fear itself

[deadthenred]

WHO: Bucky Barnes + ???
WHERE: the dreamscape
WHEN: vague pre-event beforetimes.
WHAT: three nightmares.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: feelings of inadequacy, vampires

[ In his dreams, it's 1943 again. ]

1)

[ Maybe you've had this nightmare before. Like showing up to take a final for a class you've forgotten to attend the whole semester, this is one that repeats.

There's a podium, a microphone— one of those old-timey, radio looking pieces. Behind the podium is an enormous star-spangled flag. There might be cameras in the audience, too, but the people out there are dark, nebulous, hard to see. One thing's for sure, though: they're all watching.

You gotta make a speech. ]

2)

[ The signs on the buildings here are all in French, but the soldiers are speaking English. They're crowded around their jeeps, mostly, biding time until reinforcements arrive and they can follow Patton up to the front. The only electricity right now is coming from batteries, and there are still holes in all the buildings from when the Germans blew right through, and the roads are still more mud than pavement.

Winter was unkind, in this part of Europe. It's still cold.

In fact, Bucky's teeth are close to chattering as he approaches the dark house, the street illuminated by memory, if not by lamplight. Some part of his subconscious knows what he's gonna find here. ]

Look. [ He turns to whoever's he's walking with, younger than usual, the cold snapping in his voice. ] Maybe we shouldn't go in.

[ A lot of people in this town have died, recently. Not all of them have stayed dead. ]

3)

[ The picture is black and white, but you can tell that the man's uniform is red, white, and blue. Captain America, the name blares in the tin of a radio announcer. He has the strength of ten men, the speed of ten horses, and the heart of a can-do patriot. He's the latest miracle of American engineering, and he's fighting on the side of freedom! So look out, Hitler and Hirohito—

And then the man smiles like a poster, except he's not a poster anymore, everything's all in living color. And he looks straight ahead, and says: ]

What makes you think you could ever keep up?

Comments

for natasha

[deadthenred]

[ It's raining in Paris, and he's whining about it. The one afternoon off they get all month, and finally in someplace nice, and it's raining.

There are two of them, huddled underneath the same umbrella, his arm around her shoulder. But then she breaks away, taking the umbrella with her.

"I like the rain, the way it sounds on the umbrella, the way the air feels."

And suddenly the umbrella is gone from her hand, and the air is new but not heavy, and she doesn't seem to get wet. She looks very happy.

"Man," he says, "You are such a girl sometimes."

She turns back to him, and brings herself nearer, wrapping a pale arm around his neck. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

This is a good dream. ]

[bornrussian]

[It's been a long while since sleep stopped being an enemy. These days, when the darkness rises up to claim her, Natasha's feet aren't met with the steady incline of Vormir's peak beneath her feet. No cloud covered and tumultuous sky above, no hint of sulphur sticking in her nose, no rush of wind humming louder and louder in her ears until she can't think clearly, no reason to fall again and again and again without ever hitting the ground.

The last time she dreamt it, in her final fall, she could feel herself hit the ground for the first time, and she woke up to a quiet calm settling across her like a weighted blanket.

Then no more.

These days, her dreams are almost pedestrian.

It's all wish fulfillment, mixed with the type of repetitive nonsense brains are so very good at conjuring at night, mixed with the occasional nightmares that inevitably flits out of her memory upon waking.

This is different.

The scent of rain hits her first. Fresh and cold and so familiar that a dizzying wave of homesickness crashes into her. She's still reeling when the scene unfolds in front of her. The scent of rain is followed by the fact, as heavy drops splatter against the asphalt of the Parisian street. (If asked, Natasha wouldn't be able to pin point how she knows they're in Paris. In the way of dreams, she just does.)

Next comes the umbrella, followed by a flash of red, then the man and the woman. Lovers. The knowledge is as unfounded and immutable as the Parisian setting just moments ago.

The girl, Natasha thinks, is her. But so is she, watching the two of them.

For a wavering moment, she is both. Silent observer and active participant. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the umbrella, both hands empty. Then the redheaded woman turns and Natasha is watching him solidly through her eyes. No more double perspective.]

You say that like it's a bad thing. [The words leave Natasha's mouth without her thinking them first, and her lips are pulled up in an immediate and warm smile. She tilts her head back, one hand braced against his chest, smile widening. Natasha knows the shape of it on her face by the way it pulls something soft and fond up in her chest.

Her hand finds the nape of his neck, right between hairline and upturned collar, fingers curling against warm skin and brushing into his hair.

It feels right.

It feels wrong.

Like a memory that was never hers.]

