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wkemeup · 5 years

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Guiding Light (6)

summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra and now, Bucky can’t breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 7.3k warnings: torture, angst™, graphic descriptions of violence, the peak of the angst ive been warning yall about 🖤series masterlist // series playlist

You laid on your stomach upon the hard lumps and broken springs of the mattress, the weight of your body heavy, impossibly aching, and somehow feathery light at the same time; like your body was not your own, like you were just barely inhabiting your own skin covered in bruising and dried blood caked into your hair, bones protruding where thick muscle once sat. Unrecognizable.

Lids heavy, you dragged your arm up to the corner of the ground under the mattress, shifting slightly and taking up all of your energy to do so. A few scratches in a single line amongst forty-seven marks of the same; tiny white lines along concrete.

Forty-eight days in Hydra’s captivity.

“How you doing over there, Y/n?” Danny’s voice called carefully through the wall.

You closed your eyes, turning your head to face the wall, staring at the crack that allowed you an ounce of sanity in your imprisonment. Your fingertips reached out and brushed the line in the wall. Tiny rocks fell from the fracture, sharp edges scratching at your skin.

“M’okay,” you replied, though the rough tone of your voice betrayed you.

You could still feel the worn muscles and aching joints from where Cain had beat you senseless for the sake of the camera a few days prior. He had yet to explicitly tell you what your purpose was in Hydra or why they bothered keeping you alive at all, but you could tell they were ramping up to their endgame soon. Whatever it was, had to do with Bucky.

You suspected it from the beginning. They were too quick to taunt him in your face and he had become the main subject of your interrogations as of late. You had handled the videos up to this point as best as you could. It was what you were trained for, but the moment you saw Bucky’s name listed upon the cue card, you broke.

You had outright refused to say his name aloud in such a place and Cain, in his unending frustration with you, had cut off your air supply with the grip of his hand until you lost consciousness. He only released long enough for you to come back to, and then he’d close his gasp again. He did that four times before he relented.

So, despite the tears in your eyes, the awful break in your voice, and the sickening guilt in your stomach, you spoke his name at the demands of the same nature of men who had tortured and mutilated Bucky Barnes until he resembled something outside of himself.

You spoke his name and you told him he was at fault just before Cain nearly beat you to death for the second time.

When you regained consciousness hours later, you couldn’t stop crying. Heaving and desperate to catch your breath, just to picture his face as you spoke those words, words you had so carefully worked to convince him of otherwise in the three years since you’d known him. Those words were never supposed to come from your mouth, never should have parted your lips, echoed in your voice. They were lies; vicious and cruel because you knew that Bucky would latch onto them and take any excuse to give into the dormant fears in the back of his mind that constantly wondered if he really was to blame for all the bad in the world.

You had so vigilantly kept your mind away from Bucky since you’d been here, focusing only on old memories, on his smile and the blue in his eyes, on something warm and kind you could hold onto, but then suddenly, all you could think about was what he was doing without you, if he’d retreated so far into himself he resembled the withdrawn, self-loathing man you first met in the kitchen before sunrise drinking coffee or if it was worse than that, if he dove back into missions and reckless behaviors and gave into the empty part of himself he reserved for the soldier.

You weren’t sure which was worse, but having to think of him being anything other than the incredibly kind, gentle, wonderful man you knew tore at your heart in ways you couldn’t explain. You didn’t want to think that you could hold that kind of power, that being ripped from his life would alter him in such a way. His recovery was too important for that. And yet, if you let yourself think of it, if it had been Bucky that was taken forty-eight days ago and you were the one left behind, you knew with certainty that your world would have come crashing down. It has.

“When's the last time you ate?” Danny asked as a tear slipped over the bridge of your nose, bringing you out of your thoughts. You brushed it away, glancing through the small hole in the wall. Danny had been working on making it bigger, just enough so to slip a few spare bites of food to you in the days Cain ordered the agents to withhold your food as punishment.

It wasn’t large enough to catch a real glimpse of the kid in the cell beside you, but the most you could gather was the orange waves of his hair having grown from the buzzcut over the month since he arrived. Soft freckles on his paled skin and the tan camouflage pants of his military uniform.

