camerica

[camerica]

The admission hits harder than Steve expected, more than Bucky could know. He looked down alleys. He... Steve's chest beats the loudest rhythm its ever housed and he steels himself against the heat building in his eyes, in the chill of the place it's an inferno and he has to look somewhere else to stop the tears forming. They're blurring his vision and if he can't see right, he can't see and he he won't know when they make their move. There are probably agents that have snuck in undercover sitting in this bar right now. Every move every single patron takes has to be monitored. One goes for the waist, he knows they're moving in.

But he laughs and it's full of pain and hope.

His attention snaps back to the man and his frown returns, a furrowing of brows that threatens to make the creases permanent if it holds too long and it's a mild irritant telling him exactly how privileged of a life he's lead until now. Those muscles haven't been used this much in a long time.

Steve studies that face, those eyes, the...beard he can't quite get used to and he wonders if Bucky can even fathom the weight of that question in Steve's heart. Is he worth all the trouble? Is James Buchanan Barnes worth all the trouble going against the world leaders would bring?

He leans forward and his voice is low, only for Bucky's ears. Damn the rest of the world.

"Every damn bit of it." The world might not care about Sergeant Barnes, sure doesn't give a shit about Bucky Barnes, but to Steve?

"You're worth more."

Bucky takes in the smaller details when Steve is not looking, because it is all he allows himself to do. Of course he is curious, there are large pieces of himself, from that definitive before and after, that he is desperate to know. But he feels it is not allowed. He is afraid that opening himself to the possibility of an attachment will result in a pain he is unable to recover from. Perhaps if he explained this, or even just attempted to reach out, their circumstances would be different, but he didn't know where to even begin.

Yet he still laughs at the implication of Steve Rogers saving his ass. It didn't matter if he was slightly taller, and built like a mack truck now. Bucky remembered the scrawny kid, and was still struck by double vision at times when he looked at him - except the eyes. The eyes were the same, and that determination burned bright. It pulled him in like a moth to the flame, or perhaps more accurately, Icarus to the sun.

But the laugh is subtle, where it once would have freely rang out - leaving Bucky to clutch his chest as he fought for air. Now, it's just a gentle and hesitant thing, as if he's not sure it's amusement or pain. "I still can't pass an alleyway without having to check if you're in it getting your ass handed to you." It's a habit ingrained into the core of his being that no amount of mind control or electrotherapy could have erased.

Winter Soldier looked down alleys too - it had just been seen as tactical - and he couldn't explain it otherwise.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes reached out.

"There's no good end to this if I go with you, and you know it. You're better off trying to take me yourself, or walking away. Am I really worth all the trouble?"

Suddenly, he's desperate to know the answer because his next move depends on it.

#lamentingwclf

[camerica]

#i fucking love olrox. #i want to write him so damn bad #but i haven't even been back to see if there's anyone kicking around #in the castlevania fandom here #i doubt it #there were like four of us the first time around for the better iteration #THEY MASSACRED MY BOY ALUCARD #HE LOOKS LIKE A FUCKIN TODDLER WTF #devastation

[camerica]

#on 7/8 but i would die for olrox #what a beautiful baby boy

[camerica]

#i'm such a happy little bean #finally found a place to watch castlevania nocturne without having to patronize netfux #steve is judging me rn but i'll lock him in a closet #even though they massacred my baby boy baby adrian #i'm still hella excited because the art style is absolutely mindblowing #i wish trevor was still around but i guess i'll settle #gonna watch it tomorrow though #i already like the purple haired vamp #drolta? #her design is stunning #i don't think nocturne can top s1 and s2 but #i'll let it try #makes me want to bring back my trevor

[camerica]

#woke up from a 3hr nap woops #thinkin about tony stark and his armor being out of power #that's fine #just lock your arms and legs into place and steve can throw you like a missile at the enemy #maybe i need to go back to sleep...

