For worldwar

[disassembling]

Who: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
When: Ant-Man Teaser Ending (1.5 years post TWS?)
What: Steve and Sam find the Winter Soldier practising bondage poorly. No, I mean... the Winter Soldier lets himself be found.
Warnings: Emotional Train-wreck


Tick-tock. Four-hundred and ninety-two days post assignment desertion. It was approximately oh-ten-hundred, though after being stuck as he was for the last four days, it was difficult to tell the time of day as anything passed when it was light and when it was dark. He had purposefully not brought any supplies with him save a bit of water but even then, he had nursed it only enough to not cause damage to himself internally.

His metal fingers flexed, the servos sliding perfectly despite being trapped as they were, protected by the metal plates that were not so easily damaged by old machinery. He shifted his weight on his feet, unable to sit down, unwilling to stand up, which left him in a permanent crouch to sitting quietly on a metal box that had no doubt at one time housed tools. Now it allowed him momentary rest, but the discomfort of his position made it difficult to actually sleep longer than a few minutes.

That was the way he had planned the entire mission. After four-hundred and ninety-two days, he only had a plea for help available. The pressure was too much, building more and more in his head, crowding out the need to survive with the need to take orders, to return to what he knew, to let the programming slowly click into place. He was tired of fighting it; there was less fight in him now, more readiness to just sag in the restraint and let his body fade down to something reasonable, manageable, less a threat. He intended it this way, starving, dehydrated, a lack of sleep, his confused assortment of emotions brimming near the surface.

They had come just as intended. He shifted, peering through his bangs at the pair who he knew had been haunting after him for the entire time he had been avoiding it. He hadn't been ready. Now he was perhaps more ready but still very much a danger to them both, something that he now could consciously avoid by restraining himself. He had purposefully damaged the machine after all, forced its weight on his arm with no easy hand-holds to remove it. He was stuck so there was no going back.

His lips parted, breathing in air that way and then he settled as still as his cramped body would allow him. They would get help, he knew. It was that or remove the arm. He doubted the latter option was one that either of them intended to use. He waited, watching silently, drinking in the sight of them both but particularly Steve. The man looked shut down, like the weight of the world had finally bent those shoulders.

Finally. They were both ready. Both contained and shut down for their own protection. It was time.

Comments

[worldwar]

He stared at that machine, a relic that could have come straight out of the war, could have been used to mold propeller blades or the casings of tank artillery; Steve might have found himself in a factory leveraging its impossible weight over and over again in service of his country, if he hadn't been given the serum. Sometimes he wishes he hadn't. Sometimes he wishes the serum had never been invented, that it had only ever existed a dream in the back of Erskine's mind: look at the uses it had been put to over the annals of history.

His gaze shifted from the gleaming arm clamped under the vice, up the bicep and shoulder concealed beneath a ragged shirt sleeve to the hollow eyes that stared back at him from beneath dark strands of hair. He saw Bucky's lips move, though whether he was mouthing words or only taking in air, Steve wasn't sure. Sam was talking and Steve heard every word, answered him as competently as a veteran soldier, as a commander used to dealing with a crisis, but he felt as though it was all very far away, like words came and went as distorted and disconnected as though they were passing through water. Sam was going to get help. He knew someone who could do something for Bucky, who could fix at least one part of the damage that had been done to him, and Steve nodded assent, aware this meant Sam would have to leave them alone. He would stay, of course. He would stay beside Bucky no matter what. He looked at his best friend, weakened and wasted, slumped exhausted next to that machine as though he'd been trapped in it for days, and he knew that Bucky had put himself here deliberately, offered himself like this. It was a surrender.

Then Sam was gone, and Steve came closer, feeling as though the weight of that machine was sitting on his back, crushing down his lungs. He hadn't felt like this since he was small. This inability to breathe.

There was some water in a plastic bottle at Bucky's feet, almost empty; somehow Steve doubted it had been very full in the first place. He reached for it, cataloguing every motion, keeping his eyes on Bucky's face. Opened the cap and brought it to his friend's lips, brushing his jaw with careful fingertips. "Come on," Steve told him, tipping it gradually so that the water slid towards his mouth.