The Red Soldier: Captain America and the Red Soldier

ISSUE #23

(Y/N) trudged from the bathroom, dabbing at the back of his head with a hand towel. The door to the bedroom he'd been assigned shut behind him. He removed the towel from his head, checking its fibres, no blood. Using the front camera of his phone and the mirror hanging behind the door he assessed the sutures, critiquing them in his head, eventually arriving at the conclusion that he could have done better - but not by much.

        Clothes lay out on the small bed: a white t-shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and some fresh underwear; all clean but severely wrinkled. (Y/N) dried himself thoroughly before sitting down beside them, his fingers fondling the fabric. The initials 'J.B.B' were written on each of the labels in thick bold lettering. A small smile plastered his face. The practice of labelling your belongings was drilled into every soldier. 'Label your shit (L/N), and this wouldn't happen!' he remembered Colonel Phillips yelling at him when he'd misplaced one of his boots many years ago.

        He pulled the underwear on first, and then slipped into the jeans. Taking his belt from his other trousers, he threaded it through the loops on the denim waistband of Bucky's jeans, pulling it taught and buckling it. Noticing the abundance of fabric hanging about his ankles he bent down, pinching the inseam and rolling the hem up a couple inches so that they now lay about his ankles rather than under his heels. After drying his hair to the best of his ability he shrugged into the plain white t-shirt, guiding his cast through the sleeve first before pulling it over his head. It was soft, and smelled of James Barnes's cologne - vetiver and sandalwood - something he took comfort in, pushing the fabric to his nose and taking a deep breath in through his nose. Used to wearing a shirt, he habitually tucked the excess fabric into the waistband of the jeans. Whilst tussling with his hair in the mirror, his fingertips grazed the shaven patch of hair at the crown of his head. He wasn't sure which would make him stand out more, the stitches in the back of his scalp, or a bandage.

        Letting out a deep breath he slumped onto the bed, his knees colliding as he spread his feet apart. (Y/N) sighed, resting his arms on his thighs, and his face in the palm of his left hand. The Red Soldier stared at his reflection in the mirror. Despite the bruise on his right eye, the marks around his wrists and neck, his burst lip, the stitches in the back of his head, and the navy cast on his right arm, he wondered whether or not he'd been rash in his decision to renounce violence. With the tip of his index finger dragging across the stitches in the back of his head he settled on a decision. With the constant bloodshed his life seemed to attract he would never truly live. His life had involved many close calls with death, and he remembered them all quite clearly:

        His eyes opening after the explosion on the train, only to find out that James Buchanan Barnes had perished. The feeling of Red Skull's fingers as they tightened around his throat. Every scratch at his flesh the demonic forms of his Alba sisters delivered him as he fought Chthon in his realm. The fear and panic plaguing him when he narrowly avoided colliding head on with a wagon only hours after meeting the man who had ultimately saved him. Scars from Thanos's attempt on his life were beginning to disappear, but he still remembered the pain and his desperation to live in that moment after only just being reunited with James Barnes. The girl who saved him that day rendering him comatose only months later, the resultant hospital admission having him questioning his own sanity. And then there were the most recent events; Agatha Harkness's dark magic battering him to near death, his scrimmage with the pretender, John Walker.

        (Y/N) (L/N) mustered a proud smile as he continued to stare into the mirror opposite him, ruling that his choice wasn't selfish, but ultimately an act of self-preservation, not only for himself, but for the man he loved. James Barnes didn't deserve to have to play nurse every other week, he too deserved a life worth living, one where he could go to work without needing to worry whether or not he'd have somebody to return home to.