Entry tags:
lights behind the glass
I start to wonder at the voice that echoes through the pipes. The laughter, thin yet grandiose, wears at my nerves until my teeth grind, a click sounding through my aching jaw as I take heavy steps through the city. I have half a mind to stay underground, to make sure that Jason eventually takes the bathysphere to the surface. A brief sweep of the area has already unearthed stores of food, sources of drinkable water, and although I don't cherish the thought of leaving Damian and Cassandra to their own devices, I know that they're more than capable of handling themselves on an island like this. Provided Jason doesn't find them. Provided his friends...
No. It may take a second fight, one as violent as the first, but again I am left with no other choice. Seconds seem less crucial now, but still I steadily walk along the shadows, eyes open and following every fleeting dot of red in my surroundings. Wondering. People must have built these walls, laid out the ground below my feet. The arch of a rainbow stretches to one side, the lights behind the glass dimmed, sparking.
"—think you can take my stage—"
I'm hearing things.
"—what good are you? Broken, shattered, remnants of a soul—"
Alfred's voice doesn't linger by the shell of my ear, but his thoughts breach regardless. Entreaties. Wondering if I can't afford a moment's rest.
No. It may take a second fight, one as violent as the first, but again I am left with no other choice. Seconds seem less crucial now, but still I steadily walk along the shadows, eyes open and following every fleeting dot of red in my surroundings. Wondering. People must have built these walls, laid out the ground below my feet. The arch of a rainbow stretches to one side, the lights behind the glass dimmed, sparking.
"—think you can take my stage—"
I'm hearing things.
"—what good are you? Broken, shattered, remnants of a soul—"
Alfred's voice doesn't linger by the shell of my ear, but his thoughts breach regardless. Entreaties. Wondering if I can't afford a moment's rest.
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I'm running on fumes. On each rush of adrenaline that hits me when I think I've found a lead. The food down in Rapture makes me long for the days of Army rations, but the provisions I brought with me are limited, so it's been potato chips and water for a while, now. Not what you'd call the breakfast of champions, but it's keeping me going. Moving...
And I need to keep moving. I always figured this Batman bastard was something special based on Jason's training alone, but if he can down someone like Logan without getting eviscerated in the process--
The snippet of a voice catches Bucky's ear, stopping him in his tracks. He knows it's not his quarry, but he hasn't the time to draw another fight right now, and avoiding whoever else might be lurking in Rapture's depths may just be the smartest move he's made in the days. It could be a sign, though, a clue, and it's without hesitation that he presses onwards, silent as ghost, with skin just as white. Only the stern line of his jaw is visible from under the cowl, but there's no hiding the physical toll of his journey. He's pale, clammy with sweat. His teeth grit together even as his legs protest. He might not feel a damn thing, too focused is he on resolving the issue he's been burdened with, but it's still there, that burn he refuses to acknowledge.
Seconds stretch into minutes. Though it's not mere chance that finds Bucky staring at the back of a figure decked in black upon rounding the next corner, he sends his thanks to luck, regardless. Even at this distance, it's clear to see that Natalia hadn't been exaggerating about his size; he's as big as Steve, if not bigger, the cape making it difficult to truly gauge, though not impossible. Bucky's strong, but not that tall, a few inches short of six feet. He's got the arm for leverage, a secret weapon hidden under his uniform that can withstand a rocket at close range, but overpowering Batman likely won't be an option, especially when Bucky doesn't know the full range of toys the man's got at his disposal.
But Bucky doesn't need toys. Not when he has the shield gripped tightly in his hand. Not when he's got a fresh surge of rage to feed exhausted muscles. And not when he's got the best aim this side of Bullseye. There are no opening missives. No grand statements to announce his presence. They're both dressed the part for the theater of their work, Captain America and Batman both, but it's the soldier in Bucky that stays his tongue until the shield's already cutting through the air and it's too late to move.
"Knock, knock."
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It'd only take two words to answer his call; I don't offer them.
No need to ask why he's here. No need to ask who he is when I see the pale of his face and desperation circling around the blackest of eyes cutting through the dark. Burning on Jason's behalf.
I stay my hand and break for the shadows, even though instinct tells me to brush by my belt. I won't be able to ask questions with him unconscious.
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"Now, see, that's rude," Bucky calls out, making chase. There's plenty of distance between them, still, but Bucky's fast, and gaining ground. He throws the shield again, though not at Batman; the edge cuts through a pipe before ricocheting off a wall and back to Bucky. It's a move designed to startle, not contain, but he's itching to get his hands on this son of a bitch, and if it'll get him to stick around instead of try to high tail it out of here again, then all the better. "I know you're home."
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"Guess that I'm not defenseless." Anger has loosened my lips. More than it should be capable of, at this point, but with each passing hour, whims become hard to resist. "But I'm not sure you're one to be calling anyone rude right now. Let's skip the pleasantries."
My heel grinds against concrete, turning sharply as I try to see if he plans on keeping any distance between the two of us. There's no doubt that he's the faster runner, even pale as he looks right now.
So I may as well settle in for the inevitable talk.
"What do you want?" I keep my body loose, my feet tense, ready to take whatever momentum he's gained in full.
Provided he doesn't weigh as much as the last guy.
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I'll say this for the guy: he's surprisingly thoughtful for someone who'd slit his own son's throat.
"To offer you a lozenge?" Bucky suggests, but for all that there's laughter in his voice, the joke ends there. He's sprinting, now, not showing any signs of stopping, bringing up the shield at the last possible second. Vibranium absorbs impact; provided the timing works out, Bats'll get the full brunt of his weight, and Bucky'll barely notice.
And if I'm off a little a bit, well... At least I'm always good for a fast recovery.
