Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
There were no windows in that facility, only metal walls that absorbed sound and reflected a muffled, distant, almost nonexistent echo. Everything was designed to erase time so that the days would become indistinguishable from one another.
Bucky Barnes couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sky.
No, really.
There were fragments in his mind, broken images that appeared in no particular order: light filtering through trees, the sound of the wind, a voice that had once been important. But they faded before he could remember more.
Now all that remained was this.
Routines.
Orders.
Silence.
The metal of the table was cold against his hands. Or rather, against the hand he could still feel as his own. The other remained motionless, heavy, and connected to a system that held it in place when it wasn’t needed.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Steady.
Familiar.
Brock Rumlow appeared in the doorway without haste; he wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t need to.
He leaned lightly against the doorframe, watching him in silence for a few seconds. Assessing.
Always assessing.
“You’re still awake,” he said finally.
It wasn’t a question.
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
“I haven’t slept.”
Rumlow nodded slightly, as if that answer fit exactly what he’d expected.
“That makes sense.”
He moved a little closer, without quite invading his personal space.
“They’re pressuring you again.”
Bucky didn’t deny it.
There was no need.
The exhaustion was there, visible in the way his body remained tense even at rest and in how his breathing was too measured, too deliberate.
“They say you’re not responding as you used to,” Rumlow continued. “That there’s… resistance.”
A pause.
“That usually ends badly.”
The silence stretched between them.
Bucky looked down for a moment.
He didn’t say anything.
But something in his expression changed.
Something subtle.
Rumlow noticed it.
He always noticed it.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table, closing the distance without becoming a direct threat.
“I can make them stop.”
The words hung in the air.
Bucky looked up slowly.
“Why?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Rumlow held his gaze.
“Because you’re useful.”
A logical answer.
Expected.
But not complete.
Bucky knew that.
Still, something in his chest stirred.
Something that shouldn’t be there.
“I don’t need that,” he said, though his voice lacked the firmness he would have liked.
Rumlow didn’t move.
“It’s not what it seems.”
Bucky frowned slightly.
“Then explain it to me.”
A second of silence.
Then Rumlow spoke in a lower, more restrained tone.
“They see you as a tool. Something to be used until it’s no longer useful.”
Bucky didn’t look away.
“I already know that.”
Rumlow tilted his head.
“I don’t.”
Another pause; Bucky looked away, as if he needed to break that eye contact.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Rumlow didn’t press the issue right away.
He straightened up, walking slowly around the table, observing him from another angle, as if searching for something he hadn’t yet found.
“You know,” he said finally, “there are ways to make this easier.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
There was no need.
Rumlow continued.
“You cooperate. You comply. You stop fighting what’s already been decided.”
He stopped in front of him again.
“And I’ll make sure they don’t break you in the process.”
Bucky clenched the hand he could still feel slightly.
“I don’t trust you.”
Rumlow smiled faintly.
“I’m not asking you to.”
Silence returned.
Days passed.
Or maybe weeks.
Time was hard to measure.
But things changed.
Subtly.
Gradually.
The sessions became less intense.
The breaks were longer.
Rumlow’s interventions… more frequent.
He didn’t always speak.
Sometimes he was just there.
Watching.
Making sure.
And Bucky began to notice it.
He began to anticipate it.
To look forward to those moments when the pressure eased, when the pain subsided, when someone walked in, and for a little while, everything became… manageable.
It wasn’t complete relief.
But it was something.
And in that place, that was enough.
One night—if you could still call it that—Bucky was sitting on the floor of his cell, his back against the wall, his gaze lost.
Summary: Brock said some things while he was unconscious.
Major Tags: Angst, injuries, unconscious.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The kind of silence that settles in when the alarms stop blaring, when the hurried footsteps fade away, and when the survivors finally have time to realize how close they came to losing everything.
The place smelled of burnt concrete, dust, and medicine.
The battle had ended just a few hours ago, but there were torn-out wires, broken glass, and impact marks everywhere.
And in the midst of it all…
There was Brock Rumlow.
Unconscious.
Steve had been watching him for several minutes from the doorway of the makeshift medical room.
Not because he didn’t trust him.
Although, in reality, he did.
It was hard not to.
Too many times, they’d been on opposite sides. But that night had been different.
Because when everything fell apart, when the building began to collapse, and when the only exit was blocked, Rumlow had chosen to go back.
For him.
For the team.
For people who, under normal circumstances, would have been his enemies.
And now he was there.
Still.
Vulnerable.
Something Steve had never seen before.
Brock Rumlow always seemed prepared for anything.
There was always an answer.
A strategy.
A way to get through it.
Even wounded, even overwhelmed, even cornered, he found a way to keep going.
But not now.
Now he was completely unconscious.
