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camsthisky · 6 years

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i want to wake up (i hate this dream)

ao3 | ff.net

Warnings: Heavy references to depression. Hurt no comfort. Heavy angst.

Sometimes, Dick feels like a zombie. Like he’s the walking dead. Like nothing will ever be good again. Sometimes, he takes too much weight onto his shoulders, and he never puts it down. There’s a point where he crumbles to dust underneath all that weight, and there’s nothing for him to do but ride the breakdown and wait until he can bear the weight and start the whole process over again.

Most of the times, when he’s all but dust, he ends up at the manor. The living room couch, watching old black and white films with Bruce’s arm curled around him. The Cave, discussing a case with Bruce like Dick’s Robin again. Bruce’s bedroom, curled up underneath the covers with Bruce—and sometimes Tim or Cass—where the nightmares can never seem to touch him anymore.

In the end, though, it doesn’t really have to be the manor. As long as he’s with Bruce as he picks himself up and puts himself back together. As long as he can sit with Bruce (dadbrotherfriendfamily) and not have to do anything but be for a couple of hours.

Because Bruce will never ask. Dick knows that Bruce sees right through him, but Bruce will never find the words to ask about what happened. And maybe that’s because Bruce doesn’t really know how, but Dick doesn’t mind. Because all Dick needs is Bruce to be there.

That’s all Dick needs. Just Bruce by his side. After all, they’re Batman and Robin, and Batman and Robin never die, right?

Wrong. Wrong.

It figures that when Dick’s standing on the edge of a metaphorical cliff, Bruce up and dies on him.

“Are you quite alright, Master Dick?”

Dick blinks up at Alfred from the case file he’s looking over. Alfred’s frowning at him from across the room, and Damian’s absolutely nowhere to be seen. There’s two full plates of food on the table. Neither of them have been touched.

“Fine,” Dick says as he finally grabs his fork and eats, feeling as far from fine as can be. But Alfred has a lot on his shoulders, too. Maybe more than Dick does, and Dick doesn’t want to upset anything right now. He hasn’t quite crumbled yet, even though he’s just on the brink, so he’ll wait it up. Maybe he’ll call Clark or Wally. Maybe if he calls Tim again, Tim will finally pick up. Or maybe he’ll just ignore it until it goes away.

Never worked before—for him or Bruce, but it’s worth another shot, right?

The food is like cement in his mouth, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He eats mechanically. Scoop into mouth, chew, swallow, and start all over again. He gets about halfway through his meal before he can’t eat anymore, but that’s more than he thought he’d manage.

It’s more than Damian ate. He’ll have to address that soon, too. Another thing on his growing how in the hell did Bruce handle this list.

“Thanks for the food, Alfie,” Dick makes sure to say as he excuses himself for the table and heads for the Cave, where Damian is sure to be tinkering with something.

It’s time for patrol, and he hopes that this time won’t be a complete disaster.

He’s wrong, of course. Because Dick is always wrong nowadays. There’s nothing he gets right when it comes to filling Bruce’s footsteps, and training a new Robin seems to be failure number one. Right on top of his list.

At least he managed to get a protein bar in Damian before they left. That’s something, right?

Still, with Damian still refusing to listen to a word Dick says, Dick’s having a hard time not crying out of sheer frustration right now, so all he says when they get out of the batmobile is, “Go to your room, please. We’re done for tonight.”

Damian sneers—the little brat, but he’s growing on Dick, and Dick can’t help but feel something. It’s only been a few weeks but already Dick’s famous tempering is being tamped down by this ridiculous fondness that just makes him fond and terrified and sad all at the same time, and he’s not sure he even understands how he’s feeling.

That topped with all the other crap he’s got to deal with, it’s honestly surprisingly that Dick hasn’t already broken down into tears.

(At night, alone in his bed, doesn’t count. Not really.)

But Damian goes without a word to him or Alfred, and Dick doesn’t know how to handle anything right now, so he does what he does best: work.

Slumping into the chair in front of the computer, Dick pulls up some files for the most recent case and starts going over them. The case needs solving, and quick. Before there’s another murder on Dick’s hands that he can’t handle. And because he doesn’t have time in the day, it has to be looked over now.

