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capkink2014-02-11 08:29 pm
capkinkmod) wrote in capkink2014-02-11 08:29 pm
Prompt Post 1
Remember to title your comments, use appropriate warnings (or "choose not to warn"), and be civil. Embeds are not allowed.
At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.
Update, April 22, 2014:
For fills, please use the following format:
Fill: Title
Including the pairing, warnings/CNTW, and any other information after the fill and title in the subject line or in the first line of the comment.
Links:
Page A Mod
Fills
Discussion
Delicious Archive
At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.
Update, April 22, 2014:
For fills, please use the following format:
Fill: Title
Including the pairing, warnings/CNTW, and any other information after the fill and title in the subject line or in the first line of the comment.
Links:
Page A Mod
Fills
Discussion
Delicious Archive
Fill: And I Am Always with You, Part 47 Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation
"Still thinking?" Sam asks once they are at the table.
Through a mouthful of the dish called scrambled eggs—usually Sam wants him to choose the type of egg from an overwhelmingly large list of cooking methods, but thankfully today he did not—the Soldier makes a sound. It is not a word and therefore it is not a lie. James Buchanan Barnes was a liar and the Soldier has no desire to be like him.
But he also has no desire to hurt Steve. If Steve were to find out what the man he misses so much had been like under his façade of friendship, Steve may fall to pieces. So he cannot say anything, but a lie of omission is still dishonest and doesn't that make him as awful as Barnes?
He remembers the table the night prior, with Barton and Romanoff. He thinks of how dismissive the Soldier had been in regards to Barton's own suffering. He is already as awful as Barnes. Cruelty must be in his nature, some insidious biological programming he cannot hope to extract.
"Did I ever tell you what I do for a living?" Sam sets down his fork.
The Soldier had not thought of Sam's career. He hadn't thought of anyone's life outside the tower or combat. Whatever this man's employment is, the Soldier's broken mind is keeping him from it. His stomach sinks lower as his head shakes.
"I counsel veteran soldiers who are readjusting to civilian life," Sam says. "Some of them, in the first session they come to, don't say anything at all. Some of them don't speak for weeks. They all have their reasons—being ashamed of something they've done, or thinking their own experiences are too different for anyone else to connect with—but each and every one of them said it was a huge weight off their chest when they did open up. Even if there wasn't an answer to their problem. Sometimes just talking itself can help."
It is not phrased as an order and Sam had said he would not be giving orders ever, but it feels remarkably like a command regardless. The Soldier swallows. His throat has gone dry and the motion aches. "Do I have to?"
"You don't have to do anything. People can choose, remember?" Pushing his chair back, Sam takes his now empty plate and carries it to the sink. "I just want you to know that I'll be here to listen whenever you choose to take that opportunity."
The Soldier chooses silence and chooses to leave the room once his own dishes are dealt with. "I will be in the shower," he says. It seems rude to keep entirely quiet after an offer of aid, however misguided the camaraderie may be. He is bad enough without adding rudeness on top of things.
"Hey," Sam says. "Before you go, how do you feel about dogs?"
The only dogs he can remember were trained to sink their teeth into his legs or to snap at his throat. He feels neither anger toward them nor fear. A dog is not so different from an asset, depending on what it is taught. "I don't know."
"Clint was going to bring his dog over." Sam glances at the clock on the stove. "At a more reasonable hour, I mean. But if that's going to trigger you, you don't have to be around for it, all right?"
"I will not be triggered." People have tried to kill him in the past as well, and he does not respond to the sight of people with violence unless it is apparent that they are active threats. A dog should be no different.
He stands in the shower for so long that he fears the arm may become damaged even with the waterproofing. The water is no longer hot by the time he switches it off, but the room is full of steam and he must wipe the fog from the mirror before he can begin to shave his face. The air is thick and dizzying and were he not already sickened from guilt and shame and disgust and horror at the creature that he is, he thinks it would be nauseating.
His right hand, shaking, picks up the razor. The Soldier thinks of the morning his hand slipped and the blades nicked his face, thinks of the night in the alley near the Smithsonian, driving the knife into his leg. He thinks of HYDRA and of order through pain.
He flicks his wrist and a thin red line opens down his cheekbone. The world had been tilting around him but now it begins to right itself. It moves too slowly, so he drags the razor against his jaw, leaning over the sink so as not to stain the towel wrapped around his hips.
HYDRA had not allowed disloyal soldiers to live. Sometimes they tried to run and became missions assigned to him. Sometimes they were found out before they could flee and he was sent in to make an example in front of others. But whatever the method of disposal, there was never leniency. Never prisoners. HYDRA had no place for such things.
His left hand, still cool in spite of the water and steam, presses against his carotid artery. He is not wearing the glove—he isn't sure if that's waterproof—so he cannot feel the thump of his pulse against the fingers, but he knows exactly where it is.
