The Nights In Gotham Weren't Just Dark—they Drowned In Shadow, Swallowing Men Whole And Leaving Nothing

listened to boots on repeat for too long and now my brain is

❝ i think we've found enough books for one night, ❞ bucky said, ❝ we can always come back. this place doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon. ❞ he added. her second option had bucky releasing a breath that wasn't quite a laugh but had the shape of one, something easy, something light.

❝ reckless, huh? ❞ the word rolled past his lips with ease. he leaned in just a fraction, a movement that wasn't meant to intimidate, but to tease.

❝ you want me to read to you, palamas? ❞ his voice was low, edged with something almost smug, but warm all the same. the tease came almost effortlessly, easier than it should've. a year ago, hell, even a few months ago, he would've let the silence settle there, but not now.

❝ if we're gonna do this, you should know—i don't do voices. ❞

kara watched the way his fingers curled around the book,  the deliberate care of it.  like he was holding something fragile,  something that mattered.   &  maybe it did.  maybe it was more than paper  &  ink,  more than a story — it was a bridge,  a tether to a past that hadn’t been entirely stolen.  she didn’t say anything,  just let the silence stretch,  let him have the moment.  some things didn’t need words.   

but when he looked at her,  something different flickered in his expression — lighter,  a ghost of something unburdened.  it made her chest ache,  just a little,  the way it always did when she caught glimpses of what could have been,  what still might be.  he tucked the book into his pocket,   &  she tilted her head,  considering his challenge.   

❝next adventure … right,❞ she exhaled a quiet laugh,  glancing around at the hollowed-out remains of forgotten stories.  ❝well,  we could always stick around,  find the weirdest book title in the place. ❞ her gaze flickered back to his,  something warm beneath the teasing.  ❝or i know a rooftop,  one of those places no one’s supposed to go but everyone does anyway.  good view,  bad idea.  but we could read there,  if you’re feeling reckless.❞

he watched her as she studied him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind. bucky couldn't be certain what it was that she saw when she looked at him but she looked at him like he had the answer to an unspoken question. maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. the blood at their feet was already beginning to set, thick and dark, and it would stay there for a while longer but eventually, it would disappear as all unclean things did.

bucky nodded, stepped past her and over the body, out of the shadows and into the cold, neon-lit street. he led the way out of the crime scene, keeping a casual pace and walking through side streets and back alleys as if it were second nature. they walked for a long time before his destination came into view.

the diner was nothing special—chrome-rimmed stools, and faded vinyl booths—it smelled like burnt coffee and cheap bacon grease, but bucky liked it for the same reason most people overlooked it: it was steady. real. a pocket of normal.

he slid into a booth near the window with a clear line of sight to the front and rear entrances. ❝ what d'you see? ❞ bucky asked when she joined him, nodding to their surroundings with an expectant glance.

kara exhaled slowly,  watching the blood spread into the cracks of the concrete like veins beneath fractured skin.  it would dry,  flake away,  be washed into the gutters until only the memory of it remained.  but the act — the choice — would linger,  another mark upon a soul already worn thin.  she had spent years telling herself that she was beyond redemption,  that the things she had done,  the things that had been done to her,  had calcified into something immovable.  but then bucky spoke,   &  the certainty wavered,  just slightly,  just enough to let in the smallest sliver of something else.  try.   

she turned her gaze to him,  searching for something she wasn’t sure she would recognize.  he knew — knew what it was to be made into something unrecognizable,  to wake up in the ruins of a life he could barely call his own.   &  yet,  he stood before her,  not unbroken,  but whole in a way she had never believed possible for herself.  if he could come back from it,  then maybe — maybe — she could too.  the thought was terrifying in its own way.  it was easier to be a blade,  a weapon with no need for softness,  no need for hope.  but hope,  she realized,  had already taken root the moment she had let him pull the gun from her hands.   

her fingers curled into fists,  then released.  there was no erasing what had been done,  no undoing the ghosts she carried,  but perhaps there was more than just this.  more than the endless cycle of blood  &  consequence.  when she spoke,  her voice was quiet,  but steady.  ❝then let’s start. ❞ not surrender,  not absolution — but a step.   &  for now,  that was enough. 

requested by @livingincolorsagain insp

Bonus:

the bell over the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. the city noise vanished behind him and he was swallowed by the scent of old paper, dust, and something faintly floral. the place was cramped and lived-in, shelves packed so tightly they formed narrow corridors of leaning books, some stacked haphazardly on the floor.

bucky adjusted his gloves as he swept the room. patrons were sparce, he spotted her easily amongst the books. corinne delacroix, an elementary teacher. hardworking, kind, quiet, and if he was to believe his contact, in imminent danger.

a record player somewhere in the back crackled out an old tune, something soft and tired. he moved forward, inspecting the bookshelves, picking something at random—first edition alfred tennyson, not exactly in his price range—while carefully keeping her in his line of sight. // @rosewiltd , a semi - plotted starter .