“It’s almost three in the morning, Master Dick,” comes Alfred’s voice from behind him. There’s an uncharacteristic sadness to it that has Dick turning towards the butler to shoot him a small, sad smile. Alfred looks troubled, though, when he continues, “Bed may be the best option now. You have that meeting in only a few hours.”

“I’ll go to bed soon,” Dick promises, facing the computer soon. “Just give me an hour or so. I need to make sure that I have all the details memorized.”

Alfred sighs, but he doesn’t protest anymore, and for that Dick’s grateful. And as promised, Dick goes to bed at the time he said he would, except—

Dick wakes up shaking. He doesn’t scream or yell, but his heart is about to beat straight out of his chest, and he’s soaked in sweat. His hands won’t stop trembling, and he doesn’t dare get to his feet, for fear that he’ll only collapse to the floor and be unable to move.

In order to distract himself, Dick fumbles for his phone and starts scrolling through the case information he’d sent to himself. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls, until it hits seven am, and he’s running on two hours of sleep. But he’s worked on less before, and he can do it again.

Eventually, he knows he’s going to crash. He’s dangerously close. But there’s nowhere to turn. No way to relieve this building pressure. The weights getting to be too much, but there’s no one to help him share it.

He feels like he’s on his own. Without Bruce here, though, it might even be true. He might actually be alone.

Two hours of sleep doesn’t take him very far, and before Dick knows it, it’s six in the evening, he’s been awake for over twelve hours, and he’s pretty sure he’s downed more coffee in a day than Tim has in his entire life. There’s a buzzing under his skin, and a thumping in his brain, and Dick can’t focus on the words in front of him anymore. He needs to get back home, but he doesn’t think he could possibly drive.

He does anyways, skilled and careful enough that nothing happens, but he probably shouldn’t do it again.

By the time he gets home—home. It’s not really home anymore, is it? Home has always been defined as family, ever since he was a little boy traveling from place to place. There’s never been a house he’s called home before the manor, just the people around him. His family. And now his family is gone. Bruce and Tim and Jason aren’t here. It’s only him and Alfred and Damian, and Dick’s never around the two of them enough to say that he’s home.

But when he gets home, he’s exhausted. His thoughts are all over the place, and there’s this distinct feeling that if one more thing happens that he can’t deal with right away, he’s going to burst into tears.

Alfred takes one look at Dick and his face falls.

“I’m not going out tonight,” Dick whispers as he slumps into the couch of the living room, curling in on himself and burying his head in his knees. He feels Alfred’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m exhausted, Alf. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Alfred doesn’t respond to that. Just holds onto Dick a little tighter. Dick appreciates it, because he’s not sure that anything can be said that won’t sound superficial. Because there’s really no other option other than doing it. And they both know it.

“Dinner will be served in an hour,” Alfred tells him. “Rest until then.”

Dick shakes his head and looks up. “Where’s Damian?”

“The Cave. Training, the boy said.”

“Okay,” Dick says, and even though he doesn’t want to do anything but collapse on the couch for the rest of the night, he stands up and heads downstairs to find Damian. Alfred lets him go, and Dick pretends like he can’t feel the sad gaze burning into his shoulders.

“Impressive,” is the first thing out of Dick’s mouth when he looks in on Damian’s training.

Damian scoffs, but his sword strokes don’t falter in the least. “Of course it is.”

“You gonna stop for dinner?” Dick asks, leaning against the nearest wall as he continues watching the boy. “Alfred says it’ll be about an hour or so. And his cooking is super good. Best food I’ve ever had. I’ve been all around the world, and I can definitely say that Alfred’s cooking is ranked number one, even over—”

“I won’t be joining you,” Damian interrupts.

Dick blinks. And then he frowns, because, “You didn’t eat last night.”

“I did eat. Just not with you.”

Dick ignores the heaviness in his chest at that comment. “Okay. Well, I guess it’s good that you’re eating, at least. What about tonight? Is there something wrong with Alfred’s cooking?”

“No,” is all Damian offers, and he continues training.