[camerica]

#every now and then i like to go back and stare at this kid #with his lofty ideals and views on how the world should work #and bucky likely tried shoving some realism into his head #trying to tell him how the world really works #and that there's nothing a single scrawny little brat can do to change it #and steve just squares up to his chest (because that's all he reaches up to) #and he tells him 'yeah well plenty of men changed the world and they were just one guy too' #and they've had countless fights about it sure #but in the end bucky just gives him that lopsided smile and throws an arm around his shoulder #and tells him he's hungry. #and steve shoves an elbow into his side as payback but he's hungry too so; ceasefire.

[camerica]

Steve is ravenous for details large and small, little ticks, mannerisms, preferences, right down to the way those eyes flick around the room when he thinks no one's watching. Steve's caught him on the backswing a few times now already, nervous that Bucky's right and they'll come crashing through at any moment. He knows their eyes are on him at all times.

He also knows that Tony just couldn't help himself and likely gave Ross the coordinates the moment the jet left the bay. But Steve couldn't pass up this chance and that, Tony, is his weakness. They'll always reel him in with Bucky as bait. But he doesn't care.

If there's one thing being in the army taught him, it wasn't to follow orders. Contrary to what the museums say. They wanted their propaganda, he gave it. Sweat and tears, buckets of it for black and white films, for stage shows. He was their dancing monkey for as long as it took to get him where he really needed to be.

And this was one of those places.

He thumbs along the condensation of his glass and chuckles, eyeing the cloudy liquid as it bubbles meekly to the surface, and he looks up again. Into those eyes with the gentle creases forming at the corners, the strange beard clinging to his face like he was someone else entirely. To him, who knew his Bucky so well he dreamed about entire nights of mischief for days while he was in the hospital, it looked out of place.

"So...if they show up again, am I gonna have to turn the tables and save your ass or are you comin' with me?" He won't dispute that it's a smart move on the parts of world leaders to put an end to the unknown threat of The Winter Soldier, but by the looks of it- James Buchanan Barnes is in there too and damn it all if Steve can sit by and let them have him.

You should. The thought almost slips out before he can stop it, but the argument seems moot. Even without regaining memories of their history, he could gather that the man sitting before him had a stubborn streak. There had been an inability to back down or stay down that had peaked his interest through the strongest of brain washing. It had been an unanticipated complication to Hydra, and he was still struggling with the after effects of headaches from the shock treatments.

Telling Steve Rogers to give up felt like telling someone the sky was green.

Safe was also a relative term. He was as safe as he could be, given how far removed from society he'd become. Purposeful. It was never his safety he was worried about, but those around him. He could still be triggered, reactivated to follow orders. But saying it all out loud, to present it that way, it felt like giving too much hope that to some base level, he was still Bucky Barnes. He didn't know who that hope would be more important to: Steve or himself.

His eyes narrow at the information, at what his friend - if he had to label it - is truly asking him, and shifts in his seat. As he does so, he rolls his lips together and the set in a type of defiance. The move is so characteristically ingrained in him that it contradicts everything he's trying so hard to mask - that he is still Bucky. To some extent, that young man that checked back alleys to find his friend, that picked him back up over and over, and marched off to war that never came home. He still exists, he's still there.

"I haven't done anything, but it's smart, hunting me now." Beneath the table, one of his legs bounces, and he's ready to flee. "They don't know what I have and haven't done, they don't know what kind of state I'm in, and they don't know what to expect when they do find me - because now it is when. If you think they aren't also watching you," Bucky motions with his hand, and does not share that he strongly suspects whoever actually gave Steve the lead, also has an unshared agenda. "You're in for a rude awakening. I think we have an hour, at most."

Then, Bucky shakes his head, and smiles. "You always bring a fight."

#lamentingwclf

[camerica]

@thirt13n

There are times Steve can't decide whether the distant rumbling growling ever louder on its way in is soothing or reminiscent of his time in the war but those moments are as rare as the thunder that shakes the entirety of the apartment.

Far off and only a warning like it is tonight, he can lean against the railing of his balcony and admire the way the rain comes down in great sweeping sheets, distorting the world beyond it into a mosaic of lights and shapes a haunting shadow of their glory in daylight.

It rumbles its threat to come closer, the rain to turn at an angle, but the warmth seeping from inside soothes any worries he has. That, and the angelic voice of the agent trailing after him in curiosity.

