thearena | someday you will die

Entry tags:

someday you will die

Who| Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes
What| Sam slinks off after a fatal encounter with a viking, to die with a friend
When| End of the arena
Where| somewhere around the science labs
Warnings/Notes| Allusions to violence, mortal injuries, death

In hindsight, none of that was the best decision that Sam's ever made. The guy had obviously been fighting to survive, and so had Sam - but in the end, neither of them had managed to get what they were fighting for. Sam's got no idea who that kid was - or at least, very little idea, he might have an inkling - but he sure as hell hopes the kid made it out of there.

He's barely holding himself upright as he stumbles through the hallways of the spacesport. Correction - he isn't holding himself upright, he's hunched over and holding himself together with one arm wrapped around his torso, the other hanging limply at his side. Sam'd done the best he could to patch himself up, but without more immediate medical attention - the kind they don't have here - he knows he's got maybe an hour left, tops. Every step hurts like hell, his vision is blurring both due to what's probably a pretty serious concussion and blood dripping down into his eyes, and part of Sam wants to just call it, to sit down and accept the fact that he's not going to get up again.

But he doesn't want to die alone. He can convince himself he's not afraid of death - it's not the first time he's faced it - but he doesn't want to go out like that, slumped against a metal wall with no one else around, because he gave up. So he keeps going, trying to drag himself to the makeshift infirmary, the best chance he's got at finding someone he gives a damn about.

It takes him longer than it should, to realize that there's someone up ahead, and to recognize who it is.

"Bucky?"

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He thinks the sudden sound of alarms and a voice counting down the minutes is supposed to cause panic and alarm. Most of the Tributes still alive in the arena must have been spurred into a last minute dash to try and find shelter by now, a shelter that Bucky doesn't doubt exists somewhere in the arena. They have to have a winner, after all, someone has to live through this mess.

It won't be him. The countdown to dustruction begins and Bucky doesn't feel panic or alarm, what he feels is a mixture of relief and resignation. This is the part he's been waiting for since he killed Rumlow.

Returning to the lab-made-infirmary is his first impulse. It's the closest thing to home in the arena and better to die somewhere familiar, it might make it easier. Still hard, but easier and infinitely better than his last death. Explosions, if that's what this is leading to, they're probably quick. Bucky thinks he can cope with that.

It seems like he wasn't the only one with that idea when Sam hails him and Bucky turns round to see the other man in even worse shape than he last left him, which was saying something. Bucky moves towards Sam, "What happened to you?"

His lips pull up in a reasonably good attempt at a smile, when he confirms who he’s run into. Sam probably doesn’t have the right to feel anything like relief that Bucky’s here, when Sam knows he’s gonna die, but he does anyway.

“Hey, Buckbeak,” he greets, coming to a stop and leaning a little against the wall. “Has anyone shown you Harry Potter yet? Someone needs to show you Harry Potter.”

It’s only then that he registers that Bucky’d asked him a question, and he should probably answer it. “Got in a fight,” he replies, probably entirely unhelpfully. Bucky can likely guess that much just from looking at him, if Sam looks half as bad as he feels. “You should see the other guy.”

"Maybe later." he says by way of answer, brushing off that first address.

This is a turnaround, Sam speaking words that make no sense (reminding him of Stark) while Bucky feels surprisingly clearheaded. A shake of his head and he's stepping forwards, snorting softly at the reply, Steve would have said the exact same thing in this situation. "You should sit down."

There's nothing Bucky can do to save him now, he has no idea where the safe place that must exist in the arena is, nor the time to find it. All he can do is offer a way for Sam to be more comfortable until the end comes.

With purpose he offers out his metal arm as support to the injured man.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. He’d had an objection to sitting down before, because he knows that once he does, he isn’t going to get up. That still hasn’t changed, but he’s gotten to where he wanted to be. That’s all he has left in him.

He curls his still mostly functioning hand around the offered arm gratefully, leaning against it. At least this way he go down slowly, instead of just collapsing like he’d vaguely been planning.

“I don’t know if I got the right to ask you this, Buck, but will you sit down with me?” He hesitates, frowning a little as he hears what he’d just said. “Is it okay if I call you Bucky?”

