salvation ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟐

022. the lowest point

NEARLY ONE DAY had passed, or at least, that's what it felt like. No one had come in, and neither of us had left(we weren't allowed to leave, was my guess). We were stuck here together, two people with a past that meant nothing now. 

I kept my head down and sat against the far wall, as close to the door as I could get without actually leaning against it, and as far away from Bucky as I could manage. My eyes were trained on him, focusing so hard that sometimes my vision blurred when I forgot to blink. If I missed just a split second of action, I knew, he could launch himself back at me just like he had only a day ago. 

One hand tapped anxiously against my knee, keeping time with a rhythm that I didn't know existed. Or maybe it was just from the sheer terror I felt, being in the presence of a ghost. My other hand crept up my chest to feel my tender neck, the bruises undoubtedly melding into purple and blue in the outline of a hand. It hurt like hell to even brush my fingers against my neck; I had to do my utmost best to keep the pained groans from escaping my lips. 

But apparently I wasn't silent or invisible enough. 

"You'll lose fingers if you don't stop that incessant tapping." He stopped pacing(a rather common task for him, it seemed) for a second to glare at me, his metal hand flexing and relaxing in a fist. "Be thankful I haven't been given the order to kill you yet."

I inhaled sharply and swallowed roughly, the tears rising quick to my eyes. Yet again, I was faced with the harsh truth of it all: this was not the Bucky I knew. This was a Bucky that would kill me without hesitation if he were given the order and given the chance. This was a Bucky that couldn't see through the veil of manipulation that Cerberus had laid over his eyes. 

Perhaps it was a blessing, to think of it that way. That this was not my Bucky, the same man that wrote me a letter confessing his love for me. This was not my Bucky, the man that let me cut his hair despite his every effort to keep me from doing it. This was not the man I loved, but a rare ghost that inhabited his mind, body and soul. 

I could only hope that the real Bucky, the one with piercing blue eyes and lips softer than heaven, was still alive and kicking. That he was deep down, waiting for someone to wake him up. 

"S-sorry," I stumbled over the apology, the word coming out softer than I meant it to. I'd had the intention of sounding strong in front of him, but I didn't know if that would do anything. 

The stranger in my lover's body shifted his cold gaze to the wall across from him, his arms crossed as he continued to pace. 

In another world, I may have risked a snarky response such as a complaint about his incessant pacing. But thankfully, I was growing out of my dumbass-ery. I didn't have a death wish. I wouldn't provoke the man whose fingers I could still feel clenched around my neck, prepared to kill me without even breaking a sweat to do it. 

So I just sat there, holding my shaking hands in my lap and trying my best not to make any noise. I stared at him, my eyes following his every movement, analyzing the differences between this man and the man I knew. 

The way he walked, while it was always so languid and confident, was now rigid and obedient. He was following the orders of Cerberus, that seemed to haunt him inside his own mind. It was like they were truly in his head.

The crease between his eyebrows that was always there, even when he was excited or happy, it was gone now. In its place was a blank, flat space on his skin that was too empty for my taste. He held the blank look of an American Girl doll, stiff and unmoving. 

We existed like this for a few more hours, before there was a sudden clang from outside. I realized that the heavy door was being swung open. In stepped a handful of guards, none of which had carried me to Isaac Thompson yesterday.