Dick feels like he’s banging his head against a wall made of diamonds with how tough this kid is to get close to, but there’s something in the back of his mind that won’t let him give up. Where usually he might get mad if Bruce had done something like this, Dick just smiles wanly and says, “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be right upstairs.”

Damian says nothing else, so Dick leaves it, glad that the kid isn’t starving. One problem down, another to deal with.

Except Damian’s less of a problem, and more of a puzzle that Dick is determined to figure out. And maybe it’d be easier if he could spend more time with the kid. But between Bruce’s work schedule and sleeping, the only time Dick ever really sees Damian is during training and patrol.

And speaking of patrol—

“Damian?” Dick calls, and he waits for Damian to make a noise of acknowledgement before continuing. “We’re going to stay in. Just for tonight. Okay?”

Damian turns towards him quickly, and if Dick hadn’t been expecting it, he probably would have jumped. He looks infuriated.

“Why?” Damian demands. “Is this punishment for listening last night?”

“No, Damian—”

“Then why wouldn’t we patrol? Is that not what Batman and Robin are for?”

“We’re not machines—”

“But we are supposed to be protecting the city, yes?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be every night,” Dick tells him, trying to push down his irritation.

Damian clicks his tongue at Dick and swings back around to continue his training, saying, “I bet my father would have gone out as many nights as it took to protect Gotham as the Batman.”

Something inside Dick snaps, and for the longest time, he can’t find it in him to say anything. The Cave descends into pure silence, and the buzzing under Dick’s skin intensifies. His temper is completely gone, and in its place is this sort of blankness. Numbness, maybe.

“Okay,” Dick says. Just to say something. He says again, “Okay.”

And then he turns on his heel and drags himself back upstairs.

At some point, he finds himself in Bruce’s old room, curled up under the covers, room only lit by a single dim lamp. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sleep. Just stares blankly at the wall and wonders why he thought he could do any of this. Why he thought he was good enough to be Batman when he can barely be Dick Grayson.

Everything’s a mess. He’s making a mess of Bruce’s life. He’s the worst son, and he’s sure that if Bruce were alive, he’d find a way to love him anyways.

That thought makes him feel worse.

Alfred comes in a while later, knocking politely while he pretends that standing so near Bruce’s bedroom doesn’t hurt him to the very core. After all, Dick lost a father, but Alfred lost a son. They’re both hurting. And Dick’s just going and making it worse.

“Dinner is ready.”

“Okay,” Dick says.

He gets up from the bed. He eats dinner (without Damian, unsurprisingly), and he’s almost halfway through when Alfred announces, “The batsignal is lit, Master Dick.”

Dick puts down his fork, hides his face in his hands for three, four, five, and then he’s standing up and heading down to the Cave, grabbing a protein bar to throw at Damian as he calls, “Suit up.” And then he meets Gordon at the GCPD with Damian as his Robin, and they pretend they can work together seamlessly for the Commissioner’s sake.

And everything is absolutely exhausting.

By the time they get home that night, it’s four in the morning and Dick has to be up in another two.

Instead of sleeping, Dick finally cries. He curls up underneath Bruce’s covers again and stares at the wall as the clock counts down to his next work day, silent tears spilling onto the pillow beneath his head. He cries. He doesn’t sleep.

And the day begins again.

And because he’s Dick Grayson—because he’s Batman—because he’s Bruce Wayne’s son, Dick tries again. He keeps moving. Even though he feels like he’s falling in slow motion, he picks himself and tries to fly again and again and again.

#dick grayson #dc #camryn writes #angst

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cassiopeiassky · 7 years

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I Don’t Want the World to See Me (Cause I Don’t Think that They’d Understand) #10

Write a companion piece, I said. It’ll be fun, I said. It’s just drabbles, it won’t take too long.

I am a big, fat liar. Bad Cass. Bad.

Here’s another piece from Bucky’s POV - it takes place during Part 40.

***If this is your first time reading through, and you HAVEN’T yet read through part 45 of WEMtbB, this will contain major spoilers***

Word count: 4345 *facepalm*

Warnings:

For the entire work: Language (I have a potty mouth), violence, and angst. This will probably get pretty dark later on, and there will be smut. If that’s not your thing, you may want to avoid this story.

