Tag Dump .

requested by @livingincolorsagain insp

Bonus:

it was difficult to hear her utter the same questions and uncertainty that plagued his every thought since regaining some semblance of identity. how often had he asked himself the same question? pondered the same inevitability of disbelief and raw undiluted regret and guilt and pain? he felt not unlike the blind leading the blind. hopelessly underprepared and praying she didn't notice.

❝ make something new. ❞ he knew he would never be the same man that he once was. he remembered how the war had changed him. hardened him, made him callous and vindictive. unapologetic in his fury. and his time as hydra's weapon, their personal attack dog, had left him haunted and broken. he could never go back to how he had been before all the blood and violence, but maybe he could forge a new version of himself that wasn't so . . . lost. the same had to be said for her as well.

i want to believe you, she said. he wouldn't tell her that he wanted to believe him too. bucky offered her a half smile when she said pancakes, nodding in agreement as he glanced down at the menu. ❝ i'm more of a waffle guy. ❞

kara curled her fingers around the warmth of the coffee cup,  as if it could bleed into her,  as if it could thaw something frozen deep in her ribs.  she turned his words over in her mind — fail,  try again,  fail again —  &  felt the weight of them settle into the hollow spaces she didn’t like to name.   

❝i don’t know if i believe that,❞ she admitted,  voice quiet,  shaped from something raw  &  uncertain.  ❝coming back implies there’s something left to come back to.❞ she traced the rim of her mug with the pad of her thumb,  eyes fixed on the way the steam curled upward  &  disappeared.  ❝what if there isn’t?❞

the thought lodged itself in her chest,  thorned  &  bitter.  she didn’t look at him,  not yet.  instead,  she listened to the quiet,  to the sound of the world continuing without her permission — the scrape of a knife against toast,  the low murmur of a conversation she wasn’t a part of,  the distant hum of a jukebox playing a song no one was listening to.  a place that didn’t need her.  a life that had gone on without her.

 &  yet,  she was still here.  still breathing,  still speaking,  still wanting — god,  wanting.  something to hold on to,  something to tether her to the world,  something that made all the blood  &  ruin  &  loss mean something.  she had never known how to exist without purpose,  without someone else dictating her movements,  her thoughts,  her very identity.  without that,  what was she?  

her fingers flexed,  released.  a breath in,  a breath out.  ❝i want to believe you. ❞ the words weren’t quite hope,  not yet,  but they weren’t despair either.  maybe that was enough.  maybe wanting was the beginning of something that could be real.  ❝ … pancakes. ❞ it was a start.

he watched her as she studied him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind. bucky couldn't be certain what it was that she saw when she looked at him but she looked at him like he had the answer to an unspoken question. maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. the blood at their feet was already beginning to set, thick and dark, and it would stay there for a while longer but eventually, it would disappear as all unclean things did.

bucky nodded, stepped past her and over the body, out of the shadows and into the cold, neon-lit street. he led the way out of the crime scene, keeping a casual pace and walking through side streets and back alleys as if it were second nature. they walked for a long time before his destination came into view.

the diner was nothing special—chrome-rimmed stools, and faded vinyl booths—it smelled like burnt coffee and cheap bacon grease, but bucky liked it for the same reason most people overlooked it: it was steady. real. a pocket of normal.

he slid into a booth near the window with a clear line of sight to the front and rear entrances. ❝ what d'you see? ❞ bucky asked when she joined him, nodding to their surroundings with an expectant glance.

kara exhaled slowly,  watching the blood spread into the cracks of the concrete like veins beneath fractured skin.  it would dry,  flake away,  be washed into the gutters until only the memory of it remained.  but the act — the choice — would linger,  another mark upon a soul already worn thin.  she had spent years telling herself that she was beyond redemption,  that the things she had done,  the things that had been done to her,  had calcified into something immovable.  but then bucky spoke,   &  the certainty wavered,  just slightly,  just enough to let in the smallest sliver of something else.  try.   

she turned her gaze to him,  searching for something she wasn’t sure she would recognize.  he knew — knew what it was to be made into something unrecognizable,  to wake up in the ruins of a life he could barely call his own.   &  yet,  he stood before her,  not unbroken,  but whole in a way she had never believed possible for herself.  if he could come back from it,  then maybe — maybe — she could too.  the thought was terrifying in its own way.  it was easier to be a blade,  a weapon with no need for softness,  no need for hope.  but hope,  she realized,  had already taken root the moment she had let him pull the gun from her hands.   

her fingers curled into fists,  then released.  there was no erasing what had been done,  no undoing the ghosts she carried,  but perhaps there was more than just this.  more than the endless cycle of blood  &  consequence.  when she spoke,  her voice was quiet,  but steady.  ❝then let’s start. ❞ not surrender,  not absolution — but a step.   &  for now,  that was enough. 

the detective flipped through a notepad, a stalling tactic no doubt meant to make him nervous enough to slip up. james murphy, you said? they asked while staring down at the drivers license he'd provided. bucky neither confirmed or denied, only waited. he could've stood there all night while they poked and prodded, but he didn't have to.