“Don’t know,” you replied honestly. Your body had stopped growling for food weeks ago. The pangs turning into numb aches that never quite seemed to go away. Danny didn’t say a word as he pushed a bite of bread throw the wall and it dropped to the concrete by your mattress.

“Danny, don’t,” you urged, though your fingers brushed over the bread, your mouth already watering as you touched the spongey surface. “You need to eat, too.”

“They feed me on a daily basis, Y/n,” he countered, pushing through another piece. “I can afford to share with you. Please, eat.”

You brought the first bite to your mouth and swallowed it before you could even taste the stale texturing. It brought relief for a brief moment, though not nearly long enough, and you picked up the second piece.

Danny let out a groan as he attempted to push another piece of breath through the wall for you, a side effect of the beating he took shortly after yours. He estimated he had a few bruised ribs and some swelling around his eye, but insisted he was unharmed, better off than what they did to you, he would say.

You still didn’t know why they took Danny in the first place or why they were keeping him alive. This young, inexperienced soldier who was too kind and too naïve to second guess breaking protocol to help a stranger start their car. It didn’t make sense. He had no information he could give, no secrets he could expose. He was just some kid.

You mumbled a thank you as Danny took a steady breath, ripping the bread into pieces.

“You're the Avenger here, you know,” Danny chimed in light-heartedly as another bite landed into your outstretched hand and you smiled through your cracked lips, “you need to get your strength anywhere you can grab it so you’re ready for when your team comes for you.”

As easily as it came, your lips fell back to a straight line. You swallowed back the last bite he was able to offer you.

You spent the rest of the day curled up on the mattress, trying to find sleep despite the horrible aches in your body and the likely concussions you had sustained. You were still waking up after you fell asleep, so that was a decent sign at least.

The only good thing about filming those awful videos was the fact that Cain and his men left you alone for a few days. Even if it meant no food, it also meant no torture, no questions you’d refuse to answer, no nails pulled from your skin, no knives carving into you or fists barreling against your bones. It meant peace, if only for a little while.

“Hey Y/n?”

“Yeah, kid?”

Danny paused before he spoke again, a nervous shift as he turned on the squeak of his mattress. “Will you tell me about the Avengers? What they’re really like?”

You turned so your back fell against the mattress, a wash of relief over your muscles. Staring up at the ceiling, you studied the water stains and fractures in the tiling as you considered his question.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want,” Danny quickly retracted. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No. No, it’s okay,” you sighed, the soft semblance of a smile aching over your lips as you tried to find comfort upon the mattress. You had tried to keep your friends away from this room for so long, that the thought of having them with you, in memory, in spirit, in conversation, brought a kind of warmth to your chest you hadn’t experienced in a long time. “Who do you want to know about?”

First, he asked about Steve, which made sense as Danny had enlisted young without any other prospects. It didn’t surprise you that he idolized the man who went from the small, scrawny kid to a decorated war hero. What did surprise you was that Danny was more interested in who Steve Rogers was than Captain America.

So, you told him the story of when you first met Steve; how he was shyer than you would have expected and had a serious aversion to following rules. He was reckless for the right reasons and passionate for what he believed in. You told him about how Steve volunteers with Sam at the VA and helps facilitate support groups for veterans with PTSD.

Danny listened intently as you talked, asking questions here and there. He was still so young and full of the kind of awe you’d see on the streets of New York when you’d race through the city on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle as Tony and Sam flew above the crowd, chasing behind Steve as he ran at exceptional pace. It was the kind of genuine excitement of a generation who grew up with superheroes in their backyards.

Then, you told him about Tony, how he was far kinder than the media gave him credit for. You told him that he was a good man under all that sarcasm and wit and about how he routes his charity donations through international banks just to take measures to keep it anonymous. You told him about the lavish parties he throws to raise money or help improve the Avenger’s public image and how he somehow became known as the modern day Gadsby, which he had explicitly states he resents.

He asked about Natasha with a slight tremor in his voice, like he was almost fearful of even saying her name, but you told him she was witty and compassionate and fearless unlike anyone else you knew. You told him she was your closest friend and that she had spent countless hours of her own free time to train with you when you first joined the team. You told him that she always wore socks around the compound, even on the hottest summer days, and made the best homemade bread you’d ever had in your life.

