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Crumbling. Crumbling, breaking, shattering, fracturing. Rupturing. Bursting, splintering. Exploding.
It’s funny how many words can be used to describe just one moment. How many different forms a moment can take. Yet each one has a slightly different meaning, from the simple breaking, to the oh-so-dramatic exploding. The earth-hollowing shattering, to the soul wrenching shattering. The heartful, yet awful rupturing, and the deceitful fracturing.
Bucky Barnes didn’t know which one applied best, right at this moment.
The moon shone lonesome tonight, as though she mourned a long-lost lover. The stars did not shine tonight, shying away their sweet light. Dark clouds rumbled around, encircling the moon with a treacherous air of suffering. A lonely crow caws in the distance, mirroring his own pain. Small tears of heaven hit his face, and here he was, sunken into the wet earth. Tears and rain, mixing, running down his face, as he gasps quietly for more air. Pits of soil crumble around his knees as he pushes himself further into the ground.
Grounding himself. That’s what they teach you, isn’t it? When the thoughts start to spiral, spinning like a hellish staircase, ground yourself. Of course - that usually means to start counting things. Or practice healthy breathing. Not to physically ground yourself, but whatever works, hmm?
He gasps again, leaving his mouth agape as sweet angelic tears hit his face. His own or the skies, he can’t quite tell anymore, but it’s refreshing, in some ways. His eyebrows crumple together, in an attempt to regain control of the situation as he falls back, his head hitting the soil behind him.
It had all gone all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But here he is, all alone, in the unforgiving rain. Crumbling, breaking, shattering, fracturing. Rupturing. Bursting, splintering. Exploding. Alone.
────୨ৎ────
It was supposed to be easy. Quick, in and out job. Back to the Watchtower for dinner. Ish. Dinner-ish? Sort of. Kind of like, a weird 8pm thing, that isn’t quite dinner, but it’s also not just John’s god-awful pasta (By the Gods, you’d think box pasta would be the hardest thing to ruin. But then you haven’t tried John Walker’s horrendous pasta. How on Earth one burns pasta in such a manner is besides me. Seriously, Hell on Earth itself). But it’d be with you, and that’s what would matter most. So, easy in and out job, home for their strange dinner situation together. All he had to do was quickly, but stealthily, find some intel. The briefing said three pieces of key intel. The suggestion was to go alone, given that the briefing also said that this was an abandoned ex-HYDRA outpost.
You had protested, naturally. It was sweet, he’d thought to himself at the time, how you’d always push to be by his side. No matter what, you’d be there. What initially started out as a mild inconvenience had easily blossomed into friendship, and perhaps more. He wouldn’t dwell on that though - you wouldn’t want that, would you? No, no, you were just a friend. A friendly friend. A friendly friend he thought about every morning, as his very first thought, and every evening, as his very last. The type that when he’d go on a slower morning walk, taking in sweet morning scenes, all he’d think about was you. How sweet you’d look, with flowers in your hair. How your heavenly laugh would carry across the wind, as you’d both row down the river, with just a picnic basket and bottle of wine to accompany you. It’d be almost sunset, and the skies would boast purples, pinks, blues and oranges, accompanied by clouds dipped in cherry red. And-
And this wasn’t the time for him to dawdle on such thoughts. So he turned to you, taking in how sweetly you’d pout and complain to him,
“But Bucky! You can’t go alone, it’s not safe! C’mon, it’s safer this way! You can still be stealthy with me around!”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. You’d always been a stubborn one. Almost as stubborn as him, but that was a conversation for another time. He smiled back at you, his crows feet and smile lines glowing with love a feeling he couldn’t quite name. His heart panged quietly, a small string snapping as he once again, refused to tell you. Instead, he quietly reassured you,
“It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon, ‘kay doll? I’ll be back for dinner, promise.”
He added in a soft pat on the shoulder, though he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the shoulders, confess sweetly and kiss her senseless before turning to leave.
Quick, in and out job. That’s what the briefing said.
