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cvptainbucky · 7 years ago

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Nightmare

i wrote this a while back, but it turned out kind of as a self-insert thing that i don’t really like anymore. here's the steve/bucky improved version.

because bucky barnes deserves all the hugs in the world.(on ao3)

There’s blood.

There’s always blood.

His blood. His blood when he fell. When they strapped him down to the metal table. When they tied him to a chair and asked him questions he wouldn’t answer. When he found some shredded glass in his cell and thought it could be his chance to escape for good. (It wasn’t). When they pulled the trigger.

When he pulled the trigger. One, two, ten, too many times. When his bullets went through their brains. When his knife sliced their throats. When his hands cracked their skulls open. His hands.

His hands. Him.

H-

The room is cold.

The room is cold, but there’s no blood anymore. Only darkness and tangled sheets and fear. The same fear that creeps into him every night, before he opens his eyes and realizes it was a nightmare. It was a nightmare, it was just a nightmare.

(Whispering it over and over doesn’t seem to change a thing.)

He sits up, because the weight on his chest is getting unbearable and he can’t think of taking it for one more second, no matter how much he must deserve it. He wonders if this is what falling feels like –he knows. It does feel like this, he remembers. Everything is unsteady, out of control, air doesn’t seem to be getting into his lungs, and he is cold. He is so, so cold.

He is falling, and his head is spinning.

His head must be spinning too much, because he doesn’t hear his name being called, softly at first, a little more urgent later, as he panics even more. He is unable to realize how he is not alone until he feels someone’s arms around him, out of nowhere. Out of the darkness that’s eating him. Someone’s arms, one over his shoulders, the other one across his back.

His body goes rigid.

His entire body goes rigid, because this is not how touch is supposed to feel. Touch means pain. Touch means punishment, discipline, death. Touch means bad soldier.

Touch is not supposed to feel this warm.

He holds his breath, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the pain, the punishment, waiting for it to hurt, because that’s what this is supposed to do, hurt.

Not make him want to crumble he is already crumbling, not make him want to let go, to give up and give in into it.

He does, anyway.

When he has no choice but to let go of the air he has been retaining, he also feels himself relaxing a little. Only a little, but enough for him to notice. And enough for Steve to notice as well. He feels him soften his grip, as if he was being given the choice to stay or to go, to escape, to say no.

And he gives in. He gives in and chooses to stay because he is too tired, dammit. He is too tired and cold andsad and it’s so warm there, so warm. He cannot help it when his head sluggishly drops against Steve's shoulder, and neither can he help it when the smallest sound -a moan, almost- escapes his lips as he feels a hand rest on the back of his neck, fingers slowly twisting strands of damp hair. And God, he craves this so much. There are barely any memories of something like this in his mind, of being touched in such a gentle and pleasing and innocent way. But right now, he realizes how much he’s been craving it.

His head lowers even more, as if he wanted to disappear, to hide there and never come out again - because this darkness is much more welcoming than the one he is used to living in. This darkness is quiet and warm and comforting, and he needs it.

He doesn’t deserve it. Yet, he stays.

After a while, he tries taking a deep breath, because he feels even dizzier now, but to he is cut off by a whimper. A soft, broken whimper that ends up unleashing a whole storm.

Another one follows, and another one, and soon enough his breathing is coming out in sobs, low and heart-wrenching sobs that he isn’t strong enough to control anymore. He isn’t strong at all anymore. He is weak and broken and beaten and tired. So goddamn tired.

Steve carefully pulls him closer, his fingers now drawing senseless shapes across his shoulder. He lets him, and silently thanks whatever god is listening.

Because maybe, just maybe, there is no catch here. Maybe, for some reason, the Universe has stopped fighting him; maybe the Universe is giving him a break. Maybe, just maybe, he is allowed to have this.

(He wonders if this is what falling and being caught feels like.

He wouldn’t know.)

II.

One night, it isn’t the blood.

It’s the faces.

One by one, they appear right in front of his eyes. A young man. A woman in a suit. A teenager, someone’s daughter. A little boy (God, that little boy that screamed for his parents but didn’t know they were laying on their beds next door, in a pool of blood, eyes never going to open again), another woman, an old man, an engineer. Too many.

There’s too many, and they are all there. Pale skin, bloodshot eyes. They stare at him and he knows, he knows it was his fault, he knows he pulled the trigger and held the knife and used his fist and he wants to say so, he wants them to know that he is sorry he is so sorry so so-

“—sorry I’m so sorry I’m so-“

“Bucky.”

The room is so dark he can still see them when his eyes open. He almost jumps up, gasping for air because he feels like he hasn’t breathed in years.