You told him about Sam, who was always your main source of laughter, who had a comeback for just about everything and the heart of someone twice his size. You told him about the time Sam once drove five hours just to get a specific type of chocolate from his childhood in the days after you came home from a mission that had more casualties than anyone had expected, hoping the sweets would bring back even an ounce of your smile.

Danny was enthralled the entire time, so eager to learn more and asking the kinds of questions you’d only get from someone who genuinely cared, who spent most of their life looking up to superheroes and wanting to embody them as he got older.

He asked about what it was like living at the compound, if superheroes ordered pizza, what kind of shows secret agents watch on Netflix, and what you did when you weren’t on missions. He got you laughing enough to forget about the pain in your body and the warmth of the memories allowed you a brief distraction from horrors of the room you laid in.

“They sound awesome,” Danny exhaled with a laugh and you could only picture the grin that spread over his lips, cheeks aching from smiling for so long.

“Yeah, they kinda are,” you chuckled, surprised to find you had been smiling too. Even through cracked lips and discolored bruising on your jawline, a smile still found its way back to you. How it was possible this kid was able to bring that out in you, you didn’t know.

“What about, um,” Danny started with a nervous tick in his voice, “what about Sergeant Barnes? You haven’t mentioned him...”

You clenched your jaw as you focused on the watermark on the ceiling above you, suddenly a dry ache burning in your chest that wiped away your smile.

“I know the papers talk a lot of crap about him,” Danny went on to say, “but I don’t believe that garbage. He served his country, spent decades as a prisoner of war for it, and this is the way we treat him when he comes home? It’s bullshit. He’s a veteran who got dealt a shitty hand and he shouldn’t be treated like an enemy. All these assholes talk a big game but if it came down to it, none of them would have been able to survive what they put Sergeant Barnes through, let alone resist all the brainwashing Hydra forced on him. They’re all a bunch of cowards. He’s a hero if you ask me.”

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. It wasn’t often you came across someone who so adamantly and without persuasion believed in Bucky’s innocence. Sniffling back tears, you pressed your hand to the crack in the wall, like it was an extension of you, like maybe Danny could feel your appreciation through the barrier. The small glimpse of him you were able to see through the hole in the wall turned to you, a soft smile on his face as he pressed his hand to the crack.

You let your hand fall away, taking in a deep breath as Danny settled in against his own mattress.

“Bucky is the best man I know,” you said, the words flowing out easily, because they were true and because just being able to talk about Bucky, to have him with you like this, might have been the only thing keeping you from falling apart. “He still has a hard time accepting what Hydra did to him, what they made him do, but he’s come so far. The progress he’s made has been just... amazing to watch. He’s so strong and he cares so much but he holds the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. I just wish the rest of the world could see him the way you do.”

“I’m sure they’ll get there,” Danny replied. “They just got to get to know him, right?”

“It’ll take time,” you chuckled softly, thinking back on fonder memories.

So, you told Danny about your first interactions with Bucky nearly three years ago; how he had sat at the kitchen table hunched over his coffee at the early hours of the morning, silent and brooding for weeks before he so much as spoke to you. You told him about the first time Bucky stuck around in the kitchen as you stretched before your run and how avoidance turned to tight lipped smiles, which turned to mumbled greetings until he stood dressed in running shorts and worked up the courage to ask to go with you.

“Takes a while for him to warm up then?” Danny chuckled.

“Didn’t let me carry a conversation with him until after a few days of running in complete silence,” you confirmed, smile brimming at your lips.

You told him about the day you dragged Bucky into Brooklyn and brought him to the bookshop where you purchased a series of novels on your catch-up list. The first one he read was To Kill A Mockingbird and he had latched onto the character of Scout, pulling you aside at every opportunity to talk about what she stood for and why she was so important as a character. He asked if you would help him find essays and articles about the author and what inspired her. It was the first time you had seen him excited, eager, like he had a kind of hopefulness and light in his eyes he was lacking.