Steve will never kill him no matter how much he deserves it, both now and then. Perhaps the others could be persuaded—though Steve may fight them—but he can't ask them to clean up the mess that is his existence. The least he can do is deal with this on his own.
If the razor slices the artery, it will be over in a matter of minutes. Not at the sink, of course. He would move to the shower first, close the doors. It would contain the blood in an area where the stains could be easily washed away. But he doesn't want to die in the tower. He doesn't want to upset whoever would stumble upon the body.
Maybe if he goes elsewhere to do it, Steve will not even realize it has happened. The Soldier is unsure if it would be better or worse for Steve to think Barnes is still alive somewhere. Would the possibility of another reunion be more painful than the knowledge of suicide? Though that question only applies if he chooses a method of death that cannot appear as an accident.
There are so many ways to die and the Soldier runs through most of them as he stands before the mirror, waiting for the cuts to heal to the point of becoming inconspicuous. He thinks being run over would kill him if the vehicle was large enough or moving at the right speed. But that risks injury or trauma to the driver. There is falling from a great height, poisoning, suffocation, exsanguination, burning, a broken neck, hyperthermia, hypothermia—he thinks hypothermia would not be unpleasant. He experienced it before without even realizing it and there is comfort in the cold.
His hand will not stop shaking. Fear blossoms in his stomach alongside the guilt, and that makes the disgust all the stronger.
As an asset, he did not fear death. He did not long to live; he felt no self-preservation. If his mission had been to press a gun to his own head and fire, he would not even have blinked before fulfilling the objective.
He bites the inside of his lips where damage will not be visible until his mouth is flooded with the taste of copper. As an asset, he was nearly perfect. As a person, he is nothing but humanity's worst and weakest traits. He cannot even will himself to feel the impassive nature that was programmed over seven decades.
By the time Barton and Romanoff arrive with the dog, around noon, his hand has nearly stopped shaking. He has ceased the biting despite the grounding it provides for fear of staining his teeth red and drawing attention.
When the Soldier thinks of dogs, the images that come to mind are very large. Mastiffs, he believes some of them were called, and Rottweilers. Some missions had small, loud dogs. He is not sure what those were called. Barton's dog is somewhere between small and large, golden brown in color. The dog has only one eye, and a piece of pizza is clamped in his jaws.
"That can't be healthy," Romanoff sighs. The dog is on a leash and she and Barton are both holding onto the other end.
"Hey, Kate bought him dog food. That fancy canned stuff? He likes pizza. I've learned not to fight it."
"I'll bet you never tried."
The dog sits on the floor, gnawing at the slice. The Soldier notes that the dog starts from the crust up.
"Bucky, this is Lucky." Barton takes a seat beside the dog.
The Soldier considers approaching, but one does not get between a dog and his meal, particularly if it is an unfamiliar dog. He waves, which strikes him afterward as absurd, but he is not sure what other response would be appropriate. Lucky seems nonthreatening. Watching him, it strikes the Soldier that he may like dogs that aren't trying to maul him.
"Want to pet him?" Barton asks once the pizza is devoured.
When the Soldier nods, Romanoff stands. She tugs gently on the leash and the dog trots to the Soldier's location. His tail is wagging. For a moment, the Soldier's hand hovers in the air before the dog. He has no memory of petting animals and he does not wish to cause agitation by doing so incorrectly. But then Lucky's nose, cold and wet, is pressing against his hand. He thinks this is anticipation and he carefully reaches to the space just behind the dog's ear, repeating the stroking motion his last commanding officer used to do with his own hair.
Lucky's tail wags faster. The dog seems to melt, leaning his body against the Soldier's leg. He pushes his head into the Soldier's hand, and the Soldier repeats the motion, letting his fingers rub through the dog's fur. Romanoff lets go of the leash and sits on the arm of the couch, watching.
Transfixed, the Soldier can only stare down at the effect of his ministrations. Lucky looks so content, so utterly unconcerned with anything around him save for the hand behind his ear. The Soldier thinks he used to be that way after a successful mission. There was nothing in his mind but strategy and his handler's approval. It was quiet. He misses that.
Oblivious of the indignities and petty injuries inflicted upon him. Unaware of the people he had hurt. Completely ignorant of the monster that he is. He misses that.
People can choose, Sam had said.
The Soldier can choose to go back home.
"Hey Bucky."
He looks up to find Steve in the doorway. "Making a new friend?"
The Soldier swallows, gathers his resolve. I think I should return to HYDRA. The words are in his mouth, but of course he cannot say them. No matter what Sam says about choice, Steve will not allow it. This is a lie by way of exclusion, but he is already awful, so what is to keep him from lying? "I need to go back to DC."
Re: Fill: And I Am Always with You, Part 47 Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation
(Anonymous) 2014-07-15 04:46 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: And I Am Always with You, Part 47 Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation
Re: Fill: And I Am Always with You, Part 47 Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation
(Anonymous) 2014-07-15 01:49 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: And I Am Always with You, Part 47 Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation