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Well, doesn't this place just take the cake?
Of all the creepy, decrepit castles lurking across Central Europe, Toro had to go and get himself kidnapped to the creepiest.
Bucky picks his way to a stone stairway that spirals upward for several stories. The steps are choked with rubble; there is no banister or railing. Far above him, the ceiling is open to the night sky. Flannel billows of clouds are pierced by a few cold stars.
As he climbs, the noise and chaos below shrink down past importance. Three sentries dead, their bodies more rubble at the foot of the stairs, their blood sticky on his knife. Namor has cornered the two Axis scientist-wizards in charge of this place, while Tubby, Wash, and Knuckles double-check the grounds.
At the third landing, a narrow path emerges, just wide enough for Bucky to sidle down. A bat swoops out of the dark, a high shrieking note following it, and then it's all quiet all over again.
He has entered some sort of gallery. His eyes take a while to adjust, but he senses that the space is bigger, roomier, than it had been. At first all he sees are patches of sky through ruined roof-beams, but gradually details swim up out of the gloom. He is in a ballroom, stuffed with draped furniture and unstable piles of books.
Then there's the small, pale figure bound up and swinging from the balcony that runs around the room.
"Hey," Bucky calls softly.
Toro's ropes twist and groan as he tries to look down. "Buck?"
"Nah, Cab Calloway."
"Careful, it's all booby-trapped."
He can see that now: ropes radiate out from the chandelier, then descend to spots hidden in the shadows. Whenever Toro moves, other ropes rise and fall.
Bucky jumps onto the back of a couch, pauses to fix his balance, then makes a grab at a bookshelf. From there, he plants his boot firmly and pushes up to the underside of the balcony.
Toro closes his eyes when Bucky reaches out to steady him, stopping the pendulum motion. "I signalled..."
"We got it," Bucky tells him as he surveys the ropes and knots. Toro's weight rests against his side. Nothing like his usual fidgeting, hot-skinned self; he is still and heavy and cool to the touch. The unfamiliarity is both nice and unsettling; his stomach twists sourly. "Otherwise we'd've been hiring a new flamer come Monday."
Toro tries to laugh, but the sound comes out dry and choked.
"Hang in there," Bucky says and has to stop and grin, waiting for Toro to appreciate his fine wit. "I'll get you down in a jiff."
"Careful," Toro says.
Bucky glances at him. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
Toro's lips are black in the dim light. He's trying to smile. "Who else? Number one hotshot ace Bucky Barnes, America's greatest kid hero and heart throb to end all heart throbs."
"Just for that --" Bucky releases his hold so Toro swings free again.
He's never seen ropes tied like this. Short lengths are looped and knotted every which way, bowing Toro's shoulders and arching his back, somehow spreading his legs apart even as they're folded and drawn back and up. He looks like a sculpture, one of those beautiful things in marble that make Steve sigh but are actually depicting gruesome death. He looks like a bird caught in flight, a butterfly just before the pin pierces.
"Who tied you?" he asks when Toro revolves back around. It's easier to look at his face, drawn and haggard as it is, then all the intricate arches and tight muscles of his...backside. His posterior, that is.
Steve would know a better word.
Toro tries to shrug, but the movement makes the rope creak ominously and shortens the length between the knot at his neck and the one just over his navel. "Ow. Dunno. Some Japanese fella --"
"Lady Lotus?!"
Toro narrows his eyes. About all the freedom of motion he has is in his face. "Since when is Lady Lotus a fella?"
"Shut up," Bucky mutters and flashes his knife toward the rope. "You want down or not?"
"Jeez, I dunno..." Toro looks heavenward, pretending to think it over. The line his jaw makes in the faint starlight is sharp as Bucky's knife, almost as bright. His throat is in shadow and his lips are dark, but the light spills down his chest, over the knots, as he swings out of reach. "Maybe I'll just stay up here."