You told Danny about the playlist you started for Bucky, how it had started out as records of music from the decades he missed and the best of your generation before it turned into something else. He learned he leaned towards the acoustic trends of the 70s and 80s in bands like Fleetwood Mac and artists Jim Croce, but he’d find himself asking about your favorite music, songs you’d put on when you need uplifting, songs that made you cry, songs that he’d relate to, and he’d ask if you’d put those on his playlist, too, even if you weren’t sure if he’d like it. He told you he’d love anything you did. You’d hear the playlist echo down the hall at all hours of the day.

You told him of your first mission with Bucky in Vienna, how you would have bled out in the combat zone if Bucky hadn’t carried you out of there. You told him that Bucky was incredibly brave and selfless behind all those layers of guilt he carried upon his shoulders. Even in the months he was suffocated by the shame of it all, before he was able to start swimming back to the surface, he was still impossibly kind for the cruelty he had experienced.

He found a way to step back into the light and you could only pray he hadn’t fallen back to the darkness.

“You really care about him, huh?” Danny sighed.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to picture Bucky’s face. Details were starting to fade away, like the two freckles in his forehead and the patterns of gold trimming on his left arm, and that was what scared you the most. But you could still picture the blue of his eyes, the soft wave in his hair, the smile that left crinkles along the side of his face, and that was what kept you from succumbing to Hydra’s torture, to their demands.

“I love him,” you exhaled as tears slipped from the corners of your eyes. You had only said the words aloud once, from behind the glass barrier that kept you from him on the day you were taken. Saying it now, so far away from the man who needed to hear it tore at your chest but it made it real. It reminded you that it happened, that you had loved someone so deserving and so beautiful and that it was worth it, even if it led you here. Even if you’d never get the chance to tell him again.

Danny didn’t say anything, but you could hear the gentle sounds of his breathing as he listening intently. His hands brushed over the crack in the wall, the shadow casting into your room, and you mustered a sad smile, knowing it was his way of letting you know he was still there, still listening.

You brushed your nose, sniffling back more tears. “I um, never had the courage to tell him until I realized Hydra was going to take me prisoner. Thought I might not ever get the chance again and I couldn’t let him go on thinking I didn’t love him, that he wasn’t worth it or didn’t deserve of something more, because I know he thought those things of himself.”

“Does he feel the same way?” Danny asked cautiously, sincerely.

“Don’t know for sure,” you shrugged, running your fingers under your eyes to wipe at the tears. “I think he might. It’s hard to believe he would so willing open up to me the way he did, trust me with his burdens and the horrors in his dreams if he didn’t, but I...” you let out a heavy sigh, one that crushed on the weight of your chest, “I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

“I don’t understand,” Danny paused, a soft shuffling as he adjusted on his side of the wall, “of course you’ll know. You can tell him again when he gets you out of this hell hole and I’ll knock sense into him myself if it’s not the first thing he says to you.”

You chuckled through the tears on your cheeks, biting at your lip to keep your voice from breaking. “I don’t know about that, Danny.”

“But you said they’d come for you,” he questioned and a lump burned in the back of your throat.

“I know,” you confessed, “but things don’t always work out the way they should. I know my team is doing everything they can to find me. I know Bucky is doing everything he can but… people like me, in this job, we don’t always get happy endings. I’ve done more good than bad, saved more people than I’ve killed, than I’ve lost, but… the universe doesn’t take that into account. We’re all the same in her eyes and she won’t favor me because of who my friends are or how much evil I’ve prevented.”

Danny took in a careful breath after a moment of consideration, and then, “you don’t think you’ll make it out of this, do you?”

You wiped your hand over your eyes, wet tracks on your skin.

You thought of Steve and Tony, who you were sure were tirelessly working around the clock and overworking their staff to track down leads they ultimately wouldn’t find. You thought of Sam and Natasha who would spend every waking hour in the gym if they weren’t out in the field because neither of them ever learned how to sit still when something was out of their control, how Sam would resort to his charm and wit to pull the rest of the team from their hopelessness and how Nat would put on a smile and pretend like she was handling it better than she was.

Then, with a broken heart, you thought of Bucky; of ocean eyes and warm smiles, of the smell of old bookshops in Brooklyn, and sitting at the floor of your bedroom listening to music and introducing him to new books. You thought of sitting at the kitchen counter at five in the morning and the bitter taste of black coffee. You thought of morning runs and sparring in the gym, of his laugh and the glances he’d steal in your direction.