"Y'know...I used to hate it when it rained back in the war. Meant water logged boots and mud in places you have no idea how it got there, soggy clothes that never dried or turned stiff in the cold of the night. When it got too unbearable, we'd camp somewhere high, start a fire, and sleep..." Right- uh...probably not the best topic of conversation around a woman. Then again, she'd seen just as much as him, probably more on less...moral grounds. So he turns and accepts the refill of wine wishing it held Asgardian strength, just enough to feel the buzz.

"in the nude." Is he a little embarrassed saying it out loud to those gorgeous bright eyes? Yeah, maybe a little. But the uptick of her lips tells him she finds it just as funny.

"Wanna go dancin' in the rain?"

#thirt13n #hey doll wanna go re-enact that singing in the rain scene? #ah don't worry it's only a severe thunderstorm on its way ;3c

[camerica]

#its raining here so steve is soff #anyone want a thunderstorm starter? :D

[camerica]

#the avengers but it's ~saltburn~ #wait- no that's already been done. #it's called the boys. #damn... #thought i was on to something there.

[camerica]

I want to teach you a lesson in the worst kind of way still I’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

#still hate endgame #steve fell in love with the future. #he'd never go back to a time where it was worse for women #the depression was still taking its toll #where healthcare was still abysmal #but there are people he misses #places and memories

[camerica]

Steve can't even pretend he's only half listening. He's not listening at all. The only thing he can see is the bodies of the men who trusted him and the terror on the hostages faces. They knew what this was, they knew they weren't getting out. Damn it all they'd tried.

He's not looking forward to offering his condolences to the family, as if saying sorry would make the loss less heavy. He thinks about HYDRA, about Bucky, imagining Zola apologizing to him. Steve's fingers clench into fists and he knows there's nothing honorable about what he'd do to the bastard. Lost his best friend hunting the fucker down and he gets a nice plush seat and a steak offered to him.

At least the bastard's dead now but it's still the smallest comfort.

He doesn't rouse until he feels a jab to the shoulder and Brock's face comes into focus. He's leaning forward like he's waiting for something. A response? Oh- did he...

"Sorry...what?" Staring him down from this angle, he looks worried and well yeah he guesses he has a right to be. The man just saved his life and Steve's ignoring him. What kind of an asshole does that? He blinks through the voices he'll never hear again and brushes a hand over his face, glancing out the window to the beautiful sign calling out happy hour. Thank god for 5am bartenders.

His chest beats awfully hard and he gives the cargo bay wall one last glance before he piles out of the vehicle and steadies himself. Still got the jitters, they'll shake out in the next step or so.

"I appreciate the gesture but...ain't nothin' they got is gonna do me any good." And he realizes maybe Brock knows that and maybe he thinks Steve's just a little bit self centered cause this sure as hell isn't for him. When Brock rounds the front of the truck he offers a half smile and even that feels too god damn heavy to maintain so he doesn't. Leaves it with the dead for a while. Not a whole lot of sunshine where they're going.

"My treat." He won't waste his money here, maybe invest with Stark to find something that can do the job just as good as it used to. Or, at least as good as it would have. He never actually had a big enough drop to know what it felt like. Another thing he missed out on.

@camerica *

The way back, there’s no talk.

He doesn’t tell Cap which way’s that or why. He’s out of it enough that autonomous choices are outta the question. Brock gets a thought or two about that.

Getting technical, they’ve snagged a vehicle from S.H.I.E.L.D. that ain’t been take-home until now. There’s five dead bodies in the trunk of the van from the half-assed clean-up that would’ve been a real pain in the ass to show up on record. Nobody’s gonna yap about it going missing 'til the morning if Cap’s in the passenger seat.

Which he is.

So nobody did.

Brock thinks about Rogers’s rabid dog craze. Thinks so hard about it, he can hear the jaw crack again and almost misses the right exit.

He’s bruised from the neck down. Cracking open a cold one still in-uniform’s barely doable even without Captain America flagging his ass to the Pentagon.

You gotta know where to pull up and what time.

He cuts the engine. Sniffs, nostril flaring. First, he checks Rogers’s response to basic orders.

“Come on.”

