He's a few yards behind her, deeper out and just starting to blink by the time she gets her awareness around her. Doesn't know- doesn't remember how in the hell he got here and that is a truly terrifying thing for James Barnes. He'd been- what, where had he been? Chopping wood, maybe, and faint music playing in the background from somewhere. Someone with a record player, probably, because he can vividly recall knowing the song.
I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start... a flame in your heart...
Beautiful, lulling, warm, sweet. He remembers a sense of calm and comfort. He remembers it almost put him to sleep, like melting wax on a candle.
And then abrupt, splashing wetness. Screaming, distantly, from somewhere. The sound of a dozen panicked people and, for a second, stupidly, he thinks it's because the bombs are coming down and he's not in a bunker, he's out in a trench-
And water fills his mouth. A metal arm drags him down-ward like an anchor, his body having done nothing to counter it. He dips beneath the surface. It's a wake-up call, though, it gets him kicking through sheer instinct, propelling himself back up and gasping, choking, spluttering silty lake water. He flails, reaches, finds no purchase and nothing to grab.
Солдат выживет. Учитесь и реагируйте.
Without meaning to, he propels himself forward into a breaststroke. It's enough, this steady moving, it's enough for him to get his mind right for a second, and he stops closer to shore to look around, wet hair whipping as he searches for familiar faces in the water. It's hard to miss a shock of white hair stumbling forth, and he's there a minute later wrapping an arm around her waist. Hauling her forth, stumbling with her out of the water, panting and breathless and still in shock.
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I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start... a flame in your heart...
Beautiful, lulling, warm, sweet. He remembers a sense of calm and comfort. He remembers it almost put him to sleep, like melting wax on a candle.
And then abrupt, splashing wetness. Screaming, distantly, from somewhere. The sound of a dozen panicked people and, for a second, stupidly, he thinks it's because the bombs are coming down and he's not in a bunker, he's out in a trench-
And water fills his mouth. A metal arm drags him down-ward like an anchor, his body having done nothing to counter it. He dips beneath the surface. It's a wake-up call, though, it gets him kicking through sheer instinct, propelling himself back up and gasping, choking, spluttering silty lake water. He flails, reaches, finds no purchase and nothing to grab.
Солдат выживет.
Учитесь и реагируйте.
Without meaning to, he propels himself forward into a breaststroke. It's enough, this steady moving, it's enough for him to get his mind right for a second, and he stops closer to shore to look around, wet hair whipping as he searches for familiar faces in the water. It's hard to miss a shock of white hair stumbling forth, and he's there a minute later wrapping an arm around her waist. Hauling her forth, stumbling with her out of the water, panting and breathless and still in shock.