a war-torn man was always a war-torn man. legs angled to the door — ready to run. massaging at pieces of the body that were permanently changed. taking extra seconds to recognize the reflection in the mirror… but a war-torn man was still a man despite the jagged edges the war ripped through him. thus, as men must do, required to live on.
bent over the cold metal of the gaping hood, james ran metal fingers over the cold gears. it seemed a little bit like touching the bones of a long dead body. he ignored the chill of how familiarly that sensation settled between his own bones. snowflakes clung to broad shoulders like flecks of ash from a raging wildfire. bucky didn't mind the cold. it was an intimate enemy; he knew how to handle the cold.
there wasn't a chance in hell this thing would ever run again, but they hadn't managed to take his stubbornness from him – not even that had been a match for hydra. there was something within the remnants of a bygone era he couldn't let go.
he didn't need to hear the crunching of the snow to know he wasn't alone anymore. a well-trained killer had senses like a cat – and james had always been the best.
❝ now what hole did they dig you out of this time? ❞