[ ALIBI ]: the sender provides a false alibi to protect the receiver from legal issues.

steve fell into position at his side and the detective nearest him shifted instinctively. he was with me last night, steve lied. the detective studied steve for a beat before flicking a glance back to bucky to reassess. he'd been an unknown before, an enigmatic question mark but now, standing next to captain america, that question mark became something else entirely—something that didn't fit neatly into whatever theory they had been building about the gunfire fight down at the docks.

❝ we played cards, had a few drinks. ❞ bucky added smoothly. // @sh1elded , right place prompts .

❝ it never does, ❞ he said. he had been here before. the emptiness, the obsessive need to set the world right, to avenge himself and all those he'd been forced to hurt, forced to kill. but there was no setting it right, no making things the way they had been before. there was just this : the dissatisfaction of a trigger pulled and that hollow nothing only growing wider.

he ached at seeing that same emptiness reflected back at him. wished he could take it all into himself, unburden her of the injustice and wipe her slate clean again. but that was only his ego talking. tell me it gets easier, the words dug the knife deeper. no sooner had she said it, kara tried quickly to deflect it. cover up the moment of vulnerability with the carefully trained operative leaping from one objective to the other.

bucky stopped her, gloved hand raised to keep her where she was. standing over a body, standing in front of possibly the only man left who could understand what she was going through. ❝ but it does get easier, ❞ he said, expression hard as he tried to reach out, tried to be more than the ghost hydra had made of him. ❝ but not like this. stopping people like him, it's easy . . . but it's not enough. we need to . . . help people. make it so their faces are clearer than the ones we hurt. ❞

the weight in her hands was gone,  but it hadn’t left her.  the cold press of metal had burned itself into her skin,  into her bones,  just another ghost among the many she carried.  the body slumped against the wall wasn’t the first,  wouldn’t be the last,   &  yet — for a fleeting second — she had let herself believe this one might mean something.  that this act might carve out a sliver of silence in the relentless noise of her mind.  but there was no quiet.  just the same gnawing emptiness.  ❝it should have felt like justice, ❞ she murmured,  voice devoid of triumph.  ❝but it doesn’t feel like anything at all. ❞

she exhaled,  slow  &  measured,  as if she could breathe the moment away.  the tremor in her fingers betrayed her,  though not from fear.  fear had been stripped from her long ago,  torn out  &  rewritten into something colder.  something sharp.   &  yet,  as her gaze flickered to bucky’s outstretched hand,  to the space where the gun had been,  she felt the weight of his silence.  heavy.  understanding.  like he had already seen the road she was walking  &  knew exactly where it led.  ❝tell me it gets easier,❞ she said,  though she already knew the answer.   

but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.  not yet.  instead,  she let her hands fall to her sides,  fingers curling into fists as she looked away.  the blood on the concrete would dry.  the body would be removed.   &  she would keep moving forward because there was no other choice.  ❝let’s go, ❞ she said finally,  voice quiet,  resolute.  ❝before i start thinking about it too much. ❞

she was a walking, talking contradiction. all softened edges and harmless eyes, but the way she said they, as if she wasn't tethered to them, like she wasn't still reading from a script handed to her in some cold room lined with glass and clipped words and invisible chains, and always with that look—like she knew him. like she understood.

❝ they never are. ❞ he said dryly. he'd lived through countless conflicts and they were always the same. led by men and women with too much power sending other people to die so they can get more. ❝ you can tell whoever sent you here, i'm not done either. ❞

he watched her watch him, two oposing forces pushing and pulling against each other. whoever she really was, and whoever she really worked for, bucky didn't think it mattered in the long run. ❝ you say you're not here for a weapon, but you talk like you're taking inventory. ❞ the bracelet. the carefully measured breath. the way she looked away right before the real line—i don't want to be next. that was the hook. the hunted always made the best bait. ❝ if that's true, what's stopping you from taking care of the problem yourself? ❞

clea didn’t flinch.  the edge in his voice didn’t faze her;  it was familiar,  expected.  she'd read the file,  sure — but it was the man in front of her she’d come to see,  not the myth.  the myth didn’t smirk like that.  the myth didn’t ask the real questions.  she leaned back,  slow  &  deliberate,  the corner of her mouth tilting just slightly — not a smile,  not exactly.  something more like recognition. 

