fugue // stucky

7. Only Exercising

My ceiling is very boring. There are strange brown stains dotting the surface every now and then. I'm worried. How did they get there?

My back is flat to my mattress, where my hands support my head. I'm glad I met Steve today. I learned a lot about my past. I stopped at the museum on my way back and grabbed more pictures from brochures of us so I had my own copy of that picture again. Now, they're all over the place. It makes me happy.

My hands are involuntarily tangling in my hair, tugging and twisting with my thoughts. I sit up quickly, grabbing my phone and scrolling  to my photos app. I only have one picture, it's of Steve. I snapped it quickly today. I couldn't help but take it, it was the perfect opportunity. Steve is handsome, and the lighting sharpened his facial features.

He's frowning. He looks lost in thought. The picture is beautiful, but his emotion concerns me. It was right before we both left. He put on his sunglasses to shield his eyes, and a cap to shield his identity. I click my phone off and slip out of bed. I'm restless. My muscles yearn to be used. I want to talk to Natasha again, but I don't have any way of contacting her. This is her phone, after all.

Instead, I stand up, stretch, and slip on a loose tee shirt. My sweatpants hang low on my hips, you can see the band of my underwear. I blush, embarrassed that my clothes aren't better fitting. I have a pair of tennis shoes that I scavenged, I put those on and strap my bag to my back, clipping the front cord on my chest. There's a free gym down a block or two from here.

I think I have tape in my bag for my hand. If not, I'll just go without. I look at a digital clock on a sign outside of a tall building. It's two thirty in the morning. The streets carry cars and people, not as much as during the day though.

I clear my throat and keep walking, the gym in my sights. The doors open automatically, and I jump back, realized they're robotic. Slowly, I walk in. There are a few people here and there, running, boxing, lifting. I came here to punch a bag. I do it often, not as much as I want to. It helps me forget.

My right hand is covered in light tape, my left.. well, of course, is metal. Slowly, I steady the bag and take a low hit. My hand doesn't hurt, and I throw another. Then another with my left, which sends the bag flying. Too hard!

It lands about ten feet away, and now everyone's watching me.

"Sorry," I mutter gruffly, then pick up the bag and throw it back up onto the hook. Steading it, I start over slowly, throwing a soft hook. Someone swings something into the back of my legs and I'm on my ass in a second.

"Ooft!" The air is out of my lungs. I spot a short stocky guy with blonde hair standing over top of me. My brows furrow. Why is he hurting me? Suddenly, my whole body isn't mine anymore. Someone else takes over, grabbing his feet and throwing him to his side. His head smacks the ground and I jump on top of him.

"Hey, you two!" A man with a purple polo shouts. He must work here.

"Don't worry, only exercising-" the man below me chokes out and I throw a squeezed fist towards his face. With a small shriek, he twists his body and kicks me off. He's small, but he knows what he's doing.

As soon as we're both up, he throws a kick towards my head. I reflect it easily with my right forearm and stride towards him.

"In the name of SHIELD," he grunts, deflecting a punch, "I demand you- ah!" He ducks as I send a punching bag hurtling at him, "stay calm and wait until authority comes!" He stands up, wide-eyed, as I run towards him, "oh shit."

I tackle him toward the ground, his head smacking a mat this time. His arms are under my knees, his face contorted in pain.

"Who are you?" I yell, lower so no one can hear.

"Clint Barton, pleased to make your acquaintance," he smiles and I scowl.

"Why the hell are you attacking me?" I offer a stunned face and he rolls his eyes.

"The entire world is after you, bud. Not figured that out?" He mutters and I stand up quickly, holding my arms out.

"I'm not The Winter Soldier," I slur, my throat dry and prickly.

"You sure?" He motions towards my metal arm. I look at it and shake my head.

"No.. no, no! I'm Bucky Barnes. That man is not me," I choke, tears brimming. How can he say this? Steve believes me, why can't he?

"Alright, softie, but you killed people. And here in America, that's not okay. Come with me, please," he walks towards me. His words cut deeper than blades. I shake my head and stare at the mat.

"No," I mutter, throwing a sharp left hook into his temple. He's on the floor, writhing in pain. I grab my bag and run, I run before anyone can call the cops.

"I can't hear! I can't hear anything!" Screaming echoes as the door closes, and my heart feels like it's been punched. My shoes squeak on the wet pavement. I wish my flat weren't so close.

I decide to meander through the streets incase I'm being followed, then circle back around to my apartment.

I've been crying, it hasn't stopped. I slide into my apartment, throwing my bag and wheezing. My chest constricts and barely eases for half a second before constricting again. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. My lungs aren't filling. I can't breathe.

I'm shaking terribly, I lean against the small table for support, but my hands can't seem to get a grip. I lean against the wall and hyperventilate into the kitchen, my eyes wide as my chest continues to get smaller.

My throat is burning as I gasp for air, but nothing is helping. Tears are still streaming down my face like a faucet. Unexpectedly, a sob runs out of my throat. I cry harder and fall against the fridge, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. Another lurch leaves me.

I killed people. I ended innocent people's lives. Why did I do it? I think long and hard of any reason. I even attacked Steve on more than one occasion. What could make me want to do that? What happened? I know I wouldn't do that myself. I think of the other man inside of me, snickering.

"You did this!" I yell, tugging at my hair, "you killed those people!" My throat burns. No, you did that, he snaps.

"I didn't! I would never!" My voice doesn't sound like my own. It sounds like a python is tying itself around my windpipe, fast and painfully.

"Why are you doing this?" I whisper, laying my head against the floor and shaking, "why did this happen to me?" My vision dots, and soon all I see is black.

---

in case ya didn't know, clint was deaf in the comics, and that always brought a whole new depth to his character to me, so in the mcu when he wasn't deaf, it kind of made me sad because he always have me a sense of hope and pride. anyways, i decided to give clint a piece of his original self back, even if it were painful doing so... sorry clint.