Work Text:
Blood dripped from his lips, spilling out and smearing across the floor. He wiped at his mouth with fists that had been split open by force, the dull pain nothing in comparison to something that prowled like a beast underneath his skin. He glanced up at the hotel room mirror, the broken shards splitting his reflection into million different versions of himself. Hollow cheeks and dark eyes stared back at him, seemingly unrecognizable from who he used to be.
He didn't know who he was supposed to be anymore.
Was he the Winter Soldier? The Asset? Bucky Barnes? James?
Those questions lingered in the back of his mind as he left the bathroom. He had showered and tried to clean himself up a bit, a voice chastising him from somewhere he didn't know. It seemed to haunt him, never fully leaving his conscious no matter what he did. It was a man's voice, but it was not his own.
He slipped under the sheets of the bed, only to feel the softness of the mattress engulf him, and ultimately decided to settle on the ground. His back was pushed up to the hard wall, but at least he didn't feel nearly as suffocated as he did before. He wrapped himself in the bed's comforter, shivering from his wet hair. Moonlight gleamed through the balcony window, spilling into the room and providing at least some ample source of light. He couldn't sleep in complete darkness anymore. The thought of someone watching him, of someone waiting for him, was a phantom he could never shake off.
His metal hand gripped his gun, his finger hovering over the trigger. He kept the safety on in case he dozed off, but he never felt safe without knowing he had a weapon on him somewhere. Whether that was at his hip or under his pillow, he was never somewhere without a weapon at an arm's length away.
Footsteps coming from the room above him sounded, accompanied by laughter and faint music. He tried to choose a discreet hotel, but there was always a possibility for things to not go his way. He was seeing that more than ever after leaving.
Well, leaving was one word for it. Escaped seemed to be the more correct term in his case.
Focusing on the sounds of people moving from the floor above him, he allowed his eyes to shut for only the briefest of moments. He sought reprieve from his first day after escaping, a small part of him overwhelming with joy at the prospect of no longer needing to be shoved onto a table or in a chamber anymore. He hated the hands they ran over him or the cold metal that poked and prodded at him—flesh or not. He tried to drown everything out but the sounds of talking, swept away into what he knew would not be a dreamless sleep.
They were going down. Sparks flew relentlessly as large shafts of the helicarrier threatened to fall. The Winter Soldier and Captain Rogers lay precariously on the edge where one wrong movement could send them both down for good. The Solider did not release his grip on Rogers whose neck was blooming with purple and green splotches. His red-rimmed eyes and split lip were a menacing sight, a reminder that it was caused by The Soldier's own hand. Rogers was not fighting back, having long since ditched his shield. He was weaponless and teetering along the brink of death as the air was swept from his lungs. His once gleaming blue eyes now glazed over at the whisper of a name on his lips. It was said with such desperation and almost sound like a plea.
"Bucky," Rogers whispered hoarsely, his hand resting on top of The Soldier's as they lay firmly planted at his neck. "you know me."
He repeated that phrase three more times until The Soldier pressed even harder. He gritted his teeth and spat remarks back, the monster within overtaking his senses. He had no control over himself anymore. He wasn't even sure when the last time he did was.
"You know me."
And then, it wasn't Captain Rogers beneath him. It wasn't a super soldier who fought for his country and for the people he loved out of duty and because it was the right thing to do. It wasn't the man who wore the uniform and carried the shield into the perilous throes of battle, fighting until his last breath.
It was a boy. A young man, really, who gave off the appearance of an adolescent boy. His hair was more golden, his cheekbones more pronounced. His eyes shimmered with a childlike quality: innocence. His bones were almost popping out of his skin; his ribs could be easily felt if one pushed against his skin hard enough.
"Steve?" The Soldier's voice came out as a broken whimper, horror etched on every inch of his face.
He tried to pull away but his grip was locked at Steve's throat. The man was thrashing and sobbing as he tried to break free, pure and undeniable terror causing The Soldier to desperately try and release him from his pain. It seemed as if his hands were under someone else's control but his own, pressing further and further into Steve's skin as he slowly choked to death.
"No." The Soldier repeated desperately. "No. Please, please stop."
"Kill him." a sweet voice sounded in his ear.
"I can't!" he felt his eyes burning. "I can't kill him!"
"Why not?" the sweetness was overtaken by a vicious scowl.
"I can't kill someone I love." he sobbed, his body violently shaking as he tried to fight every instinct to finish the mission. "I can't."
