#thread: static

[bxrn-thc-pagcs]

Title: Static

Muse: Prue

Prue sat in the corner of the room, sketching while listening to music. She was doing something rather simple, really. A basic drawing of her surroundings.

She hummed along quietly. Then her headphones shorted out. Again. She sighed and yanked them out. “Stupid static.”

The spirit girl went back to her drawing, not bothering to look up at the person who was suddenly standing before her. “What?”

[notacyclonefan]

hibernamilitis:

[ x ]

       “Bucky!” Steve’s in the middle before anyone can blink and to the soldier it’s crystal clear that Bucky isn’t himself. There’s cloudiness in his eyes, the way his fingers twitch as if he’s fighting something inside and he looks like he’s in pain. When Steve demands what happened, all Tony tells him is to get out the way so they can take the shot, and the colourful language that follows from Steve makes it clear how he feels abut that idea.

       He steps forward, hands raised but there’s another sound from the horrible static playing on the television and Bucky winces, crumples in on himself then springs into an attack towards the nearest person. Steve intercepts just as quick and it’s his neck that those deadly hands close around, determined to squeeze the life out of the owner. Steve jerks, gags and tries to dislodge his lover, notices the needle mark on Bucky’s neck which brings even more questions. Bucky clearly falters, lets out a pained sound and his grip relaxes for a moment before tightening once more.

      Steve can hear them cocking weapons, knows they’re about to shoot and rolls them over so he’s on top defending Bucky despite whatever has brought him back into darkness. He manages to dislodge Bucky’s hands around his neck, avoids a kick and narrowly dodges a punch to the face but not the elbow to the gut. He’s loathe to fight back but Bucky is like an animal. He sounds scared, panicked, trying to claw his way through Steve to get away or out, Steve isn’t sure.

      It’s a choice between having his lover riddled with bullets and tranquilisers, or knocking him out and Steve manages to twist around, get Bucky in a lock despite his slippery struggles. He tightens his grip, begs Bucky to take a breath and then Bucky twists. There’s a horrible, sickening snapping sound and everyone freezes, even Bucky before a horrible sound of pain escapes the assassin. Steve’s the only one who catches on, who realises Bucky’s arm has clean broken and he’s a cross between horrified and relieved that the pain seems to have cut through whatever Bucky was fighting and sent him limp into Steve’s arms.

      Tony makes a move forward, the pulser still active on his arm and Steve growls, chokes back tears that take him by surprise and demands the medic.

     His chest hurt. Everything hurt, and it was all inside. There was the ache at his throat, something that would last a hell of a lot longer than the bumps and bruises scattered over the length of his body. He could already hear it in his voice, feel it when he swallowed. There was an ache there, and he couldn't care less. He just couldn't care when he'd heard the sound of Bucky's arm snapping. He'd done it (again), had hurt Bucky. And he knew, damn it, he knew that he'd done what needed to be done. But Bucky had sounded scared, and that was wrong. He hadn't been silent, hadn't been anywhere but there, and Steve didn't want to fight him.

                    He'd done what needed to be done.

     Steve felt sick to his stomach and he swallowed it down. He could feel Bucky there, limp, and he sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob. He swallowed again and again and pulled back enough to look at his face. The sound of footsteps caught his attention and he looked up and over, jaw set, eyes narrowed and furious. When he met the eyes of those who had been taking aim, his expression shifted to something hard. "Back off," he said, and though it was quiet, it was sharp. It cut through everything else.

     The medics came forward and Steve shifted, giving them room to get to Bucky. "There's a needle mark," he said, his voice as solid as it could be. It would have been solid, in spite of everything, if his throat hadn't been raw. Already, marks were blooming on his skin, just over the collar of his shirt. They would darken later, but that wasn't important. "I'm sorry," he said, staying close. It was a near whisper. "I'm so sorry, Buck. I'm sorry." It was quiet in the room, and it was screaming in his head. So damn loud. It was layered over everything else.