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starmaki: Bucky (buck)
This was for week 16 for mcuflashmeme: A story that begins with a gunshot.

This scene was for my Bluebird fic I wrote last year, but it somehow, for one reason or another, never ended up in the fic. The rough draft of this scene was still written out in my notebook. I have been meaning to add some "timestamps" to that fic, missing scenes, so here is one.^_^ The title is a little silly, but I got stuck on it. I mean to change it later, maybe.

So the setting is the Bluebird fic (though it can be understood without reading that fic). World War 2. CATFA. Characters: Bucky Barnes, Gabe Jones and Steve Rogers. POV Bucky. Warnings of Graphic Depictions Of Violence and Angst. PTSD. Swearing. Oh and a tiny touch of humor.

'Baker Needs Sugar'

The story started with a gunshot...

Mouth grim, eyes narrowing to slits, Bucky squeezed the trigger. The heavy .45 kicked in his left hand, but he steady it, aiming and firing again and again. The sharp bark of the pistol echoed in the semi-abandoned factory. Each bullet finding its target. The impact knocking the Hydra soldiers clean off their feet. One just folded down, a puppet cut off his strings, face half gone.

Bucky fired until his gun was empty and swiftly reloaded as he walked further down the hallway past the dead and nearly dead twitching bodies. He didn’t look down at the pools of blood or retch at the acid smell of piss. He didn’t notice the decaying walls, rusting machines, a dead factory with more unmourned death to lie in this place forgotten for all time. He didn’t notice, didn’t want to notice, yet it all leaked in his brain anyhow to settle in like a festering boil.

He neared a set of heavy double doors with yards of chain looping the sliding bar to close and lock it. Fuck… Bucky took a deep breath and let out the building tension in his muscles, his lungs breathing in the dust, oil and metal of the factory. He got out his radio to call it in.

“Sugar, this is Baker, over.” Bucky said in a low voice. He kept searching for any movement around him as he spoke. He didn’t know how sneaky the bastards were. They haven’t been so far, but he didn’t want a bullet in the back from dropping his guard.

“Baker, what’s the status, over,” Steve’s voice came after a burst of static that jangled Bucky’s nerves.

“Need assistance with a heavy hatch, send Sugar, over.”

Bucky allowed himself a quiet chuckle at their phonetic call names. Oh, yes Baker would like some Sugar. Steve wasn’t fond of his code name Bucky christened him with, but fuck it if he’d use Roger. Too confusing. So he was Baker and Steve was Sugar. It made perfect sense to him. Also he liked to rib Steve. Their wasn’t much fun in the war zone, so of course he was going to be an ass sometimes.

“Roger. Sugar and two. Wilco, over,” Steve said.

“Roger. Baker, out.” He put the radio away, before standing guard. Bucky’s finger ghosting his gun’s trigger, a phantom stroke, a hair from touching, as he paced back and forth, body a live wire, as he waited for Steve and two others to break the door down.

Because, yes, maybe—maybe, he could bend that thick heavy chain himself. Not in the past, but now? After escaping Zola? What was terrifying him was the implications of ‘what if he could’. And he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think. So he pushed it down in a little dark place in his mind where he kept all his fears and secrets. And hoped it would just stay there.

Bucky heard Gabe Jones’ Thompson firing in the near distance, clearing out another corridor. The bullets spat out in a blaring rattle that rang in his head. The Thompson signature sound a welcome and recognizing mark of Gabe. Like a fingerprint.

“Sarge…” The name pushed out of Gabe’s breath as he jogged up to Bucky’s side. “Well, shit!” His eyes bugged out at the thick chains on the door.

“Exactly, what I thought,” Bucky said, giving a small smirk.

“Wonder what’s so important to have it locked up like that?” Jones gestured with his gun to the heavy door.

Bucky shrugged. “Fuck if I know, but we’ll find out as soon as Rogers’ hauls his ass up here.”

Bucky licked his dry lips. Dammit, a cigarette would taste so good right now. He had a whole pack of Wings begging to be opened in his pocket. Not his favorite brand, but he wanted at add another card to his collection. And the nicotine would smooth his nerves. Each hidden Hydra facility or location they found lead to more mystery and more questions. And another facility. The harder they squeezed and stomped on them, the more they found. Like ants, they were everywhere. But he was determined to eliminate each one; he just hoped that he would live long enough to step on that one last ant and be done with it and go home.


