𝗗𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘

King and Lionheart

AEI: DUUUDEEEEE... this chapter is literally the most hated thing I've ever written, but only by me 😭it drove me insane but i couldn't figure out how to write it. i'm just super distracted at the moment bc I just found out I can drop out of French Class (YAY), so i'm not rlly in a writing mood, but i really wanted to upload. ANYHOW:

please continue and enjoy :)

Stepping out into the icy tundra of Siberia, his boots crunching in the snow, Bucky thinks of Steve. His heartbeat beside him, their hands previously entwined. The easy rise and fall of his chest.

"You ready?" He asks.

Bucky shrugs, smiling in spite of himself. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Standing in the elevator, bodies close and warm, it would be impossible not to think of Steve. They're packed in tight in the cramped space, nowhere to look but each other. No room to think of anything else. Strangely, Bucky finds that he doesn't mind. The voice in his head is quiet.

If Steve loves him, then he cannot be sick. Steve is too pure to be sick, and surely they are one and the same; woven together like tangled, home-made jewellery.

Something soothes gentle in his gut. Nevertheless, Bucky cocks his gun and keeps his mind on the man behind him.

Fix the problem. Make it better.

Steve.

And then, looking for Zemo but finding Tony Stark, Bucky's thoughts rise to a desperate howl.

He will hurt you. He will hurt you and he will hurt Steve, and you will never see him again. Stark will kill you. Eradicate him.

But if Steve is calm, Steve is collected, then Bucky must be too.

And then it is dark.

It is dark, and there is a cold sensation slipping down his spine, and he is looking at dead faces. Not of those he loved, but of those he could've. Those who were the closest that he had ever come to it, at least at the time.

His team.

His team, and now they are gone.

Bucky's stomach drops, lower lip trembling. Rather childishly, he thinks: That isn't fair. I want to go home.

But nothing is fair, and there is no home.

So, he drowns out the world around him and stares furiously at the back of Steve's neck; safe and familiar. He loves him more than he loves oxygen. He loves him more than he has ever loved anything, more than he ever could, and maybe dead soldiers do not matter if he is not one of them.

Nothing has to matter until it does.

A thick, molten heat, streaming down Bucky's throat and turning his heart to lead. Because he is looking at a video, a video of him, except it is not him and it cannot be, surely? Because he would never, ever want to hurt somebody like that.

But he did. He did, and even he cannot find comfort in telling himself that it was not him.

Nobody else cares, either.

Steve. Steve, I didn't mean it, I swear, it wasn't my fault. I'm sorry, just don't be mad. Don't let them kill me.

It does not look, however, like there is much choice.

Because Tony Stark is stronger, and he is angrier, and when Bucky is not The Winter Soldier, he is nothing at all. And maybe he deserves this, and maybe this is how it's supposed to go, and maybe it won't hurt as bad if he dies with Steve on his mind.