And Steve couldn’t help but think it was strange to see him like this.
Without that cold expression.
Without that arrogant confidence.
Without that gaze that seemed to analyze every movement of everyone around him.
He was just a wounded man.
Steve slowly entered the room.
The light was dim. They had hooked up some basic monitors with whatever resources were available, and the constant beeping of one of them marked a steady rhythm.
Brock was still breathing.
That was what mattered.
Steve approached the stretcher and examined the bandage on his side. The wound had been serious. Not fatal, but serious enough to knock him out of commission.
During the evacuation, Rumlow had taken the hit that was meant for someone else.
Steve still remembered the moment.
The noise.
The movement.
The way Brock had reacted without a second thought.
As if protecting someone had been a reflex.
That was what baffled him the most.
Because Steve knew Brock Rumlow.
Or so he thought.
And that action didn’t fit the image he had of him.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to the stretcher.
He didn’t know exactly why he’d stayed.
He could have left someone else to watch over him.
He could have gone back with the rest of them.
But something inside him told him he had to be there.
Maybe because he knew that when Brock woke up, he’d probably try to pretend nothing had happened.
He’d say he was fine.
That he didn’t need help.
That it had just been another wound.
Steve knew that kind of pride.
He’d seen it too many times.
In other soldiers.
In himself.
Several hours passed.
The night dragged on slowly.
Steve reviewed reports, listened to updates from the team, and replied to pending messages, but he always ended up looking over at the stretcher.
As if he needed to confirm that Brock was still there.
At some point, the man’s breathing changed.
It was just a subtle detail.
But Steve noticed it.
Rumlow was waking up.
He didn’t open his eyes right away.
First, he furrowed his brow.
Then he moved his hand slightly.
As if his body were trying to remember where he was before his mind did.
Steve leaned forward slightly.
“Rumlow.”
Rumlow’s eyes opened slowly.
For a few seconds, there was no recognition.
Only confusion.
Then, as always, his alertness returned.
He tried to sit up.
Mistake.
The pain forced him to stop.
“Take it easy.”
Steve’s voice made him stay still.
Rumlow blinked several times.
“Captain.”
His voice was weaker than usual.
That seemed to bother him.
Steve almost smiled.
Even when injured, he was still trying to keep up that attitude.
“Don’t try to get up.”
“I’m fine.”
Steve looked at him.
“No.”
Rumlow frowned.
“Was I unconscious for a long time?”
“A few hours.”
Silence.
Then Rumlow looked away.
“And you were here the whole time?”
Steve didn’t answer right away.
“Yes.”
The answer seemed to take him by surprise.
“Why?”
Steve fell silent, deep in thought.
“Because someone had to.”
Rumlow let out a small laugh, but it lacked the strength to sound mocking.
“That doesn’t sound like something you’d do for me.”
Steve raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s me.”
The sincerity of the answer made the room fall silent.
Steve looked at him intently.
For a long time, they’d both reduced each other to an idea.
The hero.
The enemy.
The soldier.
The agent.
But things were more complicated than that.
Steve rested his arms on his knees.
“While you were unconscious…”
Rumlow looked at him.
Steve continued.
“You said a few things.”
Brock’s expression changed immediately.
“What?”
Steve could almost see the tension returning to his body.
“I didn’t say anything important.”
“I don’t think so.”
Rumlow looked away.
“What did I say?”
Steve hesitated.
“You said you were tired.”
Rumlow remained still.
After a few seconds, he asked:
“Is that all?”
Steve shook his head slowly.
“You also said it was easier when everyone thought you were a monster.”
Rumlow didn’t answer.
For the first time, Steve saw something behind the mask.
Not guilt.
Not exactly.
Something more like exhaustion.
As if years of pretending to be something had begun to take its toll.
Sinopsis: Brock dijo algunas cosas mientras estaba inconsciente.
Advertencias: Angst, personaje inconsciente.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada al Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Carta MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), que hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera pueda usarlos; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto los personajes originales y la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
El tipo de silencio que queda cuando las alarmas dejan de sonar, cuando los pasos apresurados desaparecen y cuando las personas que sobrevivieron finalmente tienen tiempo para entender lo cerca que estuvieron de perderlo todo.
El lugar olía a concreto quemado, polvo y medicamentos.
La batalla había terminado hacía apenas unas horas, pero había cables arrancados, cristales rotos y marcas de impactos por todos lados.
Y en medio de todo eso…
Estaba Brock Rumlow.
Inconsciente.
Steve llevaba varios minutos observándolo desde la entrada de la sala médica improvisada.
No porque desconfiara.
Aunque, en realidad, sí.
Era difícil no hacerlo.
Demasiadas veces habían estado en lados opuestos. Pero esa noche había sido diferente.
