LOYAL MAN

“I know pal. You got me too. Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til y’tell me y’don’t want me.”

“Ain’t gonna happen Bud.”

“You don’t gotta apologise t’me, pal. …Howlies. Yeah. Yeah, I like that. We Howlies stick t’gether.”

#no gifs because tumblr is being eVIL???????#bucky bear #doyoufeelbuckypunk

“Damn straight we do, whatever happens Barnes, ya got me long as you want me.”

“That’s real good, pal. Ain’t a problem, welcome. Us HCs gotta stick together, right? Uh…think you can do it for touch now?”

“Wet clothes, you, this shitty bench, cold. I think I’m okay Barnes, I think I’m going to be, I’m, nah I don’t need to apologize bout this to you do I? Not to you. We always got each other right? Us, Howlies?”

“Good, that’s good. Yeah, there is. Uh– How ‘bout smell?”

“Damp dirt, grass, myself I--” he looks at James, finally, he’s not all there just yet, he’s aware and yet not, out of his head, out of his body, unable to give anything real focus, like his thoughts are floating. It’s good enough, for now. “Thanks Barnes.”

“’Kay, great. How ‘bout sound now, then? ‘Fyou want me ta shut up all you gotta do is tell me, pal.”

“You, a bird chirping--cars. my own voice, I--I think there’s someone jogging nearby.”

“It’s okay, pal.” James breathed in and he breathed out, nodding slowly. “…Can you tell me some things you can see? ‘Salright if you can’t. Ain’t an order.”

Dum Dum frowned, “dirt, grass,” he looked up, “the sky, the sun, clouds.” He knew the ground below him and he knew the sky above him but it was all the things in the middle that scared him. He looked back to his hand not holding James. They were shaking. He took a deep breath, tried to slow his breathing, his heart.

“I know, pal. I know.” James squeezed Dum Dum’s hand a little. “…Can you tell me what’s goin’ on now, pal…?”

Dum Dum opened his mouth to speak only to close it again on a swallow, he blinked a few times, breathing out, not a sigh but an almost pained exhale. “I uh--” he scoffed out a noise that could be a laugh if you didn’t know better. “We’re uh--” he tried to focus but it seemed everytime he did it got worse, like he lost touch of James hand in his and he clasped it again because this was helping, this was, he put his hand on the thick ridged and weather scored wood of the bench, smooth from rain. He let his nails dig in. He tried to focus. “We’re uh--” was that rain or was he damp from sweat, was the smell of mud here or then, he flinched when he heard a gun--a car backfiring? “Azzano. We’re no--I know we’re--but I--” He bit his lip and shut his eyes tight.

“It’s okay, pal. He made it home too.”

Dum Dum’s still lost in his head, dissocating from his body his limbs don’t quite feel real, like they belong to him, but he can feel, distantly, Buck’s hand in his. “Not the way any of us should’ve.”

“Yeah, pal. Fell off the train. Lost my arm. Still kickin’, though.” James squeezed his hand just a little. “War’s over. …We made it home. …I got you, Dugan.”

Dum Dum uncurled slightly, sat up and put his feet on solid ground, boots he didn’t remember putting on digging into the cold dirt. He stared at the dirt, and breathed, tried to breathe, he squeezed the hand in his, warm, warm, and real and human. “Buck...sorry bout Steve, I shoulda--promised ta look after him didn’t I?”

Sir. James had an idea of what was going on but it didn’t stop him from half-flinching at the reach before he swallowed and allowed himself to be reached for. “Yeah, you can, pal. See, I…I know it might not seem that way, but uh– We got out. We’re out. ‘Sokay. I got you.” He slowly held up his right hand, extending it a little towards Dum Dum, careful to keep his fingers splayed and loose. Fuck, he hoped this helped.