Bucky crouches on the balcony railing, one arm thrown around a pillar for support. "Fine. You do that."
Toro shifts back closer, and now all Bucky can see for a moment is the angles his collarbone makes under the ropes. It's suddenly fascinating how his bones look harder, stronger, than the rope, but the skin covering them is just as soft.
Toro's looking right at him. Bucky shifts his weight and coughs.
"Just burn yourself down," Bucky suggests.
"Think I haven't tried?" Toro isn't teasing, not right now, not sassing for once. He's hoarse, and scowling, and looks almost feral. "Well, shit. Thanks, Buck! Never would've thought of the most obvious thing without your estimable intellectual contributions, that's for fucking sure!"
Now that Bucky can see better, he realizes that Toro's mouth is dark with scabs and blisters, his face streaked with cinder and sweat.
"You tried?"
"Tried like the dickens," Toro says, more quietly. "They dipped me in *something*, don't know what, I was down for the count. Only fire I can make is with my tongue and teeth."
That's a good one, actually. Bucky grins, then hides the sight in his arm, pretending to swipe sweat off.
"You done?" Toro says eventually.
"Yeah," Bucky replies. He probably should apologize, but he doesn't see why. "Here, let me --"
He reels Toro back within reach and tucks him flush between his own body and the pillar. He works both hands around Toro's waist and picks at the fattest knot, the one right at the small of Toro's back.
Toro's skin there is sticky-slick and chilly. His breath comes in hoarse gusts against Bucky's bowed head and exposed neck.
Several minutes of work yield only a startled groan from Toro as the webwork yanks tighter, bowing him in two.
"Jeez, sorry --" Bucky almost lets him go, but the grating squawk of the main rope reminds him to keep hold. "Okay, jiminy, where'm I supposed to start?"
"Cut me down," Toro says. "Let's figure out the knots later."
Bucky looks up, trying to measure how far the main suspension rope extends from the balcony to the ornate chandelier at the center of the vaulted, ruined ceiling. "About that..."
"Buck," Toro says. "Please."
He sounds so tired. Toro rarely lets on just how tired, or hurt, or scared he is; he's always got a bright smile, an annoying optimistic remark, a stick of gum or shard of D-ration chocolate to share.
"It's just, I cut you down, what if you drop? Plus I don't know what you're the counterweight for," Bucky says. Toro slumps against him as one foot slips off the railing. He dangles there, circled by Bucky's panicked grip, his head lolling back.
He looks calm. Tired, scared, all of that, but most of all, calm.
His big brown eyes come into view as he pulls himself up, and they're fastened on Bucky. Starlight caught on the surface, bright and trusting.
He trusts Bucky. He believes Bucky won't fuck this up. God know how long he's dangled up here; he's been missing for over a week, and it wasn't until two nights ago that a Lysander far off course spotted the flaming Morse code he was spitting up into the night.
S.O.S. S.O.S. Three shorts, three longs, three shorts.
How many times did he breathe those nine flames out? Dangling, trussed-up, alone and immobile?
"Right," Bucky says, not sure if he's agreeing to something or acknowledging something else. "Right."
Toro's hurt lips curve into a small smile. "Do it."
Bucky's hands feel strange, as if there's suddenly a lot more room inside the skin for his bones to rattle around in. He switches his knife to the other hand, wraps one arm firmly around Toro and up under his knees, then squats on the rickety railing.
Part of him, dark as blood and gunpowder, wants to keep Toro up here. Private and needy, all his own.
Toro twitches in Bucky's embrace, shuddering against the cold, and that's all he needs.
"Spread your wings and start them flappin'," he says.
The railing starts to roll and give under his boots. He takes a breath big enough for the two of them and pushes off toward the chandelier.
They're flying. For a moment, or forever, he's got Toro in his hold, face buried against his neck, his knife leading the way. They're going so fast they might be stockstill. Hanging there, midway between the stars and the rubble, alone, safe.
[end]