❝of course you could walk out, ❞ she said easily,  her tone light,  but not dismissive.  ❝ &  they know it,  too.  that’s why they sent me instead of someone with a badge  &  a speech about cooperation.❞ her fingers brushed the bracelet at her wrist again,  idle,  thoughtful.  ❝they,❞ she echoed,  with the faintest lift of a brow,  ❝are like the ones you already suspect.  the ones who like their monsters behind glass.  same people who tried to own you,  rewrite you,  leash you.  they're not finished.❞

her gaze held his,  steady,  even as her voice softened,  dipped just enough to shift the rhythm of the room.  ❝&  no,  i don’t need you to kill anyone.  or topple anything.❞ she paused,  letting that land.  ❝i’m not looking for a weapon. ❞ another breath.  ❝i’m looking for someone who understands what it means when the wrong people start collecting ghosts like us. ❞ she looked away,  briefly,  as if it cost her something to say it out loud.  ❝you want to know what’s in it for me?❞ her eyes returned to his,  sharper now,  more honest.  ❝let’s just say … i don’t want to be next. ❞

he'd seen cold before, brooklyn in january, the hudson iced over, boots soaked through with slush, hands stuffed into too-thin coat pockets. but this wasn't just cold. it was something meaner. it gnawed at the edges of a man, not content to freeze him but intent on hollowing him out from the inside. his nose was already raw, bright and angry form the constant drag of his sleeve across it, and his fingers had gone stiff hours ago, turning a ruddy pink that throbbed beneath layers of blood and dirt. even the gloves he'd scrounged up from a dead german didn't do much more than hold the cold in place.

bucky's mouth twisted into something caught between a grin and a grimace. eugene looked about as good as bucky felt. eyes sunken, lashes rimmed with frost, lips cracked. red nose, red hands. dirt and blood both clinging to him like a second skin, and still, he managed to toss that dry wit like it was nothing heavier than a smirk. ❝ can't blame a guy for trying, ❞ he said, stepping in closer. the pews were gone. cots now lined the nave filled with the wounded, the sick, the dying. it stank of blood, sweat, and desperation.

❝ no morphine, just a bullet with a nazi's name on it . . . and this, ❞ he dug into his pocket, came up with a half-eaten bar of chocolate, and slapped it gently into the good doctor's palm. his fingers lingered a second longer than they needed to—maybe for warmth, maybe because he hadn't touched another human being that wasn't screaming in what felt like years. then bucky stepped back, squinting when eugene spoke around his cigarette and chattering teeth. in war, morphine made you the wealthiest man on the battlefield.

❝ i'll ask around and keep an eye out, ❞ bucky said, ❝ word is we'll be heading out before sunrise. maybe i'll get lucky. what else you need? ❞

nose is poised in the center of face, a bright shade of red, skin angry from the continual rub of sleeve to combat the persistent sniffling that lingers in a climate only growing colder. his hands are the same way, dusted with a shade of pink that cannot be avoided, darkened only by dirt and blood encrusted beneath nails and in cuticles. fingers are stiff as they work to roll scrapped sheets collected from the village nearby that had turned their church into a place for the wounded ... and while their supplies weren't much more generous than the dwindling stock of the other men, he wasn't one to complain.

besides, anything was better than nothing at this point; torn sheets, scrapped linens, medical supplies picked off surrendered germans - long as it did the job.

x ❚❙❘ how about a kiss before i go ?

❛ ah, sergeant barnes, 'fraid i'm all outta those. ❜ he shifts stare out toward @wintrb0rn from beneath the wide-mouthed brim of well-worn helmet. tired eyes & doe-lashes set idle on the other man as if he isn't damn near freezing and plenty in need of a good night's rest ( a good year's rest at this point ). the humor isn't lost on him, he welcomes it's chattering nature with a sort of fondness. when men were laughing, they sure as hell weren't screaming - a trade-off he'd give up damn near anything for all things considered. stained sleeve rises, it wraps tight in his fingers, hot breath blooms around the corners of mouth as he wipes at flesh before fingers move on to seeking the comfort of lucky strike poised behind ear.

