Time Dilation - One (1/?)
No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
***
Slow, creeping but constant, continuous, sinuous, a pulse in the background, measured and then elevated and then sluggish once more, and gradually it comes back before vanishing, only to sneak up yet again and then-he is a he. Again. Always. Never. It is a burial ground he is leaving, a minefield he is walking across. There are signs marking distances but no names, no landmarks. His to climb or fall, his choice, will, and he is a he. He is here, and he decides. He says:
***
Lies. Betrayal. These are what sit low in his gut. Anger is what he wants, but hurt is what comes. Shame and guilt trudge in soon after, at the museum, among strangers gawking and pointing. He reads in English the brave and noble deeds of Steve Rogers and his company of soldiers, and it is suffocating, a stone lodged in his throat, a weight lashed to his back. So many people here, so many there behind him. He is a he, and they stand and sit and lie in pieces around him, dismembered if that were the order, snuffed out from a distance most often, stabbed and strangled and beaten. This is his placard, his list of accomplishments, his legacy. He is a he, and he is the Winter Soldier.
No choice. No, no say in the where's and when's and who's, but his hand on the trigger, the knife, the garrote, his fist, his hand, his hand? Their hand, their arm, their fist. Hydra and commanders and orders, and he carried them out. He carries the weight, on his back, in his head, with their arm, carries it to shore and leaves.
Desperation isn't something the Winter Soldier's experienced, not and kept alive in his mind after the mission's over. Failure isn't something the Winter Soldier's experienced either though, not before Steve Rogers.
Humiliated is what he feels now, reading in English about these heroes and recognizing-recognizing the truth of everything. He is a he, and he is stupid and gullible, naïve. He had known, not believed or accepted; the Winter Soldier had known.
He is, and he isn't. Here he is, and there he was, back there, back then, and now he's nowhere and no one, not James Barnes to Steve Rogers, not the Winter Soldier to Department X or the asset to Hydra. He's here, now, standing and walking and reading and thinking, but who is it really? Who is this? Who? He is a he, a him, a man. He is-nothing, empty but for his stone, his weight. He drags when he moves.
Ceiling overhead and then sky, clouds gathering. He sits on a stone bench and watches and doesn't think.
"Is this seat taken?" Steve Rogers later asks him, when the clouds are still drifting above but the moon shines down.
He is shaking his head 'no' in answer, as the water reflects the sky, as Steve Rogers sits down a foot to his right, as the world and time move independently of him once more. He is shaking, all but their arm, his arm, theirs and the Winter Soldier's, and Steve Rogers is looking at him.
Shame. Betrayal. Guilt. But there is the anger, too. There is the determination. This man is full to the brim with feeling, purpose, weights on his feet and arms and stones all over, but he moves so easily.
"Jesus, Bucky," says Steve Rogers.
"There's nothing," he says.
"What?" asks Steve Rogers, hurried and concerned.
"Nothing," he repeats. He turns and looks and says, "There's nothing here." He slowly reaches up and taps his chest, his own, his body and theirs and nothing at all. It's an empty sound, a dull thud, metal on fabric and skin and bone and not a person at all.
Rogers is confused, worried, and still angry and doing nothing to hide it.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rogers eventually bites out.
He knows, and he knows like the Winter Soldier had, like James Barnes knew, that antagonism often serves as cover for fear, and Steve Rogers is a terrible liar.
"You're a terrible liar," he says, looking away, back up to the sky.
Rogers makes a noise, frustration and disbelief and amusement.
"You're the second person to tell me that this week," Rogers says, still staring, studying, searching. Clouds and water and a man jogging past them, people and cars in the distance, and then minutes later Steve Rogers drops his head down and his breathing changes. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do here, Buck," Rogers says.
Hurt. Pain. Desperation.
This is not the Winter Soldier or James Barnes; it's just him, what's here now, what's left. It is he who closes his eyes before saying to Steve Rogers, "Nothing to do. Nothing to prove."
Rogers' head jerks up. He can feel it. Rogers' breathing speeds up, and that too he can feel and hear. It's there, the emotion coming from this man, almost tangible, perfectly visible, a transparent coating over his every movement and word. Rogers is bursting with feeling, and it's for-
"Bucky?" Rogers asks, insistently. It's a whisper, a disbelieving shout, a gloomy sigh, a grimace, terrified yell, and laughing wheeze. Everything is there in Rogers' voice and face, and he is a he once more, for now, and he is sitting here on this bench, and it is his choice. He walks and reads and thinks, and he talks.
He is here, and he decides. He says:
He says, "Shut up and enjoy the breeze, Steve," keeping his eyes shut, his face upturned.
