So...the Winter Soldier.... 'Achilles, who would not live long' - gen
Guys, it's a little embarrassing how ga-ga I am for Bucky Barnes. And, to be honest, for Sebastian Stan. The man is fucking adorable. ANYWAY...some of you have probably seen the head-canon he posted about Bucky and his backpack (seen in the Civil War trailer....)
And it got me thinking, and so...to writing. So, here - a little under a thousand words about...all that.
*flails*
*Buckeeee*!!!
:)
On AO3
Of any world where promises were kept...''>
"In his backpack there are a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again ... He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty."
- Sebastian Stan
Title from The Shield of Achilles
by W.H. Auden
The first thing he writes is James Buchanan Barnes. He writes it over and over, mostly because he hopes if he gets it down on paper - gets it out where he can see it - it will stop repeating in his head. James. Buchanan. Barnes. Bucky. Over and over and over, dinning between his ears, making him wince and squeeze his eyes tight shut, while his fingers keep moving, pen keeps tracing the letters.
Until the pen snaps, and then there's that name, and that other name, and blobs and smears of blue ink, page ruined, ink sour and chemical on his tongue when he absently, unthinkingly, rubs his hand over his face. He goes to the sink, then, that's propped in the corner of the dingy room he's inhabiting, and washes his fingers and his face, staring at himself in the cracked, fly-spotted mirror.
Nothing stares back, just a jumble, just a ghost. Nothing about him real except the blood under his nails and the steel and circuitry thing hanging from his left shoulder. He stares until that hurts too much, and his fist lifts and pistons forward almost without thought, sending bright fragments of glass pattering down.
Then he goes back to the bed, the notebook, the broken pen.
Blood works as good as ink.
The second thing he writes is CL5-3928. Cloverdale five…. A phone number, he knows it is. He dials it, but there's just the whirr of a fast busy signal; disconnected, dead air, no connection. That feels like him, most of the time.
The third thing he writes is Steve, and then couch cushions and then piano wire and then garrote, thick neck, pinstripe suit, he had a pinky ring and a black mustache and his eyes were hazel and his nails were short and his feet kicked, his legs kicked out, there was mud on his shoes, it was raining, it was cold; Černošice, Czech Republic, 1979.
He throws the notebook across the room when he writes that, furious, breathing hard. The image of the wire sinking into the man's fat-rolled neck lingers, the guttural cough of his last breath shaking out of him, bubbling with blood as the wire sank and sank and sank....
He doesn't write anything for three days, after that, but things are churning and twisting in his brain: words and sounds, smells and sights, voices, screams, gunshots, laughter…. He can't stand the jumbled, whirling mess of it, the racket between his ears. So he goes and picks the notebook up, straightens the crumpled pages and the bent cover. He leaves a blank page between the dead Czech politician and his next words.
Flatbush, lemonade, feathers in the dirt, the light coming down in squares and slashes, through the trestle of the elevated train, dust and heat, smell of something dead, smell of something cooking, smell of wet dirt, smell of something sweet, screech of the brakes, horses hooves on pavement, baby crying and Steve's shoulder small and thin and warm and his shirt is dirty and his knee is bloody, his knees is bloody and his knuckles, and his face, his face, his face….
The words run out into violent slashes, pen-tip digging in and ripping the page. He flips the paper over and keeps writing, metal hand, (death hand), creeping up into his hair and twisting, pulling. He's rocking back and forth, hunched over the notebook, crammed down into the space between bed and wall, the floor gritty under his bare feet. His hand aches and cramps, and twilight sifts out into dim night, and his head is splitting, his eyes are dry, his belly is crying for food.
And finally, finally, he can stop, and put the paper and the pen aside; put on boots and drink water from the tap and go out in search of food. He leaves the notebook open on the windowsill, and the breeze coming in ruffles the pages.spun sugar snow white, snow gets in everywhere, like nails on your skin, like knives, blood like snow, scattering, no, blood is red, snow is white, snow is black, filthy with mud and blood and guts and bones, everything torn wide, incoming like the fist of god, in your ears, in your mouth …
Catania, 1962, breathing in exhaust, planes like silver whales, everything is so bright, so bright, the man with the glasses is climbing the stairs, climbing the sky, flying, falling, and who was he, why was he, the ice creeps in ...
cracked window, patched it with newspaper, glue from flour and water, that was dinner, but we can have apples, I brought home apples, red as blood …
spring in Portugal, chill breeze but buds on all the trees, clouds of pink, cotton candy pink, a man falling in a hotel lobby, blood in an arc like the wing of a bird, 1983 on the front page of the newspaper, and how, and how, and how is that, how am I, the world is turning without me seeing ...
that kid from St. Louis, tasted his blood, blood and snow, bones stink like burning sulfur, never get it out, that butcher block stink, that fermented rot, the ground sponges under your feet, snow makes it clean, snow and stone, ice-edge, ice in the vein, ice on my hands, oh god, please….
