there is a clear difference in how the winter soldier fights versus how bucky barnes fights. hell, even a difference with how james buchanan barnes fights. the WS fights very aggressively, there’s a control to it but it’s all out. he’ll pull a relentless array of attacks, from guns all the way to knives and fists. if guns don’t work, then he’ll pull out a knife. if that knife doesn’t work, he’ll move to fists. and when it’s hand to hand combat is when he’s at his best —— the power in his punches and the movement in his strikes are all very calculated and aggressive. but it can also lead to him tuckering out quicker. if his enemy survives that initial barrage, the chances of an opening to take him down increases. what makes the winter soldier so deadly is his keen eye for scoping, being able to complete an assassination through a wall or through another human being, or even shooting a moving target while he’s moving also requires an immense amount of accuracy.
the WS’s accuracy comes from james barnes. james was known to be an excellent sniper, providing cover fire in recon ops and being the “eye in the sky.” he wasn’t exactly the best at hand to hand, he was efficient but he still preferred using a gun. he was also not as used to fights as he is now, which showed in how he hesitates with calculating moves in battle.
bucky’s fighting style, however, is a mix of both the winter soldier and james. his attacks are less aggressive and more controlled, showing the same amount of power in his hand to hand as the WS but without the ferocity. he relies on his legs more now, the power of his kick rivals his punch. he isn’t weaker than the WS, he just simply shed the brutality that he once had. bucky is still a formidable combatant, he just holds back and waits for an opportunity to properly take down an enemy. he’s focused on not killing anymore, which is where james and the winter soldier were lost.
there’s a time where bucky knows he was once free, free to do whatever, to be whoever he wanted to be with no consequence. there’s a time he knew he wasn’t free, where he slept and where he was empty. a sort of liminal space, years of his life gone to the monster he knew he once was. a space where he knows he never even existed — he had been wiped, again and again and again —— there’s screams somewhere, raw and tearing and clawing. he remembers faintly how his lungs felt, his throat, like it was torn up and scratched by every single branch he fell through. he remembers the fall. he remembers how his stomach felt in his throat, remembers how lost he felt staring up at a grey sky with white blanketing all around him. he remembers the red staining the purity surrounding his beaten and bloody self, remembers the metallic smell, the sobs that escaped him and the hopelessness, helplessness that punctured so deeply, so raw, in his throbbing heart.
remembers how they looked at him. remembers how that blade felt. how his arm felt. how it didn’t feel when he wrapped his titanium fingers around that son of a bitch’s throat. how it felt when he killed with his own bare hands, how that syringe felt when it punctured his skin and what it felt like when his own mind gave way beneath him. how it felt to be strapped to that chair, turned inside out and laid bare for everyone in the world to see him as is ; when those words were uttered for the first time, when he thought he was free. he thought he was free, he was free, he was free and then they ripped it from his trembling fingers like it was nothing. he remembers the gaping hole in his mind, a yawning cavern that never seemed to end ; he remembers when he tried to escape that hole, remembers how it felt when the wind blew and he was swallowed whole by that deathly cavern. remembers how all the boxes fell and their contents — vanished. ghost stories in his mind. he couldn’t remember him. couldn’t remember her. couldn’t remember any of them. those words were uttered and the electric pulses set his body aflame, burned his mind from the inside out. when he fell in to that cavern and he would never be able to crawl back out until almost a century later. a century.
a century.
he feels how raw his throat is again, the sobs that wracked through his body and the grief that was so potent, it was like being soaked to the bone as he laid out in a storm alone. it caught itself on every limb, every thought, every movement of any and every muscle. and when his eyes open again they feel as if they aren’t his, that they’re the soldier’s again, empty and hollow and so, so gone. was his body even his? was it his to begin with? those that controlled him, were they the reason for his existence?
a scream tore itself from his throat. frustration bubbled up and grief bubbled it over ; boiling and yet freezing. tremors throughout his body, an exhaustion unparalleled to anything else he’s every felt took hold of his bones and refused to release its icy cold grip. these days it was a war with himself, than with an enemy — and he’s convinced it might be worse this way. an enemy he was sent to assassinate didn’t strike fear into his unmoving heart. ( nothing ever did. ) this was something he could not see. and it was something he couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, couldn’t smell or hear or feel and it was so fucking horrifying it was so lonely because he was alone he was alone, alone, alone, SCREAM ——
emptiness.
a sob.
he thinks this is what hell is truly, the yawning cavern in his mind so inviting, the contents from the boxes he so neatly lined up dusty with underuse, but who’s fault is it? those memories he couldn’t stomach to see anymore, couldn’t stomach putting them away again so neatly. couldn’t live with himself if he put them away in the wrong places and couldn’t remember anymore ; remember the pain, the pain, the pain — couldn’t remember what that sunshine felt when he looked at him.
couldn’t bear anything with himself if bucky lost every memory he had of him.