Steve faded back into Captain Rogers, but the fear in his eyes never faltered. The Soldier jumped back, releasing his hold. He scrambled to get as far away as he could from Rogers, knowing that every fiber in his being was telling him that he could not kill him. He couldn't even if he tried.
Then, he fell.
Waves of horror flashed through The Soldier as he stared down at Rogers. He was falling and falling with little to no chance of survival once he hit the water below. It happened as if it were in slow motion—or perhaps that was because of how slow his reaction was. He didn't know what to do anymore. He couldn't kill Rogers, but he couldn't let him die by some other acting force either. As he peered over the edge, his breathing ragged and labored, he saw a reflection of himself. He fell off of that train and was in the same position Rogers was.
So this was how it felt to watch someone you love die.
He shot himself out of sleep, sweat coating his body and the blanket he left discarded on the floor beside him. His hands reached up to his hair as he fell onto his knees once more. Tears fell freely, moonlight illuminating the pain that wracked through his entire body. Through his entire soul.
Captain Rogers was alive. He didn't die after he fell. He wasn't kidnapped by Hydra. He was alive somewhere. He was real.
Instinctively he curled in on himself, shaking on the carpet floor in a ball as he cried. He had almost let the man he loved die and it would have been his fault.
He composed himself half an hour later of thrashing and choked sobbing. He dressed in the only clothes he brought with him to the shabby little hotel, double-checking to make sure he had his weapons on him. Before he left out of the balcony door, he went back into the bathroom and caught his reflection in the shattered mirror once more. He decided to leave a wad of extra cash and a note of apology at his momentary lapse of rage at the mirror before slipping away into the night.
His uniform allowed him to blend easily in with the velvet darkness, coating and surrounding his body like a second layer of skin. He wasn't entirely shrouded in the dark thanks to the chasing moon behind him, offering some semblance of peace amidst the nightmare that lay dormant in his mind. He was no stranger to nightmares or night terrors, but that one had felt too real to ignore the need to see Rogers in person. To know that he was okay.
He had no formal plan other than to sneak into the hospital he was sure that Rogers was vacating and to make sure that he was still alive and breathing. He had to know if he was alive.
Upon approaching the hospital which was overwhelmingly large, he popped open one of the windows and slipped inside an empty patient room. He slid across the floor, devoid of all light except from what came through the window or the hall. Footsteps rang out behind the door that had been left cracked open, keeping him on his guard as he stuck his head out to observe. When the coast was clear, he crept along the empty hallway until he found a desk with a flashing computer screen. Beside it was a cup of cold coffee, its owner long having disappeared.
Must be on break, he mused to himself.
It was close to two in the morning when he initially arrived, so he settled on that being the reason why everything was eerily quiet and still. The faint hum of machines brought him back to the present as he hovered over the keyboard. He tried searching for Steve Rogers in order to find his room number to which he accomplished after only minimal difficulty. He wasn't the most tech savvy person—nothing compared to how he was with a gun or a knife.
Hell, he was born in 1917.
Checking both ends of the hall before stalking off to find Rogers' room, he had to sneak into a few closets or empty rooms in order to not be found. He released a breath after successfully making it past a group of plucky nurses and continued his search. He took the stairs instead of the elevator and climbed a few flights before coming to the fifth floor. Rogers was close, his mind told him quietly.
He may have been a super solider, but he was still prone to life-threatening injuries and needed time to recover. Hopefully, he wouldn't be in the emergency room or surgery or anywhere else other than his room. Hopefully.
His metal hand pushed open the hospital room door slowly, waiting for the low groan of protest coming from the door hinge. On silent footsteps he crept over to Rogers' beside, confirming that he was alone. He looked smaller than usual in the bed. Asleep, but with even breaths and a steady pulse. He looked paler, too, but that wasn't a cause for too much worry in comparison to the broken ribs and nose. (Among other things)
He wanted to call out Rogers' name—Steve—but he restrained himself. He couldn't have the man wake up to see a deadly assassin two feet away from him.
Instead, he bit back the words and allowed himself to be selfish by brushing a strand of blond hair from out of his face. It was still as soft as he remembered. It seemed like a lifetime ago—being able to be close to one another without being under the guise of being enemies. A lifetime ago they were just two boys from Brooklyn, growing up on the streets together.
"Bucky! Hang on! Grab my hand!"
He stumbled back, nearly running into the wall. He could feel the chill of the wind and snow; he could hear the blaring of the train against the tracks. He couldn't relive that again.
Not now, not ever.
With one last look behind him over at Steve, he once again popped the window open and slipped back into the night—unnoticed and unheard.