"I don't have anywhere else to be." Bucky answers, guiding Sam a little further along the hall and then letting him slowly sink down against the wall before following suit, leaving a few inches between them. "You can call me Bucky."

Almost everyone else already does and it feels right enough by now for Bucky not to mind it.

He settles himself down, pulling his legs up so he can drape his arms across his knees and letting his head rest back against the wall. Around them the electronic voice communicates that there are only 30 minutes remaining until the end and he thinks that's fine, that's not too long to wait.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, in response to both of those, leaning over a little so his shoulder rests against Bucky’s. It’s not entirely intentional, but he’d thought about it, so he’s claiming it anyway. “Kind of thought it might be reserved for friends, wasn’t sure I qualified.”

He’s quiet after that, trying to get himself to focus - he’s not sure why, it just seems like it’s important. That he should figure out, if that electronic voice is something he’s actually hearing or just background noise his mind’s making for him. And what it means.

“What’s the countdown for?” he asks, figuring if Bucky can’t actually hear it, he’ll find out by his reaction.

"No it... it fits better than anything else." he shrugs one shoulder, the one Sam isn't leaning on. Bucky looks at the other soldier for a moment, considers pulling or pushing away but knows deep in his gut that at this part he doesn't want to be alone either. "You fuss over me as much as Steve does, that works for me."

Indirect way of saying that, by concentrated effort, Sam had earned him a Bucky care badge.

He looks at Sam, considers briefly not telling him the truth (as he suspects it) and decides against it. He doesn't want to lie to Sam. "The end. They're ending the arena, they've done it before." he didn't live to see the ghost town crumble but he watched the footage after. "It's a countdown to destruction."

Sam manages a smile that even flashes a little bit of teeth at that, lifting his good hand in an attempt at a brofist. Of course, since Sam’s fading pretty fast and Bucky’s got his arms wrapped around his knees, it ends up being more ‘Sam tapping the back of his knuckles very lightly against Bucky’s,’ but it’s the thought that counts.

“Oh.” He takes a moment to think about that, to realize that Bucky’s not just sitting with him while he dies, that he’s waiting for death, too. Then he pushes himself up a little, makes a concentrated effort to sit a bit straighter so he’s not leaning against Bucky for support because he can’t hold himself up, he’s resting his shoulder against his because he wants to sit next to him.

“Back when I was serving, my wingman, he used to say that neither of us would have to go out alone, because if one of us was doing something stupid enough to get ourselves killed, the other would be right there with them. You didn’t get one of us without the other one.” Sam’d started that story with an intention, but it takes him a moment to realize what part of it was. Then he admits quietly, “I didn’t want to die alone. So, thank you.”

"Till the end of the line." Bucky murmurs after Sam tells him the start of the story. It's not about him and Steve, he knows, but it still rings with that familiarity. His expression is somber at the knowledge that Sam had someone like that back home. "Never seems to work out that way."

He didn't mean to be depressing, though that's how it might sound. It's a learned fact born of experience, too much experience. All the intent in the end didn't mean a thing when the world was set on conspiring against you.

It's not the end of what Sam hasto say, he can focus on the last part and Bucky nods, then admits, "Neither did I." it's as much for him as it is for Sam. "We'll come back."

It's meant to be a comfort.

It's not depressing. Well, no, it is, but it's also true. Sam knows that, and he gives a slight nod in agreement.

"Nah, it never does. For awhile, I really wished it did. That it would've been me, too, going out with him, and not just there to watch." There's a pause, then he adds, "I don't anymore. Haven't for a long time." It seems important to make sure that's clear, even when he's dying. Maybe especially then. "I got others I'd be willing to go to the end of the line with."

He doesn't understand the importance of those words, not beyond their sentiment, but he likes them anyway. He'd thought people like that were rare, that that kind of feeling didn't come along very often. There are a lot of people that Sam would die for, people he's never even met - comes with the job - but not very many he'd ever wanted to die with. Then Steve barrelled his way into Sam's life, brought Natasha and Bucky along with him. Then he came here, met Venus and Initiate, Jet and Albert.

