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He looked up slightly. A fringe of dark, wet hair obscuring his view slightly. Willing himself to not part this curtain because he desperately did not want to see what is in front of him. His hair made a barrier which he could hide behind to avoid being confronted with reality.
The reality of the body that lay on the ground at his feet.
Motionless.
This is what the end looks like.
“The end of the line.”
He released a shuddering breath. He knew he was responsible. He had done it with his own hands - he looked down at his hands as if they were foreign. He knows that one hand looks foreign, but they are still his. The water dripped from his hair onto his open palms. His fingers closed around themselves tentatively. Trying to grasp onto the water, the air, the feeling of light that was already starting to seep away. His balled fists were shaking. Below them, still, the evidence of the unmoving body from which water was seeping into the mud with a slight red tint.
Ironically, he now felt more out of his depth than he had earlier when they were in the water. It was frankly disturbing that it made him feel so alive. Underwater with the dead weight in his arms he felt like it was the first time he had taken a breath in the longest time. Beneath his lungs screaming for air, he found his heart jumping for joy. Struggling with lifeless limbs pulling him down he felt like he was holding onto the only thing that could keep him afloat. Even just thinking back to pulling the body out of the water brought a sheer radiance through his cold, wet skin.
It was not the motionless body or witnessing the end, no. Those he had dealt with in the past. Many times. So many times. He was well acquainted with witnessing the end. He was even used to witnessing his own end.
He was, however, troubled by this feeling. He knew about feelings: feeling hungry, or cold, or tired. Feelings were bothersome even if they were necessary. Like an incessant alarm ringing about a need that could not always be satisfied. He found it most effective to quash feelings into nothing. He had grown quite adept at this. The feeling of nothing was calm. He loved the feeling of nothing so much, he could relish ignoring even necessary feelings like hunger for days on end just by sheer willpower. Feeling nothing enabled him to activate a more efficient feeling – execution. Nothing was logical. Nothing was clinical. He tried to feel nothing right now, but the nothing would not come. He tried to force his fists to open – to let go of the feelings and allow the nothing to return, but they would not listen.
He forced another shuddering breath. Even his lungs were trying to hold onto this feeling. He exhaled again sharply. He would blow away these feelings and thirstily inhale the nothing until it fills his whole body. His breathing spiralled out of control.
“Hyperventilating…”
The word jumped at him. He gave a twitch. In addition to feelings, it seems he also had thoughts now. Thoughts could be good – thoughts help you analyse, organise, and plan. Thoughts are conducive to good execution. But his thoughts are always systematic – and this one jumped out of a hidden cupboard in the horror house of feelings. He has never experienced his thoughts straying from their usual straight line.
“Get back in line!”
“Sir, no, sir!”
His hand involuntarily pulled at his collar. He had to make the breaths come easier so that the feelings could go away so that he could think thoughts, not words.
“Hyperventilating. Look at me. Breathe with me. We’re going to be fine! Just breathe with me. You can do it. You can do anything.”
His breathing slowed down slightly with the rhythm of the soft words reverberating in his head. He shook his head. A mop of wet hair spraying the rocks like a bedraggled mutt. He ran his fingers through his hair as he finally pushed it from his face. Clearly looking at the body now. Motionless.
“Can you move? No? Don’t worry. Hold up. I’ll carry you. We’ll patch you up. You just keep breathing.”
No wait! It was not motionless! He saw the chest rising and dipping slowly as if the body was just in a deep slumber. He felt relieved. Or nervous? His heart thudded against his ribs painfully. His fists grabbed at his chest. He had to make this stop! This heart was full of feelings and it was pumping them into his body – like an inflating balloon. No! He was trying to get rid of the feelings, not distribute them throughout his body.
“I love you so much it physically hurts. Like from my chest all the way to my toes. It’s just love and pain.”
“That’s because you’re injured from your chest all the way to your toes, you goof.”
“No, you don’t understand, I know that pain. That’s surface. But this… This is so deep down. I love you deeper than my own soul.”
He had to get away. His legs directly disobeyed his order to run, and he fell to his knees instead. He looked in awe as his fists that had been made for punching gently stroked the wet hair away from the cheek of the body. He looked at the closed eyes. The straight nose. The stubborn mouth. And suddenly he could breathe again.