Additional warnings specific to this part: Mentions of blood, violence, rape, death, and physical assault (nothing overly detailed), panic, anxiety If I need to add anything else, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. If you don’t want me to publish the ask, I won’t, or you can feel free to do it as a Nonnie. I will not take offense to any trigger warning requests. Your well-being is important to me and I do NOT want to trigger anyone.

His first official mission under the Krakken regime is actually quite beneficial; he’s to ‘interrogate’ eight men that are accused of leaking information to other Bratva families. Bucky wouldn’t ordinarily take any pleasure in killing anyone, but he’s making a special exception for the men under this roof.

They really shouldn’t have messed with his girl.

They call in most of the staff to witness the interrogation, and Bucky notices the blonde man from yesterday. Who is he? Why wasn’t he in any of the intel his team had gathered? It starts to come together when he sees the dull metal ring barely covered by the man’s collar; he’s not a willing participant, then, and most likely some sort of bonded servant rather than an employee. Bucky briefly wonders if this man’s loved one was forced to put the collar around his neck; God, he hopes not. He doesn’t really have the time to think on it now, so he files the information away for later – something tells him it’ll be useful.

He turns his attention to the eight men tied to chairs in front of him. He knows he’s an imposing figure – he’s in his own black uniform, still armed to the teeth. Bucky makes a fist with his left hand, making a show of the plates shifting in his arm, while making sure his eyes are empty and desolate. One of the men loses control of his bladder, and the Soldier allows himself a smirk.

That’s right. You should be scared. Vengeance will be terrible but it sure as hell won’t be swift.

The men squirm, and Bucky watches them carefully for signs of guilt. Reading them is easy enough for a man of his training; within a minute or two he’s confident that seven of these men are innocent. Well, no, not innocent. Just not guilty of betraying their Pakhan.

Too bad for them.

And so it begins. First the verbal assault, then small inflictions of pain. Pressure is applied, fear is instilled, intimidation tactics are implemented. He brings out his knives, one by one. An hour later the floor is covered in blood, but they’re all still breathing. Two hours later they are all openly weeping and begging for mercy, but they’ll find none from him. By this point he thought he’d be done, but the Krakkens are inventive, to say the least. He follows orders until even he is nauseated with the excessive cruelty, but of course the Soldier doesn’t allow it to show. Ultimately, he feels no remorse at the impending loss of life. He knows that once they confess that their executions will be ordered, but he really doesn’t care. That’s seven men he won’t have to deal with later.

He lets up just a little on the guilty one, though; his betrayals might be useful to Bucky’s team at some point.

Nicolai and Anatoliy are well pleased when he’s finished, while everyone else is appropriately terrified. Good.

As their men start dragging out the seven bodies, Nicolai and Anatoliy saunter up to him. Nicolai speaks first, “Well done, Soldat. I am not pleased there were rats in my house, but I am pleased with your performance.”

Bucky nods woodenly as Anatoliy hands him a small stack of files. “Here is your next mission; you have two days to complete it. Everyone on this list is to be executed, in this order, but they are to look like they are responsible for murdering each other. There are further instructions in the file.”

“Yes, Kapitan.”

“How many men do you need to complete your assignment?”

“None, Kapitan. I can be more discrete and efficient if I work alone - having a team will only slow me down and poses a greater risk to the success of the mission.”

Nicolai looks to his brother and shrugs. “It makes no difference to me, so long as it is done. It is not as though we have to worry about him going rogue; the Asset knows the consequences should he stray from his orders.”

“Fine,” Anatoliy turns back to the Soldier. “Take whatever equipment you need to complete your mission; you know where to find it. Grigory will be waiting in the garage for you when you are ready to depart – he will assign you a vehicle.”

The Soldier holds his shoulders back and doesn’t allow the relief to show. “Yes, Kapitan.”

“Oh, and Soldat, I expect pictures as proof. It will no doubt be in the news, but I want to see that they are dead.”

“Yes, Kapitan.” Bucky leaves and quickly makes his way to the heavily armed part of the manor that holds the artillery. It’s more extensive then he’d like – they are really well armed. It’s something he and the team will need to take into consideration when they’re finally ready to move. He reviews the files to see what equipment he needs, and blanches at the information he sees. Children? They fucking expect him to kill children?? What the fuck??