There's more than one person who means the world to Sam, and he doesn't know how he feels about that, what that means. But it's a heavy enough topic to think on even normally; he doesn't stand a chance with his brain cooking from whatever infection's coursing through him thanks to getting bit, on top of getting banged up from the fight that'd done him in.

"Yeah." It is a comfort, he thinks. Maybe. He stretches out his hand, palm open next to Bucky's, mostly just to see if he'll take it. "I'm glad I'm here with you."

"Don't think I'd be your first choice..."

Considering how briefly they'd known each other, considering that the Winter Soldier had tried to kill Sam twice. Bucky sometimes wonders how the people he'd come so close to killing could be around him so easily but he never stopped being grateful for it -- and never stopped battling the fear that he would lose it all eventually.

"But thanks." he looks down at Sam's hand, then up at the man himself. He can see all the signs of injury and strain the arena has put on him and knows that, as much as he is truthful that Sam will wake up again, he'll still carry the memory of it with him. The same as Bucky, the same as all of them.

It's not wrong to want to offer someone comfort, or to want it in return but it is hard to unlearn the lessons that HYDRA imparted about daring to seek it; it's why he's relieved that Sam offers it to him. Bucky knew he wouldn't be capable of asking for it himself, not even with his heart beating in his chest a little faster than his calm exterior would suggest about their imminent temporary demise.

"Not sure you aren't crazy though." It's a joke, honestly.

He manages a little bit of a wry grin there. "And I know I'm not yours."

Not that it matters, or that he's even thinking of it like that. He's just slightly selfishly grateful that he's not stuck here with his own thoughts, circling in his head up until the end. And he's glad that Bucky's not by himself, waiting to die alone.

"Oh, I'm not sure I'm not crazy, either." But he closes his hand around Bucky's anyway.

"It's not about first choices, you know. It's - shit, man, you're just like Steve. Come barging into my life like a big old jackass and suddenly I'm blurring lines I thought I had pretty set in stone and jumping in headfirst without making sure my wings are strong enough to catch us both, flying by the seat of my pants and hoping like hell I know what I'm doing, somewhere in there. Suddenly I'm settling in for the long haul, 'cause I can't imagine you not being in my life." Just like Steve, damn it. Sam's still pretty sure this is all Steve's fault.

There's a brief pause, then, "That's a hell of a thing to say when we're both gonna die, I know. Think maybe that big guy bashed my head in one too many times."

"Crazy." Bucky says, in a particularly purposeful flat tone that indicates he's continuing to press that point in good humour. Then he shrugs, "It's okay, I'm probably crazy too." with very little probably about it.

They might as well be in Wonderland here -- which is a reference he doesn't remember the context of but knows fits this moment.

"I hope you hit him back just as hard." he thinks about asking who it was but decides that's a question that, if he does ask, is better left for later. Though given he'd not long since saved Sam from getting killed by Rumlow he's a little irked that the other man got himself into trouble so soon again. It seems to be a common issue with the people Bucky finds himself attached to.

"... thanks, for saying it." he looks down at his feet, "I'm not good at this."

"Yeah, yeah. The two of us, we're a pair of crazies." He sounds nothing but fond as he says it, though. "Least we're in good company."

Sam smiles at that, a flash of teeth that's more predatory than anything else. "He's dead, so yeah, I think I did." The guy might have taken Sam out in the end, but he damn well returned the favor. Even if it apparently didn't mean much, in the long run. The kid he saved is just going to die when the arena goes out. But that isn't a line of thought he wants to pursue right now.

"I meant it." He thinks about giving Bucky's hand a squeeze, but honestly he's not sure if he'd be able to muster up a stronger grip than he's already got. "You don't have to be good at it, man. You can try anyway, if you want."

"You said it."

There's a tiny smile of Bucky's own when Sam confirms that he did in fact kill the man who injured him. Anyone who attacked someone Bucky considered like a friend shouldn't get away with it, even that was the name of the game. "Good."

