𝖎𝖈𝖊;
//
He 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 the cold.
It wasn’t the chilly winds of a Brooklyn winter, nor was it the bitter depths of the Potomac in which he’d dived, head-first, after Steve’s falling body. It wasn’t the Russian tundra, or a night spent sleeping rough on drizzly streets.
𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙘𝙚.
It was metal cold enough to adhere to your skin, clouds of condensation billowing from the automated door. It was rough hands gripping too-hard at his shoulders, brusque Russian commands hissing in his ear. It was the depths of a dark room, surrounded by the sickly-green glare of computer screens. It was this, that made Bucky Barnes 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙.
He hated the way it started as soon as the heavy door slid closed. Loud mechanisms whirred and pounded and hissed, filling the claustrophobic tube with a bitter freeze. Starting at his feet, the cold would rise, crawling up his shins, over his knees, around his thighs, each inch gluing the obedient soldier to the interior of his sub-zero coffin. Fear consumed him, as the frigidity spread fast, and he’d gasp, every damn time, as the ice found his waist, frosted the delicate skin over his ribs. More gasps, including his final one, slipped from trembling lips as the cold smothered his heaving chest. It filled his lungs entirely, stealing the oxygen from there, and followed suit with an iron grip around his heart. Breaths and beats thieved by his suffocating, icy captor, the cold would choke the life from his throat, pale his lips to blue, invade his nose and mouth, and finally, encase the trapped assassin in his frozen prison.
It never stopped being 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. Not once, in 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2020: https://tinyurl.com/ypeh7yry
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