that better than anyone. but he also knows how unhealthy it is, courtesy of one doctor raynor. screw her.

@battletrio ➔ 009, an empty cemetery at night.

[wiintersfist]

FOOTSTEPS ARE HEAVY. leaves, shriveled and dead on the forest floor, crackle beneath boots. for all of the stealth that he's been hardwired to perform on instinct, bucky carries himself like dead weight. old bones ache, serum only able to remedy so many beat downs in a matter of hours. one hand clutches a sore side, the other swinging limply along. every muscle in his body consists entirely of lead, and the last thing he wants is to be met by resistance right now.

EYEBROWS SHOOT UP TO HIS HAIRLINE. lips curl to form an amused smile, an indignant scoff slipping past parted lips. ❝ what? ❞ he questions in disbelief, though the smile on his face is fleeting. surely enough, lips fall into a sour scowl. ❝ i don't do puppy dog eyes, pal. let's get that straight. ❞ his words are firm, laced with irritation. of course bucky would find issue with the notion of puppy dog eyes. they do, after all, severely clash with the ' brooding soldier ' thing he's had going on for decades.

IN A DISPLAY OF DEFIANCE, he stops walking. freezing in his tracks, he outstretches his arms with an expectant incline of his head. ❝ i'm just sayin', ❞ he continues, ❝ you're insane for wantin' to keep chasin' after these guys. you miss the part where they kicked our asses into next week? kinda feels like you conveniently forgot that part, buddy. that, or you're eager for seconds. ❞

BUCKY ISN'T USUALLY THE KIND OF GUY to take his foot off of the gas pedal. but even he knows when enough is enough. he's no stranger to stupidity disguised as perseverance. steve wore it like a second skin. ❝ look, ❞ he tries to reason, voice exuding defeat, ❝ can't we call it a day and grab a burger or somethin'? i'm starvin'. feels like i just got hit by about fifteen goddamn buses. ❞

@antisupe ➔ ❛ nope, puppy dog eyes aren’t going to work this time! ❜

[wiintersfist]

WEATHERED EYES LINGER ON HIS HANDS. one warm, one flesh, one with thousands of nerve endings. one that serves as a reminder of who he was, of the human that still resides within him, of the man that HYDRA couldn't entirely strip out of him. the other is cold, metal, unfeeling. he curls and relaxes a metallic fist over and over again, as if desperate to generate some semblance of heat to match the hand that holds its own.

STEVE INSISTS THAT HE KNOWS HIM, that he always has. there's certainty in his voice, firm and unwavering. bucky envies that certainty, something that he's lacked within himself since breaking free from the shackles at his feet. there's truth to the statement, as incomplete as it may be. he does know steve. he knows him in bits and pieces, from tidbits at the smithsonian exhibit to waves of deja vu that hit him at random.

BUT STILL, he doesn't know him as he once did. brows twitch and crease. he swallows, trying to remedy a dry mouth courtesy of no words. raw emotion throws punches with a complete lack thereof, eyes briefly fluttering closed. behind eyelids awaits a boyish smile adorned with a bloody lip, a firm arm draped around a small figure, feet connecting haphazardly with concrete in an attempt to outrun another neighbor irked.

WHEN EYES OPEN AGAIN, he turns his head. arctic blue meets warm carribean seas. ❝ dunno how safe it is to bet on that anymore, pal. ❞ his voice is strained, words heavy with the eternal desire to step comfortably back into shoes that just don't fight right anymore. ❝ i remember you in pieces, ❞ he continues, struggling to bite back the burn of guilt that climbs up his throat, ❝ it's almost like . . . i know you better in my dreams than i do when i'm awake or somethin'. ❞

@shieldied ➔ “ you know me better than anyone. you always have. “

[wiintersfist]

HE'S BEEN RIGOROUSLY TRAINED TO BLOCK OUT PAIN. simply cut the connection between nerves on fire and his brain. it's easier said than done, but he has decades of practice under his belt. he pushes himself to the brink of collapse because he has to. because it's what he's been taught to do. and even now, without venomous commanders breathing hot down his neck with threats of punishment, bucky pushes.

THE ACHE IN HIS SIDE IS DULL. his head is elsewhere. shirt has long since been ditched, lying in an abandoned heap on the floor and soaked in crimson. he's slumped against a wall, breaths sharp and heavy through his nose. teeth press together, metal whirring when he presses his right hand into an unforgiving fist.

HER VOICE IS MUFFLED. it's distant, like someone is holding his head underwater. eyes are glazed over, locked on absolutely nothing over her shoulder from where she crouches before him. skin is covered in a sheen of sweat atop dirt and blood, muscles twitching and fluttering in discomfort.