────୨ৎ────
As soon as he got there, he had a feeling. That maybe, just maybe, the briefing wasn’t quite correct. It all felt off, to be honest. It was far too quiet to be abandoned, the kinda quiet before a big storm. He inhaled and exhaled deep breaths, before pulling out a pair of binoculars, scanning the area with a slow, careful and controlled precision. Just in case.
Of course, as expected, nothing came up. There was nothing “out of the ordinary”. No tripwires, no hidden guards, barely poking their heads out. No secret pack of wolves - not even on thermal vision. He approached silently, crawling forward 200 metres at a time. Every 200 metres, he’d pull out the binoculars and conduct a thorough sweep. It took much longer, of course, but better that than to rush in, no?
The first 800 metres, he presumed it was just anxiety from being near an old HYDRA outpost. After all, these weren’t exactly good memories for him to return to. So he bottled it down, swallowing a lump in his throat and continuing on. But the last 400 metres were much worse. Something was very clearly, very obviously wrong here.
A thick, invasive, obtrusively protruding smell of rot hit him, pungent and sickly sweet. He raised up a mask, quickly covering his mouth and nose, but he could still feel it. In his nose, on his tongue. Rot, living rot. Not only that, the air had changed too. What was once a gentle, smooth breeze, wafting through his hair, was now still, oppressive and unmoving. Every movement felt as though he was fighting against some sort of invisible force, pushing him away. And finally, his comms stopped working. He couldn’t reach Yelena, at all. Perhaps, this was an omen of sorts.
But a job is a job, and it must be done, somehow. So he continued through, carefully eyeing the vents. Even in a supposedly abandoned HYDRA outpost, he’d be a fool to walk in through the front door. But a service vent on the side? Now that would be much safer, and closer to the lab for intel. It was one manilla folder, one USB stick and a lap report he had to pick up. He knew the names, and he knew where to find them, another key element of just how “quick” this job was supposed to be.
So Bucky Barnes climbed up into a vent, slowly crawling through, pulling his body along until he found himself by a small storage room. As per the blueprints, this was a perfect start, and he quickly unscrewed the other vent cover to quietly drop in (like a cat, on all fours). Out of some force of habit, he quickly hid behind a pile of old stock, before scanning the room.
Dry. Drab. Dusty. And humid, somehow. The humidity of the building itself must be what was causing the rotting smell. Yes, the stock in the storage must be the source. That’s what made the most sense. Was that the truth though, or was it just what he wanted to believe?
He stealthed towards the door and creaked it open, in an oh so painfully slow manner. The corridor to the lab was quiet (again - almost wrong, how quiet it was.) but he kept himself alert. Now would not be a good time to be caught off guard. As he approached the lab, he found the lights had begun to flicker above him. On, off, on, crackling, off. The door was open, and the sanguine light of the lab did not bode well. He stepped in, quickly hiding behind a desk to gather himself again. At this point, the painfully ever-present ache of something about to happen was too strong, and he’d armed himself with a small pistol in one hand, a small flashlight in the other. He took this moment to double check his knives, and back up gun.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he peeked over the desk. But the sight that awaited him was nothing short of harrowing.
Bodies, strewn across the lab. Piled up, as high as the ceiling in one corner. Blood sank around the floor, creating a thick, sticky pool across the room. He looked down, his own combat boots coated in the sticky substance. And the smell. By the Gods, the smell. Somehow, it had permeated his mask, and he held himself back, gulping and blinking away tears. In the middle of the room, one bod- a scientist. A scientist reached out towards him, moving slowly. Each movement, accompanied by a low groan, embedded itself in Bucky’s mind, glowing red by the lights above him, which had also started to flicker,
“Sa…ve… Save…. yo………..urs….e…lf……”
He held the scientist’s hand, tears now streaming down the scientist's face. He smiled softly, reaching into his own pocket, and retrieving a USB stick, pushing it into Bucky’s hand,
“I….m…….. so…..sorr….yy…. my……sh…..e….rry…..”
