✪ | GHOST IN THE MACHINE.

❛ NO. ❜

the response is sudden, but it’s said with an INTENSITY that translates into the gaze he has PINNED to the man in front of him ( not a ghost, not a monster, but a MAN, his BEST FRIEND ) ; behind walls of steel and wire, through cracks both carefully chiseled and haplessly blown away, steve can see that BUCKY BARNES is there, stubborn and still fighting, and it’s taking everything he has not to lean across and shake the soldier from his resolve, to smack some sort of SENSE into him—never in his life has he met someone REFUSE to help themselves so STUBBORNLY as bucky in this moment.

( he understands now why bucky got so FRUSTRATED with him all those years ago. )

❛ i know you don’t believe that.  if you did, you wouldn’t have tried so hard to REMEMBER.  that journal – you KNEW me.  you knew me through that journal.  you went to the museum – christ, bucky, i can see that you’re trying, but you don’t have anything to PROVE here by doing it ALONE. ❜

a muscle in his cheek jumps with the clenching of his jaw.  he’s leaning towards him across the way of the makeshift table, and it’s with a sigh that he leans back into his seat, a softness returning to him.

❛ look.  i know you don’t want to talk about it.  you don’t have to, ❜ steve begins.  it’s an olive branch—he’s giving bucky an IN.  everything in steve’s being hopes that he takes it, for both of their sakes, and he extends his hand to rest on bucky’s forearm, warm flesh against flesh.  a LIFELINE.  ❛ but you need help, and what kind of BEST FRIEND would i be if i didn’t try to get you any? ❜

        GHOSTS lingered in the haze of regret,  images splashed crimson as memory trickled in discordance.   scattered, fragmented slivers of violence slipping through the cracks of a faulty mind-frame.   it's avoid, eating away at his conscience. static engulfing validity as numb settles in & purges CHAOS.   his subconscious is biting,   ebbing at resolve ; he feels the visceral churn of his guts,  guilt clinging to the very marrows of his bones,  & deep-down regret plays on stringent nerves.    that clean cut kid with a hero's heart, was GONE.  buried in the snow,  in 1944 ;;  frozen, with the past   (  there's no room for sacrifice in a killer's HEART.   no room for forgiveness. )  ;;;  he doesn't deserve it.  steve's judgment is clouded & biased,  hanging onto to some THIN hope that James Buchanan Barnes could be salvaged.  

           jaw sets,    like a tight line of tension.  when he'd pulled the other man from the river,  something ingrained had fired off – a protective instinct that belied the malfunctioned programming.  the same instinct had drawn him to the museum, in an attempt to piece together that which he didn't quite understand. knowledge shrouded by the darkness, keeping him contained for so many years,  was a deluge of enigma.   

   THERAPY would crack the surface, scrape off the layers of dust collected by years of suppression.  force him to face demons forged from horror.

         ❛ what do you suggest? ❜  the ghost of fingertips on his forearm draws a glance ;   a familiar, phantom echo of comfort sitting beneath festered anxiety.  ❛  there isn't a whole lot of options for someone like me. ❜

steve should’a known he was asking for trouble the moment he opened his mouth.  something of a wallflower, he dedicated most of his time doodling in his sketchpad, and today was no different – until his art was ripped out from under his hands and dangled over his head from his sitting position.  he’s used to getting picked on – steve’s being was basis enough for a beating – but art was personal, it was his, and no matter how much his ma told him to ignore them ( ❝ they’re a bunch of punks, ❞ she said one night as she softly dabbed at the bleeding cut on his brow. ❝ they’re only riling you up because you let ‘em. ❞ ), he just couldn’t let this go.

❝ you drawin’ somethin’, rogers? ❞ the culprit – thomas – said.  tommy clarke was the school hot shot and was always givin’ steve trouble. steve was sure he could breathe and tommy would use it as an excuse to start wailing on him, so he wasn’t surprised to see tommy’s ugly mug making his daily rounds with his cronies.

❝ give it back. ❞  it was three words, but three words were all it took for hell to break loose.  steve couldn’t be bothered to remember who did what because it was always ended the same: he’d get a few good punches in before he’d wind up on the ground, bruised and bloody, too stubborn to back down but too tired to fight back.  he’d take it until they backed off, which is why he’s confused when he hears a loud shout and stops feeling the impact of hands and feet on his sides and face.  it’s why he dazedly takes the hand that reaches for him.

he’s bleeding, he knows that much, and he’s struggling to catch his breath.  leaning forward with his hands on his knees, he peers up at the boy and immediately recognizes him as bucky barnes, and his defenses return, all the comfort that peace brought dissipating as quickly as it came. bucky’s tommy’s friend, right?  so why is he—-? this is a trick, isn’t it—

❝ m’fine, ❞ steve mumbles, breathless. ❝ could’a—took care—of it—myself. ❞

he wipes the blood from his nose and stands up straight, looking the taller boy in the eye. ❝ steve rogers— and if you’re tryin’ – to trick me, forget it and – get it over with.  i can do this all day. ❞

       the taller boy couldn't help but chuckle;  there's a fierce resolve in steve's posture------ a pillar of marble crumbling round the edges. STRENGTH begets the fire ebbing out weakness  ( ;  'woe, the sickly boy' ;  the frail, pale kid everybody pushed around – because they COULD.  )  but not anymore.  small fingers peel away from the others' shoulder, a silent promise hanging between them as an outstretched hand offers up the dirtied notebook, kicked into the dirt by tommy & his band of mindless thugs.  

      ❝  yeah, yeah.   relax,  m' just dustin' ya' off. ❞  a smirk curls the corner of his lip, gaze catching a glimpse of the first page. brows crinkled in curiosity –    ❝  what's this ? ❞  drawing his attention back to the art,  he flips the cover open;    ❝ hey. these'r pretty good.  better n' me,  i can only draw stick figures. ❞  ART was a gift.  he didn't have an artistic bone in his body, but he admired the work & those that had the natural talent for it.  sometimes, he thumbed through the old art book his ma' kept.  pages, and pages, of etchings from her youth. memories scratched into pressed, thin paper. little intricacies penned by diligent dedication, - patience. a practice, pop said, would one day prove useful when he too joined the military; just like his pop, & his grandfather, before him. big shoes to fill, big expectations to live up to the Barnes family name.

     a well aimed rock struck one of the bullies in the back of head; it was a parting gift to the retreating group as they scattered, and left their victim - a short, skinny kid - that bucky vaguely recognized from the school yard.  after the shiner he’d just given the Clarke boy, he doubted he’d be bothering anybody for awhile.  he watched as they disappeared from sight, then turned to Rogers, offering a hand to pick him up off the ground.