Porque cuando todo se derrumbó, cuando el edificio comenzó a colapsar y cuando la única salida quedó bloqueada, Rumlow había elegido regresar.
Por él.
Por el equipo.
Por personas que, en circunstancias normales, habrían sido sus enemigos.
Y ahora estaba ahí.
Quieto.
Vulnerable.
Algo que Steve nunca había visto.
Brock Rumlow siempre parecía estar preparado para todo.
Siempre había una respuesta.
Una estrategia.
Una forma de salir adelante.
Incluso herido, incluso superado, incluso acorralado, encontraba la manera de seguir.
Pero ahora no.
Ahora estaba completamente inconsciente.
Y Steve no podía evitar pensar que era extraño verlo así.
Sin esa expresión fría.
Sin esa seguridad arrogante.
Sin esa mirada que parecía analizar cada movimiento de todos los que lo rodeaban.
Solo era un hombre herido.
Steve entró lentamente en la habitación.
La luz era tenue. Habían conectado algunos monitores básicos con los recursos que quedaban disponibles, y el sonido constante de uno de ellos marcaba un ritmo regular.
Brock seguía respirando.
Eso era lo importante.
Steve se acercó a la camilla y observó el vendaje en su costado. La herida había sido grave. No mortal, pero sí suficiente para dejarlo fuera de combate.
Durante la evacuación, Rumlow había recibido el impacto que estaba destinado a otro.
Steve todavía recordaba el momento.
El ruido.
El movimiento.
La forma en que Brock había reaccionado sin pensarlo.
Como si proteger a alguien hubiera sido un reflejo.
Eso era lo que más lo desconcertaba.
Porque Steve conocía a Brock Rumlow.
O creía conocerlo.
Y esa acción no encajaba con la imagen que tenía de él.
Tomó una silla y se sentó junto a la camilla.
No sabía exactamente por qué se había quedado.
Podría haber dejado a alguien más vigilándolo.
Podría haber regresado con el resto.
Pero algo dentro de él le decía que debía estar ahí.
Quizá porque sabía que cuando Brock despertara, probablemente intentaría fingir que nada había ocurrido.
Diría que estaba bien.
Que no necesitaba ayuda.
Que solo había sido una herida más.
Steve conocía ese tipo de orgullo.
Lo había visto demasiadas veces.
En otros soldados.
En sí mismo.
Pasaron varias horas.
La noche avanzó lentamente.
Steve revisó informes, escuchó actualizaciones del equipo y respondió mensajes pendientes, pero siempre terminaba mirando hacia la camilla.
Como si necesitara confirmar que Brock seguía ahí.
En algún momento, la respiración del hombre cambió.
Fue apenas un detalle.
Pero Steve lo notó.
Rumlow estaba despertando.
No abrió los ojos de inmediato.
Primero frunció el ceño.
Luego movió ligeramente la mano.
Como si su cuerpo estuviera intentando recordar dónde estaba antes que su mente.
Steve se inclinó un poco hacia adelante.
—Rumlow.
Los ojos de Rumlow se abrieron lentamente.
Durante unos segundos no hubo reconocimiento.
Solo confusión.
Después, como siempre, regresó la alerta.
Intentó incorporarse.
Error.
El dolor lo obligó a detenerse.
—Tranquilo.
La voz de Steve hizo que se quedara quieto.
Rumlow parpadeó varias veces.
—Capitán.
Su voz era más débil de lo normal.
Eso pareció molestarlo.
Steve casi sonrió.
Incluso herido seguía intentando mantener esa actitud.
—No intentes levantarte.
—Estoy bien.
Steve lo miró.
—No.
Rumlow frunció el ceño.
—¿Me quedé inconsciente mucho tiempo?
—Unas horas.
Silencio.
Luego Rumlow desvió la mirada.
—¿Y tú estuviste aquí todo ese tiempo?
Steve no respondió de inmediato.
—Sí.
La respuesta pareció tomarlo por sorpresa.
—¿Por qué?
Steve se quedó pensativo.
—Porque alguien tenía que hacerlo.
Rumlow soltó una pequeña risa, pero no tenía fuerza suficiente para sonar burlona.
—Eso no parece algo que harías conmigo.
Steve levantó una ceja.
—¿Por qué no?
—Porque soy yo.
La sinceridad de la respuesta hizo que la habitación quedara en silencio.
Steve lo miró con atención.
Durante mucho tiempo, ambos habían reducido al otro a una idea.
El héroe.
El enemigo.
El soldado.
El agente.
Pero las cosas eran más complicadas que eso.
Steve apoyó los brazos sobre sus rodillas.
—Mientras estabas inconsciente…
Rumlow lo miró.