(Yes, I'm still working on 'Yesternight', promise....
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/190493.html - comment where you please!
And it got me thinking, and so...to writing. So, here - a little under a thousand words about...all that.
*flails*
*Buckeeee*!!!
:)
On AO3
Of any world where promises were kept...''>
"In his backpack there are a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again ... He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty."
- Sebastian Stan
Title from The Shield of Achilles
by W.H. Auden
The first thing he writes is James Buchanan Barnes. He writes it over and over, mostly because he hopes if he gets it down on paper - gets it out where he can see it - it will stop repeating in his head. James. Buchanan. Barnes. Bucky. Over and over and over, dinning between his ears, making him wince and squeeze his eyes tight shut, while his fingers keep moving, pen keeps tracing the letters.
Until the pen snaps, and then there's that name, and that other name, and blobs and smears of blue ink, page ruined, ink sour and chemical on his tongue when he absently, unthinkingly, rubs his hand over his face. He goes to the sink, then, that's propped in the corner of the dingy room he's inhabiting, and washes his fingers and his face, staring at himself in the cracked, fly-spotted mirror.
Nothing stares back, just a jumble, just a ghost. Nothing about him real except the blood under his nails and the steel and circuitry thing hanging from his left shoulder. He stares until that hurts too much, and his fist lifts and pistons forward almost without thought, sending bright fragments of glass pattering down.
Then he goes back to the bed, the notebook, the broken pen.
Blood works as good as ink.
The second thing he writes is CL5-3928. Cloverdale five…. A phone number, he knows it is. He dials it, but there's just the whirr of a fast busy signal; disconnected, dead air, no connection. That feels like him, most of the time.
The third thing he writes is Steve, and then couch cushions and then piano wire and then garrote, thick neck, pinstripe suit, he had a pinky ring and a black mustache and his eyes were hazel and his nails were short and his feet kicked, his legs kicked out, there was mud on his shoes, it was raining, it was cold; Černošice, Czech Republic, 1979.
He throws the notebook across the room when he writes that, furious, breathing hard. The image of the wire sinking into the man's fat-rolled neck lingers, the guttural cough of his last breath shaking out of him, bubbling with blood as the wire sank and sank and sank....
He doesn't write anything for three days, after that, but things are churning and twisting in his brain: words and sounds, smells and sights, voices, screams, gunshots, laughter…. He can't stand the jumbled, whirling mess of it, the racket between his ears. So he goes and picks the notebook up, straightens the crumpled pages and the bent cover. He leaves a blank page between the dead Czech politician and his next words.
Flatbush, lemonade, feathers in the dirt, the light coming down in squares and slashes, through the trestle of the elevated train, dust and heat, smell of something dead, smell of something cooking, smell of wet dirt, smell of something sweet, screech of the brakes, horses hooves on pavement, baby crying and Steve's shoulder small and thin and warm and his shirt is dirty and his knee is bloody, his knees is bloody and his knuckles, and his face, his face, his face….
The words run out into violent slashes, pen-tip digging in and ripping the page. He flips the paper over and keeps writing, metal hand, (death hand), creeping up into his hair and twisting, pulling. He's rocking back and forth, hunched over the notebook, crammed down into the space between bed and wall, the floor gritty under his bare feet. His hand aches and cramps, and twilight sifts out into dim night, and his head is splitting, his eyes are dry, his belly is crying for food.
And finally, finally, he can stop, and put the paper and the pen aside; put on boots and drink water from the tap and go out in search of food. He leaves the notebook open on the windowsill, and the breeze coming in ruffles the pages.spun sugar snow white, snow gets in everywhere, like nails on your skin, like knives, blood like snow, scattering, no, blood is red, snow is white, snow is black, filthy with mud and blood and guts and bones, everything torn wide, incoming like the fist of god, in your ears, in your mouth …
Catania, 1962, breathing in exhaust, planes like silver whales, everything is so bright, so bright, the man with the glasses is climbing the stairs, climbing the sky, flying, falling, and who was he, why was he, the ice creeps in ...
cracked window, patched it with newspaper, glue from flour and water, that was dinner, but we can have apples, I brought home apples, red as blood …
spring in Portugal, chill breeze but buds on all the trees, clouds of pink, cotton candy pink, a man falling in a hotel lobby, blood in an arc like the wing of a bird, 1983 on the front page of the newspaper, and how, and how, and how is that, how am I, the world is turning without me seeing ...
that kid from St. Louis, tasted his blood, blood and snow, bones stink like burning sulfur, never get it out, that butcher block stink, that fermented rot, the ground sponges under your feet, snow makes it clean, snow and stone, ice-edge, ice in the vein, ice on my hands, oh god, please….
(Yes, I'm still working on 'Yesternight', promise....
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/190493.html - comment where you please!