WHITE NOISE.

a. ) an after dark siren song from afar. b. ) the streams of screen lights. c. ) nicotine-stained teeth, smoke-tainted lungs. d. ) another severed visceral response. ...error. identity not found. james buchanan barnes, as diverged by victoria.

[comradus-blog]

this is such a james aesthetic. and with that, good night.

[sebastianstaan]

Sebastian Stan for Esquire (December 2017)

[comradus-blog]

he’s accepted his title as the winter soldier ( hey, it kind of sounds cool too so he likes it quite a bit ) even when it correlates to the traumas that build the foundation of his being, whether or not he wants to admit it. metaphorically, he can be placed like the tip of an iceberg with so much under the water, submerged to the point so deep he doesn’t even know how to confront it, if he ever wants to ( and he doesn’t want to ). the winter soldier that he is now, however, rebrands himself as someone known underground as a myth, playing vigilante whenever he can as long as it doesn’t risk his identity as a ‘civilian’. he makes sure he’s known as the winter soldier, the man who wrecks all hydra agents and bases. his main enemy at the moment is the knowledge that hydra is still growing underground — cut one head, two more shall take its place kind of shit. that’s why he operates underground, too, ensuring that he can turn the faces of hydra agents he finds into pulp, and wreak havoc in hydra bases, leaving red star graffiti to ensure that they know he still exists, and is resisting their movements openly.

there’s also the whole his operating under the name ‘ghost’ in the deep web, and always leaves untraceable. there’s deep knowledge that he’s been expanding in regards to infiltrating and dismantling in hacking that he knew how to do because of his hydra training, but that’s something that he’s expanded beyond the mere measure of hydra’s capabilities. he’s practically invisible in the deep web, and takes jobs from there as well when he believes it’s not against his moral compass ( ??? which is sort of wrecked, to be honest ). the moniker relates back to how he was referred to as a ghost story back during the day he operated as the winter soldier.

[comradus-blog]

the retrieval of the name james buchanan barnes happened, first and foremost, through his flashbacks in his nightmares. it was then cemented when he went to the smithsonians to conduct research on both himself and captain america, the man that he remembered at last when he pulled him out of the river. there was indubitable worry when it came down to ensuring that the captain was still breathing after the fall and drown, which caused him to seek his connection with the man. but that’s it, after knowing that his given birth name is james buchanan barnes, he’s moving on. steve is a part of his past that he’s no longer looking at anymore, a yellowing picture that would be better off buried in the casket with the rest of the memories that he no longer hangs onto. if he happens to meet the man again, then so be it, but this is the point where james barnes finds his rebirth.

he will not, under any circumstances, let anyone besides those who knew him from the past ( doubts they are still around, since it’s been years ) call him bucky. it’s a dead name, buried six feet under in the carcass of the man that fell from the train in 1944. it’s no longer him, no longer his identity, as he’s moved on ( besides, what kind of name is bucky? the fuck— sounds like a horse’s name ) and accepted that he’s a brand new man. just on the run for things he didn’t do on purpose or consciously, but doesn’t mean that he would succumb to his fate and hide forever from the mass. he’s facing them with his own ways, recreating an identity to cope with his trauma and grief. basically, for him bucky is dead, and james is a name he chooses to use upon his rebirth. or dimitri, or gabriel, or vasile, or whatever the names he introduces himself with as he’s on the run, a fugitive. he has 293939 names that he can use, but to those who know him personally, and on a level intimate enough, he’d use james.

[comradus-blog]

‣ STARTER CALL.

this is a starter call for very canon-divergent james buchanan barnes, also known as james. he smuggles, he steals, he infiltrates... if you can pay him. basically does a lot of things to survive, and to wreck the remnants of hydra. no long hair, grown a beard. still with a metal arm. please like this if you’re interested.