You thought of the look on his face the last time you saw him, how he had promised he would find you, lips read through the glass barrier, and how wholeheartedly you had believed him.

But that was forty-eight days ago.

“I’m not sure anymore.”

***

Later that night, you found Bucky in your dreams. At the end of an impossibly long hallway, dark shadows in overcast shielding the lights, locked doors on either side as you sprinted towards him. He stood still, impossibly so, and the floor seemed to stretch under you as you ran. Your legs were too weak, pace too slow. He was getting further and further away despite the hot breath in your lungs and the ache of your legs.

You screamed for him, but your voice was gone, broken and raspy, coming out in only a whisper. He reached out for you but the darkness was pulling him in. It wrapped like tentacles around his wrists, his ankles, his neck, but you were gaining on him, just a step away and your fingertips brushed his in a sweet moment of relief until he was yanked back sharply from your grasp.

Into the darkness he fell and you tried to follow, but you couldn’t see. You felt around aimlessly but there was only the cruel mask of empty space around you. Heart beating painfully, sobs racing through your body, and you shouted his name. A broken, desperate plea, to be unanswered.

Suddenly, you were pulled from your sleep with the series of loud clicks at the door; locks unfastening quickly resulting in a sharp twist in your chest as your heart rate increased, a conditioned response even on the verge of consciousness.

“Rise and shine, princess!” Cain’s voice barreled into the cell as the door slammed open.

You groaned, pressing your face into the mattress as the influx of florescence filled the room. Even your nightmares were better than whatever Cain had in store for you. At least you saw Bucky in your dreams.

Harsh hands gripped onto your arms and yanked you from the mattress. You tried to walk, to carry yourself to the chair bolted to the center of the room, but these men wouldn’t allow you the dignity of that. They tossed your body around like a rag doll and threw you into the chair, quickly fastening the restraints.

They were cowards. If you were at your full strength you could have taken the pair of them down, and yet, even weakened and starved and beaten, they still felt the need to cuff you under metal sheets that punctures and burned at your raw skin, red and swollen.

You turned to Cain who was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, and an obnoxious, smug smirk curved upon his thin lips.

“What do you want?” you rasped, voice still altered from the last time his hand was wrapped around your throat. He chuckled at that, whether it was your taunt or the state of your voice, you weren’t sure.

“You should watch your mouth,” Cain warned, “especially since I’ve come with news for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Means your little boyfriend and your team of insufferable idiots just captured one of our men,” Cain replied casually, though the hardened tone of his voice remained. He pushed himself from the wall and he began to pace around you. His hand touched your shoulder as he rounded your chair, fingers sliding up your neck, around your back, and down your left arm until he faced you again

You watched him carefully, chest panting a little harder, heart in your throat.

“Jennings is a seasoned agent and he will bide us time, but it won’t be enough,” Cain continued.

A dread settled in your stomach. “Enough for what?”

“The Avengers are getting too close,” Cain said, blatantly ignoring your question, “and we will have to resort to drastic measures to get them off our tracks.” He looked to the door and Moira, the blonde woman behind the camera you had come to know, stepped through the door. Cain pressed a kiss to her cheek and she kept her eyes on you the entire time, like it was meant to be an affront. The video camera hung from her left hand.

“We’ve got a new video to shoot today,” Cain smirked, “ain’t that right, baby?”

Moira nodded. “Got something real special in store.”

They stepped aside and a new figure was shoved into the room, bound and restrained by agents, one that made your heart stop completely. It wasn’t possible, not as far as you knew and you knew pretty well from your trips to see Shuri with Bucky. This kind of technology was far beyond SHIELD’s capability and Wakanda hadn’t even breached the surface on this yet.

It wasn’t possible.

Heart in your throat, your lips parted in shock, unable to process what you were seeing.

Cain smirked, amused by the panic coursing over you and he turned to Moira, black mask curling into his right hand.

“We go live in ten.”

***

Bucky’s breaths were heavy in his chest; calculated as he filled his lungs every few steps, legs burning as he raced down the busy streets of Manhattan. A silver Toyota Highlander weaved in and out of traffic fifty feet ahead, carrying inside a Hydra affiliated scientist who had been rumored to know where they were keeping you, had maybe even laid eyes on you in person within the last three weeks.