Steve continuó.
—Dijiste algunas cosas.
La expresión de Brock cambió inmediatamente.
—¿Qué?
Steve casi pudo ver cómo volvía la tensión a su cuerpo.
—No dije nada importante.
—Eso no lo creo.
Rumlow apartó la mirada.
—¿Qué dije?
Steve dudó.
—Dijiste que estabas cansado.
Rumlow permaneció quieto.
Después de unos segundos, preguntó:
—¿Eso es todo?
Steve negó lentamente.
—También dijiste que era más fácil cuando todos pensaban que eras un monstruo.
Rumlow no respondió.
Por primera vez, Steve vio algo detrás de la máscara.
No culpa.
No exactamente.
Algo más parecido al agotamiento.
Como si llevar años fingiendo ser algo hubiera comenzado a pesar.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Just small white flakes drifting slowly down over the forest, covering the footprints, the remnants of a recent battle, and everything that someone would have preferred to leave buried.
The abandoned facility was several kilometers from any major road. It had been a temporary extraction point, a place that was once bustling with activity, constant orders, and communications.
Now all that remained were damaged walls, flickering emergency lights, and the echo of something that had gone terribly wrong.
Bucky Barnes was sitting against a concrete wall, his back resting against a cold surface he could barely feel. His breathing was irregular, though he tried to keep it steady.
He always tried to keep it steady.
His metal arm lay motionless on his leg, covered in small cuts and impact marks. His other hand pressed firmly against a wound in his side, trying to stop the bleeding that had already soaked through part of his clothes.
It wasn’t the wound that worried him most.
It was that moment when the adrenaline wore off and his mind began to recall everything he’d ignored during the fight.
The memories.
The voices.
The images returned without asking for permission.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds.
Bad idea.
Because then they came back.
White lights.
Orders.
Metal.
Cold.
A voice telling him what to do.
A voice that wasn’t his own.
He snapped his eyes open.
The present.
He needed to stay in the present.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him tense up immediately.
His body reacted before his mind did.
His metal arm rose.
His hand reached for a weapon he no longer had.
Then a familiar voice emerged from the shadows.
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”
Bucky didn’t let his guard down.
“I don’t trust you.”
Brock appeared in the doorway, holding a makeshift first-aid kit. His uniform was torn in several places, and he had dried blood on his face.
Bucky watched him warily.
Rumlow.
The man who had once been his enemy.
The man who represented many things Bucky would rather not remember.
But he was also the man who was standing there.
And that was a contradiction Bucky didn’t know how to handle.
Rumlow set the first-aid kit on the floor.
“You’re bleeding.”
Bucky looked away.
“I’m fine.”
Rumlow let out a short exhale.
“No. You’re not.”
It didn’t sound mocking.
It didn’t sound like a provocation.
That was what made Bucky most uncomfortable.
Because he’d expected cruelty.
He’d expected Rumlow to take advantage.
Instead, he got concerned.
Rumlow approached slowly.
Bucky looked up.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Rumlow stopped.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Rumlow lowered his voice slightly.
“All right.”
He knelt at a safe distance and opened the first-aid kit.
“I can leave it here, and you can decide.”
Bucky frowned slightly.
“Why?”
Rumlow didn’t answer right away.
He seemed to be searching for an answer that wouldn’t sound insincere.
“Because I know what it’s like when others make decisions about your body.”
That sentence made Bucky freeze.
Rumlow noticed the change.
He said nothing.
He just waited.
Finally, Bucky moved his hand slightly away from the wound.
“Do it quickly.”
Rumlow nodded.
There were no comments.
There were no questions.
Just work.
His hands were firm but careful. He didn’t treat Bucky like a damaged machine or a weapon in need of maintenance.
He treated him like an injured person.
And that was strange.
Stranger than the pain.
Bucky watched his movements.
“You’re not good at this.”
Rumlow raised an eyebrow.
“Taking care of people?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Rumlow understood.
“No. I’m not.”
When he finished bandaging the wound, Rumlow sat down against the opposite wall.
He didn’t leave.
Bucky noticed.
“I thought you were going to leave.”
Rumlow looked toward the door.
“I could.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Why?”
The same question again.
Again, no simple answer.
“Because you’re hurt.”
“That’s not enough.”
Rumlow looked down for a moment.
“Maybe not.”
An hour passed.
Maybe two.
The snow kept falling.
Bucky began to feel the exhaustion more strongly. His body was begging for rest, but his mind remained alert.
Rumlow noticed.
“You don’t have to stay awake.”
Bucky let out a small, humorless laugh.
“Of course I do.”
“No.”
Rumlow looked him straight in the eye.
“Not with me.”
The remark made Bucky look up.
Bucky leaned his head against the wall.