The scientist fell limp, succumbing to the sweet embrace of death. Bucky held his hand a little longer, and with the other hand, he wiped tears away from the scientists kind face, inhaling heavily as he reminded himself: he had a job to do. He finally let go of the man’s hand, rising to his feet. His knees ached as he did, and he grimaced slightly, scanning the room. But no sign of any folder, nor lab report, were in this room. Luckily for him, a door leading to a smaller office was just to his right, he just had to make his way over the masses of bodies, littered across.
As he walked over, something wrapped around his ankle, grounding him. He kicked and pulled his leg, only to realise a hand had wrapped around it. Slowly, carefully and somewhat anxiously, he pried the hand away, and backed away slowly into the office door, now behind him. Inside, the lights did not flicker so much. But they were not welcoming, either. He scanned the room twice over, first finding the clear manilla folder, and second finding the lab report. Out of sheer curiosity, he took a look:
“Mar 4 Water Temp: 18°C pH: 6.8
Gammas released from tank for the first time. Movements sluggish. Combat potential low.”
“Apr 18 Water Temp: 20°C pH: 6.8
Experimented with additional hormones and drugs. One adjustment bore positive results, with a significant rise in combat potential. Specimen is now able to move quickly and swallow prey whole.”
“Jun 30 Water Temp: 22°C pH: 6.2
Umbrella has officially shut down Gamma research. We managed to smuggle some specimens with especially high potential from the lab before disposal.
Dr. Logan Carlisle is more committed than ever to perfecting the Gamma line.”
“Aug 14 Water Temp: 25°C pH: 5.8
Two weeks since relocating to the sewers. Increased temperatures have led to a decrease in water quality, but specimens appear fine despite my concerns.
Gammas quickly learned the layout of the sewers and within two days were exploring the entire underground of Raccoon City.
All specimens are familiar with and friendly towards us, but I have procured high-powered weaponry as a safeguard in the event that they become uncontrollable.”
“Sep 1 Water Temp: 23°C pH: 6.1
We were lucky to secure this space by bribing the sewage department chief, but it's beginning to feel cramped due to the Gammas' continued growth. We should begin to consider other possible arrangements.”
“Sep 9 Water Temp: 21°C pH: 6.1
A water treatment worker found his way into the lab, but the Gammas promptly eliminated him.
This proves their viability for field use.
I'll reach out to Umbrella's European branch tomorrow; perhaps they will see the light.”
Bewilderment. That’s all he could describe his reaction to such information, as he quickly flicked through the manilla folder, pausing on a page:
“This bizarre incident occurred in a mansion owned by the Umbrella Corporation located in the Arklay Mountains.
On July 23, S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team was dispatched to the Arklay Mountains to investigate a series of mysterious and grisly murders, and went unexpectedly radio silent.
On July 24, Alpha Team was dispatched as well, and became entangled in the events at the nearby mansion.
The incident culminated in the destruction of the mansion. Casualties were numerous. The only survivors were five members of S.T.A.R.S. The cause of the incident was the illegal bioweapon experiments being carried out in a secret Umbrella lab beneath the mansion. The T-Virus being used in these experiments escaped the facility, and is presumed to be the root cause of all that occurred.
However, all evidence was destroyed along with the mansion, so further investigation has proven to be extremely difficult.”
He shoved both the report and folder into a bag on his back, but paused. Incidents like these should’ve been known to them, right? There’s no way they couldn’t have known about them. From how they were written, they sounded like issues of national security. And who was Umbrella? The “Gammas”? T-Virus? It made no sense to him, none whatsoever. But it’s something he’d have to think on, probably press Valentina about it. She must know something about it, given her insistence on retrieving such intel.
As he pondered on such matters, something began to move behind him. He froze, before ducking low and spinning slow.
And there, in front of him, bodies began to rise. Moaning, groaning, covered in horrible, horrifying wounds and injuries, bleeding everywhere. Eyes, whited out and foaming at the mouth. For a moment, he was safe in the office. At least until they snapped towards him, slowly making their way in his direction. Being the only un-infected being, they must’ve had a primal urge to attack him, he’d thought.
Very much lucky for him, the vent system he entered by also came by this very room. He quietly, but quickly, unscrewed the vent, climbing in and praying the infected couldn’t climb upwards behind him. Not wanting to risk waiting too long, he sped through the vents, crawling back towards the way he came. However, as he made his way back out, it appeared as though the very same noises he heard inside the lab were at the very edge of the vent entrance. But there’s no way that could happen, right?
