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The barracks are just as barren on his hundredth night as they were his first. He sits with his back up against the rusted steel of his bed’s backboard, one knee bent in the air, his bed neatly made under him.
The soldier picks at his jagged nails, all dirty and stained a faint shade of yellow. His hands are always dirty — he’s always dirty.
He thought it might be a good thing, when he received the little draft card in the mail. Thought it might help him redeem himself. Redemption, his Mother would say, is something only the good seek to attain. If you seek it, then you will find it, Son.
He huffs at the memory, his jaw clenched tightly, a specific tooth in the back aching a little more than it should. He’d most likely ignore it until it rotted out of his mouth, nearly killing him, as he did with the rest of his injuries.
He thought it would be good, that it would make him good. But here he is, a cigarette between his lips, a book in his stained hands, and a body count long enough to wrap around the state of New York on his back.
Good men don’t Kill. Good men don’t Smoke. Good men don’t Lie. Good men don't…
“Barnes,” the Colonel calls from the doorway, hat perched perfectly on his balding head.
“Sir,” The Soldier jumps from his position on the bed, his fists folded neatly into themselves by his side. His back is straight as a blade, his expression hard and neutral as he looks forward blankly.
“At ease, Soldier,” Colonel Phillips nods curtly, “Nurse wants you in the Med Tent, said it’s time to check your wound.”
“Yes, Sir,” Barnes replies evenly, waiting for the man to exit the room completely before allowing his shoulders to slouch.
He knows that whatever she told the Lieutenant it was a lie; she cleared him over a week ago.
Barnes had taken six pieces of shrapnel during an expedition gone wrong over forty days ago; three in his chest, one in his gut, two in his legs and one in his shoulder. In all honesty, he should’ve been sent home with a Purple Heart.
The only way you go home is in a box, Soldier.
A box, a flag and a set of tags; that was what his Momma and his little Sister would have left of him. And maybe that was better than the alternative.
Maybe, going home to his family with a fogged up mind full of bodies and blood and fear was the bad choice.
Maybe he was the bad choice.
His boots are dusty, his tooth aches terribly and his muscles all feel as though they’re on fire. His mind swims and his fists clench and he wants to take the gun from his belt and put a bullet in his brain but then how would he find that Redemption he seeks?
“Sergeant Barnes,” the Nurse smiles sweetly when he enters the starch white tent, her outfit suiting her figure nicely. She wore blue, indicating that she was one of the head nurses, her little hat laid atop her done-up hair.
“Ma’am,” He nods, acknowledging her presence as she gestures for an empty bed.
“You’re wondering why you’re here,” Her smile falls a bit as she gets a good look at him.
His blue eyes are bloodshot, his jaw is covered in stubble and his skin is covered in a thin layer of dust from the storm that passed through the night before.
From his head to his boots, he reads Soldier. And physically that’s what he is, sure, he’s at war and he totes a gun and shoots where the boss says to shoot.
His soul was something worse, something darker. James Barnes had the Devil in him, and it’s exactly why he moved up to Sergeant so quickly in the first place.
This Twenty-Something kid from the heart of Brooklyn, nothing but a knack for using his hands instead of his head, a sick Mom and a kid Sister to his name.
This kid should’ve been nothing but a rookie, nothing but another mindless Cadet to lay down for the rest of the Important Soldiers.
But he was good. He was natural. He killed and he killed and he killed and he tortured. Barnes could get any truth you wanted out of a man before the Sun went down.
He hit until his knuckles bled, hit until someone pulled him away because, You can’t kill the Target, Barnes. Not before we get what we need.
He shot from hundreds of yards away with the aim of someone who’d have the gun pressed up against their Target’s temple.
Barnes’ soul was tainted in a way that would never be cleansed. No matter how much he Prayed, no matter how much he begged, no matter how much he confessed his sins to the man upstairs.
“Yeah,” He mutters, “Cleared me last week, didn’t ya?”
His drawl is thick and the gruffness of his voice doesn’t help any. The Nurse was from the West Coast somewhere, Washington maybe. He tried not to keep track of the things that made people people. Felt like knowing what made someone special was just a way to hurt when they died.
Because everyone dies, James.
His Mom. His Sister. The Nurse. His Colonel. Steve. His friends from grade school and any person he’s ever met on the busy streets of New York.
But most of all, He would die. He would die and it would end and he would finally be free.
“Bucky,” The Nurse sighs softly, “I called you here because, to be frank with you, your Mental Health is declining rapidly and it’s affecting you in too many ways physically.”
He snorts and her eyes go wide at the response. “Okay?”
“I’m sorry?” She seems nervous, her hands are wringing themselves out in front of her. “I don’t—“
“I don’t give a damn, Ma’am,” he shrugs, “Pardon my French. But you’re just wasting my time.”
“It’ll get you killed,” the Nurse tries to reason once more as Bucky heads toward the billowing flaps of the tent’s exit.
“God, I hope so.”
He makes his way back to his Barrack, his scarred knuckles rubbing against his trousers with each step he makes.
When he makes it back to the twin-sized bed he calls Home, he kneels at the end of it.
Barnes makes a cross over his upper half, closes his eyes and places his elbows on the stiff mattress. He Prays, and something that comes so naturally to him shouldn’t make him feel worse.
He knew the Bible from cover to cover, grew up in the Church, Confessed twice a week, Prayed his Rosary and still couldn’t wash the grime from his soul.
How long before you realize that God stopped listening a long time ago?
How long before you give up?
