๐๐๐;โฃ
//โฃ
He ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ the cold.โฃ
โฃ
It wasnโt the chilly winds of a Brooklyn winter, nor was it the bitter depths of the Potomac in which heโd dived, head-first, after Steveโs falling body. It wasnโt the Russian tundra, or a night spent sleeping rough on drizzly streets.โฃ
โฃ
๐๐ฉ ๐ฌ๐๐จ ๐จ๐ฉ๐๐๐ก ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐๐.โฃ
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 ๐๐๐ฉ๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐ก๐.โฃ
โฃ
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 heโd 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.โฃ
โฃ
It never stopped being ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ๐๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ . Not once, in ๐ด๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐บ ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฏ ๐บ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ด.โฃ
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2020: https://tinyurl.com/ypeh7yryย
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