#rejectory #i think my trimming might have broken the thread :| ah i hate tumblr

[camerica]

Steve's gaze is drawn to the door with every customer that comes in. Couples shaking off the cold, solitary men looking for their companions in another space in the bar, plenty of drifters here to drill oil or work the factories. None of them are the man he's looking for. He doesn't know what he looks like now, only that Stark managed to narrow it all down for him by some means he didn't quite understand after he heard the name James. All seems like a blur now.

But the blood gets to pumping the moment he looks up and sees those eyes peering at him across the table. He looked vaguely familiar from a distance but now... oh now he knows. His throat constricts and he has half a mind to clear his throat before he speaks but he doesn't. Just sits there in silence until the thundering of his heart rests to an uneven beat.

"You know why I'm here...couldn't just let go." He wanted to. No, that's a lie. Bucky wanted him to and he desperately wanted to honor it, let him come back on his own terms but-

"I just wanted to know you were safe." And he does. God does he. Bucky's alive but he looks rough, sounds rough, and it cuts him somewhere deep that had only just begun to heal. Part of that's the hope he's still got kicking around inside him but he knows there's no way in hell he's dragging the man back, kicking or screaming.

He won't do that to his best friend.

"But you left for a reason and I wanted to honor that but-" Alright, deep breath Rogers you know he's not going to take this well. "I had to come warn you myself. Dunno if you heard but they're hunting you. All of 'em. There's nothing I or the Avengers can do to stop the world leaders from trying, but we're stalling them." A pause and he thumbs at an old speck of something still clinging to the mug and he's thankful that he can't get sick anymore. Clean your dishes better. Probably doesn't matter out here, cold'll kill anything fast.

"I'm trying to fight for your case. But I need something I can take back to them. I have to know what you've been doing." And by that, he means criminally. Anything is worse than nothing. That optimism shines through when he meets those eyes again, begging Bucky for a semblance of comfort in knowing he hasn't been darting between shadows continuing what HYDRA forced him to do.

@lamentingwclf

Steve hasn't slept properly in weeks though he's tried. The world's gone dark on HYDRA and James Buchanan Barnes. They call him The Winter Soldier and every time he hears it, his insides feel like becoming outsides. He can see how they'd get it wrong, can't really blame them, can he? They don't know what he knows.

It's been a month and a half already and the silence is deafening when he walks in the room and has to relive the broadcast of the event over and over and over again. You'd think a guy would be desensitized by now, how much news channels love to play it back and analyze it like they know who they're talking about.

Steve doesn't think he'll ever get used to the cold indifference on his best friends face. Then the terror. They'd left him to kill or be killed, left him to hang there and plummet with their failures into the Potomac.

But he hadn't. Even better, he'd saved Steve Roger's life. There had to be something left in him of the man they tried to strip down.

So when Tony tentatively shows him a distorted video of a piss poor excuse of a camera in some far away place that was taken three days ago, they don't have to exchange a word. He's suited up and hunting down the lead like he can sniff out the scent.

The lead is a dead end, of course. They always are. Bucky's a ghost in the wind every single time. But at least ghosts leave behind stories. Sightings. Bucky doesn't. Every track is disguised as someone else and he's not half as smart as the man himself but it leads him to a small little town, a village really, high up in the mountains where it's always cold.

He'd caught wind someone looking like Bucky had been sighted in a tavern recently, and though his gut is telling him this is just another god damn dead end, he's sipping his pint in a quiet and dark corner waiting.

#lamentingwclf

[camerica]

The introduction goes over real well, real smooth, and Steve still feels like a fish out of water, gasping for the next word that'll make it seem less like he's just been plucked from the dumpster and tossed into the high end of society and more like he belongs here standing next to...well, following after, Tony Stark. He's the little lost puppy fed some scraps and followed him here. Arnie probably knows all too well.

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, casting a glance at his companion who has all but left him to the wolves and Steve suspects this isn't a case of let the captain take charge. This is Tony's world and he's floundering in it.

"I uh..." How...big are we? He glances down at...well...all of him and tries to remember the last time he wore a suit. A dusty old brown one two sizes too big. It was his father's, and he'd worn it to his mother's funeral. Pops had worn it to church. He'd felt just as uncomfortable in it as he does now and he looks to Arnie for the judgement.

