ever marching as to war

Memorial Day had passed by with little more than a couple of a beers and a five minute conversation, but Bucky'll be damned if he lets Steve's birthday go the same way. Even during the darkest days of the War, birthdays were always given the special treatment; hell, Toro once blew their cover making sure Bucky had a good one. The gruelling grind of the past couple of months is still fresh in body and mind, but in the simple preparation for the day's get-together, Bucky's found some semblance of peace.

He's not much of a party animal -- he's not even much of a planner -- but things fall into place easily enough. They set up in and around Steve's place, that nice bar of his getting some use for once. There are a couple of goats spinning on a spit outside, courtesy of Thor, and a more traditional grill manned by Bucky himself. Platters of cheeses and fruits and vegetables line a table covered in a red, white and blue tablecloth, and there's more than enough flag-themed birthday cake to go around (strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream make up the familiar stars and stripes, doubling as both food and decoration). Music from Steve's youth plays in the background out of borrowed speakers, and in lieu of streamers, there's a banner that stretches over the front door of his house that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN.

It's not a lot, but it's something.

[Open to Marvels, significant others/close friends of Marvels, and any assorted friends of Steve. This post will be linked to the main community on July 4th. Slated post here. ST/LT welcome!]

It comes back in flashes, fragments. Colors run together behind closed eyes. Reds and blues and grays. The racing pulse of a heart turns into the burst of sniper fire. Bodies, bodies, so many bodies, bleeding and mangled and dead. Heads facing the wrong direction. Bullet holes between their brows. Machinery and white coats, murmured Russian and the soft hands of a lover. A glimpse of red hair and the heavy perfume of scented oil. Cold. Alone. Death, then life, then death again. Never my own, not since the first time.

Not since the first time.

There will be others.

It's dark when he awakes, tangled in his sheets. The moonlight filtering in through the slatted windows paints his room in the same shades of his memories, muted blues and grays, shadows twisting his modest furniture into carnival versions of reality. He forces air down his lungs in gulps, his face wet from tears he shed in sleep. He presses his hands to his cheeks, fingers framing his bones until he manages some measure of calm. He's lived through this experience before, he knows -- and there's a strange feeling, knowing after weeks of not -- but it's different this time. There's no Cosmic Cube and no purpose behind it, not the loss of his memories or regaining them.

He wants to sob. He wants to scream. He wants to rip this island to pieces until he finds some fucking answers, but he settles for destroying his room instead, senselessly tearing through his bedding until he's on his feet and there's a chair in his hands. The wood makes a satisfying crack as it snaps against the sturdier dresser, clothes spilling out onto the ground as one of the drawers gives, fabric and bamboo splinters pooling around his feet.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, wooden shards poised to inflict more damage on an enemy that isn't -- and may never be -- there, but his breaths have leveled by the time he moves again, numb from remembering. He keeps one in hand as a makeshift weapon as he exits his room, tucking it under one arm as he pulls open the pantry door to fetch one of the bottles of Chechnya Vodka freed from Rapture he keeps hidden behind a loose panel at the back. He doesn't bother with a glass, padding his way outside to the porch and lowering himself onto one of the steps.

Dimly aware that Jason's not home and that Virginia is asleep in her stall, he unstops the bottle and takes the first of what's sure to be many pulls, his eyes peeled on the pinkening horizon.

He comes to slowly, the drugs dulling his senses so that the world around him seems bright and warm and soft, offering him no incentive to leave. The illusion wavers as time stretches on. At first it's the temperature, then it's the light, dimming until he's aware only of darkness, this home he made turning cold and hard. Next to go is the silence, bursts of high-pitched chirps and murmured conversation passing him by until it's all too noisy to ignore, and he wakes with a gasp that makes his chest burn. The stench of antiseptic is almost suffocating.

It's a full second until fear kicks instinct into overdrive, his mind unable to make sense of the scene playing out before his eyes. He tries pushing himself off the bed with an arm that isn't there, a scream catching in his throat when he realizes his left shoulder tapers off into thin air. Adrenaline races through his veins, heart pounding his ears as he starts to hyperventilate. Dimly he's aware of the restraints biting across his torso, his legs, but he struggles all the same, knowing only one thing for certain.

He needs off this bed.

Bucky had been counting the days to January 6th since the first of December, as eager to get his old arm back as he was for the initial change of scenery, but the date came and went with little ceremony and no magical return to the status quo. While he'd hesitate to call himself surly as a result of this, he hasn't exactly been a bucket of sunshine, either.

His temper short and his patience shot, Bucky's tried his damnedest to keep his chin up as the days stretch on, but there's only so much to be done about a clockwork arm that's been in a state of constant repair since the New Year. He's been going without it, lately, not wanting the hassle while he goes about his business, but this afternoon was meant to be the exception. He'd worn the damn thing so he could go get food for the house only for it to become dead weight before he could get to any shop. Closer to the Compound than he is to home, he ducks inside in the hopes he could fix the damn thing and go about this day, but even this plan doesn't go without obstacle.