Jennings was the one to give the scientist’s name after days of interrogation: Anton Sokolov, a geneticist known for his work on those with enhanced abilities. Sokolov’s father was one of the men Bucky became familiar with in his years under Hydra’s rule. It appeared an affinity for experimenting on unwilling human subjects ran in the blood.

“I’ll cut them off on 42nd,” Steve’s voice echoed through the coms, accompanied by the roar of his motorcycle.

“Why the hell are they heading to Times Square?” Sam grunted from several hundred feet above Bucky’s head. Wings expanded as he dove through the sky, just ahead of Bucky, enough to keep a watchful eye on the SUV. “They’re not going to escape through there. What are they playing at?”

“Capture first, ask questions later, Wilson,” Nat said through the coms in her usual teasing tone. Wind captured in her mic as she held onto Steve’s back.

Bucky skirted out of the way of a cyclist passing through the intersection as he ran straight through a red light in effort to keep up with the SUV. He was gaining on the van, closing the gap the closer he got to Times Square, the heavy traffic of pedestrians increasing with every block. Only, Bucky wasn’t running any faster. If anything, he was losing energy from the sheer exhaustion of running after a car for nearly thirty-six blocks.

They were slowing down.

“Something’s up,” Bucky panted into his mic. “They’re leading us to a trap.”

“There’s nothing out ahead of you,” Tony reported. “I’m above 42nd and 7th. You’re clear.”

“Bucky’s right,” Steve said, the roar of his engine pulling to a halt. “If they were trying to run, they took a wrong turn about forty blocks ago. They planned this.”

“Guess we better be ready for anything,” Nat replied, a tone of excitement in her voice. She was always ready for something like this. Wasn’t trained for anything else.

“Here we go,” Tony sang as the SUV passed 41st street. From above, Bucky could spot the red and gold shimmer of the iron man suit suspending in the air as he aimed an open palm at the ground ahead of the van, shooting a single blast that took out the front two wheels.

Pedestrians were screaming, running away from the scene; tourists paused to pull out cameras and iPhones at the sight of the Avengers in action while native New Yorkers kept their heads down, headphones in as they continued their commute without interruption.

Tires broke and tore from under the van, rubber flying out to the sides as a deafening screech rang through the streets. Electric sparks burst from under metal as it scrapped along the pavement until ultimately, the SUV skidded to a stop.

Tony and Sam touched down on either side as Bucky sprinted up to the side door, denting the frame as he crashed into it. He released a guttural scream and ripped the car door from its hinges, throwing it several feet down the street.

Inside, he was met with a man in a white button-down shirt, glasses, and a black tie, holding his arms out to the side in defense. The two men in the front seat were hunched over the dashboard, the blast from Tony’s suit rendering them unconscious as blood dripped down the side of their face from the impact.

“Soldat, it’s so wonderful to see you,” Sokolov smirked, thick Russian accent as he taunted the very man who carried vengeance in his veins. Bucky gripped the cold metal of his left hand around Sokolov’s collar and yanked him from his seat, tossing him into the street and he skidded along the pavement on his back.

Bucky pushed Sam aside and stalked towards the Hydra scientist until he stood above him. Sokolov laid on his back, making no effort to run away as Bucky slowly knelt above him, his right hand curling into a fist as he raised it, ready to strike.

“I’m done with these games,” he growled. “Tell me where Y/n is, now!”

“Buck, you’ve got an audience,” Steve said carefully, appearing just a few paces ahead of him. Bucky glanced up slowly, eyeing the crowd of people who had gathered on the sidewalks, standing at a careful distance though they held their cameras and phones out to capture the Avengers in action, to capture the Winter Soldier beat a man to death.

“Yes, Soldat,” Sokolov taunted, “don’t want to upset the balance of your public image any more than you already have. You’re already a monster in their eyes. Do you wish to prove them right?”

“Shut the hell up,” Bucky spat, clenching his metal fist around Sokolov’s shirt, his right arm shaking as he held it above his head, closed into a fist. He looked up at Steve, panting, sincerely trying to bring himself back from the brink of darkness but he couldn’t find the end of the tunnel, not without you. “He knows where Y/n is.”