Over the years, he’d learned that letting his guard down meant suffering.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada al Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Carta MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), que hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera pueda usarlos; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto los personajes originales y la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
Solo pequeños copos blancos que descendían lentamente sobre el bosque, cubriendo las huellas, los restos de una batalla reciente y todo aquello que alguien hubiera preferido dejar enterrado.
La instalación abandonada estaba a varios kilómetros de cualquier camino principal. Había sido un punto de extracción temporal, un lugar que alguna vez tuvo movimiento, órdenes y comunicaciones constantes.
Ahora solo quedaban paredes dañadas, luces de emergencia parpadeando y el eco de algo que había salido terriblemente mal.
Bucky Barnes estaba sentado contra una pared de concreto, con la espalda apoyada en una superficie fría que apenas sentía. Su respiración era irregular, aunque intentaba mantenerla estable.
Siempre intentaba mantenerla estable.
Su brazo metálico estaba inmóvil sobre su pierna, cubierto de pequeños cortes y marcas de impacto. La otra mano presionaba con fuerza una herida en su costado, intentando detener una hemorragia que ya había empapado parte de su ropa.
No era la herida lo que más le preocupaba.
Era ese momento en el que la adrenalina desaparecía y la mente comenzaba a recuperar todo aquello que había ignorado durante la pelea.
Los recuerdos.
Las voces.
Las imágenes que no pedían permiso para regresar.
Cerró los ojos durante unos segundos.
Mala idea.
Porque entonces volvieron.
Luces blancas.
Órdenes.
Metal.
Frío.
Una voz diciéndole qué hacer.
Una voz que no era la suya.
Abrió los ojos de golpe.
El presente.
Necesitaba quedarse en el presente.
El sonido de pasos en el pasillo lo hizo tensarse inmediatamente.
Su cuerpo reaccionó antes que su mente.
El brazo de metal se levantó.
La mano buscó un arma que ya no tenía.
Entonces una voz conocida apareció entre las sombras.
—Si quisiera matarte, ya lo habría hecho.
Bucky no bajó la guardia.
—No confío en ti.
Brock apareció en la entrada, sosteniendo un botiquín improvisado. Su uniforme estaba roto en varios puntos y tenía sangre seca en el rostro.
Bucky lo observó con desconfianza.
Rumlow.
El hombre que había sido enemigo.
El hombre que representaba muchas cosas que Bucky prefería no recordar.
Pero también era el hombre que estaba ahí.
Y eso era una contradicción que no sabía cómo manejar.
Rumlow dejó el botiquín en el suelo.
—Estás perdiendo sangre.
Bucky miró hacia otro lado.
—Estoy bien.
Rumlow soltó una exhalación corta.
—No. No lo estás.
No sonó burlón.
No sonó como una provocación.
Eso fue lo que más incomodó a Bucky.
Porque esperaba crueldad.
Esperaba una ventaja.
En vez de preocupación.
Rumlow se acercó lentamente.
Bucky levantó la mirada.
—No te acerques.
Rumlow se detuvo.
Por un momento, ninguno habló.
Luego Rumlow bajó un poco la voz.
—Está bien.
Se arrodilló a una distancia prudente y abrió el botiquín.
—Puedo dejarlo aquí y tú decides.
Bucky frunció ligeramente el ceño.
—¿Por qué?
Rumlow no respondió de inmediato.
Parecía estar buscando una respuesta que no sonara falsa.
—Porque sé lo que es que otros decidan sobre tu cuerpo.
Esa frase hizo que Bucky se quedara quieto.
Rumlow notó el cambio.
No dijo nada.
Solo esperó.
Finalmente, Bucky apartó ligeramente la mano de la herida.
—Hazlo rápido.
Rumlow asintió.
No hubo comentarios.
No hubo preguntas.
Solo trabajo.
Sus manos eran firmes, pero cuidadosas. No trataba a Bucky como una máquina dañada ni como un arma que necesitaba mantenimiento.
Lo trataba como una persona herida.
Y eso era extraño.
Más extraño que el dolor.
Bucky observó sus movimientos.
—No eres bueno haciendo esto.
Rumlow levantó una ceja.
—¿Cuidar gente?
Bucky no respondió.
Rumlow entendió.
—No. No lo soy.
Cuando terminó de vendar la herida, Rumlow se sentó contra la pared opuesta.
No se fue.
Bucky lo notó.
—Pensé que ibas a irte.
Rumlow miró hacia la puerta.
—Podría.
—Pero no.
—¿Por qué?
Otra vez la misma pregunta.
Otra vez sin una respuesta sencilla.
—Porque estás herido.
—Eso no es suficiente.
Rumlow bajó la mirada por un instante.
—Quizá no.