[comradus-blog]

inecede‌:

for once, his mind is at ease. or as close as it could be, all things considered. restless nights are alternated between the two of them. both of their minds are plagued by demons personalized to haunt them but tonight his conscience has settled. as long as bucky was wrapped securely in his arms, there was not much else for steve to concern himself with. his presence was soothing even when the captain was unaware. so soundly he slept; a rare occurrence these days. dreams and nightmares alike evaded him       what else could he possibly ask for? it was not until he felt the brush of lips against his skin did he immediately rouse from his slumber, eyes struggling to open more than halfway.

the sound of his name is distant and it seems he is unable to gather the strength to open his mouth and speak. with that in mind, he hums in question, nuzzling his face further into the pillow while his grip around bucky becomes the slightest bit tighter. this is a comfort he has missed more than words could express. one that he did not want to have taken away from him as it was before. the world had not been kind to either of them in the past few decades. it is with a heavy heart that he hopes one day it can let them rest. if not steve then at least bucky. that was all he truly wanted. if anyone was deserving then it would be him. that thought has him peeking his eyes open at the sound of urgency in the other’s tone.

a moment passes where the warning does not quite resonate with him, eyebrows knitted together as blue hues do a quick sweep of the dark room. there is a feeling of uneasiness that manifests out of nowhere, causing his skin to prickle. ❛ no one should be able to get in here, ❜ he murmurs quietly though the doubt he harbors is evident in his tone. why the hell did he have stark install security measures for if the damn system couldn’t prevent an intrusion? he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, one hand still placed protectively on his arm. ❛ they can’t get to you. not without dealing with me first. alright? ❜

there are things that steve doesn’t understand, sometimes: systematics of hydra’s technology doesn’t only end at the corner of its demise. there are millions and millions of underground depth, dug into the technological ground, enough to preserve conscious of a man dead a long time ago. there are advancements beyond their understandings, just as it says: cut one head, two more shall take its place. and that’s what james comprehends. stark might have a way with his security, but it’s not something that they cannot dismantle, whoever they are. and they’re here to retrieve one of their most valuable assets.

when steve listens to him, he half hopes that it’s just him — but steve might have felt it too, the impending danger that lurks within the shadows in this room. he half hopes that it’s just his paranoia getting to him, eating him alive. but no, there’s a protective arm on him, and a sense of readiness that comes with the urgency in steve’s tone. they can’t get to him without dealing with steve first; but it’s not steve’s fight. it’s his own. he sighs as he feels them closer, counting the breach in the perimeters. at least a dozen. trained killers. they aren’t just sending anybody, they’re sending their best agents, dealing with a man who knows the insides of hydra even subconsciously. and at the first thud of the window, he’s already on a stance, upright on the bed. he might have lied to steve, telling him that the stash of the weapons he keeps in the nightstand is just for him to feel safe at night.

no, it’s time for this. he cannot goddamn fight the best weapons hydra has with a fucking frisbee, however steve can wield it. ❛ it’s my fight, steve, ❜ he says, tone dead serious as he twirls glock in his hand and fists gerber in the other. ❛ go somewhere safe. i’ll handle them. they’ll want me alive, but not you. ❜ and when the crack in the window indicating a good fissure, he knows that the installed system will notify the backups, but it takes time. and that time will be what the agents are counting on, going from various directions. there are quite, lithe footsteps on the hallway, too. they’re coming.

[buckydaily-inactive]

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (2014) dir. Joe and Anthony Russo

[comradus-blog]

victoria’s headcanons to do:

on his haircut and beard.

on his moniker as the winter soldier, rebranded. also his trashing the former hydra bases while leaving red star graffiti as a big fuck you? yeah, that.

on james as his primary name. bucky who? he’s dead.

on his jobs underground and in the deep web. also knowledge on deep web from hydra bc hydra’s tech is pretty advanced.

on his morally grey stance of living. $$$ make that money. famous in deep web as ghost. also, not here to stroke your feelings. emotionally constipated™. sassy.

on his not trying to remember anymore. he’s accepted the past, and let it go.

on his family, especially on their being raised catholic and the religion faded for him.

on his arsenal of glocks and heckler & koch and knives.

[comradus-blog]

inecede‌:

nights are far more restless than they are peaceful. the date in which he last rested soundly evades him. did he ever? there was a possibility that he never seized the opportunity. as a skinny kid with illnesses that were more frequent than passing and as the infamous captain whose mind could hardly contain the things he has done, the things he has seen. there was always an obstacle. and he knows that a soldier does what they can, what they have to do. steve understands this and yet he cannot cleanse his psyche from all that taints it. not even with the promise that all things would work out eventually. no, promises were unreliable to people like them. baby blues shift towards the body sleeping next to him, cautiously anticipating each twitch of his muscles; every movement that might indicate a struggle.

all things would work out eventually. sure. the day he lost bucky        the train        he jumps, eyes squeezing shut at the echo of the scream within the confines of his mind, fingers immediately reaching out to ensure that he was still there. he was here. a shaky breath is exhaled as he ignores the cold and unsettling sensation that washes over him. steve believed him to be dead; his return was nothing short of a miracle. but could it be called a word with such positive connotation considering all that happened in the decades between their reunion? no. of course he was grateful to have bucky back         different person or not, he simply wishes he could have done something. he could have. his lack of determination; something he normally had too much of, haunts him every time bucky startles in his sleep. like he does now.