“That’s right, I do.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, gaze snapping back to Sokolov, who seemed quite pleased with himself. Even Steve and Sam, who stood above him wore the shock evident upon their features. Nat and Tony who had been carefully controlling the crowd to keep them from coming closer froze as they heard it through the coms. It was one thing to hear it through rumors, but another for it to be confirmed.

“But you’re too late,” Sokolov finished, pursing his lips, satisfied with the way desolation quickly replaced the ounce of hope swimming in the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “You wasted too much time, Soldat. She cannot be saved.”

“You’re stalling,” Bucky sneered, glancing up to Steve for support and he mustered a short nod.

“I was with her just days ago,” Sokolov grinned through yellowed teeth and dried lips as Bucky’s heart dropped, his stomach twisting into painful knots. “You have not seen her the way I have. She is weak. Pathetic. You do not see how she cowers in fear, how she cries out your name, begging for you to save her while we tear her apart!”

“No, you’re-- you’re lying,” Bucky accused but his throat had run dry.

“Am I?” Sokolov jeered, a laugh on his tongue. “Do you really think so, Soldat? You think that she is strong enough to withstand what we did to you? You think she could survive the torture and the pain you remember so well? You think we would even allow her to live!?”

Bucky let out a scream and dove his fist to the side of Sokolov’s face, a deafening crack of cheek bones as his knuckles hit flesh. He couldn’t stop himself, tears in his eyes and weeks of desperation and hopelessness rushing to the surface, and he swung again and again until his fist was bloody and broken and Sokolov had stopped laughing, stopped smiling, stopped taunting Bucky of the very nightmares he couldn’t remove from his head.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped, his voice distant, fearful, looking elsewhere, but Bucky could hardly hear him over the ringing in his ears.

Sokolov had slumped over, his body limp; unconscious, though still alive. Bucky panted, sweat dripping from his brow onto the man’s white dress shirt now dampened in red. He fell back from his knees, muscles aching and tiny rocks of the pavement imbedded into his right hand.

“Buck,” Steve said again, an urgency laced through his name that made Bucky narrow his eyes up at his friend. Steve swallowed, glancing down at Bucky with a kind of horror he had never seen in his eyes. For the first time, Steve Rogers was speechless.

It was then Bucky noticed the crowds had silenced completely save for a few murmurs behind hands clasped over mouths. A pin drop could be heard in the middle of Manhattan, at the center of Times Square. Steve nodded up to the sky and hesitantly, Bucky followed his gaze.

There, upon every screen in Times Square, replacing each advertisement and billboard down 7th avenue, was you.

Bound and strapped to that same God forsaken chair, silver tape covering your mouth for the first time, and tears streaming down your cheeks. Your heavy, exasperated breaths could be heard echoing through the street, your eyes frantically searching for something Bucky couldn’t see. In the top right corner of the screen was a single red dot. He realized with a horrible pang in his stomach, that the video was being streamed live.

Bucky scrambled to his feet, rushing a few yards forward, though he had nowhere else to go, no way to reach you through the projection of the screens. He spun in a circle, catching every monitor you were visible on, surrounding him from all sides.

“People of New York,” a voice called out, grainy and distorted, as a man in a black mask stepped into view of the camera. Hushed gasps came from the hordes of pedestrians watching in horror as the man grabbed a tight hold of your hair, enough for you to whimper. Bucky’s hands were shaking at his sides.

“Hydra has no demands. Only, a message to the Avengers,” the man continued. He pulled a silver handgun from behind his back from the waistband of his jeans. Bucky’s heart was in his throat as the man dragged the barrel of the gun suggestively up the side of your arm, over your collarbone, along your cheek, until he settled it at the nape of your neck.

Your breaths were coming in too fast, panic in your eyes Bucky hadn’t even seen the day you were taken, a kind of helplessness that shook him straight to his core.

“You are nothing compared to the reach of Hydra,” the man growled as he pressed the gun harder against your neck, forcing you to twist your head in search of relief. “These so-called heroes are weak, defenseless, and they cannot save you. They are made up of war criminals, assassins, soviet spies, washed up army brats, and arrogant billionaires. They will turn on you. They will turn on each other. They. Are. NOTHING.”