Pasó una hora.
Tal vez dos.
La nieve seguía cayendo.
Bucky comenzó a sentir el cansancio más fuerte. El cuerpo le pedía descanso, pero su mente seguía alerta.
Rumlow lo notó.
—No tienes que mantenerte despierto.
Bucky soltó una pequeña risa sin humor.
—Claro que sí.
—No.
Rumlow lo miró directamente.
—No conmigo.
La frase hizo que Bucky levantara la vista.
Bucky apoyó la cabeza contra la pared.
Durante años, había aprendido que bajar la guardia significaba sufrir.
Que confiar significaba perder.
Pero en ese momento estaba agotado.
Demasiado cansado para seguir peleando contra todo.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
First came a strange vibration, as if the air itself had folded in on itself, as if time had stopped moving in a straight line and twisted into an impossible spiral. Then came silence. An absolute, deep, unnatural silence.
And then… the world returned.
Steve Rogers opened his eyes with difficulty; his body was still tense from the shockwave that had coursed through every fiber of his being. The time-travel device lay shattered beside him, reduced to smoldering scrap metal.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this.
He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings, but something didn’t feel right.
The sky.
The buildings.
The silence.
This wasn’t the same place he’d left.
And then he saw it.
A symbol.
Not in ruins.
Not hidden.
Elevated.
Imposing.
Proud.
The HYDRA insignia dominated the building in front of him, stretching like a shadow that covered the entire horizon.
Steve’s stomach clenched.
“No…”
It wasn’t possible.
He moved forward cautiously, each step heavier than the last. The city around him was clean, orderly… but lacking something essential. There was no chaos. There was no disorder.
There was no freedom.
People walked in silence, their eyes downcast, as if every movement were measured and observed. Giant screens broadcast constant messages, unfamiliar faces speaking of order, of control, of a new era.
And on every corner…
The same symbol.
HYDRA wasn’t hidden.
HYDRA ruled.
Steve clenched his jaw; his mind was trying to make sense of it all and piece together what had gone wrong.
The device.
The coordinates.
The calculation.
Something had gone wrong.
And it had brought him to a place where everything he’d fought to stop… had won.
A mechanical noise interrupted his thoughts.
Armored vehicles advanced down the street, stopping with precision. Soldiers disembarked, uniforms impeccable, weapons at the ready.
And at their head…
A figure who needed no introduction.
Brock Rumlow.
But he wasn’t the same.
Here… he wasn’t a subordinate.
He was the authority.
His eyes locked onto Steve with immediate intensity, as if he’d been waiting for him.
“Curious,” he said in a calm, almost intrigued tone. “I don’t recall authorizing any visitors.”
Steve didn’t respond right away.
He was observing.
Comparing.
This Rumlow wasn’t a cog in a system.
He was part of the system.
Rumlow took a couple of steps forward, surrounded by soldiers who needed no explicit orders to remain alert.
“However,…” he continued, tilting his head slightly, “there’s something about you.”
Steve held his gaze.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re here.”
A second of silence.
“This isn’t real.”
Rumlow smiled faintly.
“Oh, it is. More than you’d like to admit.”
Steve took a step forward.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to end.”
Rumlow looked at him with genuine interest now.
“So you’re from somewhere else.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a conclusion.
Steve didn’t deny it.
Rumlow exhaled slowly, as if that information fit into a puzzle he’d been putting together for some time.
“That explains a lot.”
“Like what?” Steve asked.
Rumlow stared at him intently.
“Well, like why you seem so… disappointed.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because he was.
Every corner of that world served as proof of failure.
Rumlow stepped again toward him.
“In your world, I suppose HYDRA loses.”
Steve clenched his jaw.
“Always.”
Rumlow let out a low chuckle.
“Then this must be a hard blow.”
Steve didn’t react to the taunt.
“Where is…?” he began, but stopped.
He didn’t need to finish the question.
Rumlow understood anyway.
“Are you looking for resistance? Rebels? Heroes?” A pause. “There aren’t any left.”
“That’s not true.”
Rumlow held his gaze without flinching.
“It is here.”
A tense silence settled between them; then Rumlow spoke again, in a lower tone.
“Do you know what’s most interesting about all this?”
Steve didn’t answer.
There was no need.
“It wasn’t a long war.”
Steve frowned slightly. Rumlow continued.
“There weren’t decades of conflict. There was no slow attrition.”
“Just… the right decisions at the right moments.”
Steve felt a tightness in his chest.
“And you were part of that?”
Rumlow didn’t hesitate.
“From the very beginning. And in this version… no one stopped me.”
Silence returned. Rumlow took another step forward, closing the distance between them.
“Now the question is…” he said, watching him with an almost analytical intensity. “What are you doing here?”