HEADCANON :  war letters .

Prior to his deployment to the Italian Front and subsequent capture by the Wehrmacht troops at Azzano, Bucky wrote letters to his younger sister Rebecca religiously. At the time, she was only sixteen and had been living in a state orphanage in Park Slope, Brooklyn since their fathers death at Camp Lehigh. He also sent letters to Steve while he was training at Camp Lehigh for Project Rebirth, however, Steve wasn’t able to tell him that he had been selected by the USSR or that he had been accepted into the Army due to the secrecy of the project and Bucky was also not able to divulge much information about his duties.

He traded some letters with Connie as well, the pair of them often discussing the state of the war as she was a registered nurse, their letters would switch between casual banter and deep and vulnerable confessions of their struggles and challenges as either nurse or soldier, often attempting to uplift each other’s spirits through written word. One of Bucky’s letters included a pressed puglia that stained the letter purple.

After he and the other United Allies were rescued from the Hydra Prisoner Base, Bucky was reunited with Connie for a short time before he was deployed alongside Steve and the other Howling Commandos and Bucky returned to writing letters to Rebecca whenever he had the chance to sit down.

As before, he wasn’t able to divulge much information about their activities back to Rebecca so most of his letters discussed members non-classified information, usually details about the other Howling Commandos (such as Gabe Jones proficiency at the trumpet and Dugan’s terrible singing), in passing he would mention cities that he had passed through but was no longer residing, and other minor details about the people that he met from the various resistance groups that they worked beside against both Hydra, and Nazi Germany.

He continued to write to Connie as well, though the letters between them were few and far between due to their work.

Following the end of W.WII when the Smithsonian began developing the Captain America exhibit, members of the museum reached out to Rebecca as Bucky’s only living relative. She donated some of Bucky’s war letters to the museum where they picked and chose from those available to them to display for Bucky’s memorial. When Bucky began piecing together his history in 2014, he stole the letters that were on display to help trigger more of his suppressed memories.

i just think bucky deserves the john wick treatment

but what if i wrote war time letters that bucky sent to people that went up in the smithsonian ( until he stole them back post-tws )??? what then??

something in his chest seemed to kick like a live wire when she laughed. it had a dangerous kind of confidence to it, like the click of a safety coming off. not loud, or boastful, just certain. he kept his pace even, boots quiet against the concrete, watching her silhouette glide ahead throught the gloom.

❝ outta the two of us? absolutely. ❞ he said. she tossed him a sidelong glance, all mischief and challenge, and he felt it again—that flicker. rooftop jobs usually meant snipers, extraction points, high-value targets. now it was books, and banter. she cradled the books to her like they were the blueprints to a softer world and when she said don't you dare skim, it sounded like a threat, but felt a lot like trust.

❝ i've fallen from higher, ❞ bucky remarked dryly, the easy grin on his lips softening his dark humour into something congestible. he followed her up the ladder, jacket fabric straining against his metal arm as it pinched between plates but otherwise, the climb was easy enough. and she wasn't wrong. the view was beautiful. the city skyline illuminated by flickering lights like bathed starlight.

kara’s laugh came quiet but sure,  a slip of silver in the dark,  like the glint of a blade catching moonlight.  she didn’t look at him right away — just kept walking,  steady  &  certain,  gaze lifted toward the rooftop’s outline ahead like she was chasing constellations only she could see.  ❝you think i’m the one who’s gonna tap out?❞ she asked,  feigning disbelief with a lift of her brow.  ❝bold of you.  i don’t start things i don’t intend to finish,  barnes. ❞

she let the moment stretch before cutting a sidelong glance his way,  that teasing curve curling at the edge of her lips.  ❝but i’ll let you have your illusions — for morale,❞ she added,  dry,  theatrical.  the books in her arms shifted as she adjusted her grip,  fingertips brushing the weather-worn covers with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things.  ❝we’ll trade off.  you read me the first chapter,  i’ll read the second.   &  when the words get good,  don’t you dare skim. ❞

she reached the base of the ladder  &  turned,  backlit by the soft spill of streetlight,  hair tousled by the breeze,  eyes bright with mischief  &  promise.  ❝hope you’re not afraid of heights, ❞ she said,  voice light but edged with something electric.  ❝because this book club? it’s got a view. ❞