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SMOKING is familiar, a throw back to a time before the serum, before the winter soldier project, & the war. it’s a security blanket, a crutch. something to keep his already frayed nerves from fallin’ apart when he’s losing sleep, when the nightmares are getting to be too much & old memories are surfacing from the recesses of a forgotten void. ❝i was thinkin’ — ❞ flicking the half-burnt up cigarette, he stubs it out on the sidewalk, gaze never leaving the empty street – the silence, was an odd comfort; something to QUIET the chaotic noise in his brain. ❝ ‘bout doin’ somethin’ special for Nat. ❞

ROMANCE isn’t his strong point. used to be, there wouldn’t be a girl in New York who could withstand the Barnes Charm, but the ashes of the man he once was, had long since been scattered by the brutality of war & the fragmented recollections of his past were all he’d had left. ❝ MAYBE take her somewhere nice, or, i d'unno, buy her that pistol she’s been eyeing. nothin’ says I love you like flowers, and a gun, right? ❞ his lip twists up into a crooked smile, eyes finally flicking over to john. it’s been a few months since they’ve reconciled, as a couple, though their history goes back to the COLD WAR, a convoluted path of complications, hiding, & blood trails. but she’s saved him, been a constant for years, helped him through the nightmares – the depression. if it hadn’t been for her, he might not BE here.

❝ she deserves it. ❞

#sleepindarkness #v. no strings.

❝ who the hell are you ---- ? ❞ he’s not in the mood for games, & he’s weary, shifting the pack on his shoulder in a mild, conscious effort to remove it from obstruction, if things turned violent. forgive him for his sharp behavior, but his paranoia is significantly higher after fleeing HYDRA, & he knows they have agents around every corner. a few, he’s already dispatched---- others, he’s fled.

#hellfirebound #v. no strings.#bucky on the run??#i wasn't sure what to go with but here you go !!

❝ ----- when I was a kid, we didn't own a t.v. just a radio. used to sit in front of it every Saturday mornin' and listen to the Nickelodeon, me an’ my sisters. ❞ adjustment is something he's been trying to come to terms with, a low profile ( & some semblance of normalcy in day to day routine ) ; to pick up the pieces of a life once scattered into the wind. cinders of ashen memories, lost in the chaos as the void swallowed what was left of his identity. very few remained, they ‘d all been burnt out when he’d fallen under HYDRA’s control. & those that’d begun resurfacing, after he’d broken away, were precious - he keeps a collection of them bound a handful of journals. he doesn’t want to forget again. and the fondness of this particular memory brings a small, shadow of a smile to his face.

❝ my dad was a military man, so we were all up early, helpin’ with chores. ❞

#supervivientc #v. no strings.

glove clad metallic digits wrench the door-knob, the latch unsnapping bolts with EASE as an unkempt, sparse living space is revealed. a run down area, rampant with abandoned buildings & low grade apartments. graffiti and windows shattered by vandalism & stray bullets. with a quiet click, he shuts the door behind him after a SKEPTICAL sweep down the hall, easing himself cautiously into the front room as HEAVY boots stop------ gaze watchful, listening for movement ( ; paranoia rattling the recesses of his skull ) ; for COMPANY. that this dump might be occupied by others, drifters like himself---- moving from place to place.

living is meager & he’s had worse. it’s a roof. and for all intents and purposes, paradise.

TRANSITIONING into a world he didn’t recognize. one lost to the development of time & idealism. and he’s struggling to define himself IN it, to find peace at the end of his severed strings ( ; a purpose beyond the orders of a soldier, of an asset aimed for self-destruction ) ; flesh fingers nimbly pick up an object that catches his eye; small, square, and cased in plastic. with pictures & lettering scrawled over the front. not something familiar, or remotely relevant to the life he’d once led. a life he’d been condemned to, for seventy years. but it drew curiosity, nonetheless.

#strongalias #v. no strings.

there is a resonating fire brimming just below the surface of his stoicism, a weakness GNAWING at his guts, tempered by the flare of paranoia edging at his nerves ( cornered ; evasive ) as he watched for signs of deception from the other man. azure irises wild with suspicion, hardened by years of war. he's got the exits tabbed, & isn't afraid to use brute force.

metallic fingers curl into themselves, one hand protectively cradling the cover of a tattered notebook. what lies within it, the scattered fragments of his life. memories recently regained in the onslaught of his procured freedom, it was one edition of many. the intricate ravings of a shattered mind, seeking solace in the dark ;; answers that were just out of reach, tethered by the thread of a fragile lifeline.

his brain is CHAOS, thoughts almost drowned out by the buzz in his skull, as the bare desperation of his reality sinks in, the crushing guilt of his crimes heavy on his bones, thick in his conscience. he can't shake it, && every name he writes down, every assassination he recalls, every bullet he's fired, in the name of HYDRA's supremacy, haunts him.

#cxsusbelli #v. no strings.#but also kind of #v. ashes of destruction

‘---- i said, don't worry about it.’

#supervivientc #v. no strings.

metallic fingers carefully brushed strands of blonde hair away from her face, azure irises tracing over the bruising encircling her neck, inflicted by his OWN hand. he hadn’t meant to, she’d gotten in the way—— impulse had taken over, and his attack redirected. && an override of programming prompted his reaction, fueled by a soldier's instinct.

guilt gnawed at the back of his skull; like tiny little razors of EMPATHY, burning through the thin veil of confusion settling over him ( a familiar echo ; churned from the endless black hole swallowing his memories ) ; the short circuit in his wiring allowing for ----- some ECHO of humanity to filter through the void, tattered pieces of buried fragments, belonging to a man long dead.

“------ ....

he’s not supposed to be here. visiting hours were past, but he’d stayed despite the flicker of lights dimming in the hall.

#charmresiistant #v. no strings.

#v. no strings.

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#v. no strings.