How long before the Devil wins?
Bucky can feel the Devil clawing at him from the inside, just begging to be set free. Some days he lets him out for a moment, only for a simple taste of the blood he craves.
He hears a man holler a cuss, followed by a woman’s fearful voice. Her fearful voice.
Bucky hesitates just for a moment before stalking back toward the Med tent, only to find her trembling, Hodge backing her into the metal table of supplies.
He sighs deeply before stepping toward the man, his fist colliding with something solid before either of them can comprehend what’s happening.
Then the two of them are on the ground. Bucky’s on top and he’s swinging and swinging and—
“You’re gonna kill him,” her voice shakes and he doesn’t care. She believes in him, he can feel it and he can’t let it happen.
James Barnes is not a good man.
James Barnes is beating a brother to death with his fists.
James Barnes is smiling as blood sprays onto his face.
James Barnes is letting go.
James Barnes has found the meaning of Redemption and it is beautiful.
Someone manages to pull him away, or maybe it’s a few someones. He’s dragged off to an empty tent halfway across the base, thrown onto the ground roughly and put on Armed Guard watch.
He sits in the dirt, his knees bent and his hands still dripping the red liquid — a mixture of Hodge’s and his own.
Saint Michael, the Archangel;
Bucky can feel the wet drops on his face dry from the lack of moisture in the air.
Defend us in battle, Be our protection against the malice and the snares of the Devil.
His soul aches and his fingers twitch. He’s free.
We humbly beseech God to command Him, and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host,
His lips curl wickedly just as he hears a commotion outside of the tent. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just revels in the feeling of Redemption as he comes down from his Adrenaline High.
By the Divine power thrust into Hell, Satan and the other Evil spirits who roam through the world seeking the ruin of Souls. Amen.
But instead of the Colonel, or his immediate Lieutenant as he’d expected, it’s her.
She’s still shaking as she holds the metal First-Aid kit, standing stiffly near the exit as she takes in his figure.
He’s too calm for someone who just beat a man within an inch of his life. A few more seconds and the Colonel would be writing a Condolence Letter.
“Bucky?” She always spoke softly to him, as if he were a fragile creature that would shatter at the slightest motion. And maybe he was.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” He assures, though he isn’t positive that he means it, as much as he wants to.
“I know,” She nods. And while he may not be sure, she absolutely is. “Thank you for defending me.”
She kneels in the dirt next to him, opening the box delicately. She retrieves a roll of gauze, some Antibiotics, and a bottle of Whiskey.
He holds a hand out obediently as she begins tending to his wounds. She frowns at the way that he groans from the pain, her frown deepening when he refuses the shot of Whiskey to go with it.
“Not a drinker,” he shrugs as he pulls a cigarette from the pocket on his shirt with the other hand, still uncleaned and bloody. He places it between his lips and lights it with a Zippo. “My Ma said it was the quickest way to lose your Faith.”
“You’re Religious?” She sounds completely skeptical, and after what she’s seen and heard from the man in the last three and a half months, she has every reason to be.
“Catholic,” he puffs, his split lips burning from the nicotine.
She doesn’t respond, not immediately anyway.
It’s not until she’s almost through with the other hand that she looks up at him, scanning those big blue eyes of his.
“Y’ain’t gonna like what you find, Ma’am,” Bucky shakes his head in warning, “You should quit while you’re ahead.”
“Why’d you do it?” She asks.
“Do what?” He hums.
“Try and kill Hodge.”
“Try? He ain’t dead?” Bucky’s demeanor perks up at that.
“He should be, but he’s a stubborn Bastard,” she grumbles, “Kinda like someone else I know in that regard.”
“You wanna know why I did it?” Bucky raises his brows expectantly. “I did it because I wanted to. Because feeling that prick Die beneath me, because of me — just something about that makes me feel Electric. Why do you give a damn?”
She looks away, focusing in on the faint pink of the gauze wrapped around his knuckles. “Maybe because you make me feel Electric."
“That’s a bad idea,” Bucky snickers, shaking his head, “Love’s a bullet to the brain waitin’ to happen, Doll. If you knew what was good for you, you’d tuck tail and run as far away from these idiots as you can.”
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a month.”
“Why haven’t you then?”
“You’re not the only one who gets to look for a way to get in good with the Bossman upstairs.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you seriously think fixing up a bunch of broken Soldiers is gonna get you to Heaven, Sweetheart?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” It’s a genuine question, one that he wished he had a definite answer to. But he doesn’t, so Bucky does what he does best.
He lies.
“Cause helping the Wicked don’t make you Holy,” he deadpans, eyes serious and filled with rage as he looks at her.
James Barnes wants to fall for someone like her. To love her and to hold her until Death do him part.
But James Barnes wants to do what he’s good at. What he knows. He wants to shoot and kill and torture and then he wants to die miserable because it’s what he knows he deserves.
But looking at her, in this moment, in this light, with her skin so close to his — James Barnes wants her more than anything.
He will not kill her.
“Get out,” his voice lowers dangerously, fists tightened as much as they can with the thick gauze that rounds them.
“Wh-“
“Get out.” Venom is the only word to describe it.
And she does, as much as she wants to stay. To comfort him, to heal him, to redeem him.
James Barnes will never find the Redemption he seeks.
And she will never find the love she yearns for, not in the broken soldier kneeling in the dirt on the other side of the dirty canvas tent.
For Barnes had been born with a Darkness in his heart, and he’d let it consume him in all the worst ways.