so he wipes his forehead covered in sweat, hauls himself up and rinses his face in the kitchen sink. he’s gone. and the other one’s gone. gone, gone, gone, they’re gone, bucky, gone, gone, gone. gone. repeated over and over and over again — he still couldn’t believe it. that feebly placed plank over that gaping cavern, the ignorance of trying to put himself back together, he knew if he fell down again, gave way, that soldier would come back. and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to shake it this time.
you’re free.
but was he?
don’t leave me, please, please don’t go —— that cavern looked so inviting. it was an inviting thought to let go and to forget about all this pain, to forget about everything he’s been through and to just succumb —— he wanted to, he actually wanted to. “ your name is james buchanan barnes. “ but what would happen to those memories sprawled across the floor, without their boxes? they’d fall away too to that cavern, and they would never be able to come back. he’d lose everything of him, of steve ; he’d lose sam. shuri. ayo. tony. he’d lose it all and then what would he do, what would he do ——
he remembers the caress of his cheek. but i still did it. he remembers that he never gave up on him. and freely did those tears fall shortly after, an agony he was never able to shake. despair and pain that made him wish he didn’t wake up in the first place. those were bad thoughts, he knew that, he knew it so well. he knew she’d be so disappointed, he knew that these exact sentiments would be recorded and sent to higher ups and then he’d lose his pardon and he’d lose everything and —
he sighed loudly, shakily. he needed to stop. he knew when his mind went this far, how he could lose control. the control he fought so fucking hard to get back, the control he rightfully deserved — it could still be lost so fucking quickly. he pulled away from the sink, vaguely knew he left a hand mark from holding the counter so tightly. and when he sunk back down to the wooden floor, curling up in the thin blanket, he fell away to a name on his tongue so rich, he finally felt something than agony.
i don’t think bucky knew just what it meant when they told him he was free. at first it was this moment, this burst of happiness --- it started like a blossom in his heart, those words whispered to him and the moments that followed. sacred moments, moments that stayed with him, ayo, and shuri. but the concept of freedom was so, inherently new to bucky, he’d never known what it was like to be free. not since before the forties.
it was fall, capture, torture, freeze, kill, freeze, kill, for decades. moments he thought he escaped, only to be strapped up, muzzled, wiped and frozen again. he’s only ever known what bloodshed is, how to throw a punch, how to ready, aim, fire. what the weakest points were on a body, the best way to shoot someone, confirm deaths, pain, and emptiness. what it meant to be free was a foreign concept. when he was moved to new york, pardoned, the term free became just a little more hazy to him. he was a civilian now, people around him weren’t targets anymore. they were people. the cashier ringing him up for a coffee didn’t size him up, the lady at the gas station didn’t want to kill him. there was no bomb about to go off, there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity with a gun, no hidden scope on his back, but why did he still check his six every passing minute? why did he still remain hyper vigilant, why did every single person that looked at him seem so suspicious?
so he tried normalcy. told himself he liked it. rolled through tinder a few times, went on a few dates. but the sullen look in his eyes kept getting worse, he started sleeping on the floor because the only thing that made him feel tired enough to sleep was the sound of the television. so he stopped, he tried making amends. no matter what he did, it was still so sour. so bitter. why was civilian life, freedom, so hard?
a very descriptive & detailed profile of your muse . repost with the information of your muse , including headcanons , etc . if you fail to achieve some of the facts , add some other of your own ! when you’re done , tag 15 other people to do the same !
tagged by : u knowww
name : james buchanan barnes ; bucky.
age : 107 years, appears to be in 30s.
species : human.
gender : cis male.
orientation : homosexual.
interests : playing the piano, darts, practicing knife throwing.
profession : avenger.
body type : tall ; extremely well - built and muscular ; scarred and battle - worn.
eyes : blue. they used to be covered in black chalk for anonymity. empty and hollow of who he used to be until recently. they tell the prominent story of his healing.
hair : brown wavy hair, a little past the shoulders. typically kept half up/half down, styled to the side, or in an updo.
skin : fair skinned.
height : 6′0″.
weight : 220lbs
companions : some avengers, sam wilson, sarah wilson, shuri, steve rogers.
antagonists : helmut zemo. hydra.
colours : black, red, blue.
smells : petrichor ; coffee / coffee shops ; an old book.
fruits : plums, coconuts, cherries, apricots.
drinks : coffee ; apple cider ; hot chocolate.
alcoholic bevereges ? yes / no / occasionally ; drinks despite not being able to get drunk.
smokes ? yes / no / occasionally
drinks ? yes / no / occasionally
drugs ? yes / no / occasionally
driver’s license ? yes / no
tagging : @borndifficult , @fiercehearts , @tcnystcrrk , anyone else who wants to do this !
bucky loves jazz music. he grew up listening to ella fitzgerald, thelonious monk, and so many other jazz musicians. he learned how to play the piano just because becoming a jazz musician was something he actually wanted to do. he still listens to 20s jazz, although he does have generations of jazz to catch up on ; he regularly visits bars with live entertainment, especially if they’re playing that genre.
though he isn’t quite sure what he wants to do for now, as he knows he can’t turn away from a fight or deny the call should someone need him. he’s considered taking up his dream, considered becoming a musician in one of those bars, but he’s just waiting. maybe one day he will.
