Relapse ★ Bucky Barnes

No Place in the World

He could hear her blood-curdling screams—screams that he had forced out of her.

"рассвет (Daybreak)."

He could feel the warmth of her blood at his fingertips—blood that he had drawn from her trembling body.

"Печь (Furnace)."

He could see the light leaving her eyes as she bled out at his feet—the light that had once lit up at the sight of him.

"доброкачественными (Benign)."

"Shut up!" Bucky grunted in pain as he forced himself off of the bed and stumbled across the room, flashes of lightning and his deepest fears blinding him. He was being sent into a fit of rage and total disfunction; he was losing himself and being replaced with the side of him he had so desperately tried to hide.

"возвращение домой (Homecoming)."

Winter was breaking through the surface, seeping through the very cracks of Bucky's deteriorating shell.

"Bucky!" Marlena's voice seemed to come from another place in the room, and he twisted around violently to find her, though no one was there.

"Marlena?" He pushed his soaking wet hair out of his eyes, the room spinning around him.

He managed to hold the voices at bay—the Russian accents that had taken his life from him before Marlena gave him a chance for a new life, a better life. He forced his legs to move, though he still felt separated from reality. Bucky was barely able to tell what was real and what was only in his mind anymore, but he kept pushing himself, not only for the sake of Marlena, but for the sake of everyone who had come into his life since meeting her. He made it to her desk, the one where she used to do all of her schoolwork at. Though she never went back to college, she still had a few notebooks stored in the desk drawers—notebooks that she'd never gotten the chance to write in due to Hydra kidnapping her.

"один (One)."

"No," Bucky growled, his breath ragged.

He strained to rip out a clean sheet of paper from one of the notebooks, his vision blurred from tears and pure delusion. He could feel himself failing to carry out his actions; his mind was fighting his body. Forcing himself to pick up a pen, he positioned it in his hand as he struggled to think of the right words to put down.

"Marlena," he scribbled, the letters blurring together as more tears welled up in his eyes, one falling from icy, blue pools and hitting the paper, "I want you to know I tried. I tried to keep him away, but I'm not strong enough. I never intended for this to happen, you know I would only do this if I had no other choice. This is it. This is the end, for now. I've relapsed. I can't stay. I can't put you, Mason, or anyone else in danger. I won't. I don't know when we will see each other again, but know that I'll be thinking of you. Always. Tell Mason and Wanda that I love them. Tell Greyson I appreciate what he's done for me. Tell Steve that I am sorry. Tell him that I'm doing the right thing. Tell him that I know he did the best that he could to help me, as did you. I love you, Mar. I will never stop loving you, sweetheart. I cannot put into words how truly sorry I am for doing this, but this is the only way to ensure your safety. Может мы встретимся снова (may we meet again). Love, Bucky."

His tears blotted the ink on the page, though he couldn't do anything to stop his tears from flowing. He had a thousand more words to say, but little time to say it. He stared down at the paper, now crumbled from the force of his hand, and spotted with tears. He choked back his tears as he moved to the other side of the room and jerked his boots on, and then his black baseball cap. Soon, he was grabbing up several notebooks into his arms and rushing down the stairs of the house. Before reaching the door, he scanned the living room for what he was looking for—Mason's backpack. Frantically, he emptied out its contents and replaced them with the notebooks, sharp pains like knives searing through the tissues of his brain as he ran out of the door.

Leaving was his instinct—something Hydra had programmed into him all those years ago. He fought, he left—no remorse. Only this time, Bucky felt remorse. He had fought hard to control his life, and he had done so for the two years spent with Marlena Claire. Fighting was no longer an option, though. He was relapsing; Bucky was dissipating. The Winter Soldier was making his return, and he was coming in with a bang.

"Грузовой автомобиль (Freightcar)."

He ran through the empty streets, the dull lamp posts the only thing illuminating the darkness. He didn't dare turn back; the house was nothing to him, now. Winter had no past, no feelings; only one thing was programmed into his mind, and Bucky was too far subdued within Winter to fight it. If he had stayed in the house for a second longer, catastrophe would have struck. Without mission orders, Winter had no specific purpose; he was to await whatever ruthless murder he was to carry out. Until given those orders, Bucky would have to continue fighting from the inside to escape—to stop Winter from destroying everything in his path, and as the soldier ran through the pouring rain, his hair and clothes sopping wet, his backpack strapped to his back, he knew he had no place in the world.

Winter needed Hydra. . .

as Bucky needed Marlena.