N/A: Esta es mi entrada al Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Carta MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), que hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera pueda usarlos; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto los personajes originales y la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
Primero fue una vibración extraña, como si el aire mismo se hubiera doblado sobre sí, como si el tiempo hubiera dejado de avanzar en línea recta y se hubiera retorcido en una espiral imposible. Luego vino el silencio. Un silencio absoluto, profundo, antinatural.
Y después… el mundo regresó.
Steve Rogers abrió los ojos con dificultad; su cuerpo aún estaba tenso por la descarga que había atravesado cada fibra de su ser. El dispositivo de viaje temporal yacía destrozado a su lado, reducido a chatarra humeante.
Eso no debía pasar.
No así.
Se incorporó lentamente, evaluando su entorno; pero algo no encajaba.
El cielo.
Las estructuras.
El silencio.
No era el mismo lugar del que había salido.
Y entonces lo vio.
Un símbolo.
No en ruinas.
No escondido.
Elevado.
Imponente.
Orgulloso.
La insignia de HYDRA dominaba el edificio frente a él, extendiéndose como una sombra que cubría todo el horizonte.
El estómago de Steve se tensó.
—No…
No era posible.
Avanzó con cautela, cada paso más pesado que el anterior. La ciudad que lo rodeaba estaba limpia, ordenada… pero vacía de algo esencial. No había caos. No había desorden.
No había libertad.
Las personas caminaban en silencio, con miradas bajas, como si cada movimiento estuviera medido, observado. Pantallas gigantes transmitían mensajes constantes, rostros desconocidos hablando de orden, de control, de una nueva era.
Y en cada esquina…
El mismo símbolo.
HYDRA no estaba oculta.
HYDRA gobernaba.
Steve apretó la mandíbula; su mente intentaba encontrar sentido y reconstruir qué había salido mal.
El dispositivo.
Las coordenadas.
El cálculo.
Algo había fallado.
Y lo había traído a un lugar donde todo lo que había luchado por detener… había ganado.
Un ruido mecánico interrumpió sus pensamientos.
Vehículos blindados avanzaban por la calle, deteniéndose con precisión. Soldados descendieron, uniformes impecables, armas listas.
Y al frente de ellos…
Una figura que no necesitaba presentación.
Brock Rumlow.
Pero no era el mismo.
Aquí… él no era un subordinado.
Era autoridad.
Sus ojos se fijaron en Steve con una intensidad inmediata, como si lo hubiera estado esperando.
—Curioso —dijo con un tono calmado, casi intrigado—. No recuerdo haber autorizado visitantes.
Steve no respondió de inmediato.
Estaba observando.
Comparando.
Este Rumlow no era una pieza dentro de un sistema.
Era parte del sistema.
Rumlow avanzó un par de pasos, rodeado por soldados que no necesitaban órdenes explícitas para mantenerse alerta.
—Sin embargo… —continuó, inclinando ligeramente la cabeza—. hay algo en ti.
Steve sostuvo su mirada.
—No debería sorprenderme que estés aquí.
Un segundo de silencio.
—Esto no es real.
Rumlow sonrió apenas.
—Oh, lo es. Más de lo que te gustaría admitir.
Steve dio un paso al frente.
—Esto no es como debía terminar.
Rumlow lo observó con interés genuino ahora.
—Entonces vienes de otro lugar.
No era una pregunta.
Era una conclusión.
Steve no lo negó.
Rumlow exhaló lentamente, como si esa información encajara en un rompecabezas que llevaba tiempo armando.
—Eso explica muchas cosas.
—¿Cómo qué? —preguntó Steve.
Rumlow lo miró fijamente.
—Pues, como por qué pareces tan… decepcionado.
Steve no respondió.
No podía.
Porque lo estaba.
Porque cada rincón de ese mundo era una prueba de fracaso.
Rumlow dio otro paso hacia él.
—En tu mundo, supongo que HYDRA pierde.
Steve apretó la mandíbula.
—Siempre.
Rumlow soltó una risa baja.
—Entonces este debe ser un golpe duro.
Steve no reaccionó a la burla.
—¿Dónde está…? —comenzó, pero se detuvo.
No necesitaba terminar la pregunta.
Rumlow lo entendió de todos modos.
—¿Buscas resistencia? ¿Rebeldes? ¿héroes? —Una pausa—. No quedan.
—Eso no es verdad.
Rumlow sostuvo su mirada sin vacilar.
—Lo es aquí.
Un silencio tenso se instaló entre ambos; luego, Rumlow habló de nuevo, con un tono más bajo.
—¿Sabes qué es lo más interesante de todo esto?
Steve no respondió.
No hacía falta.
—Que no fue una guerra larga.