“They saw me”, he whispers between shaky breaths, more to himself than anything, because he is only half aware of Steve's presence.

“It was a dream. It wasn’t real”.

“But- yes. They were here and they knew- they knew it was me and- and-”

“Bucky. No.”

“I did it.”

His eyes widen in realization.

He knows.

He did it, he did it and he deserves to die for it, he deserves hell and worse. This is the first time he’s actually given some thought to it, because he's been too busy drowning in bloody nightmares and dammit, it hurts like hell. How could he forget? How could he forget about the monster he wasn't able to fight, the monster he became?

“I did it”, he says again, voice hoarse and low. He's afraid he'll break down if he speaks louder, and he can’t afford that, he can’t afford that luxury.

“It wasn’t you.”

The sound of his own heartbeat is almost everything he can hear, too loud, too fast, but he catches that. And for a moment, all he can do is stare at Steve, frozen, because how can he not see it? It was him, his hands and his guns and hiseyes witnessing everything, looking at every face, his ears listening to every scream, every cry, him.

“It wasn’t you”.

It was - but God, he wants to believe it so bad, so fucking bad. He needs to, because if not, if he's right, he doesn’t know how he’ll live anymore. He doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself, because he is a monster and monsters aren’t supposed to live.

And hell, he is breaking down. He is breaking down under the weight of everything, of the blood and the screams and the cold and the pain. He's felt a lot of pain in his life - but this is a different one. It’s deeper and it's crushing him, it’s taking the air from his lungs and the life from his body. He feels the pain of all the lives he took.

The lives he took.

And the life they took from him. His life. The life he should have lost seventy years ago, laying in that white, cold bed, having fought for his country like a good soldier, but was taken by someone else and tore apart until it wasn’t living anymore. Until it was hell.

It’s like an epiphany. And it destroys him.

He died.

This time, he only needs to see Steve open his arms slightly, inviting, and he is into them, trying to make himself as small as possible, trying to disappear from the world. He died.

“It wasn’t you”, Steve repeats, over and over again, and he needs to hear it every single time, still barely able to believe it.

He crawls into this new warmth he has discovered in touch, and for once, he lets go and cries. He cries for them, but also for himself. He grieves - because he died. He lost his life and now he is back, but that life isn’t. And where that life used to be, where that man that fell off a train was, they put a monster.

Now that that monster is gone, all that’s left is a broken man with too many memories, too many faces haunting him.

He cries for himself, for the life he lost, for what they did with it. With him.

It wasn’t him.

III.

An important matter in his recovery is finding his voice back.

One night, his voice finds him.

It finds him letting go of the train, falling, feeling that excruciating pain where his left arm was supposed to be. It finds him laying on a metal table, a man in white holding some kind of saw too close to his body. It finds him being beaten, being shocked, being left alone in a tiny room until all he can do is scream to know he is real.

It finds him with a rubber mouthpiece between his teeth, after he almost choked on his own blood last time. It finds him with some kind of device around his head and drowning in terror because he knows what’s next, he knows he knows he kn-

His voice finds him and he wakes up screaming.

Because now that he is settled and calm and doesn’t have to worry about someone being after him or about starving or being too cold, everything is coming back. Not what he did; that never left him. What they did to him is coming back. Slowly - in pieces, in nightmares. It’s coming back, and it feels like he is back in hell.

Every night feels like hell.

Sometimes, he wakes up but remains paralyzed, frozen. He spent too much time being frozen, he recalls now. He doesn’t know how many years in all they kept him awake. It’s too confusing, but if he had to guess, he wouldn’t say many. (He vaguely remembers attacking his handlers after a short amount of time out of cryo. Maybe that’s why they put him back under so often).

Other nights, he wakes up cold, which is close to waking up paralyzed but hurts a lot more. Because cold is like a million tiny swords stabbing him everywhere; cold creeps inside him and stays there, cold takes him back to falling. Cold is ruthless, merciless. Cold leaves him shaking under the blankets for hours because he isn't brave enough to go to Steve and seek that newfound warmth.

He also wakes up feeling like a ghost hand has escaped from his memories and is choking him. He feels the fingers around his throat, the dirty fingernails digging into his flesh; almost hears the Russian curses.

This is the first time he wakes up screaming.

Tonight, however, he does hear Steve calling him. He can’t see a thing; he has to close his eyes as soon as he tries opening them. Everything is too bright. But someone is speaking.

It takes him a few seconds to understand it’s not English he is hearing.

(No).

He realizes he feels cold, and paralyzed, and wet, but this time, all at once.

(Please, no.)

And it’s not Steve's voice. It’s not Steve speaking.

Steve is not there.

