Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

29

There's a word in Russian — тоска. It has no English equivalent.

Author Vladimir Nabokov once described it as "a sensation of great spiritual anguish," in its purest, most painful form.

It's a beautiful word. A morbid word. Tastes like honey on the tongue, but it'll burn you from the inside. It's heartache and agony tied up with a pretty bow, and Bucky can't fucking stand it.

"тоска." He spits the consonants, says it like a curse. As soon as it passes his lips, he feels the need to rinse out his mouth. Vodka'll do. He's pretty sure he's got at least a quarter of a bottle of Путинка in the cupboard, if he can just get himself to the kitchen to grab it.

He considers it, but doesn't move. Can't move, really. He's been glued to this spot for an hour now, and his ass is starting to go numb. He has the fleeting thought that if he could do it over again, he'd definitely choose the couch for his mental breakdown instead of the cold bathroom tile. Next time.

He knows he's got just minutes at most before it gets bad. He's used to the routine by now — the ice-water in his chest, the pressure in his head. He knows what's coming next, and as the darkness seeps into his vision, he clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes against it. Maybe this time he'll be strong enough to fight it.

"Winter."

Or maybe not.

When he opens his eyes again, he's not in the apartment bathroom anymore. He's not even in New York anymore. He's in a van somewhere in Washington D.C., and he's being handed a gun. He takes it without thinking, slips it into his thigh holster. He double checks that his knives are in place, and then he holds out his hand for a bigger weapon.

"This guy's the real deal," a gravelly voice says to him. He recognizes the face — hard features, dark hair, stubble — but no name comes to mind. "Get the shield away from him and you shouldn't have any trouble. Oh, and go for maximum civilian casualties, it'll keep the others busy. Other than that? Just do what you do. We'll be in the wings to cover you." The man looks to Bucky for comprehension, and Bucky gives a slow nod.

Just as the van slows to a stop, the man with the stubble leans in close to Bucky's face and places a hand firmly on the back of his head, searching his eyes. "Remember our talk about control," he says in a hushed whisper. "He'll tell you lies, try to confuse you. Don't let him." Bucky doesn't say anything. He understands. "Remember: you are the Asset. Keep calm out there. Hail HYDRA."

Then the van doors swing open, and blinding sunlight tears through the darkness. It's time. Time to finish what he started.

Time to kill Captain America.

"Bucky?"

Bucky's eyes snap open. He's lying on the bathroom floor, damp with sweat. His hands are trembling, but he pushes himself up to a sitting position and wipes his brow with the back of one clammy hand. "Please don't," he mutters before Steve can say anything else. He's exhausted. He's confused. He doesn't know how long he's been here, but it must have been a while if Steve's back.

"Here, just...let me help you," Steve says, offering him a hand. Bucky doesn't take it, using the lip of the bathtub as leverage to stand.

"I'm fine," he insists, and he brushes past Steve and through the doorway. His legs feel like they're made of gelatin, but he forces himself to walk. He can feel Steve behind him, following him, even as he enters the kitchen, but he says nothing. He just pulls open an overhead cabinet and takes out a glass and a bottle of clear liquor.

"Bucky, come on..." Steve starts to protest, reaching for the bottle in Bucky's hand. "This is the third time in a month. You need a doctor, not a hangover. Just let me call someone."

Before he can even get the last word out, Bucky snatches the bottle back from him. He doesn't bother with ice, just pours a few fingers of vodka into his glass and then down his throat. The glass is more of a formality than anything; he might as well be drinking from the bottle.

Steve tries to take the glass from him this time, but Bucky reacts, catching Steve's wrist in his cybernetic hand. Steve gives him a hard look, but Bucky's eyes are dark. There's a hate in there that Steve hasn't seen since...

"Bucky, stop...Bucky, my wrist, you're—"

A loud cry of pain rings through the small apartment, and a much quieter crunch is music to Bucky's ears as he crushes the super soldier's bone in his grasp.

The next thing he knows, there's a blinding pain all down the front of his face where Steve's elbow collided with it, and blood pours from his nose. Steve wriggles free of his grip, and Bucky claps a hand to his gushing nostrils, fuming. He lifts a leg and drives his heel as hard as he can into Steve's chest, knocking him clear across the room, splintering the wood of a cabinet. Steve picks himself back up and looks at Bucky like you look at a rabid dog — a strange combination of fear, pity, and survival instinct.

"Buck, come on. It's me, it's Steve. Remember? Don't make me do this again." He takes a cautious step towards Bucky, who he now realizes is holding a kitchen knife. His chest is heaving, like an enraged bull about to charge. "You're my best friend," Steve continues, his voice calm and even. "I wouldn't fight you on that helicarrier, and I'm not going to now."

Steve takes a few more slow steps, until he's no more than six inches from Bucky. Bucky hasn't moved; his gaze is locked on Steve.

"Till the end of the line," Steve says quietly, reaching carefully for the knife in Bucky's hand. "You told me that." His eyes flick up from the blade to meet Bucky's, and then his breath hitches in his throat.

"End of the line," Bucky parrots, voice low, unfazed.

Steve falls to the kitchen floor, blood pooling beneath him, the hilt of a knife protruding from his lower abdomen. Bucky looks down at the mess, at what he's done. Finally, after all this time, he's completed his mission. His last mission. Hail HYDRA.

Bucky's eyes snap open. He's lying on the bathroom floor, damp with sweat.

There is no such thing as peace or love for men like him.