"T'be honest sir, I don't really know. Haven't worn one in..." Don't make the joke, don't remind Tony. "a long time. Guess that's why I'm here. The boss isn't exactly thrilled with my choice in clothing." He'll give the billionaire that, he's got a certain taste and it's vintage. That's what they call them now, the old folks. Vintage. Bothered him at first, now... Well it's better than being called old man. Thanks Stark.

call him paranoid, but tony’s shadow’s gotten upgraded since he last had it followed. all it took was two cups of separation anxiety from constant life-threatening danger, and suddenly steve’s as cooked as any of ‘em.

tony’s smugness is watered with the surreal.

the elevator ride doesn’t upset his inner ear almost at all. could be fine-tuned. would steve like for him to break the silence? okay, let him think on that——-

for at least as many floors as it takes to ping open—his bad—straight to:

’ the man, the myth, ‘ he forgets the third thing.

“tonyyy.”

arnie the third thing shuffles over in his slip-ons a lil’ over-the-top lagerfeld-y. good thing karl’s too dead for copyright infringement. hard to look the guy in the black eye with all the sunnies going on. weird. didn’t he bring that shtick back?

“looking a little sleepy today. do you need a pick-me-up?”

thanks for the coke joke, arnie.

’ sorry to barge in on you, ‘ with all these dollar signs, ’ but. ‘ a big one.

let there be handshakes and other awkwardness dispersed with. don’t think he’s not on the clock with their little teambuilding rendezvous. he’s kind of professionally giddy.

’ arnie, this is steve. steve, arnie. ‘

just another day at the office for arnie. you know how many big names he’s been up the asses of?

they walk into a walk-in closet the size of tony’s r&d floor plus steve’s bathroom up at the tower. call it a graveyard or a birthing suite, depending on arnie’s affect of the day. there are suits strewn everywhere like flat bodies; measuring tapes noosed around mannequin necks, calipers chomped around cookie-cutter ankles.

arnie snatches one of either and looks like medieval torture device cosplay ready to happen.

relax, tony mouths to steve, not unkindly.

“how big are we, then?”

fingers crossed the double entendre goes right over steve’s head, ‘cause tony’s all outta straight faces.

#rejectory

[camerica]

Honestly there wasn't an outfit she put on that didn't threaten to drop his jaw straight to the floor. She's a beautiful woman and anyone with eyesight would know it even if she hadn't brushed her hair in days or wore a stained sweatshirt. There's not a thing Natasha doesn't wear well.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, you look...amazing." Her curse, unfortunately. Beauty gets you where you need to be in the spy world, but it also makes it harder to move around. Thankfully, this is an all friendlies event. Just a little 'get together' the president's having. They're on standby just in case.

"I was just...y'know- I mean...no one I could think of would be better. You're damn good at what you do." He's lost her a couple of times in a crowd. She's quiet, slips away easy, knows how to part the crowd without making a wave. He knows she'll do what needs to be done while he's the distraction and he likes it that way.

"You ready?"

"You say that as if I should be offended." Natasha answered, teasing him when she noticed his insecuritie regarding his request. He was right. This wasn't exactly something that she liked. Drawing attention, crowded places, somewhere she couldn't just hide and slip a blade in between someones ribs. But she was also skilled and trained to appear comfortable in every situation.

"I'm quite capable in every situation as you should know by now, Steve." She stepped out from behind her closet, securing a silver spangled bracelet on her wrist that seemed to make a quiet wirring noise as it charged up.

She'd chosen a knee length, blue dress. The bodice and sleeves were fitted to her form and made up mostly of delicate looking lace overlapping the fabric sillouhette. The skirt flared out a little, loosely around her leg. Enough space to move, to dance, to fight and run if needed. Her heels clacked on the floor and her crimsom curls were half braided, curled and twisted into an elegant updo.

"Well, do I pass inspection?" She grinned up at Steve, despite her heels still a good part shorter then him. "And you worry too much. I wouldn't agree to go with you if I wouldn't want to. But I appreciate your concern."

#shieldagentnatasharomanoff #hiya doll!