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Glancing might not be giving him justice. My weight is thrown, but the building I've deliberately stepped closer to supports me for the split second I need to find my feet again, for all that it sends a jolt of pain passing through every nerve and muscle. He's operating on anger, on conviction, and not knowing what he's seen, heard, or indeed what his plans are for me at all, I find myself at a greater loss. The slow burn of frustration doesn't compare, doesn't bleed all else away.
"Why waste time?" I ask him instead, curious to see if the lack of weapon in my hand stands a chance of changing anything at all. The impulse to reach for a batarang is nearly unstoppable; my hand makes it halfway there. But I stop. Just in time, I stop.
"Want to stop me, there are easier ways. The whole city's littered with them."
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"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
It's not a threat or a promise; it's not even a boast. It's a simple statement of fact. If there's one thing at which Bucky Barnes excels, it's taking down even the most dangerous of threats, at a distance. Strange at it is to admit that in this uniform, it remains true, always and forever. Even now, his fingers wrap around the grip of his gun with a speed that demonstrates, though he meant what he said to Natalia about not needing bullets. It's just hard to stay focused on that when he'd rather be tearing the guy limb from limb. He keeps the barrel trained on Batman's mouth, the obvious weak spot. A muscle works in Bucky's jaw, and he lets out a steadying breath through his nose.
"And if I wanted to arrest you, I'd arrest you. Hand you over to the authorities where you'd serve a joke sentence of a few weeks, a couple of months." He steps forward, trying to back the Bat towards the wall, corner him, give him nowhere left to run. "But I don't want either of those things. I'm here to talk about a mutual friend."
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Ridiculous.
But I listen, regardless; what a person claims can come to pass may prove just as insightful as watching every action they take.
"So talk," I tell him, unwilling to back down by even a step. I know what stands behind me, and I know that I have more to gain by keeping away from the wall than I do by the marginal benefit of another foot or two away from the barrel of his gun. A couple steps in, and I start moving to the side, wondering if that'll be enough to trigger him. Wondering if that's my goal.
Then again, if he's any friend of Jason's, and if I still know even half of what there is to know about Jason these days, he won't take that final step. Sound travels too well in pathways that echo like these.
"And stop wasting our time with idle threats." Through the words, my hand quickly slips by my belt, a batarang now nestled safely in my palm. Blunt.
Won't do me any good in a chase, but it's enough to knock a gun readily out of most men's hands when wielded correctly.
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He wants me to talk? Fine. Just gotta get comfortable first.
Darting forward, Bucky's left hand wrapping around Bats' neck, and thanks to the fine folks at S.H.I.E.L.D., he's able to lift the guy just enough to show he can, though he refrains from any greater show of strength. Refrains from throwing him into the wall.
That's better.
"I gave Jason a home," Bucky says, so deliberately, so casually, it belies his anger. "Dragged him out from his cave and put an honest-to-God roof over his head... Yet the second he thinks you might show up, he goes running underground like a wounded animal."
Sucking in a breath, he continues, "I've been cleaning up after your goddamn mess since I first met the kid, and I will not stand for you ruining what he's built here, you throat-cutting son of a bitch." He lets go with a shove. "Stay the %*(? away from him."
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But I won't help him. In his eyes, I see an anger too fresh, almost young in its ferocity. Can't quite place it, but before I can stop myself, my lips curve in a grin. Tense. Without mirth. "Yeah?"
My arm darts out, wrapping around that same damned hand that clutched me around the throat, but for all my voice cuts out ragged now, I feel that I almost owe him thanks. I hold him in place, grip tight.
"Great roof you've put over his head, here," I reply, words quick, cutting. "And what were you going to do if I didn't choose to surface?"
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"You can rot down here for all I care," he says when he finds his voice, and he smiles colder than a Soviet winter. "But I'm taking the kid back home if it kills me."
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That's what happens when you grasp at straws.
"Don't let it," I reply, releasing my grip, dropping his arm with a hint of force. In case Jason's around, in case he's watching, I lower my voice so that even the nearest shadows would have a hard time feeling out the words. "And don't you assume that you understand all of what's happened to him."
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Because I took the shield instead of the knife... Because I know that it'd be wrong not to... Because, even if he's a jackass, Bruce Wayne is still Jason's father... And I won't take from someone else what was lost to me. Not from another orphan. Not unless it was the only way.
But it's not. And in the moment, I hate this place just that much more.
It's training alone that keeps Bucky poised. Stubbornness that finds him locked on the spot. He doesn't flinch, moving only to square his shoulders before he steps in just enough to be uncomfortable.
"Good advice," he says. "Don't forget it."
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Truth is, I'm simply not fit to be a father.
A second passes before I ask, without taking a step, heart still thrumming with the adrenaline that refuses to subside, hands still clenched. "What's your name?"
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Bucky considers the question. He could give his civilian name. He doesn't, strictly speaking, keep a secret identity around these parts, though he doesn't make a point of flaunting his past, either. But the guy he's talking to is dressed like a giant bat, and so Bucky decides to play by the rules of their peculiar little culture. He's tense, his skin fitting tight over his bones, his pulse pounds like a hammer in his chest, but a spark of incredulous humor lights up his eyes.
"Captain America."
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Were I to think of myself or of Cassandra, I'm not sure that either of us has ever managed quite the same. Respect fades into embodiment. Nature. Reflex.
"Batman," I reply, not because I doubt that he knows, but instead, because it seems fair.
If anyone's keeping count.
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It's a small island. They'll run into each other again, but he's in no rush to test his control a second time anytime soon.
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Useful though it may be, my hand is forced, my priorities lying elsewhere.
"I wanted to know your name. But I won't ask for what I refuse to give in return," I reply, taking my first step, forward and carefully circling around him.
My time should be done here.
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"I already know your name."
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All else can fade to silence for now.