Steve frunció levemente el ceño. Rumlow continuó.
—No hubo décadas de conflicto. No hubo desgaste lento.
—Solo… decisiones correctas en los momentos adecuados.
Steve sintió una presión en el pecho.
—¿Y tú fuiste parte de eso?
Rumlow no dudó.
—Desde el principio. Y en esta versión… nadie me detuvo.
El silencio volvió. Rumlow dio un paso más, reduciendo la distancia entre ellos.
—Ahora la pregunta es… —dijo, observándolo con una intensidad casi analítica—. ¿Qué haces tú aquí?
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The makeshift shelter wasn’t built to last. It was an abandoned administrative building—the kind that gets forgotten on the outskirts of industrial areas—with windows covered in dust and old papers stuck to the walls. Outside, the sky was gray, with a light rain falling steadily, marking the passage of time in the puddles forming on the cracked asphalt.
Inside, the air was cold and smelled of dampness, but at least it offered something that, at that moment, was worth more than anything else: shelter.
Clint Barton was leaning against a wall, breathing unevenly and staring at the peeling ceiling. His bow lay to one side, useless for the moment, while a makeshift bandage covered his side. The cloth was soaked with a mixture of dried and fresh blood, a sign of an injury that hadn’t had time to heal.
Every breath was a struggle.
Every movement was a decision.
And yet, he remained conscious.
A few meters away, checking the main entrance for the third time, stood Jack Rollins. His posture was rigid and alert, as if he expected something to burst through the door at any moment. His hands were never still, adjusting his gear, checking escape routes, or calculating distances.
But his attention kept returning, inevitably, to the same spot.
Clint.
It wasn’t a situation he’d planned for.
It wasn’t something that fit with his priorities.
Rollins finally approached, stopping at a safe distance.
“You’re still bleeding.”
Clint let out a slow exhale.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“It’s not a comment,” Rollins replied. “It’s a problem.”
Clint turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye.
“And since when do you care about other people’s problems?”
Rollins didn’t answer right away. He crouched down, assessing the wound without asking permission. His movements were precise.
“Ever since this one might have become mine.”
Clint let out a small laugh, which turned into a grimace of pain.
“Always so considerate.”
Rollins ignored the tone.
“I need to see the wound.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It is.”
Clint hesitated for a second. Then, with obvious annoyance, he lifted the fabric slightly.
The wound was deep.
Not fatal… yet.
But deep enough to get complicated quickly.
Rollins frowned.
“This isn’t superficial.”
“I already noticed.”
Rollins pulled a small first-aid kit from his gear.
“If I don’t clean it properly, you’re going to get an infection.”
Clint watched him closely now, as if trying to understand something beyond the obvious.
“Why are you doing this?”
Rollins didn’t look up.
“Because if you die, I’ll have to live with that.”
Clint shook his head slightly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rollins paused for a second.
Just one.
Then he went back to work.
“Because you’re useful.”
The answer was immediate.
Logical.
Cold.
But Clint didn’t look away.
“That doesn’t explain everything.”
Rollins clenched his jaw slightly.
“I don’t need to explain anything to you.”
Silence settled in as he began to clean the wound. Clint gritted his teeth, his body tensing against the pain that coursed through his side like a constant jolt.
“Breathe,” Rollins said, his tone unrelenting.
“Don’t give me orders.”
“Then keep bleeding out.”
Clint let out a ragged exhale.
He obeyed.
Reluctantly.
When he finished bandaging it properly, he stepped back a little, examining the result.
“You’re going to need some rest.”
Clint leaned his head against the wall.
“We’re not in a position for that.”
Rollins looked toward the door.
“I know. But you’re not in any condition to move around much either.”
Clint closed his eyes for a moment.
“Then we’ll have to find a middle ground.”
Rollins didn’t reply.
He stood up and walked over to one of the covered windows. He lifted the fabric just enough to look outside.
The rain was still falling.
Constant.
Persistent.
“There’s no movement out there,” he said finally.
Clint opened his eyes.
“That doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.”
“I know.”
Rollins let the curtain fall and walked back over.
He leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms.
“This buys us time.”
Clint watched him in silence.
“You’re not used to this, are you?”
“What?”
“Staying put.”
Rollins held his gaze.
“It’s not a matter of being used to it.”
Time passed strangely.
Minutes that dragged on.
Moments of silence interrupted only by the rain and their breathing.
At some point, Clint began to shiver slightly.
Rollins noticed it immediately.
“Fever.”
“It’s not serious,” Clint murmured.
“Not yet.”
Rollins leaned in again, resting the back of his hand on Clint’s forehead.
“You’re hot.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”
Rollins ignored the comment.
“You need some water.”
He moved quickly, searching the room until he found a half-full bottle.