***
Slow, creeping but constant, continuous, sinuous, a pulse in the background, measured and then elevated and then sluggish once more, and gradually it comes back before vanishing, only to sneak up yet again and then-he is a he. Again. Always. Never. It is a burial ground he is leaving, a minefield he is walking across. There are signs marking distances but no names, no landmarks. His to climb or fall, his choice, will, and he is a he. He is here, and he decides. He says:
***
Lies. Betrayal. These are what sit low in his gut. Anger is what he wants, but hurt is what comes. Shame and guilt trudge in soon after, at the museum, among strangers gawking and pointing. He reads in English the brave and noble deeds of Steve Rogers and his company of soldiers, and it is suffocating, a stone lodged in his throat, a weight lashed to his back. So many people here, so many there behind him. He is a he, and they stand and sit and lie in pieces around him, dismembered if that were the order, snuffed out from a distance most often, stabbed and strangled and beaten. This is his placard, his list of accomplishments, his legacy. He is a he, and he is the Winter Soldier.
No choice. No, no say in the where's and when's and who's, but his hand on the trigger, the knife, the garrote, his fist, his hand, his hand? Their hand, their arm, their fist. Hydra and commanders and orders, and he carried them out. He carries the weight, on his back, in his head, with their arm, carries it to shore and leaves.
Desperation isn't something the Winter Soldier's experienced, not and kept alive in his mind after the mission's over. Failure isn't something the Winter Soldier's experienced either though, not before Steve Rogers.
Humiliated is what he feels now, reading in English about these heroes and recognizing-recognizing the truth of everything. He is a he, and he is stupid and gullible, naïve. He had known, not believed or accepted; the Winter Soldier had known.
He is, and he isn't. Here he is, and there he was, back there, back then, and now he's nowhere and no one, not James Barnes to Steve Rogers, not the Winter Soldier to Department X or the asset to Hydra. He's here, now, standing and walking and reading and thinking, but who is it really? Who is this? Who? He is a he, a him, a man. He is-nothing, empty but for his stone, his weight. He drags when he moves.
Ceiling overhead and then sky, clouds gathering. He sits on a stone bench and watches and doesn't think.
"Is this seat taken?" Steve Rogers later asks him, when the clouds are still drifting above but the moon shines down.
He is shaking his head 'no' in answer, as the water reflects the sky, as Steve Rogers sits down a foot to his right, as the world and time move independently of him once more. He is shaking, all but their arm, his arm, theirs and the Winter Soldier's, and Steve Rogers is looking at him.
Shame. Betrayal. Guilt. But there is the anger, too. There is the determination. This man is full to the brim with feeling, purpose, weights on his feet and arms and stones all over, but he moves so easily.
"Jesus, Bucky," says Steve Rogers.
"There's nothing," he says.
"What?" asks Steve Rogers, hurried and concerned.
"Nothing," he repeats. He turns and looks and says, "There's nothing here." He slowly reaches up and taps his chest, his own, his body and theirs and nothing at all. It's an empty sound, a dull thud, metal on fabric and skin and bone and not a person at all.
Rogers is confused, worried, and still angry and doing nothing to hide it.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rogers eventually bites out.
He knows, and he knows like the Winter Soldier had, like James Barnes knew, that antagonism often serves as cover for fear, and Steve Rogers is a terrible liar.
"You're a terrible liar," he says, looking away, back up to the sky.
Rogers makes a noise, frustration and disbelief and amusement.
"You're the second person to tell me that this week," Rogers says, still staring, studying, searching. Clouds and water and a man jogging past them, people and cars in the distance, and then minutes later Steve Rogers drops his head down and his breathing changes. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do here, Buck," Rogers says.
Hurt. Pain. Desperation.
This is not the Winter Soldier or James Barnes; it's just him, what's here now, what's left. It is he who closes his eyes before saying to Steve Rogers, "Nothing to do. Nothing to prove."
Rogers' head jerks up. He can feel it. Rogers' breathing speeds up, and that too he can feel and hear. It's there, the emotion coming from this man, almost tangible, perfectly visible, a transparent coating over his every movement and word. Rogers is bursting with feeling, and it's for-
"Bucky?" Rogers asks, insistently. It's a whisper, a disbelieving shout, a gloomy sigh, a grimace, terrified yell, and laughing wheeze. Everything is there in Rogers' voice and face, and he is a he once more, for now, and he is sitting here on this bench, and it is his choice. He walks and reads and thinks, and he talks.
He is here, and he decides. He says:
He says, "Shut up and enjoy the breeze, Steve," keeping his eyes shut, his face upturned.