[camerica]

Steve's gut drops like the sack of potatoes he goes down like the moment he feels something heavy hit him from the side. He knows what that means. Knows exactly what they just got away from. But he doesn't want to believe it.

He half knees Rumlow off of him; furious, terrified, praying, to scramble to his feet and-

The door swings wide open and he's faced with the muzzle of a gun but he's pissed and he's not taking this lying down. He grabs the hot barrel and shoves it sideways, shouldering up and into the chin of the asshole who opens his mouth and he smells the blood before he feels it drip into his hair. Good, bite it off. Didn't want to hear a god damn thing you said anyways.

When he makes it through those doors he slides to a stop, nearly takes the plunge down to the lower level except...there is no lower level. His team...the hostages... His stomach churns and he looks away, covers his mouth so he doesn't contaminate the evidence.

Brock saved him, he knows this. Saved them both and it's the only reason they're standing in this hallway but Steve's shaking. Anger, sorrow, terror, it's all some mish mash stew of boiling malcontent that floods his veins like poison.

He wants them to pay. Death is too good for them, a finality and a certain peace to be found. They won't rot in their own minds in the slow death of a prison if he kills them though. Won't give them that satisfaction.

His movements are sluggish, half dragging his sorry useless ass back to his shield and he feels every bit of the fight now that its over in every muscle of his body. He feels heavy. Brain a buzz that's quieting into an uncomfortable silence.

"Let's go." Can't get a signal here now, they've gotta find their way outside and radio it in. They failed.

Motherfucker—

he ducks and crawls for it like a toy soldier in the mud. His elbow swipes the ground, rolling him crouched. Closer to standing. He reloads behind the seats without needing to look.

That’s his last round of ammo.

They’re still on bait, don’t matter their high ground’s gone to shit. Plan still stands, else how’ll you know which end to make it through to.

Except Rogers is as Rogers does off the leash, straight to switch. If Brock had a fuckin’ dollar for every time Cap’s lizard brain got victim-triggered off-path, he could stuff his mouth full of cash enough and bribe his doped-up supersoldier brain to sit, stay, roll the fuck over.

Wouldn’t that be the day.

Face tight, he shadows. He lags. That don’t matter, neither. He’s strung on an electric wire, not an inch of him loose. He whips up the stairs, combing Rogers’s twelve clear with three headshots. They ragdoll and rain down over the balcony.

His commed ear whistles with a missed shot.

Brock goes low. He pulls his net weight single-armed when he grabs one of the ones Rogers put down by the chest straps and plows his way shielded with a dead body.

“Rollins!”

Jack copies. He hounds A-Team to the kneeling row of hostages. Not the kinda sicko work you see every day.

He keeps on top of predicting Cap’s track and plays clean-up. Cap’s shield holders cross a target where his back is broadest. If Brock misses just now, just a little, he could put one right in the X. Make it look like an unclear in the cause line of the report.

He gets it hard in the vest, shoulder recoiling like he picked a gun too big for his chicken legs. He drops the body. His teeth grind on it. It rings uglier in his brain for not having expected it. He’s slapped too awake now, too hell-bent on getting back at the prick who tried.

The angle is no good.

Lip curling, he barters away his position for a double disadvantage so he can coast his revenge fantasy on Rogers’s coattails. As an afterthought, he offs the dumbass whose hands are shaking so bad he can’t stick the magazine back up his Glock fast enough.

They’re playing tag too close for comfort with four tacsuits. Down low, Wilson or Munez screams in rage. Brock shoulder-slams Rogers in through a batwing door.

On the other side, dead quiet. Seven seconds of it, just him and Cap in a haunted house, breathing wet. Smells like a gutted VHS, half-plastic. In the pitch-black, he can barely make out Cap’s shield, which means to Cap’s sauced-up eyes, Brock is as clear as a negative.

He nods.

The door shoves open.

#rejectory #cheer him up broccoli #take him out for a beer he can't get drunk off of

[camerica]

The thing about war, boy, is while it happens, you’ve no idea what's going on–and when it’s over, everyone spends the rest of your life telling you what you did. - Robert Jackson Bennett, The Tainted Cup

#ow ow ow ow owow