Soundless Imaginings | One-Shots

Haunted, Hunted | One Piece AU

What we have here is a genuine Captain America: The Winter Solider AU with Timor cast as the Winter Solider/Bucky Barnes, and our lovely little spitfire Raya as Captain America/Steve Rogers. They don't parallel their counterparts perfectly, but hell, I thought this up the other day and I just had to write something for it. Be a crying shame if I didn't, in my opinion, because Timor just fits the character of traumatized brainwashed Bucky so fucking well. Anyway, here ya go, please enjoy. Also I've been reading a lot of Stucky fanfiction (most of which is from Bucky/The Winter Soldier's POV) so bear with me, please. 

And if Captain America's not your thing, and you've no idea what the hell this is, well... uh. Sorry? 

By the way, going for purely platonic here, despite my shipping of the original characters. Can't for the life of me envision Timor and Raya dating. Honestly I can't see Raya with anyone besides Zoro, but, eh, whatever. Wow I'm taking up way too much space with this message, let's just get to my short little one-shot. 

it's a long and wicked road to redemption, too bloody for most, and you're only at the start of it

The asset stares at his hands like reading the lines of his palms will somehow reveal to him how to unravel the twisted nest of brambles his mind has become since he dragged the girl from the sea. Since he disobeyed orders and let her live. Since she screamed his name -- no, you don't have a name, you are a weapon, a monster, molded and rebuilt only to destroy, machines don't have anything as intimate as names.

A weapon. A monster. A ghost.

Nameless. As he should be.

So why did that girl call him -- call him Timor? Like she knew him. 

The asset is soaked to the bone, heavy and cumbersome in sodden clothing, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping onto his shoulders. His hands he still holds aloft, studying them, brow wrinkled with dawning confusion. He isn't used to this, to being baffled. Every time they've brought him out the ice, he's been briefed on the exact parameters of his mission, given precisely the right tools accomplish the task. And even if that somehow fails him, he has years of training, years of experience to draw upon, so that he's able to assess the situation and deal with it accordingly no matter his circumstances.

He is not, however, equipped to deal with this particular problem:

"Timor! You know me, you asshole, you know I can't fucking-- I can't hurt you, I won't!"

"I don't know you."
"Fuck's sake, yes you do! We, god, we were on the same crew together! You were my first mate! And I thought..."

"I don't know you--"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Timor, like hell you could forget me. What did they do to you that you're like this? God, I'm going to kill them for this, they fucking--"
"Shut up!"

The girl, wearing a mask of blooming bruises (that he put there, he remembers suddenly) and dribbling blood from the corner of her mouth, holds his gaze, even through a blackening eye. He doesn't understand the crooked smile curving her lips, or the maddening warmth behind her morganite eyes. She's smiling at Death incarnate, at a machine, a nightmare -- and she looks like she's enjoying herself. She's looking at him like he's God's gift to her, delivered on a silver platter and wrapped up in a neat little bow.

He's seen her flames before, once, when he initially sought to complete his mission on that southern island. She hadn't said anything to him, then, not at first; no, at first they'd brawled, traded blows, felt out weak points. She'd kicked fire at him then, charred the front of his tactical suit before he caught on and kept his distance. He hadn't known the extent of her abilities because the Flynn D. Raya that had supposedly died at Marineford hadn't mastered her devil fruit; she'd obviously changed since returning from the land of the dead, wherever that had been. She'd put up an actual fight, walling him in with crackling flames and nearly succeeding in incapacitating him. As it was, she only managed to dislodge his mask, and then -- she'd stopped.
Stopped with arms limp at her sides, her expression brittle and unreadable. He'd drawn back, observing her, waiting for the opportune time to strike, to counter. But she remained still and motionless, her gaze locked on his. And she'd whispered, "Timor?"