Yet unfortunately for Bucky Barnes, there they were. Three infected, rabid and foaming, clawing, but unable to climb. He threw himself upwards, towards the roof, given that it was the only sense of safety now.
And in this moment, he thought of you, once again. How you’d probably stolen his hoodie again, and how you were probably waiting patiently, with his favourite chinese takeout. And you probably made a playlist, filled with all the songs you’d shown him. How the new candles you both bought last week, spiced vanilla, would sit on the table as you’d keep waiting. How Alpine would quietly keep you company, purring contently on your lap as you sat there.
‘I’ll be back for dinner, promise.’
Dinner was seeming less and less likely as time went on. No, the late hours of the night would begin soon. He was late. Not only late, but surrounded by a hellish situation. And if the lab report was anything to go by, the sewers would be even less safe, with those “Gammas” parading around. Bucky Barnes was in a situation, that by every moment that passed, he seemed less and less likely to be able to squeeze out of.
In the corner of his mind, your voice, crystal clear, speaks to him,
‘Even if I’m not there, I’m still there. With ya. Don’t ever think otherwise, you hear me?’
He allowed himself to smile for a moment, and slowed down to assess the situation. Somehow, some of the infected individuals had found themselves on the edges of the roof. Not ideal, of course, but by the grace of the Gods, his comms finally switched back on. Well, not immediately. A few seconds of static, very quickly followed by a-
“--kzzzhhhhk! kzzzhhhhhk! Barnes! Are you there? Can you hear me? Comms are reading online, talk to me, Bucky, you there?”
Never before had he been happier to hear her voice in his ears, as he let out a sigh he didn’t know he had held back,
“Here. Here and I can hear you.”
“kzzzhhhhhkh! Finally! ‘Bout time, huh? Really, you’d think with our budget we’d get better comms- Anyway. Are you out? Done? Either way I’m sending someone to get you - Val cancelled the mission two hours ago. We’ve been trying to reach you this whole time to get you back! John should be there soon, try to exfil as soon as possible, hmm?”
Cancelled.. the mission… there was no way, no way at all! No, no, no way! This made no sense, no, surely-
“-why would she send me only to cancel? Yelena, what’s going on?”
“...kzzzzhhhkh! Something about weird experiments. Like she’s any better, hmm? Anyway John should be there - you see the Quinjet yet?”
He scanned the skies, and there it was. His way home, his way back to you. He gestured John closer, and John lowered a rope ladder from the jet, yelling across the winds,
“YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO JUMP! CAN’T GET CLOSER, BUCKY!”
Inside his heart swirled. What if he fell? Just like the train, except this time, to be torn apart by infected… well… zombies? But the thought of you cleared his mind, and he walked back slightly, giving himself room. John held the ladder on tight, with the jet on autopilot. With a quick deep inhale and exhale, he ran. He ran with the need and necessity of a man with no other choice left for him, jumping across, and clambering onto the ladder, his metal arm scraping against the rope as he scrambled upwards, pulled up by John,
“Hey, rough one, huh?”
But he had no words left. So the ride home, as John had expected, was in pure silence.
────୨ৎ────
He should see you. He knew he should see you. He’d finally finished the hellish mission, given Val the intel, quizzed her - only to get no response, frustratingly enough, and should come straight to you. Instead, he found himself walking past the old graveyard, towards the old clearing. Dropping to his knees, crying in the rain. And as the rain gained pace, so did his heart, racing faster and faster.
Every blink brought back images of bodies, piles of em, the dying scientist, the pictures from the reports, bloody and harrowing.
Every breath ached of the pungent rot, permeating his lungs, suffocating him.
Every strangled gasp echoed the infected, a brutal reminder.