❛ buck. ❜ the name rolls off his tongue in a whisper, concern evident as his previous thoughts are long forgotten. a moment barely passes before he is extending his hand once more, stunned when the other beats him to it; familiar fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. he returns the favor, nimble fingers trailing up and down the expanse of his back. ❛ bucky, ❜ steve repeats, this time raising his voice to wake him. it does not take long until he is stirring into a conscious state, the room far more quiet than it had been not even a minute ago. ❛ don’t be, ❜ he reassures, offering a small smile. ❛ you didn’t. ❜ no, his brain was too insistent on thinking to give him that kind of break. ❛ how are you feeling? are you okay? you were        you seemed alright until then. ❜  

in this posture — his clinging to steve as if this is a tightrope he’s fallen from — he realizes just how far he’s come: how he’s ruptured every single nerve in him that chose safety by staying away from the man that his conscience told him used to be his... something. safety by closing into himself, shutting out the rest of the world in ways that he knows how to survive, for that’s the only way that he knew how. they were on a rough patch, with every touch signalling rapid successions of terrified moves in his brain, the transmitters of his brain taking every gesture of attention, affection, as a form of threat. he realizes just how far he’s come, now that he’s no longer avid to steve’s touch. but steve, and only steve.

his breathing is labored, still. inhales, exhales. in ways that he understands how, too. not many things that he comprehends outside of what’s necessary to survive: stealing, lying, cheating, smuggling, dealing, charming. they’re systematics in the blueprints of his directionless life, salvaging day after day by scavenging through the remnants of what he’s known as the winter soldier. but he understands how to do this, at least: how to cling to steve because he knows that this time, he won’t fall off his death once more. at least he hopes he won’t, for he knows that this time, steve won’t let him. maybe not. maybe, maybe. he wants to trust steve. difficult, but he’s trying.

and that name again. he doesn’t know how to respond to that very well, facial muscles mimicking that of relief when he’s also confounded at the same time. he’s not bucky; made it clear to steve since day one, since the very moment he stepped into this establishment, telling steve that he’d like to try again, whatever that meant. elaborated the entirety of why he’s james, and not bucky. and will never be. never again. it seems that the name still sticks with steve, or steve perhaps chooses to love him because he wears the face of a ghost. he doesn’t know which one is worse: to be loved as someone else, or to be unloved at all. but he’s an opportunist, so he’ll take what he can at the moment. ❛ yeah. ❜ swallows thickly. ❛ yeah, i’m all right. it was... just a bad dream. nothing else. i... screamed. i think i remember screaming. sorry about that. ❜

[comradus-blog]

reference pictures here and here. james’ hair is cut short, and his beard is grown as his way of hiding his identity, albeit flimsy. the pictures and accounts that have spoken of the winter soldier typically would say something about his having long hair, and that’s certainly not what he’d like to exemplify when it comes to his disguise. he keeps it neat and has been since the first month after he dragged steve from the river, after the epiphany that he was liberated from hydra’s grip dawned on him. the freedom started with his making decisions on his physical appearance as a token of liberty; and he’s been keeping it that way since. with his current appearance, not many people would identify him as bucky, or worse, the winter soldier, upon the first glance.

it’s also something that signifies how he never had the freedom to keep up with his appearance, as everything in hydra happened for practical purposes only. his hair was kept at such a length for unbeknownst reason to him, but he doesn’t remember much apart from having shorter hair in some instances, and they let him simply grow his hair until it was time for a haircut again so as not to impede his missions with his hair being too long. or at least so he surmises. he doesn’t remember much about his time in hydra, and he doesn’t care as much anymore unless for the fact that he cannot sleep well due to all the repressed traumas that haunt his subconscious. his hair also indicates that his line of work is charming people when needed — something that he needed to relearn after an extended period of being an asset, not exactly the talking type. his appearance is kept tidy in general, with trimmed beard, and casual but appealing clothings.

[peterbarkers]

i love him.

