[I]

[onlyforthedream]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, although I also know it can’t be possible. Or shouldn't be, at the very least

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[onlyapassenger]

Wind is whipping through my hair and past my ears, nearly drowning out the din around me: the rumble of the motorcycle, the roar of the plane, the crash of the water below. All I see, though, is army green. My eyes are locked on someone's back. My arms are wrapped around their waist... And I'd say I don't remember when I put them there, but that's a lie. I know exactly where I am, and who I'm with...

I just don't remember when I fell asleep... And judging by the fact that I can feel my left arm, my best guess is I didn't. This is actually happening, inasmuch as whatever sick S.O.B. sent me here can make it happen.

The question is if I'm alone... Or if Steve remembers where we ought to be, too."Cap!" Bucky shouts, voice already raw though he knows the true horror's only just begun, if this is anything like Russia. He tears his gaze upwards, catching only a glimpse of Steve's face before his attention is quickly diverted towards the plane, his body already moving through the motions it's done countless times before in every nightmare

[onlyforthedream]

The lurch of panic, of adrenaline and fear and dread that those words generate is as disorienting as the rest of it. This can’t happen again. I cannot let this happen again, but instead of stopping, instead of doing anything right, I grip the throttle tighter like it’s a damn life line and shout into the wind, “Bucky! Wait!”

[onlyapassenger]

The motorcycle drops out from underneath them when it reaches the cliff's edge, falling down, down, down into the water that will soon become their temporary grave. It's a simple matter of physics that sees them propelled through the air, but in the moment -- past or present, he isn’t sure -- Bucky's convinced it's sheer adrenaline. He hits the plane with enough force to knock him breathless, his left hand finding purchase on the fuselage, while his right arm rests flat on the wing.

"Got it!"

[onlyforthedream]

God help me, he’s going for it. Maybe it is a dream. Maybe it has to be. Doesn’t it have to be? A nightmare. I feel the rounded metal edge of the wing slam against my ribs, my fingers scrabble for purchase against the seams of the metal sheets and find- nothing.

“Wait!” I yell, pushing past the pain in my stomach, ignoring that the wind should have been knocked out of me. I can’t afford to have had the wind knocked out of me. I have to warn him. It’s probably-

“It’s probably booby trapped!”

I can’t find a place to get a grip. I feel myself slipping backward and fight against it, straining to reach farther up and can’t, can’t get any ground back.

Oh, God.