Bucky glanced back at his team, wide eyes fearful and powerless, his own voice lost to him.

Tony was cold faced, jaw clenched tightly as he watched the monitors. Sam knelt by the edge of the SUV, hands clasped over his knee, head bowed save for the moments he dared to look at the screens. Natasha was pacing back and forth relentlessly, hands curling and uncurling into fists by her sides, muttering under her breath as she glanced up at the projections, only to turn away as quickly because seeing you like that wasn’t something she ever thought she’d have to face. Steve stood just a few paces behind Bucky, watching him more than the monitors, his chest rising and falling at a speed that betrayed the calm nature of his expression.

There was nothing they could do. Entirely helpless but to watch.

“You will learn,” the man stated, straightening his back as he took a step away from you, withdrawing the gun and Bucky sighed of relief, though it was impossibly short lived. “You will learn that your heroes are no better than us and that, above all else, they are... mortal.”

Bucky heard the gun fire before he saw it.

The worst of his nightmares paled in comparison to the fear that coursed through his veins, the paralyzing shock that ripped and tore at him in ways Hydra had never been able to when he was held under their fist; not even under the sharp edge of a scalpel, or the machine that obliterated his memories.

The sharp echo of the sound punctured straight through his heart and he stumbled backwards, breaths short, uneasy, excruciating; watching in horror as you slumped forward in the chair, blood spraying onto the wall, dripping down concrete in thick beads.

“N-no,” he gasped out, rushing forward, staring up at the screens as blood soaked through your hair, your body unmoving. His hands curled against his pants, his jacket, shaking violently, and he couldn’t breathe. His vision was closing in, too blurry from the wet tears burning in his eyes.

Upon the screens, the man gripped at your hair, yanking your face up to the camera and Bucky heard a wail from behind him; Natasha. Your features were slack, eyes staring off far beyond where he could see and clouded over in a cold, unforgiving stare.

“No!” Bucky cried out, his voice breaking in the effort and burning raw in his throat, “no, n-no, please... God, no...”

The man shoved the chair until it tilted on its side until you fell from frame. The man laughed, a cold sinister kind of sound that curled its way into Bucky’s chest and lit him aflame. He stepped towards the camera, close enough that Bucky could see the color of his left eye, green, and the scar that rendered his right useless.

“And you dare to worship the Avengers like Gods,” the man sneered, his lips curving in a satisfied grin.

Bucky let out a scream and it echoed through the silence of the streets as he yanked the gun from its holster on his thigh and fired the entire clip into the closest billboard he could find. Bullet holes pierced the monitor, altering the image’s frame as it fragmented around it, shards of glass and plastic falling from the sky, and then it turned black. He felt no relief as he turned to the dozens of projections lining the streets, taunting him.

Then, the man stepped away from the camera and the video went dark.

Silence took over Times Square and Bucky stumbled on his feet; legs too weak to hold him. Muffled whimpers could be heard from the sidewalks, tearful cries as bystanders huddled together, holding one another, hundreds of pedestrians rendered witness to the murder -- the execution -- of an Avenger.

Bucky heaved, desperate to catch his breath, but he was too light headed, darkness tunneling in his vision and he fell to his knees. Rocks in the pavement punctured his skin through the layer of his pants but he couldn’t feel much of anything. Hands grasping at the fabric of his suit, trembling violently as a sob racked through his body, enough for it to echo amongst the silence.

A pain so indescribable burned and festered in his chest, unable to find a release, he pushed it from his body in a cry so heartbreaking, it cracked his voice, tears streaming down his face; no energy to care about the hundreds of onlookers.

He’d been subjected to so much evil in his life, so much hatred and cruelty, and you had been the good to come out of it. The one thing that led him through the darkest parts of his mind to the end of the tunnel where the warmth of light touched his skin again. You held him and encouraged him and helped him find his own footing so they he could walk there himself, towards the light he so desperately craved.

But that light had extinguished. Smothered and suffocated.

It died with you, leaving Bucky surrounded by the cold arms of darkness.

Alone.

------

This is the serious angst I’ve been trying to warn you about... Theories anyone? 😅

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#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #marvel #bucky barnes x female reader #guiding light #tw: graphic violence #tw: character death

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