Seated in the corner of the Rec Room, his left arm detached and laying motionless on a table, he's nearly done with the temporary patch up job when--

"Dammit," Bucky mutters under his breath, the tool he's using slipping from his grasp when he turns it a hair too hard and it catches. While he doesn't care to be doing such technical work out in the open in the first place, with limited options, he's making do. Still, frustrated, he backs up his chair and kneels to the ground to retrieve the screwdriver.

Distantly, he's aware he's attracted some attention, but at the moment, he doesn't care too much about saying hello.

A public EP, open to anyone; played in a private journal just because it's predated.

There was never going to be a debate.

A change in environment this drastic practically begged for immediate exploration; while they'd each been provided with a(n all too) convenient map by their increasingly creative wardens, Bucky didn't want to trust the information. He knows London, has spent enough time there in his youth to have a decent grasp of the land, but if they're meant to believe this is still the Island -- and they are, given that the map's got the Compound marked down as being off of York Road -- a closer look is certainly called for.

Wrangling his new, bulkier arm into a coat had proven a challenge -- he might take to just cutting off the sleeve next time -- but undoubtedly the bigger one was accepting that his favorite gun had been transformed into an unreliable antique. His combat knife, at least, escaped more or less unscathed; it's a small favor, but at this point, he's not about to look any gift horse in the mouth.

And hell, at least Virginia seems happy enough. Her breed's made for this kind of change in weather, and she seems eager to get going, though Bucky's already decided he'll walk her rather than ride.

Huffing out a sigh that turns into a wispy cloud before his eyes, Bucky turns to look over the small group assembled for the occasion, the lot of them dressed in fashions older than at least a couple of them combined.

"Well," he says wryly. "This brings me back."

The last place Bucky wants to be right now is in public, but heading home isn't much of an option, either, not when he's likely to get cornered with a million questions; he's too raw for human consumption, wearied by the force of his fury he's working hard to contain, but Steve suggested they get a drink, and so here they are, Captain America and Bucky, all grown up, and sitting in the darkest corner of the Hub they can manage on a Friday night. The white noise of the other patrons is enough to drown out the racing thoughts in Bucky's head; the three shots he downed upon sitting gets rid of the taste of his own vomit from before. He asks the bartender to leave the bottle. Nothing, though, seems to stops the itch that nags at him from underneath his skin, the need to hit something until it breaks.

Instead he sits, body so tense it's only a matter of time before he snaps entirely; despite this, his gaze stays leveled on Steve, his own wish for retribution taking a backseat to making sure his friend isn't about to lose it again. Bucky's a force to be reckoned with on his own, certainly, but between the two of them, they could leave the whole of the island in ruins by morning, and whatever reservations Bucky has about this piece of hell, he won't be the one who lets Steve jump off the deep end.

Follows this.

Bucky is silent, but fuming as he stalks away from the site of Thor's future home, his body language so tense it's a wonder he's even standing straight instead of crumpling under the weight of his own bad mood. That he wouldn't have left the scene without Steve's wordless request is abundantly clear, and Bucky makes no attempt to hide his distaste for the decision. His mouth is twisted in a frown and his eyes are hard as he pointedly stares ahead, not daring to look over at his friend lest he explode before they're well out earshot from their earlier company.

The sheer amount of ordnance Bucky has managed to acquire in the months since his arrival is, perhaps, startling. Though he'd shown up with nothing but a combat knife to his name, sometimes it paid to be the victim of the island's crueler tricks. Though he hadn't much appreciated the reminder of the time, getting saddled with all of his Winter Soldier gear has ultimately been a blessing as much as anything else; even if he has little cause to use it in his day to day life, there's a comfort Bucky finds in carrying a firearm that he'd be hard pressed to explain to someone of a different background.

It's old habit that finds him sitting on his front porch, a number of unloaded guns, ranging in size and make, spread out on a worn blanket beside him. His hands move in practiced motions as he cleans them one by one; it's mindless work, if necessary, though his thoughts drift elsewhere, sifting through memories both whole and fractured. He tries to remember the crimes he committed, the ones that apparently see him incarcerated in a Gulag in a future far worse than he ever anticipated, but he's met with nothing save a frustrating blankness -- a mental dead end.

Probably for the best. God only knows what sort of nightmare I'll find if I keep digging. I sleep poorly enough as is... Must drive Tasha crazy.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, it's only through a chanced glance upwards that Bucky realizes he's no longer alone. Steve is coming up the path, carrying in his hands a shield Bucky would recognize just about anywhere, one he stole if only to keep it away from anyone else, and wielded for much the same reason. He stands, abruptly, a cloth in one hand and an assault rifle in the other, but makes it down only so far as the first step before he freezes.

"Is that what I think it is?"