He plays around with that thought for a moment, because it seems impossible. Steve has to be there. He has spent the past couple of weeks (weeks? months?) trying to convince himself that he is safe, he is with Steve, he is free. He is free, he’s been to hell and back but he survived and now he has finally been living for the first time in a lifetime. He has his own bed, he eats at least twice a day (when he is able to hold it down), he gets to be held when he has nightmares that leave him scared of his own shadow and make his heart race like only the chair did.

Nightmares. A nightmare, it has to be a nightmare. It’s a nightmare. He’s been through this before. It’s only a nightmare.

But hasn’t it always been a nightmare?

Hasn’t all that time (people say it was seventy years, but he wouldn’t know, not for sure), felt like a nightmare, like hell, like something too terrible and inhuman to be really happening?

Has he just been allowed to dream for a while?

(No this is a nightmare, this is a fucking nightmare and he needs to wake up he needs to—)

He opens his eyes.

And yes, it is a nightmare. It’s the same nightmare he’s been living in since he fell, an eternity ago. It’s the nightmare he never left.

Steve is not there.

They are.

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captainevans · 8 years ago

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Since I did this when I hit 5k followers, I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate hitting 7.5 7.7k (!!!) than having a second installment of my tumblr awards! Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around this long. You’re the real MVPs, and I’m eternally grateful for each and every one of you. 💖💖

Rules:

Must be following this sl*t for doritos.

Reblog this post! (likes can be used for bookmarking but will not count as an entry)

Must hit 30 notes or this never happened.

Ends May 24th! Winners will be announced on May 26th!

categories

bruce banner award: best url

tony stark award: best theme

natasha romanoff award: best icon

sam wilson: best posts

vision award: best visual creations*

wanda maximoff award: best written creations*

pietro maximoff award: best newcomer**

clint barton award: nicest blogger

steve rogers award: best overall

bucky barnes award: my personal favorite

*send me a link to your content **submit a picture of your follower count to me, must be lower than 500

what you’ll win

winners

a follow from me (if not already)

a group promo when the winners are announced

5 individual promos (upon request) through the months of may and june

fuck idk i’m not talented enough to make everyone something oh no maybe i’ll make you guys a playlist on 8tracks

my love and friendship!!!!!

runners up

a follow from me (if not already

a group promo when the winners are announced

2 individual promos (upon request) through the months of may and june

my love and friendship!!!!!!

okay cool thats it if you have questions hmu

#victimbucky #steggynetwork #stevebuckynet #steveappreciationnet #kinkybucky #ta for ts #cailey talks

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whistlepen · 9 years ago

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i was tagged by @vukimura, thank you :)

rules: once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 92 truths about you. at the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. you have to tag the person who tagged you.

i tag whoever wants to do this idk i’m too lazy to think of 25 people i’m sorry

what was your last drink: chocolate milk last phone call: mu mum last text message: my friend sara i think i didn’t check last song you listened to: hell nos and headphones by hailee steinfeld  last time you cried: today in spanish class lol

have you ever dated someone twice: yeah been cheated on: not that i know of kissed someone and regretted it: nope lost someone special: yes  been depressed: sort of been drunk and thrown up: once when i was 16 yikes

in the past year have you made a new friend: yeah  fallen out of love: that too yes  laughed until you cry: happened today man met someone who changed you: i think so yeah found out who your true friends are: i just know tbh you can tell kissed anyone on your followers/following: no lol  how many people on your tumblr do you know irl: one atm  do you want to change your name: why would i my ma gave it to me  what time did you wake up today: 8am  what were you doing at midnight last night: putting my book down to try and sleep lol didn’t work name something you can’t wait for: c i v i l w a r what is the one thing you wish you could change about your life: i wish my brain was less fucked up what are you listening to right now: i don’t wanna say lol  what’s getting on your nerves right now: ME  nicknames: alex, martinha, boo bear lol and marshmallow relationship: very committed to chris evans ngl  zodiac sign: cancer pronouns: she/her favourite tv shows: too many to name  school: last year at uni gonna need to adult soon ew  hair colour: dark brown it’s really nice tbh  long or short hair: loooong  do i have a crush on someone: does chris evans count what do you like about yourself: i think i’m a good listener tbh and i like that bc it makes people feel like they can talk to me idk  tattoos: none yet

firsts  first surgery: knowing my weak ass body it’s probably gonna happen sometime first piercing: my ears when i was 3 i think  first sport you joined: swimming  first vacation: dude idk probably spain  first pair of trainers/sneakers: what is this question wtf

eating: nothing rn which is weird  drinking: nothing  listening to: hailee again oops waiting for: the lottery numbers to come to me wanting kids: oh yeah  career: teacher ideally idek  lips or eyes: ooh both?? hugs or kisses: hugs for sure  shorter or taller: taller tbh older or younger: depends on how much younger tbh but i do like older men ngl  romantic or spontaneous: both sensitive or loud: b o t h hookup or relationship: relationship 100% troublemaker or hesitant: idek

have you ever kissed a stranger: no i don’t even touch strangers wtf drank hard liquor: yeah  lost glasses or contacts: i don’t wear either broke someone’s heart: i hope not  been arrested: no... turned someone down: kinda yeah  cried when someone died: every time  fallen for a friend: once?