Bucky pauses in front of the countless racks of guns as he considers the orders. He thinks back to the phone conferences he’d had with the team when he was still at the safehouse; something about this seems inconsistent. Wrong.

The children.

Krakken isn’t known for going after kids; he’s known for making them watch their parents die, but not for harming them. So why the deviation? Nicolai had made an exception for putting out an order for Artie and Jimmy, but that was only after weeks of frustration at not being able to find his primary target. Why is he deviating now?

It eats at Bucky as he selects his gear. Two sniper rifles with scopes and ammunition, an extra set of knives, gloves, a hat, and a warm, black coat made of a quiet material; supersoldier or not, he’s gonna need it. It’s January in Siberia, and it’s fucking cold outside. He thinks a moment before grabbing a second set of gloves and an extra hat. He also takes some nutritional supplements since he can’t exactly stop at McDonalds, bottled water, two cell phones with back up batteries, a watch, a digital camera, and a pack to hold everything. That should do it.

He closes the pack, and his hands still. Nicolai’s deviating because he doesn’t want anyone to know it’s him behind the murders. What better way to throw people off your tracks than to do the exact thing you’ve been known not to do? Still…

Fourteen people. Three families.

The Krakkens must be systematically eliminating those in the surrounding areas that might impede their rise to power, but don’t want to get on the radar of those further out. Bucky shakes his head and fervently hopes that Stark has had success with the other Bratva Pakhan.

***

Bucky stops 14 miles outside of Krasnoyarsk, finding a secluded, empty house to use as his base as he completes his mission. A quick sweep of the property and its contents tells him that it’s a vacation home, utilized only in the summer months by a family from Irkutsk. In his search he finds a set of keys for the car in the garage, a pair of jeans that kind of fit, and a map of the city.

He’s got the address for the meeting place memorized, so now all he has to do is get there. He changes into the jeans; they’re too short and a bit too snug, but it can’t be helped. With the jeans he can still wear his coat and hat, and look non-descript enough to pass as an ordinary citizen. Bucky carefully goes over the rest of his gear, searching for any tracers or wires that could compromise his location. Satisfied that there are none, he dons his coat, gloves, and hat before checking himself over in the floor length mirror by the bathroom door. Good enough.

He recites the address once again as he tucks one of his guns into the waistband of the jeans and exits, hoping the other car will start; he doesn’t want to take the SUV provided by the Krakkens, as it’s most likely bugged. Bucky needs to be untraceable for the next few hours.

***

Thankfully the little shop is easy to find, and it’s not too far of a drive since it’s in the northern part of the city. Bucky steps out of the bitter early afternoon cold and is immediately almost uncomfortably warm. He looks around, taking in the various guns, bows, and other gear necessary for hunting that are displayed in the cases and on the walls.

The man behind the counter speaks without looking up. “Can I help you?”

Bucky understands Russian perfectly, but does not answer.

When the proprietor is met with silence, he raises his eyes. “Can I…”

Bucky allows the man to study him as he does the same. Blonde hair, blue eyes, huge, somewhat crooked nose. Friendly smile. Average height, on the skinny side. He almost looks a bit like a taller pre-serum Steve, but he has an air of competence rather than rash scrappiness. This man’s physical description matches the one given to Bucky by Stark on the day he left the team. He’s in the right place, then. “Yakov Chekudayev?” Bucky logs the information as the man’s eyes grow wide.

“Oh, you’re…” he switches to English effortlessly. “Please come with me.”

This is clearly the guy Stark told him about, but Bucky remains wary; he doesn’t trust anyone but his team in this godforsaken country. “I speak Russian fluently, you don’t need to switch,” Bucky murmurs, double checking to make sure there are no other patrons in the shop.

“Ah, but not all of your friends do,” he replies with a wink as he walks to the front door, locking it and hanging a sign indicating that the store is closed for lunch. He nods, indicating that Bucky should follow as he turns and walks toward the back. Yakov leads Bucky into what looks like a back storeroom, and then through a locked door and down a set of stairs. At the end of the hall there’s a closed door…and Wilson.

“Thanks, Yakov,” Wilson says as he opens the door he’s guarding, letting both men through.

Bucky feels Wilson’s hand on his arm as he passes. “Hey, someone’s got to say out here and watch the door and I drew the short straw, so just tell me, how is she?”

“She’s –“ Bucky has to pause to swallow and lick his lips before he can speak, “She’s hanging in there.”

Wilson nods. “She’s a tough cookie. She can get through this, man, you both can. We’re gonna get her out of there, and then you two are gonna have your happily ever after.”

“I hope so,” Bucky mutters as he enters a brightly lit room holding both Steve and Stark.

“So she’s doing okay?” Steve clearly heard what he’d said to Wilson. “We’ve been keeping tabs on her, but, well…”

“As well as can be expected considering she’s behind held by a couple of sadistic monsters.” Bucky pushes the Soldier back and doesn’t bother trying to hide the desperation in his tone. “Steve, we need to get her the fuck out of there. It’s worse than we thought, and I don’t know how much more she can take before she snaps.”

Stark takes a deep breath, but remains quiet.

Yakov steps forward. “One of the psychologists they hired is a regular at one of the bars about 10 kilos from here. He talks too much when he drinks; a few days ago, I heard him brag about how he and his colleagues have been testing the boundaries of a subject’s limits with great success. He is, however, afraid of pushing the subject too far as it would result in immediate termination, so I would guess that the Krakkens are not yet ready to fully break her. You are not yet out of time.

Bucky was unaware of his presence, and tenses until Steve answers the question in his eyes. “He’s good, Buck – his girlfriend was raped and killed by Anatoliy; he’s got no loyalty toward the Krakkens. Yakov’s an ally.”

Well, if he’s good by Steve, he’s good by Bucky.

He sees Yakov clench his jaw and briefly look down before meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I was going to ask her to marry me on the day she was killed. I had her parents’ blessing and the ring in my pocket.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bucky murmurs, feeling as though his experience may yet mirror Yakov’s heartache if they don’t act quickly.

“Me, too. Those bastards need to be brought to justice, and I am more than willing to do whatever I can to meet that goal.”

Bucky nods, but watches Steve out of the corner of his eye; he knows his version of justice and Steve’s are likely going to be two very different things in this case.

None of the men in that manor are going to see the inside of a jail cell.

“Yakov has been of invaluable help; his family was the first to join up with us which has made the negotiation process with the other Bratva families much easier.” Steve explains, trying to make Bucky more comfortable with the new addition as well as to catch him up on the situation. “In the cases where Stark’s offers weren’t convincing enough, they were able to put pressure on the other families to comply.”

Yakov nods. “The Krakkens are a disease in the Bratva brotherhood. They need to go, but they have gotten too powerful for any of us to take down. With your friends, however, it can be done.”

“So, ah, what brings you here?” Stark interjects, somewhat impatiently. “What kind of mission do they have you on?”

Bucky untucks the folded files from an inside coat pocket and tosses them on the table in front of Stark. “They want these families assassinated.”

The men review the information, and Yakov nods. “It makes sense; these families have been known to openly criticize Nicolai, but they also do not get along with each other as their competition has been very fierce in the past few months. It wouldn’t be so surprising to see them go after one another, so it would be a good cover for Krakken to eliminate them.”

“As it so happens, these families are now on my payroll,” Stark says drily as he flips a page. “Going after kids, sick fucks…”

“Yeah. So what’s the plan? Are we faking their executions?”

“Damn right we are. Barton’s been watching makeup tutorials on YouTube to learn now to make the wounds look realistic, and Yakov’s family runs a slaughterhouse.” Stark pulls a face, “We’ve got access to all the props needed to make this look real. We’ll take the pictures you’ll need for proof, and then send the families out for a little vacation. Luckily for us, we now control the press in the city, so no worries about that. Oh, and I have a little present for you.”

Bucky takes the item Stark pulled from his pocket and inspects it carefully.

“We were able to find out what kind of equipment the Krakkens prefer – this should be the same kind of watch they issue to their minions. So I got one, and made it better, of course. It doubles as a two-way radio so you don’t have to be cut off when you’re there,” Stark pauses as he reaches into his other pocket, “and this is how you’ll hear us.” He passes an earpiece to Bucky, and like the watch, the equipment is identical to what he’d taken from the Krakkens’ supply room. “Use this instead of the one they gave you, even when you’re communicating with them. I was able to find their channel, so it’ll work for that as well as for us. That way you don’t have to explain why you have two.”

Bucky nods as he puts the earpiece and watch in place; he’d left the others behind.

Stark quickly reviews the functions, and Bucky pays attention until he can’t hold in his question anymore.

“So how much longer do we have to keep this up? Where are you on a fix for the collar?”

Stark looks away. “I…I got nothing. I can’t get any information on those damn things, so I can’t reverse engineer a fix. I don’t know how they’re made, or even what they’re made of, and if I don’t do it right I might accidentally set off the explosive.“

“Goddamn it, Stark, I need to get her out of there and I can’t do that with that fucking collar around her neck!” Bucky’s voice comes out thick with desperation.

“He knows, Buck,” Steve steps in, knowing the tension and stress felt by everyone could turn this into something explosively bad, “He’s been working around the clock trying to figure this out.”

Bucky pulls at his hair as he takes a deep breath. “I know, I just –“

“I want her back, too, Barnes, but I just can’t take any chances on doing this wrong. I need a collar, or specs, or something. And I know this is extra sucky for you, because you have to see her li–“

“That’s the least of my worries at this point! Do you know what they want me to do to her?” Bucky tries to keep his voice from rising, but fails. “They already made me beat her, and they’ve implied that they want me to rape her! And if I fuck this up, if I do one fucking thing wrong and they figure it out, they’re going to take it out on her. Not me, her. She’ll be the one that suffers, she’ll be the one that bleeds!”

The color drains from Starks face; he opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again.

“I know we knew this was a possibility, but it’s real now. These men are even more fucked up than we thought. I’ll keep playing my part, but goddamn it Stark, we need to get her the fuck out of there.” Bucky turns to face his other teammate when his panic threatens to choke him, “Please, Stevie, we gotta come up with something –“

“We will, Buck,” Steve takes hold of Bucky’s shoulders as he speaks; if it had been anyone else, they would have lost their arms. “Hey, we’re gonna get her back, we just have to figure out how.”

The words do little to soothe the agony in Bucky’s soul, but the hands grasping his shoulders manage to ground him enough to gather himself.

Bucky takes a deep breath before speaking; he does know that Stark is doing everything he can. Doesn’t make it any easier, though. “Alright Stark, I’ll do what I can to get you a collar, or at least find some info about them.”

“Get me one, and I’ll have it figured out within a day.”

“Good. You got this then? I’ve got something else I need to take care of.”

***

Bucky lays on his stomach, some 2 miles away from the manor. He checks his watch; 17:32. There should be twelve men on the southwest side of the building that are off duty now but have the early 3:00 am shift, which means their bodies won’t be noticed until at least then…and if he can pick them all off before they report to their posts, then he can start spreading fear.

Fear begets anger, and anger begets carelessness. If he can keep his enemies off kilter, then he has the advantage.

Five rooms are empty. Three rooms have the curtains drawn.

Four men are now dead.

The other eight will need to wait until later; he needs to meet up with Barton in 20 minutes to switch vehicles, and get the camera and the bottle of animal blood that will make it look as though Bucky was assassinating his assigned targets, and not Krakken’s men.

***

Grigory’s eyebrows raise significantly when Bucky returns. “Back so soon?”

“My mission is complete.”

Grigory’s eyebrows manage to go even higher. “Impressive. Your proof?”

The Soldier passes the camera to Grigory and waits as he reviews the pictures. “I believe Mr. Krakken and Kapitan will be very pleased.” He pauses as he glances at his watch. “They were not expecting you, but they are optimists, so they had a place set for you in the dining room. It is still dinnertime, so you are to report there immediately.”

The Soldier nods sharply and leaves to do as he is told. Entering the dining room, Bucky is somewhat surprised to see his girl there, but is careful not to show it. What possible use could they have for her here, now? Do they just never tire of inflicting pain?