He lets his head lean back against the wall and stretches out his legs in front of him, reasoning that he might as well be comfortable with the imminent end upon them. "Sometimes..." he starts, stops, then continues, "I still think this is... temporary. That they'll take it away from me again."

Sam considers that for a minute, trying to think through the cotton fuzz that seems to have found its way into his head. There's blood threatening to drip into his eyes again, but he doesn't want to move his hand from Bucky's to wipe it away, so he'll leave it, for now. He'll probably forget about it in a bit anyway.

"Us?" he asks finally. "Or you?" That'd been the most important thing they took from Bucky, Sam's pretty sure. That they took Bucky from himself, made it so he has to relearn who he is in a way no one should ever have to. "Or both?"

This isn't the best time to have this conversation, he reflects, not when Sam is hurt, dying probably, with or without whatever the Gamemakers had planned on the way. It's where his thoughts are running though and he feels a need to talk, to focus on something other than the pain that's in store for them both.

He hopes it will be quick this time.

"All of it." Bucky lifts his free hand, the metal one, and gestures vaguely at the air in front of him before dropping the hand down into his lap. "I don't want to go back to that."

He's not sure how long he watches that metal hand, even after Bucky's stopped waving it, but it's probably a little too long.

"I don't make promises when I know there's no garauntee I'll be able to keep 'em. But when you're gonna die in..." He pauses, because he's not actually sure where the countdown's at. He's only got enough focus for one thing right now, and that's Bucky. "Pretty damn soon, might as well."

But he still can't promise. Not really, not when he's not sure how much control he'll have over anything. And anyway, he doesn't want to promise Bucky that he wouldn't let that happen. It feels too much like he's trying to protect Bucky - which he is, he would be, but it ain't like Bucky's some kind of damsel in distress who needs him to jump in and save him.

"I don't want you to go back to that either, Bucky. I'd do anything I could, to help you make sure that doesn't happen."

"Eighteen minutes." Bucky fills in for him automatically. He could add the seconds onto that too but decides it's unnecessary detail.

On second thought, he's actually not sure if Sam really wanted to know exactly how long they have left but he'd been trained to keep track in time-sensitive situations and old habits die hard. He'd actually like to be able to not pay attention to the passage of time, to not be painfully aware of when that last second of his current existence is creeping up. Just another thing to not thank HYDRA for.

"I'd rather..." he cuts that off before he voices it, self-conscious for a moment that they're being filmed right now and just who could be watching this. "Thanks. For everything, not just that."

“Thanks.” Honestly, Sam’s not sure he wanted to know, either, but the thanks is sincerely said.

He frowns a little when Bucky trails off, but assumes he’s got a good reason for it, even if he can only vaguely remember what that might be. “Tell me later?” Then he smiles a little, gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze. “Anytime, Bucky, I’m not going anywhere.”

Except where they’re both going, when the arena gives up, if Sam’s injuries don’t take him out first. “It’s okay to be scared, you know that, right?” Because Sam’s pretty sure he is. Or would be, if he didn’t have a questionable infection and a couple of head injuries.

"Yeah. Yeah okay." he agrees. Probably not, since what he'd been going to say was he'd rather be dead than turned back into the Asset. Bucky was a prisoner now under the Capitol and he would not become their brainwashed slave so long as there was an alternative, even if that meant he was dead.

Steve wouldn't like to hear that, he doesn't think Sam would either.

He flicked his eyes to Sam and nodded. "We'll wake up again. I always do." he's not just thinking of his deaths here when he says that, he's thinking about the cryostasis tank and how being frozen felt like dying, over and over only to be dragged back into waking each time. "You'll see."

Sam wouldn't like it, not at all. But he'd understand it, and part of him could even support it.

He takes Bucky's response at face value though, because honestly, there's a pretty decent chance he might not even remember Bucky was supposed to tell him something later.

"We'll wake up," he repeats. He's never liked people talking about death like it was just going to sleep - his dad never woke up, and neither did Riley, or all the soldiers Sam was too late to save. But that's not what Bucky's talking about, and it's... fitting. Maybe if he thinks about this one like going to sleep, like passing out from blood loss or injuries or whatever, it'll be easier.

"...how do you feel about hugs?"