#doyoufeelbuckypunk #bucky bear

Dum Dum stared at him, it was jarring he was seeing but not seeing, Buck-Ja--Bucky. Barnes. Sergeant, Jame--his hand connected with the open hand held out to him and--no--oh god--no--screaming metal, ice, a silent scream, and then. Falling. “Bucky. You--are you real?” His hand gripped the one in his tighter. “Are you really alive?”

shesstillablackhawk

Zinda wasn’t really sure what else to do, so she just stayed with him, repeating the same words over and over. It was the same kind of helplessness she felt back in the war when one of her boys woke with terrible nightmares, or had an episode during a relaxing evening in a pub, or freaked out during a mission and Zinda had to try and calm them down while maneuvering her jet out of enemy territory. It was the same kind of helpless she felt when she had an attack herself, rearranging the furniture in her apartment in the middle of the night to shield herself from attacks. She watched it all play out on his face, the way he gasped for breath, grabbing for anything to hold onto. At least he didn’t seem to be in fight mode, because she wasn’t too sure she’d be able to hold him down.

“Hey,” she said when he spoke. “Hey pal. Come on, you think you can stand up? Why don’t we stand up, get somewhere a little quieter. Do you know your name?”

#zinda #shesstillablackhawk #ptsd recovery #ptsd

There was someone talking again and it filtered through like a chalk drawing distorted by the rain and he couldn’t had they been talking the whole time? He wasn’t sure but something had changed and he didn’t, he couldn’t, the voice wasn’t familiar to him but it was, the tone, the cadence, it--he shook himself, he felt the warm sun and, his eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing and he was shaking from the cold real or imagined, all the damp from sweat or water or rain or something making him shiver. The voice was asking him something and he just, he didn’t he shook his head, kept shaking it, trying to clear it, trying to--she asked for his name. “Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan...two one nine thre---two one ni-nine--”

James’ eyes flickered across at the sound of his name. “Yeah, pal. ‘SBucky. …Y’wanna tell me what’s happenin’ right now?”

#I'm dead #bucky bear #doyoufeelbuckypunk

He knew that voice, he knew that man and his eyes are moving lightning fast, scrambling because he can see the warm sun on him but all he’s seeing is the wet and the rain and the mud and the cold, and it is cold out, he knows it, his skin is raised in goosebumps and--he knew that voice. Bucky. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. “I--I can’t---Sir.” He’s not conscious of reaching out but he knows he must have, because suddenly he’s half sitting reaching toward Buck, eyes open.

James was silent for a long moment before he moved, crouching down on the ground next to the bench before sitting proper. He didn’t look at Dum Dum, but he sat there. “Pal, I can’t help if ya don’t tell me how. But…I dunno what’s goin’ through your head, right now, so…I’m just gonna sit here, ‘fthat’s a’right…”

External image

Dum Dum stayed on the bench, not moving but to shift slightly away from the edge, he was awake he knew that much but it was too much like a nightmare, frozen in place and his muscles were locked, his shoulders were stiff, a car drove by and all he could hear was tires in slick mud and the thud of rain on a shelter, and there was someone talking and it was soft and it was familiar and, his voice was deep from disuse. “...Bucky?”

shesstillablackhawk

Zinda cursed herself, remembered a time like this once when Andre was reliving a bad ambush in Germany. She shouldn’t have touched him until she was sure he was responsive, should have known better. And just like that he was over the bench, and he looked startled out of his mind but he wasn’t running away or hurting anybody so she figured the smart thing to do would be to wait it out.

“Just look at me, okay? I’m not gonna move. I’m Zinda Blake, your friend. You’re in a park right now, it’s just the park. It’s 2015. Dum Dum, nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

#zinda #shesstillablackhawk #ptsd recovery #ptsd

The light filtered into his now open eyes, aching, and wide, too wide, he could feel it, the way the air felt cool against the not-quite-wet of his pupils. He was in a park and the trees were losing leaves and the green was starting to fade and he inhaled heavy, wet, breaths through his mouth not quite panting, chest heaving and trying to understand, because he couldn’t there were trees in his mind there was trees in front of him and this wasn’t ice and snow and dead friends and breathing, breathe. Breathe. There was no sleet but the cold had caught up to him anyway and his hands tightened, wood grain, splinters from a worn bench pried up by his nails and he couldn’t care and he was looking at a woman, blonde and she was speaking and he couldn’t understand what she was--everything was blurred out like weak winter sunlight through dusty windows. Everything was--gunfire. A loud crack split the air and Dum Dum flinched, dropped down as low as he could in the seat and there was a roar that sounded like a tank and he--his voice sounded like it was scraped from his throat, half memory. “...that’s new.”

James approached slowly. “…Dum Dum?”