❛ outta an awful lot of things, actually. ❜ cigarette roles between frigid figures; he hangs it betwixt lips, paper clamped lose between teeth. sure doesn't make him easier to understand, not that such seems to impede most of the men he works beside in making out what he's saying. ❛ you bring me some morphine, and maybe i'll find a spare. ❜

❝ then i'm not saying it right, ❞ bucky mumbled, because what he was asking her to do was the hardest thing he'd ever attempted. coming back from a lifetime of war, blood, pain, and violence was a constant work in progress and most of the time he felt as if he were performing for some invisible judge, jury, and executioner. ❝ it's not easy. it's the hardest thing you'll ever do. you'll fail, you'll try again, you'll fail again. ❞

bucky turned the mug of coffee absently in his hand. watched the steam rise from the surface and tried not to lose himself in the ordinariness of the motion. he didn't look at her when she asked about him, instead, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. truth be told, he tried not to think about it.

❝ i don't know, ❞ he said finally, ❝ but i believe it matters that we try. ❞ he nursed his jaw for several short seconds before he met her eye again, ❝ i don't have all the answers. i'm making this up as i go, but i do know this: you're not too far gone that you can't come back, kara. ❞

kara let the silence stretch between them,  let it settle around her like a weighted blanket,  unfamiliar but not unwelcome.  no history.  no past.  just now.   she traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip,  watching the way the steam curled  &  disappeared.  ❝you make it sound easy. ❞ the words weren’t an accusation,  just an observation.  she wondered if he really believed it — that the weight of the past could be shrugged off so cleanly,  left outside like a coat too heavy for summer air.   

her fingers flexed against the ceramic.  ❝maybe it is.  for some people. ❞ she glanced around,  watching the other patrons — people who belonged here in a way she never could.  the man at the counter flipping through a newspaper,  the couple sharing a plate of fries,  the waitress moving through it all like she had done this a thousand times before  &  would do it a thousand times again.  ❝i don’t know if i can be one of them. ❞  but she wanted to be.  what she wasn’t sure of was what she wanted from him.  reassurance? permission? maybe just the chance to sit here  &  pretend,  for a moment,  that she belonged.   

the waitress set a menu down in front of her with an absent smile,   &  kara nodded her thanks.  the gesture felt small but significant.  normal.  she wrapped her hands around the warmth of the coffee cup,  inhaling the scent of something burnt  &  bitter  &  real.  she looked up at bucky again.  ❝&  what about you?❞ her voice was quieter now,  but steady.  ❝do you believe that? that we can just …  exist?❞  her gaze shifted from him. ❝ do you think we can ever have … more? ❞

tag dump .

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it was a jarring thing to be seen. she was looking at him the same way people looked at a wreckage after the smoke cleared. not horrified. not curious. just . . . seeing it for what it was. he'd spent years perfecting the art of being unreadable, it was strange to have her open him up to the right page so quickly. he didn't flinch, but his gaze flicked—just once—to the window beside her, tracking nothing. an old habit. ghosts didn't show up in glass, but that didn't mean they weren't watching.

❝ i had to relearn everything, ❞ he said, voice low and worn. he wasn't talking about muscle memory, knives, guns, languages that came back faster than his own name, those things were easy. but other things. how to sit without waiting for orders. how to want something without being punished for it. how to tell if he liked or disliked something and making decisions based on that instead of necessity. now drinking shitty coffee in an aging diner and remembering how to talk to people who weren't trying to kill him was a victory.

❝ simple life isn't so simple for people like us, ❞ bucky said, ❝ but it's a start. ❞

kara watched him,  really watched him,   &  for the first time since stepping into that diner,  she saw it — the same war-torn silence beneath his words that echoed inside her.  he wore his survival like old armor,  battered  &  ill-fitting,  but familiar.  the kind that didn’t protect you from everything,  just enough to keep moving forward.  she’d been so focused on her own fracture that she hadn’t remembered he had the same cracks mirrored in him.  different names,  different ghosts,  but the same kind of ruin.  the kind that teaches you to doubt your hunger,  your wants,  your worth. 

she looked down at her hands,  then back up at him,  quiet for a beat.  ❝you’ve had to relearn this too, ❞ she said softly,  not quite a question.  ❝all of it.❞  there was no accusation in her voice,  only recognition — a kind of dawning understanding that pulled the sharpness from her edges.  she hadn’t been alone in the dark after all.  he’d just learned how to live in it longer.   &  maybe that was what he was trying to teach her.  not how to escape it,  but how to carry light in the meantime.  a flicker.  a match struck against the inside of the ribcage. 

her fingers tightened around the mug.  ❝that’s why you brought me here. ❞ not to fix her.  not to promise something clean  &  untouched.  but to show her what survival looked like when it wasn’t being measured in missions or obedience.  to show her the messy,  ordinary way forward.  the healing that didn’t look like victory but like two people arguing about breakfast in a booth that smelled like grease  &  time.