“You give me life. You know that? You’re like air. If you’re ever not around I’ll suffocate.”
“Well if you keep talking into my chest you are going to suffocate. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
He could imagine any of these words falling from the lips in front of him. Maybe with his friends or the love of his life. He found his own mouth twitching at the corners. His mouth had never done that before. Mouths were for eating and reporting. But this one looked like it used to be for talking and joking and kissing. Used to be, because this mouth was now in a quiet slumber. He felt like he was intruding but he could not pull away. He had never been less in control of his thoughts, yet he was calm. Maybe the only cause of calm was not nothing? His heart was still pumping a steady rhythm of feelings, and with every passing moment he felt less like he wanted the numbness to return. This was dangerous. He should not be embracing this. He should be recognising that he was dangerous. He looked at the hand hovering above the sleeping cheek. The foreign hand. No, his hand. He knew he would never again have an opportunity like this to calmly render the body fully motionless. One punch would be all that it takes. His chin dropped to his chest in resignation, bringing into full view the myriad of weapons strapped across his chest and around his hips. Yes, this was him. He was dangerous. He was weapons and foreign hands and danger. He glanced up at the body in front of him, stilling on the face. Why did this face also feel like him? This face was also dangerous. Otherwise, the would not have been a target he had been sent to neutralise. They are the same. Are they? Yes, they are. Him and the face on the floor in front of him were one.
His thoughts shifted and he saw the face cowering at the end of an alley amongst refuse bins. It was clearly the same face, but the body was of a much smaller young boy. He recognised the face even though it was heavily bruised and the eyes were almost swollen shut.
“Stevie, you are hyperventilating.” His own voice said with tenderness at the small body with hands clutched around his stomach, and mouth straining for a breath.
“Look at me. Breathe with me. We’re going to be fine! Just breathe with me. You can do it. You can do anything.”
The world narrowed as they focussed on each other’s face and breathed in tandem like a well-practised dance.
“Who the fuck are you?” A voice shouted from his left and he became aware of a trio of pompous men scowling at him. “You think you can fucking waltz into the middle of a fight with your sparkling new uniform…” He did not hear the rest of the man’s sentence as his fist connected with the corner of the man’s jaw. Before the body had fully collapsed to the floor one of the friends jumped forward and swung a fist at him in return.
“Get back in line!” He heard himself say cockily as he easily dodged the next punch and threw the friend down on the pavement with a thud.
The third friend lifted his hands up in surrender with a sarcastic “Sir, no, sir.”
He wiped that mocking grin off pretty quick. Eventually the other two wordlessly picked up the unconscious instigator and scampered away out of the alley. He shook out his bruised knuckles and walked back to the boy laying amongst the garbage bins. He could feel the prickling of tears in his eyes – not for any pain, but for anger at the injustice. Why would anyone want to hurt this precious face?
“Hey punk. Can you move? No? Don’t worry.” He tenderly took the boy’s hands into his own and stared deep into the swollen eyes. The stubborn mouth seemed posed to quip back, but did not have the strength.
“Hold up. I’ll carry you. We’ll patch you up. You just keep breathing.”
He got to his feet and shoved his sturdy arms under the shoulders and knees of the other boy. He carried him gently out of the alley. He could feel his own shoulders screaming in strain, but knew he could never let up as he carried the boy up the stairs to an apartment.
He saw the boy stripped down to his underwear lying on a threadbare bed in the same apartment and his own hands tending to the numerous wounds on the small body. The boy didn't even wince in pain, just laid back with his hands behind his head regarding the progress with a lopsided smile. As if this was a regular afternoon activity.
“I love you so much it physically hurts. Like from my chest all the way to my toes. It’s just love and pain.” He said with a slightly hoarse but confident voice.
“That’s because you’re injured from your chest all the way to your toes you goof.” He felt himself easily joke back. Clearly the boy had a penchant for trouble.
“No, you don’t understand, I know that pain. That’s surface. But this… This is so deep down, it’s deeper than my own soul.” He knew that mouth was incapable of speaking anything but the truth. He also knew that these words were just a mirror of how he felt himself.
Later the evening on that same threadbare bed, he saw himself curled protectively around the boy. The boy was facing him and clutching at his chest ferociously.
