#mxskedhero

  There's a man in front of him with a gun.  No ordinary man. This man.. he has a metal arm.  He's not Bucky, James keeps telling himself,  even as the soldier's voice breaks past tainted  lips with an overwhelming poison dripping from  every phrase, every pronunciation.  James is staring straight into the barrel of this  shotgun with a stern and upset expression, lips  pressed together in a fine line as orders are given  for him to follow without hesitation.               He will not follow.               He'd rather die.  "No."  Voice is sharp and stubborn, brows furrowing as  fists clench. One foot steps forward, followed by  the other.  The Winter Soldier orders him to comply, orders him to  stop. James presses on, glances being sent to his shield  laying only mere feet behind the empty shell of his friend.  "I said no--"  Just as he speaks, the shot rings out, and he cannot step  any farther due to a sudden weight in his arms. Eyes widen,  and he notices the messy bleached hair of a certain older  teen inches from his face.  It hits him.  He knows what has just happened.  It's hard to move in the shock of the moment, and hands reach to  grab Francis's shoulders and spin him around. Irises are drawn  almost immediately to the gaping, blood-spewing hole in the other's  chest, and a hand, trembling, moves down and over the wound.  "Oh my God--   F-Francis please--"  A small whimper, tears spilling over eyelids and down  cheeks to lie in contrast to his uniform, dark spots lie  scattered over the charcoal color.  His hand is pressed to the bleeding, grotesque gash.  James leans to look over the older's shoulder as his  other hand drops his shield and grasps Francis's  coat instead.  Eyes instantaneously meet those of the Winter Soldier, and he's  much closer than before, standing right behind Francis with a  knife being twirled in hand.  "Fuck you."  James spits, but then he feels the sharp pain of the blade  in his side, causing knees to buckle and a choked gasp  to split past lips.