Who Am I? » [Stucky]

85. Hiding From The Truth

Bucky ran. He ran until his feet were bleeding. He ran until his lungs couldn’t function. He ran until there was no drop of energy left within him.

Heated tears ran down his cheeks as he sprinted unfalteringly, blurring the already unclear world before his eyes, all the many coloured streetlights, shining orange, red and white, and the stars twinkling above him were just smeared colours like dripping paint. His empty lungs felt like they were going to shrivel and crumple, each shaky breath was an ardour, he sucked them in desperately, trying to drag life into his weakening body. His legs quivering were seizing up tighter and tighter with each striding leap, lactic acid stinging at his muscles, trying to hold him back, trying to slow him down. His jostling stomach was scorching with the pang of a stitch and he clutched the prickling ache as he ran. His heart was beating like a drum roll, continuous skittering beats, pulsing like it was going to tear itself apart, slamming into his other organs with every beat.

But he couldn’t stop. He mustn’t stop.

He didn’t know where he was running, or where he was, he just knew he had to go far enough so no one would find him, so he could be left to his own devices.

He splashed down the sopping wet water-smothered backstreets, his heavy combat boots trashing the serene mirrored puddles as he ran down them, kicking up a storm of droplets in his wake. He ran through clouds of smog being billowed into the alleys by passing cars and motorbikes, choking on it as he inhaled it with the cold night air.

He killed over, the toxic gas filling his lungs and putting a stop to him. He bent over, clutching his stomach and clutched and wheezed. The true exhaustion of his manic rushing went flooding into his system as he halted. He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his stomach as he tried to expel the emissions from his system.

Nearly coughing up vomit, his throat on fire, he managed to haul back his composure with a strangled inhalation. His body began jerking again as he sobbed violently, his chest twitching with every heaving sob. He planted his hands on the mucky ground as he cried, trying to support his broken body.

He glanced back over his shoulder, just to make sure no one was following him. He squinted out at the darkness, the world spinning and tilting around him, his peripherals more blurred than usual and once certain of his solitude, he broke down and wept.

He was alone. Alone and enabled to thrive in his lunacy, no longer having to worry about anyone but himself. He was out of harm’s way, and everyone was out of his. He was no longer a threat. He had saved others by doing what he had done, and tried to make himself feel better by knowing that. But he hated that. He hated being alone, and he hated being separate from Steve.

Then came a frenzied buzzing. He could hear it humming away resonantly, like there was a bee in the alley. He could feel the vibrations skittering through his thigh, sourced from one point. Shit. He’d taken his phone with him. He seized the device and hurled it on the ground. He couldn’t trust himself not to answer it, and he knew, from all of his training, just how easy those devices were to track.

In the bleak blackness of the dank alley, the only light was the screen, flickering up Steve’s face, now tainted with the fork lines that were now shooting up through the screen.

Steve didn’t often smile with his teeth, not ever as broadly as the shining picture on his caller ID. It was Steve, grinning like there was no tomorrow, with no possibility that anything could ever go wrong. His eyes were crinkled with the extremity of the grin, and he looked to be in the middle of laughing. His cheeks were flushed pink happily, and just out of shot was Bucky; though his lips were visible, pressed against Steve’s left cheek, smooshing into Steve’s soft flesh.