“You give me life. You know that? You’re like air. If you’re ever not around I’ll suffocate.”
“Well if you keep talking into my chest you’re really going to suffocate. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
He felt a rumbling laugh into his chest and the genuine smile on his own face. Their hearts continued beating together steadily. If this was real, it seems his heart had been quite capable of pumping feelings through his whole body since long before he had any memory.
Suddenly the body in front of him got up to its hands and knees coughing up bucketloads of water. He felt helpless.
Unsure how to help.
Unsure or unwilling?
No, unsure.
Unsure or unauthorised?
Both.
He would definitely not be authorised to help a target. His hands were still hovering undecidedly over the body as it collapsed back onto the ground with a groan. Even though the body seemed oblivious to any and all surroundings, he felt caught out.
Guilty.
Also overwhelmingly relieved as he noticed the still steady rise and fall of the muscular back.
Then he felt guilty at the relief.
As he kept his eyes on the breathing back, he once again became aware that this was the body of an immense man. Nothing at all like the small boy he had just remembered. But the face remained the same. The serious browline, sharp cheekbones and truthful lips. His gaze returned to the robust back and travelled along the powerful arms.
His thoughts shifted and he saw these strong arms caging him in, the hands pulling at either side of his head. The eyes were wet, but the smile lay shallow.
“Buck, you are hyperventilating.” The man stated it factually, but his voice cracked at the end giving away his emotion. He could feel his own body flood with a relief and a longing that he was unaware could exist.
“Look at me. Breathe with me. We’re going to be fine! Just breathe with me. You can do it. You can do anything.”
Keeping his eyes on the man in front of him he breathed in hungrily and exhaled softly as though he was afraid of blowing the man away with the breeze. Without removing his eyes from his, the man snapped the restraints that had been on either side of his head without breaking a sweat.
“Get back in line captain!” came a shout from beyond his line of vision
“Sir, no, sir.” The man answered loud and clear with a stubborn confidence. His own vision blurred with smoke and tears. Reluctantly his eyes slip closed. The man brought his face closer reassuringly.
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” The man added softly, conspirationally, as he broke apart other restraints across his body, legs and arms.
“Can you move?” The man enquired. His only response was a hacking cough probably partly from the smoke, partly from being tortured, and partly from just being emotionally raw.
“No? Don’t worry. Hold up. I’ll carry you. We’ll patch you up. You just keep breathing.”
The man threaded his arms under his back and legs and carried him as if he weighed nothing.
The man was in the company of other soldiers, but clearly unashamed of holding onto him so tightly. All of them were carrying their own demons. He had so many demons the man had to help him carry. That night around the fire was the first time he tried to speak again. With a barely-there scratch of a voice he whispered up at the man,
“I love you so much it physically hurts. Like from my chest all the way to my toes. It’s just love and pain.”
“That’s because you’re injured from your chest all the way to your toes you goof.” The man bumped his shoulder lovingly. They both continued to stare into the fire but he could feel the love radiating between them.
“No, you don’t understand, I know that pain. That’s surface. But this… This is so deep down, it’s deeper than my own soul.”
In the morning, the man is carrying him again easily. His own face buried in the man’s broad chest. Partly embarrassed for how his own body has not yet regained autonomy after the rescue, partly thankful to be dragging deep breaths that smell like comfort and home.
“You give me life. You know that? You’re like air. If you’re ever not around I’ll suffocate.” He croaks at the man.
“Well if you keep talking into my chest you really are going to suffocate. Now shut up and go to sleep.” The man said as he gently squeezed him closer to his broad chest. When he eventually found his feet again on the long walk back, they would still frequently grasp onto one another’s hands. As if dividing the pain by sharing it. As if love was too much for one person to hold onto alone.
He blinked away tears from his eyes with confusion. He was not programmed for emotion. What is going on? He was also not programmed for memories. He did not fully trust them to be real memories, but his programming also did not allow for false memory implantation. This was so confusing. The one thing he was programmed for, was to eliminate the target. And yet he found himself looking at the target in front of him with absolutely no intent on following through with the programming.
They sat like this for a while in almost peaceful silence. The sound of the water lapping at the shore. He found himself reaching for the target’s hand. It looked like the man's mouth quirked into a small smile even though his eyes remained closed and his hand remained heavy.
