verb.
To fall back under pressure. To shrink back physically or emotionally.
noun.
The kickback of a gun upon firing.
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It takes a stubborn mind to cling to their humanity when the world seeks to strip it away.
It takes a desperate soul to reach f...
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A long, low sigh fell from Bucky's lips as he stood beneath the stream of scalding water, letting it run over his back as he braced both hands against the tiled wall of the shower. Beneath his feet, the water pooling around the drain resolutely retained an ominous shade of red. It was such a familiar sight, watered-down blood, starkly contrasting white porcelain. It wasn't often his though, but this time he was sure it was – scrubbing the other darkened stains from his hands was the first thing he had done upon stepping under the water. This was fresh, he must still have some stubborn open wound somewhere on his body. Something preventing his enhanced cells from knitting together in their usually rapid healing process. He couldn't quite bring himself to care.
For a moment, his eyes caught on the fractured reflection of his own features in the plates of his left arm, prompting his lips to curl into a grimace as he looked away quickly.
He could hardly bear to look at himself on a good day, let alone now.
It was coming back, gradually. The frayed fibres of memory were weaving together, patching up the last twenty-four... Maybe forty-eight hours. He wasn't clear on the finer details, but what was clear was enough. Bone snapping beneath his hands, the familiar sensation of a windpipe collapsing under pressure. Gunshots and screams and grinding metal... His fingers around Steve's throat. The helicopter, falling, water, pain. It was coming back.
He didn't know how long he had stood there for. How long it had been since he had passed Steve in the hallway outside the bathroom, finding himself unable to meet his eyes. They hadn't really had the chance to talk, not properly. He couldn't find the strength for that just yet, but Steve seemed to understand. When he did speak to him, it was still with such an air of familiarity that it almost felt like they hadn't been apart for seventy years. Almost like Bucky hadn't tried to kill him several times over since that day on the train. Almost like his friend hadn't had to crash a damn helicopter to stop him. His small comments and gestures that implied such unquestioning trust, even when Sam was still treating him with an air of caution. He didn't deserve any of that trust, but it was difficult not to lean into it. To remember how easy it had been, before all of this.
But he wasn't the man Steve remembered, today had been a violent, forceful reminder of that fact. He wasn't the same, and the only person in the world who knew this altered version of himself... Well, he was succeeding in avoiding talking to her too.
It wasn't what he wanted. Not when every cell in his body ached with the knowledge that she was so close, after so many months of longing, wishing she was nearby – a quiet footstep above his head, a laugh, an easy smile, a gentle touch... Knowing that she was here and within arm's reach was almost more than he could bear, but he couldn't reach out for her. Not after what he had done, what he had let himself become once again.
Not even when he recalled that rush of desperate relief he had felt, in that fleeting moment in the warehouse when he had clutched her to him. It had almost felt like a moment of madness, seeing her there, needing to hold her, to reassure himself that she was real – before the reality of what her presence meant became clear. Before he realised the danger she was putting herself in, and the danger she now seemed determined to throw herself towards.