It doesn’t take long to have his questions answered; it’s just another form of torment for their sick and twisted pleasure.

They make her talk.

They tell her about his assignments, about how he was out killing people, and ask if she still loves him. She answers yes - thank God she answers yes, it bolsters Bucky’s courage and resolve like nothing else could - but then they push her and her sass comes out. The spark of pride in Bucky’s chest dies abruptly when Anatoliy begins to manhandle her; it’s all he can do not to stand and snap that jackass’s neck. Nicolai has other plans for her, though.

They make her watch.

The blonde man – Mikhail – is beaten. Both Nicolai and Anatoliy took part in the vicious assault, so Bucky takes the opportunity to observe her. This man means something to her – she’s thoroughly distressed to see him be hurt. He doubts anyone else notices, or cares, but he can plainly see that it’s more than just her compassionate nature, so they must have bonded somewhat over something. It’s something his team will need to take into consideration; Bucky decides they’ll need to free Mikhail, too, if they can. God, he just wants to reach out and comfort her, but he can’t. He can’t.

Then they make her listen.

They want a full report of the tasks the Soldier completed. He gives them the fabricated details, giving enough to make it seem real but not so much that it seems like he’s overcompensating. It’s a fine line, but he pulls from memories of missions he’s actually completed, so he’s convincing enough.

Watching her out of the corner of his eye he sees how much it distresses her, but she’s trying so hard not to show it.

I’m so sorry, Sweetheart, my brave, beautiful girl, I’m so sorry…

He can’t comfort her, even though every cell in his body demands it.

She’d bolted the second she was dismissed, and it took every ounce of self-control not to follow her.

***

Bucky wakes he hears Stark’s voice in his ear; he’d been waiting to hear from his team and was surprised that he’d fallen asleep.

“Rise and shine, Barnes.”

Bucky blinks, and stiffens momentarily when he feels an arm around his waist and a warm weight behind him. It only takes him a second to realize it’s her; she’d come to him.

She’d come to him? After all she’d been told and seen, she’d still come to him?!?

The guilt of his deception, as necessary as it may be, is crushing him - almost suffocating him - under its heavy weight.

“Cameras are currently showing reruns of empty hallways, if you care to take a walk.”

He freezes; not wanting to move, not wanting to wake if this is just a dream.

“She’s been there for a good half hour; she hasn’t been sleeping well, so I’d guess she’s more passed out than sleeping at this point. You were, too – I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes.”

Bucky takes a moment to revel in her touch as he listens to her breathing. Stark’s right – she’s out cold.

He reluctantly gets out of bed.

“The channel showing you sleeping is especially riveting.”

Bucky grabs his knives.

“Halls are clear; unlike our friends in the hell hotel, I have live feed. I’ll let you know if anyone tries to crash your party.” There’s a long pause, then. “I’ve got eyes on her, too. I’ll let you know if anyone goes into that part of the manor.”

Knowing Stark can see his confirmation, Bucky nods as he silently exits the room, taking a good long look at her before he goes.

When he returns 26 minutes later she hasn’t moved an inch, and there are eight less men to worry about.

“Try to get some sleep, Barnes. Cameras will go live again in one minute. We’ll be in contact in the morning to find out about your murder mission du jour.”

Bucky removes the earpiece and carefully crawls into bed, getting himself into the same position he was in when he awoke. He diligently counts down the seconds until the minute passes, and he knows he can move without there being an obvious jump in the footage.

He shouldn’t – God, he knows this is a bad idea and that he shouldn’t – but he does anyway. He turns around to face her, and does what he can to gather her into his arms without making it obvious that he’s awake. He wants to place a kiss on her forehead but stops himself, because that’s not something someone would do in their sleep.

This is enough, though. Holding her close is enough. He wants to relish it - especially since he doesn’t know if what their future holds even if his team does manage to free her - so he tries to stay awake, but he hasn’t been sleeping much, either.

When she nestles into him, he can’t help the relaxation that sweeps over him. The soft familiarity of her form soothes him, and lulls him to sleep.

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky imagine #my work #i don't want the world to see me (cause i don't think that they'd understand)#IDWtWtSM #10

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