Bucky looks away from Sam, down at his legs stretched out in front of him.

Hugs are... difficult. He hugged Steve in the arena and he's accepted similar affection from Aang before, but... he understands it's an aim at comfort, though more for himself or for Sam's own he doesn't know. Bucky knows he should say yes, that it would be the decent thing to do, even if he's uncomfortable himself but...

"Not now. Please." he keeps looking down with an air of guilt, trying to make up for it by keeping a firmer grip on Sam's hand.

He just can't.

“Okay,” Sam agrees easily, but he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t notice that guilt.

He’d asked for both of their sakes, because he sure as hell could use one and he kind of thought Bucky could, too, but now he almost wishes he hadn’t, if telling him no is going to make Bucky feel guilty.

“Nah, man, you don’t have to do that. I said I’d try not to do anything that made you uncomfortable, yeah? I don’t ever want you to say yes to me just because you think it’s what I want, you’re too important for that.”

You're too important for that, not the words Bucky expected to hear, not at all. He's a little stunned by them, to the point that all he can do in response is nod, at least for the moment.

The seconds tick by as he collects himself and finds himself feeling grateful to Sam again. They felt like a validation of his ability to choose for himself, to not just give in to what he thought others wanted of him. That's good, that's something in the wake of still not being able to do something to help someone who has been forever helping him.

"I understand, I..." they're getting down to the wire here. Ten minutes and under. "I wanted to do the right thing."

"That's why you're a good guy."

He sounds pretty confident, for a guy who's minutes away from death. Honestly, he doubts Bucky will agree with him, but he says it anyway. Sam believes it.

"It's a hell of a thing to want, man, I think a lot of people couldn't care less about doing the right thing." Sam stares down at his and Bucky's hands for a moment. "For what it's worth, you did do the right thing."

"No. I'm not."

That's all he's going to say on the matter, he shouldn't let Sam believe falsely about him. The things that Bucky has done, even under the brainwashed command of HYDRA, they're bad things, things that no good man would ever do. Sometimes he has nightmares about what they did to him, often he has nightmares about what he did for them.

If he were good he thinks he wouldn't kill here either.

But that doesn't mean he can't let himself hear the opposite and appreciate the attempt by others. Like if he keeps trying then maybe one day it really will come true. "That's... thank you."

Yeah, there it is. Sam nods, almost absently. “Won’t argue. Not even when I actually can. Probably gonna point out the reasons why I disagree, though.”

But now’s not the time for that. Not in the least because Sam’s not sure he could manage some cohesive reasonings other than ‘yes you are.’

“You’re welcome. Thank you, for sitting with me. And for being honest. Keep doing that, okay?”

"I don't think I'm good at lying." Not without being told to, anyway. The best he could do was to selectively tell whatever truth it was, holding back the pieces he was most uncomfortable with admitting.

But telling the truth pleases Sam so he supposes that's something.

A flash of memory hits him then from one of their earlier talks in this arena, spoken with a real piece of the old Bucky Barnes showing through. "This would be a good time for a cigarette."

"There's a lot of different kinds of lying, man, most people are good at at least one of them. That's not always a bad thing, though."

He's quiet for a moment, but then ruins whatever semblance of coming off as serious and deep he might have had by making a sound somewhere between a snort and a giggle at Bucky's comment. Sam'd like to say it was a chuckle, but nah, it was pretty solidly a giggle. He doesn't regret it, even when it makes his chest ache - in a weird way, it gives him a surge of gratitude. Bucky being here managed to turn what probably would have been a slow and painful death into something actually decent.

Sam looks over at Bucky, smiling at him in what's probably way too fond-looking, but there it is. "What the hell, this would be a great time for a cigarette. And a beer."

"I haven't tried one of those yet either." Bucky says, with a faint smile. Not because he can't, he just hasn't been inclined too yet. He knows what alcohol is and how it functions, he's wary of how it can make a person vulnerable more than he's intrigued at its potential to make him feel good.

He's glad his words are cheering Sam up, at any rate. "Lot's of stuff to catch up on."

Bucky remembers the end of the mall arena, the avalanche of gin that had been sent to Thor, no such luck this time around.