But I think you prefer me this way, non? [Her French accent is flawless, her voice hitting a teasing note along with her smile.]

[deadthenred]

[ That jerks him out of the dream. Not all the way out of it, like a long fall into dark water. But enough to realize that he's not alone, here.

Which makes it better? Which makes it worse?

(What happens, usually, when his mind shows him this particular memory is: he tells her that it is not a bad thing at all. And she says that she'll show him, and he forgets about the rain altogether.) ]

I'm—

[ Still lost, a little, as he puts it all together. Bucky loves Paris, the way only an American can. ]

I'm sorry. I didn't—

[ He pulls himself back, awkwardly, almost slipping on the slick pavement. The rain comes down like a sheet between them. ]

This is real awkward.

[bornrussian]

[The rain is like a curtain around them, creating a little space for them out of easy view from the rest of the street. There should be other people around, cars zipping up and down the street.

If this is the corner of Paris that Natasha thinks it is, it's rarely quiet. But everything around the edges of him are blurred out and distant obscured by the rain and the dream in equal measures.

It should feel claustrophobic, but instead it comes off as somehow intimate.

He steps away, and Natasha's fingers curl into the air rather than strands of soaked hair and rain wet skin. She feels the loss like an ache as she lowers her arms and watches him through the rain.

Her brows dip into a frown, and the dream tugs at her and threatens to pull her under. But his words are a lifeline, keeping her head above water.]

This is a dream. [The words are almost stolen by the crash of the rain. She means them to be a strong statement, instead they come out as pointing out the obvious. Like saying this rain is sure wet.]

But I'm not dreaming you.

[deadthenred]

[ It's not a secluded part of Paris. The rain has chased some of the usual crowds away, but there was nothing private about it. It was only their closeness that made it feel otherwise, magnified by the stolen intimacy of memory.

Not that they were the only people kissing on the sidewalk in Paris. It was something all the American tourists did, according to the stereotype. But that was part of the thrill, too, standing revealed, in plain sight, ordinary. He never got to do that for very long. He's not really doing that now. He's just dreaming.

And he's gone and mixed someone else in it too. ]

No. This is all me. [ He brings a hand up to his face, like he could wipe the rain away. ] I didn't mean to drag you here.

[ He doesn't look at her. Still doesn't know what to say. ]

Y'know, Steve was always the better talker.

[bornrussian]

[There are conclusions to be drawn from the way his eyes won't quite meet hers. Does she still look like herself or the same but other? There's no way to tell now that she's so firmly inhabiting this body.

Natasha moves to stand next to him, shifts the umbrella so it'll cover them both, and watches the rain soaked street in front of them fill up with cars and people hurrying to get out of the rain.

They're still in a bubble. Untouched. The people looking faded like they were drawn with water colors as they duck past. Are they seeing the same things? She can't help but wonder. Maybe they're dreaming separately but at the same time.]

I've been pulled into worse dreams. [The words are offered with a certain wryness.]

A memory or wishful thinking?

[deadthenred]

If it were wishful thinking, it wouldn't be raining.

[ Though that had added to the romance, the way memories turn it all rosy, gilding the lily of everything. It was happening now, with them close enough to hide under the single umbrella.

He looks down, face breaking into something between a wince and a grimace, tightening his angles. Like that'll break the spell. ]

I can maybe— we can go somewhere else. [ The memories come from him, after all. ] But I can't promise it'll be good.

[bornrussian]

I don't mind the rain.

[Natasha gives herself a moment to watch the rain drops hit the puddles on the pavement, and listen to his breathing as they stand shoulder to shoulder.

It feels almost normal. A certain kind of homesickness rising in her chest. Oh to be in Paris again, standing shoulder to shoulder with someone who knows her. Except Bucky doesn't know her at all. Just like she doesn't know him.]

Dealer's choice, I guess. [She tilts her head back to look at him.] Or we could go to see the Eiffel Tower.

[Does the dream extend that far? Will it let them? She can feel something tugging at her, that weird dual perspective flickering before her eyes again. Like she's just borrowing the body from dream!Natasha and she's being pushed out.]

[deadthenred]

Sure. We can go to the Eiffel Tower.

[ It's visible from where they're standing, almost impossibly close, almost like it's been watching them, a tower of eyes in a city of light.

But as he starts to walk toward it, the city blinks. Suddenly, it's not raining anymore.

There's a Jeep parked in front of the Eiffel Tower, four men in hard olive helmets looking up at the tricolor flying at the top of it, caught high in the August sunshine.

Most of the time he's spent in Paris was back in 1944. ]