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Red, grey, and blue.
Not white, but grey.
Even as a child, playing in the streets. It was the color of the charcoal that dusted Steve’s fingers, of their pencils on their homework; the color of simpler times.
It was then the haze of bombs and smoke, the desolate horror of war.
And after, it was the machines they used on him, the color of cracks in the ceiling above him. The shade of the dots that swam in his vision as they hurt him and experimented as if he wasn’t even human—
Then it was the calm of Steve’s embrace, the dreariness of the winter in the woods.
And then, the shade of the train.
The color of the ice, and he plummeted.
The grief on Steve’s face.
And it was the instruments of torture all over again—
The Chair. The Arm. And— His mind was wiped clean.
A blank slate.
Grey.
Not white.
Never white, not for Bucky.
White was pure, whole; a color of hope and new beginnings; of innocence and laughter and the excitement of learning.
A color Steve was proudly associated with.
Bucky had never been that, had never exuded the goodness that the blond had.
Bucky was grey.
Tainted, dirtied; used and ragged.
Drawn out, stretched thin until there was nothing left to give; nothing left of himself for them to tear away— he’d hidden it, deep inside, so far down that not even he could find it. He’d thought it dead and buried, lost beneath the tumultuous waves when h e had become i t .
And then, Steve.
Steve found it, with a few well placed, gasping words, and suddenly his entire world was torn to pieces; shattering and rebuilding at alarming rates, shredding and patching itself too quickly for him to grasp.
It drove him to panic, and he ran— and ran, and knew Steve was following; but the knowledge that his past was so close was more terrifying than the realization that he’d lost it, so he never stopped.
Until, he was found.
Until Bucharest.
Zemo.
And then, Siberia.
And finally— Cryo.
And grey settled over his vision once more.
•—•—•—•—•
Red, grey, and blue.
Red was the color of pretty dame’s lips and dresses, of handbags and theater curtains.
The color that flooded Steve’s cheeks whenever Bucky teased him, the shade that filled his sight whenever the blond was found fighting in another alley.
Red was passion, and love, and enjoyment of his life to the fullest—
And then, war.
And red changed.
The deep crimson was now a reminder of blood, of screams and cries mixed together with gunshots, bombs exploding and shrapnel and scrapes in his skin. It was pain, and terror, and fire.
It was the fearful haze that descended when he was strapped to the table, the terror of never getting to see home again;
The color of the fiery, agonizing liquid they pumped into his veins.
Then, Steve. Cheeks flushed, appearing as an avenging angel over Bucky’s prone, tortured form.
And red was, for a time, freedom.
Nightly stories by a fire, hugs and pats on the back from all the Commandos.
Red was the color of Peggy’s gown, and Steve’s blush, and for a time the color of his life finally finding balance—
Until the train. And red was his arm, torn away.
Steve’s anguish and his despair, a blinding haze.
And then—
then—
It was electricity in his mind, blood dripping from his wounds, relics of new torture.
It was f i r e.
Red was nothing.
The Asset did not care for the color that followed in his every footstep, that was printed in a star on his arm.
It did not care for the blood that spilled from its worthless body, or the steady drip of the thick liquid from those of its’ victims.
It did not—
And then red was the pain of ruined memories, burning his mind as they tried to re-anchor themselves within him.
Red was the fury that consumed him on the Helicarrier, when he realized he’d been used and lied to and that this man knew him and it wasn’t fair, what did he— because he w a s a ‘he’, not ‘it’— ever do to deserve this nightmare?
Red was the fear that saturated his being when Steve fell, and the fierce relief that filled him when he realized the blond was alive. And he ran.
Then, the red calmed, and besides the nightmares there wasn’t so much crimson in his life.
And then—
Civil War. And Steve— And Tony— And.
Red was the guilt that bubbled up as his choice of cryo registered in Steve’s eyes.
•—•—•—•—•
Red, grey, and blue.
Blue is, for as long as he can remember, the color of Steve’s eyes.
It’s the gentle warmth of his mother’s embrace, the color of the frock his little sister would wear on Sundays. The color of the blueberry jam the sweet old woman down the street would give him and Steve, after they helped her catch her cats.
It was the coolness of the water he splashed on his face during the dusty summers, and the icy wind that blew snow into his bedroom window.
Blue was the sound of music, the way it flowed inside his body and made him move smoothly across the floor; by himself or with someone in his arms. It was the color of the sheets on his bed.
Sometimes, it was the color that shaded Steve’s lips, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, and it was the emptiness Bucky felt when he imagined living without his best guy.
And then, it was the sound of war on the horizon.
It became secret whispers and hopes and dreams of the future, a future he could see slowly slipping away from his fingertips as war grew ever closer.
And then it was the worry in Steve’s eyes, the ales assurance in his own voice as he was sent overseas— The blue of the ocean he crossed, the longing he felt for his family.
The tears he shed in the dark of night, alone in his bed.
The bleakness of the early morning charges, the color of his coat, the only warmth between him and the biting cold in the air.
And then— Then, capture.
And it was the tears and pleas that streamed from his eyes and lips, the searing icy agony that zipped through his very bones. The snapping and cracking of his body, changed without his permission or understanding.
The glaze that settled over his eyes, and the muddled numbness in his mind.
The wait for death, atop a metal table.
And then— Then.
Steve, and blue eyes.
And he— Bucky could b r e a t h e .
And blue was the peaceful joy of his freedom, the happiness of Steve’s presence at his side.
The shade of his new coat, matching Steve’s own uniform. The camaraderie within their group, and the songs that they sang as they sat around the fire before bed.
It was the huge sky above their heads, and the gentle feeling of home that came when Steve reached for his hand in the dark.
And then, blue was—
It was flashes of that last fight.
Of the shield, in his hands.
Of Steve’s blue eyes, wide and hopeful and yet still so knowing of what was about to happen.
Of the uniform that still cling to the side of the train, speeding away from his falling body.
The sky and water blend in together around him—
And then, there was no blue.
Blue vanished when he lost himself. Blue vanished when ‘he’ became ‘it’.
Blue exchanged for black.
There was only a single flash of blue in it’s life— The blue of the packets of the original serum, unlike the angry red of his own bastardized version.
And then, blue was gone.
Again.
Until.
Blue eyes.
The man, on the bridge.
Blue eyes.
Steve.
I knew him, he thinks. He says.
And it’s burned away.
And then it comes back, and blue is the return of home.
Blue is the joy in Steve’s eyes, and both the relief and utter grief Bucky feels as he remembers.
Blue is the hope for their future, the color of his mind free once more. The color of Steve’s eyes as he smiles and says goodbye—
The only goodbye they’ve said when they know there’ll be a reunion.
Blue is, finally, rest. Sleep, after so long.
Blue is calm.
Bucky can breathe, now.
And then—
Cryo, and Steve is standing beside him, and the door is closing but it’s okay because he chose this, this is his c h o i c e , and he closes his eyes.
And then.
Darkness.
And somehow, he’s smiling.