He'd shake his head, but fortunately he does remember not being too pleased with himself the last time he'd done that. "Crying shame, man," he says solemnly, even though he's smiling.

Sam makes a vague noise of agreement, when Bucky says he has a lot to catch up on. "You and me, we'll find something good for you. Remind me later to start hunting down the music you missed, assuming they got anything like it here."

"Sure." Bucky agrees, uncertain if that would actually come to fruition or not. He knew Albert had been able to play him some music from his own time period, that is, the forties. He doesn't know about anything more recent than that. "I'll have to trust your taste."

Tick tock, tick tock.

He won't update Sam on the time again. Now it's so close, he doesn't want Sam to focus back onto what's about to happen. Maybe if he's lucky he won't even know until it's too late, maybe it'll be something instantaneous. Then they'd both be lucky.

“I won’t let you down.”

It’d probably be pretty easy to lean back and let go, close his eyes and not open them again, but he won’t. It might seem pointless, fighting to stay around, clinging to life when he’s just going to die anyway when whatever the gamemakers have planned comes around, but he refuses to let go when Bucky’s still here.

It’s not like he knows if he’s even really doing any good at this point, if he can distract Bucky the way his own mind keeps wandering off, but he’s going to try anyway. He’s not going to leave Bucky alone.

“Marvin Gaye, Trouble Man. First thing I recommended to Steve, first thing I’m gonna look up for you. You remember how to dance?”

"Maybe. I haven't tried. I think I used to do that a lot, it was a thing back when..." he pauses for a moment, "back in the forties. Everyone danced. Except Steve."

Not for his own lack of trying and that's... that's a good memory to have, trying to teach Steve to dance back when he was a skinny little teen, with a brain and heart twice his size. He huffs to himself in amusement, "He had two left feet."

Somehow right now in this moment he feels more like Bucky Barnes than he ever has.

Makes sense. There’s not a lot that Sam really knows about the forties, but he’s pretty sure he remembers that being one of them.

“You should try it again. I manage to find that album, you’re going to want to.”

The thing about Steve makes him laugh, echoing Bucky’s amused huff with a snort. If he was more conscious at the moment, he’d make the connection about Bucky being able to tell him a good memory, like he had at Christmas. But as it is, he’s just pleased, hearing potentially embarrassing stories about one of his best friends from another.

“No shit? Yeah, I can see that. You try to help him?”

"I tried to teach him, I remember..." remembers a scratchy record player and the furniture pushed against the walls, boney artists hands held in his as he told Steve no, you gotta move your feet like this, you don't want to trip her and the protests of nevermind Buck, some fella's just ain't meant to dance and hadn't he just considered that a crock of horse shit? "He never took to it though."

Not like Bucky did, always able to go out on a weekend with a pretty girl on his arms, sometimes with a friend for Steve trailing along.

Was that an explosion? Somewhere deeper inside the base. He swallows, reminds himself to stay calm. There's no need to panic. "Maybe he'd be better at whatever they call dancing now."

“Hey, man, it’s good dancing.” He’s smiling through the protest, though.

Sam doesn’t hear anything that sounds like an explosion, because he’s way too far gone to be that aware of his surroundings, but he can pick up on the tension in Bucky. He shifts his grip on Bucky’s hand a little, sliding it around so he can tangle their fingers together. There’s a flash of the last time he held someone’s hand like that, of Steve and blood and grief, but it’s brief, and he lets it go.

“Maybe I’ll give it a shot. Teach you both, and you can show me how they did it in the forties.”

"I'll believe when I see it."

There's another boom, louder. The corridor is shaking and Bucky's hand gratefully holds tighter around Sam's, tight enough that it'd be on the side of painful for him if he were still aware enough to feel it. They'll come back, he knows that for the truth but there's still the fear, animal and tied into the heart of him that death shouldn't be that way. There's always the chance it won't be.

"I'll do my--"

Bucky doesn't get to finish that sentence. There's a tremendous quake and he closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling of Sam's hand in his right before this is a sudden wave of heatfirepain, then mercifully, darkness.

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