“I think I suffocated. I was gone already. I have not come up for air for the longest time.” He found himself confessing.
“I don’t even know who you are. But you must be something special. You are air. You are life.”
He gave the hand a final squeeze before he disappeared.
He stares at the museum picture with his own face. Seeing the same lines, the same sharp eyes. He self-consciously pulled the baseball cap lower over his face. He mostly came to look at all the pictures of the man at the waterside. Stevie. Some pictures of them side-by-side. As young boys. As soldiers. As friends. Some pictures without him – showing how the man transitioned from the small boy to the titan of a man. Stevie. Turns out both memories he had relived by the water could actually be true.
The pictures identify him as ‘Steven Grant Rogers – Captain America’. But like all the other words that have started coming to him recently, he knew this was Stevie. Stevie even felt more familiar than any of the pictures and stories that carry his own face and name.
“I remember when they changed you.” He whispers softly.
“When you said you don’t really feel pain anymore.” His throat constricted as he continued talking to the picture.
“They changed me too. So much. I also don’t feel pain. Honestly, I can hardly feel my own chest or toes. Obviously, I can’t feel my own arm.” He gives a wry smile.
“I also don’t remember what love feels like. But you. I feel you. Deeper than my soul. I feel you.” The picture of the man smiled back cheerfully, and he swallowed back his own tears.
“There is honestly so much wrong with me, I don’t know if I can be patched up at this point. But for you… For now… I’ll just keep breathing.”
“Get back in line, soldat! Are you ready to comply?” He didn’t even flinch that a handler had managed to find him. It was just a matter of time. For so long he had kept breathing. Kept running.
“Sir, no, sir.” He said with a twisted smile as he prepared for the words that he knew were going to come. He thought he was winning the war of words, but he could not protect himself from the weapon they’re about to fire. The weapon he will again become.
The next time he came to he found himself looking into the face of the man. Stevie! His thoughts shouted at him joyfully. If he could still remember Stevie, then the handler had not succeeded in reactivating his programming. The rest of his thoughts were murky. Vague and tainted.
Why were they wet again? Were they back by the waterside? He saw his mechanical arm contained in a piece of industrial equipment. Smart Stevie. He was not to be trusted. Unless he was looking at the face in front of him, his world diverged into targets and collateral. He was on the verge of unconsciousness. All he could do was stare up at the face in front of him. He wanted to be better! The sobs were tearing at his throat before he had a chance to realise the emotions were coming to the party.
“Look at me. Breathe with me. Just breathe.” Steve held cupped his face in his hands tenderly.
He wanted to. He really wanted to. Instead of breathing he continued to sob.
“That’s all I have been doing Stevie! Just breathing. And then I run out of air for a few decades until I’m with you again. Then you save me and I catch my breath as if nothing happened. But I know it's not nothing that happened.”
“I could say the exact same thing to you, you dumbass!” Steve retorted readily and playfully before he gave a long exhale and turned very serious.
“I knew it was you.” Steve admitted. "I don't know how this is even possible, but I knew it could only be you."
“That almost killed you?” He interrupted.
“As if you could kill me.” Steve scoffed, but the small sarcastic smile told him that Steve knew he was the target, but he was unafraid.
“No, I meant I know you rescued me from the water. It’s just what we do! You save me, I save you, you save me, I save you.”
“And for how long can we keep doing this?” He interrupted again in frustration.
"Well, we've been doing it for a very, very long time. And I guess we'll keep going ’till it's the end of the line.” Steve said confidently.
All was quiet save for the water dripping from their clothes onto the workshop floor.
“We’re going to be fine.” Steve continued. “We just have to keep breathing. Look at us. Both almost a century old. Turns out you can’t die if you just keep breathing.” He found himself scoffing a reluctantly chuckle and Steve gave a smile in return.
“We can figure it out. Fix it. You can do it! I know you can.” Steve said reassuringly. Lovingly cupping his face between his hands again.
“I know, I know, Stevie. Because we can do anything.” He rolled his eyes.
“We can do anything.” Stevie confirmed softly as he dropped their foreheads together.
They breathed together deeply.
“Together to the end of the line.” Bucky whispered.
“If we’re not together it can’t be the end of the line. But if it is the end of the line, then at least we’ll be together.” Steve finished.