do you believe  in yourself: i used to  miracles: no lol  love at first sight: not really  santa claus: well duh  kiss on the first date: it depends idk

#tenyearplannet #stevebuckynet #scilestrashsquad #if you guys want idk #long post #me #txt #tag games

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benwyhatt-blog · 9 years ago

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my plans for tonight :-P

#diggggggggg #my face #buckynet #stevebuckynet #themattfoggynet

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cvptainbucky · 7 years ago

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“Get some rest, Cap”

- or the first night Steve sleeps without Bucky at his side after he falls off the train. (on ao3 - prompt/request by @barnesstevie - and as usual, thanks to the amazing @itsjamesbarnes for reading this first!) (also tagging @bucklebarns and @hairspraybucky)

He’s been at the apartment for an hour.

Get some rest, Cap, everyone’s told him. He’s nodded. He’s said he’s fine, he’s said he’s gonna get some sleep. Some days off. He’s fine.

No one has dared ask why Captain America chose to stay at that small cramped place when the army offered him at least ten better ones – maybe they know. They must know, because they just drove him here and left, left him in this place that feels familiar and foreign at the same time.

He does have ten better ones to go, but tonight – he can’t think of anywhere else to be but here. Nowhere else would feel right.

Not that this feels right. Not that anything feels right at all. He’s been sitting on the old couch for an hour and everything that could feel wrong in the world does.

Get some rest, they said, with eyes full of a pity he dreads, because he has been on the field for days, and he’ll have to go back soon, he knows. Get some rest, because no matter how hard he tried to conceal it, he’s certain they could see how utterly broken he is.

But he can’t think of that. He can’t he can’t he can’t allow himself to feel because once he does, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to come back from it, and it terrifies him. So he moves. Get some rest, Cap, they said, and he might as well try – regardless of the voice inside his head that tells him he’s never gonna be able to “get some rest” again in his life.

The couch creaks when he stands (like it did so many times when it was two and not one lying there, tangled limbs and soft touches and shared blankets and– no), and his quiet steps feel too loud in the dark and silent apartment. He makes his way to the room (their room– stop) and trying not to give too much thought to his actions –or to anything, really–, he opens the first drawer he finds, suddenly eager to get out of his war-stained clothes.

That’s when he realizes the only clothes he has here are tiny now, which means he’ll have to wear his.

And with that, it all comes crumbling down.

Within a second the world is spinning and his vision is blurry and something is pressing down his chest and he can’t breathe

he can’t breathe

he can’t breathe and–

He stumbles to the bed, uncertain of how much longer his legs will be able to hold him for, and before he knows it, his desperate gasps for air are coming out in sobs and everything hurts. He buries his face in his hands, trying to keep the tears from falling – but he can’t. They come as a waterfall, and with them come the memories he can no longer push back. The tangled limbs, the touches, the shared blankets and cots and tents and the stolen kisses and midnight dances and–

Everything comes rushing, and it hurts so much he feels like his heart is gonna break in half unless he finds a way to stop it.

But he can’t. He can’t stop it any longer.

So he gives in and he cries. He cries and cries and cries until he feels like he’s run out of tears but they keep coming, and without realizing it he’s curled up in a ball – because for once, for a while, he’s not Captain America. He’ll go after Schmidt, he’s already said. He’ll wake up tomorrow and start planning the next move, he’ll go on because he has to – but tonight, he’s only Steve. Broken and beaten and tired Steve.

And without Bucky, Steve feels like he’s nothing.

So he cries. Lying in a bed that feels too cold, under a blanket that feels too big, in a world that feels too foreign, he cries his broken heart out.

He cries for what he had and won’t come back, he cries for the second in which he almost grabbed his hand, he cries for the moment he realized he was too late. He cries for the tangled limbs and stolen kisses and shared nights, he cries for everything they said and everything they didn’t say because they were young and stupid and took everything for granted and God, he cries until his head hurts and his eyes burn and his entire body trembles as if he was freezing.

And once the tears give him a break, once the sobs grow lower and he can think straight, he looks at the mess he is and wonders if Bucky is watching.

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