Alone. Bucky Barnes was suffering alone. Not even the moon shone kindly upon him, shying her face in disappointment, as treasonous clouds finally overcame her. He was in the dark, alone. The dirt below him grounded him, but it also overwhelmed him, too much. It was all too much for hi-
“Bucky? Bucky! Is that you there? I’ve been looking for you for hours! Alpine and I were waiting for yo-”
You stopped, as his pained, scrunched up face became awfully visible. You had an inkling of what happened, given that Val stormed the Watchtower with urgency hours earlier, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered here was Bucky needed someone. He needed you, by his side. You drop to your knees, quietly humming an old tune he enjoyed and stroking his forehead. Simple, grounding movements. Nothing shocking, nothing jarring. Just enough to bring him back to you.
Moments pass by (or has it been hours? Time passes strangely when such a situation occurs) and eventually, he sits up, dirt cascading off his shoulders, returning to the ground. Neither of you speak, but you pull him in close, holding him. You can hear his heart, slowing slightly as you rub comforting circles into his back. And he can hear yours, slowing, knowing he’s coming back to you. He tries to speak, and you don’t stop him. He needs this, with you here,
“M’sorry… shoulda.. shoulda listened to ya.. doll… T’s so bad… so much… I… I don’t…. don’.. wanna think… bout it…”
“So don’t think about it, Buck. It’s okay. You’re here, and I’m here, that’s what matters, right?”
“T’s what matters…. yeah…”
Inside, he swallows back a lump of anxiety, with it coming out as a shuddering breath. Now or never Barnes. He’s got you here, and he can’t lose you. Not this time. It was far too close a call today for him to take that risk again, and he holds you by the shoulders, as the rain pours down around you both. For a moment, it's as though time itself stops, as he looks back into your eyes with a feeling that feels oh-so-real,
“Needa tell ya… I… I know.. you’ll… you’ll say later… please… I can’t… I gotta tell ya… I love you. I’ve..”
He wipes his face with his hand, starting again,
“Since day one. When you first walked in. You were annoying, pestering me. Relentless. But in that relentlessness, I fell. Hard. And fast. And now I wake, and every first thought is you, and only you. And every last thought is you, and only you. I can’t imagine a future where I’m not there with you. I.. I can’t do this without you, please. Need you to. Ramble about sharks. About those hammerhead sharks you love. Or the dumb epaulettes. The ones that kinda walk on land. Gods know how they work but please. Ramble and never shut up about them. Please. Or yell about how much you hate Dante Alighieri, but you read the Divine Comedy out of spite. Which, is strange, but spite is a great motivator, anyway! Please, I can’t imagine a life where you’re not mine, I-”
You stop him, fingers softly pressed to his lips, and the world’s widest smile gracing your face. In that very moment, his eyes melt, and he sighs against your fingers, and you take this moment as your turn,
“Bucky.. I’ve been yours from day one. The matching coffee mugs? The quiet 2am “can’t sleep so let’s play Uno on the rooftop” meetings? C'mon, Buck! I’ve been yours, but I’ve been waitin' here for you to be mine..”
He looks back at you, eyes wide open, and then shakes his head and laughs softly. You laugh with him, and a once hurting moment eases itself in his heart,
“What a pair of fools we are, hmm? Gods almighty, Sam’ll love hearing about this, Buck. Let’s go home, get you cleaned up, yeah? And we can watch that documentary I love, the-”
“Hammerhead shark one? Yeah, I’ll watch it with you. Everyday if I have to, my love.”
The two of you lift yourselves (or rather, you help Bucky stand. But you’d never say that to anyone, because he’d never admit it. Not in front of John and his awful cooking.) and slowly walk back to the Watchtower, where Alpine still waits patiently by boxes of takeout, cold by now.
“Hey, go shower and I’ll heat dinner up for us, hmm? Meet ya back at my room, lover boy!”
You wink, before making your way over and reheating boxes of noodles. He smiles again, petting Alpine before making his way to your room.
Crumbling, breaking, shattering, fracturing. Rupturing. Bursting, splintering. Exploding. Words Bucky Barnes would’ve probably felt at home with, hours ago. But now, they’ve eased out with a new feeling. One he’s known for a long time, one’s he’s very much familiar with, but was never able to pin down.
Except now he knows it.
And now he can finally name it,
Love.