[comradus-blog]

        ‣          a mission targeted towards @inecede .

the ripples of time do not stop the turbulence that comes with his nightmares. typically, however, the sleep comes first, construing the delicate fibres of trauma prior to deciphering its filaments, transforming them into the wounds that never truly close. and then, the heaving. and then, the screaming. he never really forgets the taste of the bitterness that soaks his tongue with certainties. it still feels like the weight of his phantom arms, the optic connections of the visceral responses do not quite add up anymore. he used to wield it with the might that heeded nothing but the mission; now, he’s not so sure why he still has it anymore. there’s no mission, just the pungent reminders of his older days. of the thaw, wipe, kill. repeated over and over again to the point of irrelevance.

until tonight. he doesn’t catch a wink of sleep, but next to him is steve’s body, lost in the depth of slumber. the systole and diastole, the breathing rhythm as he inhales and exhales, james can map the arteries with ease. knows which ones to sever to end the life right then and there. knowledge like this doesn’t just die. in fact, it simply grows, amplified by each sleep that awakens the older days. when the garrote cut deep into the bone. when the knife altered the flow of the blood. outward, dripping from the seared skin and flesh. he doesn’t understand how he managed to forget most things, but retain most of these. his brain has been put into the blender too many times, he cannot perceive how he can even still do simple tasks. all his life that he knows of has been devoted to missions. and this, this is the last. yet he cannot seem to find a way to finish it, nor can he find the will to.

except this hour, the clock does not seem to tick right. there’s something lurking in the shadows, something sinister. he doesn’t know what. but. squints his eyes as he tries looking through the blind gaps from where he’s lying, steve’s protective arm around him. there’s a fleeting shadow, a second of oddity that makes him feel unsafe. he swallows, looking up to find steve’s peaceful sleeping face. he presses a kiss on steve’s neck, furtively, trying to wake the other man up. ❛ steve, ❜ he starts carefully, because what if it’s just a figment of his imagination, his paranoia? ❛ steve, i think they’re coming to get me. ❜

[comradus-blog]

         ‣          a mission targeted towards @inecede .

mementos of the old time scatter themselves across the room, unearthing the imbalance that tips him off that tightrope. he’s holding onto the thinning rope, trying to grasp it like a lifeline to no avail, slowly drowning in the cold water down below. he’s an iceberg, the body that sinks more than it floats. at this point, he does not know how long he’ll be able to survive, breathing on inches of oxygen that suffocates more than letting him breathe. he eventually clenches his jaw, knowing too well that it’s going to end in the same finish line: inhaling a lungful of cold, cold water he dies from pneumonia. frozen lungs. and he’s left heaving, again, clutching on a foreign shirt of someone’s own, feeling the creep of unfamiliarity smothering his insides. again, this is a rehashed action. his fingers — no, not the phantom ones — seem to be more and more acquainted with the texture of the man he does not recall until another second dawns on him.

heaves a heavy breath as he opens his eyes, forehead soaked from the weight of withdrawal, both from the injections and nightmares. iv drops that no longer run in his veins; the enhancement that he’s deprived from is now catching up with him in a game of cat and mouse. he’s the latter. a feeling that he doesn’t quite recognize. there were missions. there were always missions. last time he remembers, the ghosts of his knuckles embedded themselves on the contour of the man’s face. and now, he’s fisting the front of steve’s tee in the fit of his panic. dread that trickles, and he knows this feeling. the poltergeists that wreck his insides. he doesn’t understand how to live without the spectres anymore. he searches in the dark that his eyes adjust with in a relative ease, frantically finding the eyes of the man. blue. ice. cold. cold, cold water. he’s within the realm of safety. at least he’d like to believe so.

he lets out a sigh, hand slowly undoing the grip. his gaze falters, so he locates the shine of his arm, faintly glimmering under the residue of moonlight seeping into the room through the blind gaps. ❛ i’m sorry, ❜ he starts again, voice hoarse. he thinks he might have been screaming mutedly again, the strangulation coming from his subconsciously pressing his face against the pillow to muffle his own voice. steve has perhaps been listening, as he can feel the remnants of his name’s echo. or is it? his name? james. buchanan. barnes. bucky, bucky. james? he cannot pinpoint which one is which, in what order, why. ❛ did i wake you up? ❜ he asks, shame evident in his tone.

[comradus-blog]

❛ we have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. ❜  — r. siken.

                   indie james buchanan barnes, cinematic divergent, as rewritten by victoria.