Mar. 6th, 2016 01:29 am
starmaki: Bucky (buck)
Bluebird (6298 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Howling Commandos, Gabe Jones, Jacques Dernier, Jim Morita, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, James Montgomery Falsworth, Peggy Carter
Additional Tags: World War II, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Historical Inaccuracy, War is hell, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Super Soldier Serum, Soldier Boys, bluebirds, Singing, bad singing, Angst, dumb boys in love, Hopeful Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Smoking, Drinking, Swearing, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Steve Needs a Hug, Combat, shell-shock, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood, Typical War Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Sad Attempts at Humor, Historical References

There was a limit that a man reached, a finite number of days clinically arrived at, before combat exhaustion sets in. The endless, hopeless, useless feelings. The sorrow, terror and anger dragging you down into the dirt. To bury you.
Sgt. Bucky Barnes wasn't sure how close he was to that invisible line, but he felt the continuous pull...


Bucky ran a hand down his face. That shell unnerved him. Just a few more feet to the right..."I need Falsworth's rum--right now."
Dugan pulled a flask from his front pocket and grinned. "Got my supply here."

starmaki: Asset (asset)
This was my second idea as the first one wasn't working out as I hoped. I kind of failed at creepy, this turned out more angsty and sad. :( .I wrote this in about little over an hour after work in the food court when I was waiting for my ride. This is the short version. I have a longer version that I added to this and finishing up and will post later at ao3. ( might also post the short version there too) Cross posted for week 9 at [community profile] mcuflashmeme Without much further ado, here it goes....

Warnings for angst, blood, graphic violence, death ( not major character). Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier and his point of view.

One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret Never to be told.

One For Sorrow

He kept them in a box, souvenirs--mementos. He didn't know why. Maybe to jar a memory--a memory he couldn't grasp. To remember a time, a mission, a face. They let him keep it, the wood, black , lacquered box, stored away with his guns and TAC gear--let him open it and touch each item. The tactical feel against his flesh hand was comforting as he counted each one. A calmness settled in his bones as he sorted through the box. They said the contents were his--a collection. He wasn't sure of the significance of it. All he knew it was his and they let him keep it.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke.

He picked up a brass button, flipping it between his knuckles like a coin. Not knowing why he knew how to do this, he just did.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-one. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.

An important mission. One he was worthy of, that no one else could do. His skills were needed for the good of mankind. Someone was going to die today. It was for the greater good. Chaos swept clean, evil eliminated with a flick of a knife or crack of a rifle.

It was almost child's play how easy it could be. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, it was that he was good at it. He took a certain pride in that. To be needed, to be the best. Child's play--if he could remember being a child or if he ever was one. All he knows he was born from pain and strife. Born to cleanse the earth with fire and blood--until they told him it was done. But it never was done. There was always one more enemy, one more purge.

So he went on collecting--one item at a time. A ribbon, a key, a coin, a ring--each memento was one small death in the larger scheme of things. But he wanted to remember each one, each face. To know they existed at one time like he exists now. But many times he could not recall, like his name. Others had names, he did not. Not really. It was his profession, soldier--asset. But not a name. He had just a number he could recall--3255. Was he one of many or the last of his kind? A dying breed. And he wondered.


The knife went deep, severing through flesh, tendons--a second smile--as the head, flopped back, still attached by the spinal cord, the neck bones--but little else. The blood gushed thick, wet, sticky as he carefully dropped the woman to the floor. He used too much force on such a delicate throat, one he could have crushed with his weaker hand. He used the stronger one and the cut became deeper, longer for it.

Maybe it was that he wanted to hold the slender column of skin and bone in his flesh hand. To feel the fluttering pulse, the texture of silky skin-- which his other hand could not-- a blunt weapon of force, able to tell hot, cold or pressure but little else. Then the flood of warmth as blood had coated his hand.

Crouching down, he wiped his hand on her gauzy blouse--sheer and now painted dark red. His fingers touched her cheek, eyes still open--blank, bottle green--mouth parted as if to draw a breath, exhale. His hand closed her eyes--brushed at her ear. A small pearl dotted in red and he plucked it off, rolling the smooth, hard marble in his fingers-- white, red, pink. And dropped it into one of his pockets. Another token, another memory, another face.

Maybe he made this death more memorable, special, within perimeters, that he would recall it later. Maybe this time he would remember.


He opened his box. He always counted the items, each one.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke to him.

He picked up a pearl earring. It wasn't clean, smeared in pink.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-two. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
starmaki: Vincent (Default)
It Stays in Budapest (2114 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers
Additional Tags: Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Halloween, Halloween Gift Exchange, Spooky, Magic, Supernatural Elements, Be Careful What You Wish, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, how do I tag this?, Demons, or weird supernatural stuff, BAMF Natasha, BAMF Clint, Tenderness, Humor, Feelings, Tony Being Tony, Budapest, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Sassy Natasha, developing feelings

Why couldn’t he ever have a normal Halloween? Clint Barton was thinking this as he listened to Tony Stark talk about their travel plans.


Tony finally broke the silence.
“Okay kids, who all thought this was a good idea?” He threw up his hands. “Did someone just summon some demon spawn on Halloween?"


starmaki: Vincent (Default)

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