ONLY WHEN HER WORDS SINK IN does he drop his head. his gaze finds the gaping wound in his side, hand clenched firmly over the source of impact. ❝ i'm fine. ❞ he chokes out between his teeth, even if his voice wavers and betrays his insistence. there's no use in protesting, really. part of him knows it. but that unshakable voice that whispers deep in the depths of his head tells him to tough it out, to wait, to expect new orders.

HIS FREE PALM PRESSES AGAINST COLD CONCRETE. he draws in an unsteady breath. ❝ i've seen worse. ❞ he adds, murky blue eyes lifting to find her face. though defiance is written across his features, there soon comes acceptance. begrudging acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless.

@sgrspiced ➔ ' hold still. this might sting a little. '

[wiintersfist]

EYES DRIFT TO FLUORESCENT LIGHTS OVERHEAD, anxiously watching them flicker and dance with their own erratic rhythm. every time the little bell at the top corner of the door chimes, shoulders draw up and muscles tighten. he studies a lethargic cashier, slumped over the counter and staring at him with expectant eyes that might as well scream ' get out ' . there's plenty to get used to again after so many years spent tiptoeing along the edge of society and cloaking themselves within the shadows. but it's all about exposure, right?

THAT'S WHAT DOCTOR RAYNOR WOULD INSIST, taking pen to paper when he'd inevitably refuse and damn himself to the life of a hermit. he could definitely go for rubbing it in her face during his next session, and so he doesn't immediately retreat to the door and slip into the darkness of the night as every instinct within tells him to do. he ventures in further, boots unnervingly light against tiled floor.

UP AND DOWN THE AISLES HE SCALES, plucking aimlessly at cheap, calorie - ridden snacks dangled invitingly before him. being faced with so much choice still leaves him feeling paralyzed, and he stops dead in his tracks multiple times when brightly - colored wrappers and promises of better flavor, sweeter sensation, trustworthy treats cloud his mind and make his head spin atop his shoulders.

HEAD LIFTS, gaze finding an individual stood by the counter and fishing hastily through their pockets. the cashier dons impatience and disinterest like a second skin, fingers drumming peevishly in sync with a tapping foot. kindness and understanding are far out of reach in this day and age, a lesson that he's learned painfully amidst unapologetic grunts, hurried shoves in the street, doors slamming in his face.

WHEN BUCKY APPROACHES THE COUNTER, he does so with little to say and a silent point to make. stepping beside the stranger, he lifts a glove - clad hand and places a few crumpled dollar bills atop the counter. ❝ i've got it. ❞ is all he rasps out, fingers nudging the cash in the irked clerk's direction with an expectant quirk of his brows.

@dumbthink ➔ 001, a convenience store past midnight.

[wiintersfist]

EYEBROWS RAISE, lips twitching at the corners in a fleeting display of amusement not often adorned by him. while she contemplates packing up her shit and returning to the life of a hell - bound hustler waiting for her in madripoor, bucky coolly props boot - clad feet up and entertains himself with little more than a dirty rag and a dirtier knife. the soldier doesn't spare her a glance, instead keeping weathered eyes locked on the crimson - stained blade that he scrubs relentlessly at.

MUSCLES ACHE, carrying the bitter reminder that an old dog can't learn new tricks. violet and azure intermingle, engaging in a graceless dance around a half - shut eye. a coppery tang lingers on his tongue, and with a grimace, he unabashedly tilts his head and spits at the ground. it's no way to behave around a lady, sure, but he feels a certain level of petty disconnect from the usual rules of old - fashioned chivalry when it comes to sharon.

❝ I'M ALL FOR IT, ❞ he finally speaks up, vibranium thumb pressing into the flimsy rag in his hand, ❝ i'd love t'call it a day 'nd pack it up. take a nice, long vacation. never see you again. ❞ his words are blunt, tone flat. but that much is to be expected. he's not one for feigning manners these days where it doesn't count, and clearly it sure as shit doesn't count around her.

HEAD TURNS LAZILY, steely gaze donning heavy eyelids. squared shoulders raise in a shrug, nonchalance contradicting the ever - present tension that resides deep within his bones. ❝ can't exactly pick 'nd choose when 'nd where the fight ends, though. ain't the sorta luxury people like us are afforded. ❞ ' people like us. ' it's rich, really, considering they'd both probably toss the other under the bus if they weren't bound by morals. bound by steve. what likeness do they share?

@powrbroker ➔ i think i've done enough to help.