Chapter Text
[??? - Siberia]
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I remember the first time I was taken out for an experiment in the labs. The sound of footsteps that I’d later become very familiar with. Same with the white coats and speaking voices. They’d just replaced my bones, I think, in which they put me under surgery for god knows how long. I’d screamed, cried, fought, begged, wailed – all to be ignored, of course. The men looming above me with their heavy hands and unmitigated touch didn’t give two shits about who they hurt, not when the idea of glory was so palpable. I don’t know of what, but they were so convinced for seventy years that if they controlled enough people, tinkered with a few more systems, bodies, they could get the things they dreamed. Never mind the people they hurt, not when they’ve got a clutch of Winter Soldiers, a coup of governments, and a flock of people more than willing to look the other way so long as they got a slice of the proverbial pie.
I woke up heavy. Covered in bandages. I wasn’t even sure I was clothed, if I was naked, due to how tight the wrappings were. I could feel nothing else but the crackling pain, like when a flat of ice is stepped on and it immediately splits under the slightest hint of pressure.
“Прогулка, семнадцать.”
Walk, Seventeen.
They put something in my ear so I could understand Russian on an intrinsic level. I would have been more horrified if I wasn’t in such pain. The sharp, hot-pink-red, naked pain that came after putting pressure on the flesh after surgery. The agony I was currently feeling as my body slowly creaked, I realized, against my will. I’ll later learn that I could fight it, and be punished for doing so, but at the moment my freshly cut and sutured body was too overwhelmed to notice.
The scientist in front of me wasn’t a scientist. Green clothes. A red cap. Strawberry blond hair. Military. He outstretched his hand towards me. In his pale palm was a pistol.
“Возьми это.”
Take it.
I do. It was then, I realized, that down to my knuckles, my joints, I was completely shunted to do as they pleased. I could feel the sharp, metallic coils of their transplants move as I did. Later the pain would dull – not because I got used to it, but because the metal wore down the inside of my skin so much that there was nothing left to scrape against. Literal thin skin.
The lab around me was white. He took a step back, revealing a black tarp with white-chalk circles drawn into targets in its middle. “Стрелять.” Shoot.
My shoulder suddenly jerked forward and my pointer finger’s two joints crooked –
BANG!
I knew what a bullet sounded like. Deafening, and in the war, most soldiers have some kind of bad hearing as a result. But something about the way the shot echoed across the serene, neon-pale room made me shocked at the smoking barrel. I wasn’t sure if I expressed my horror properly, if I even could, as the military man had a sinister smile as he took the firearm from my grasp. My fingers let go without question.
“Ну, я бы сказал, что этот небольшой эксперимент был – a success. Don’t you think so, doctor?”
“Oh yes. If her body can be controlled at the micro, she can be controlled at the macro. And with the Soldier’s own natural resistance…” A voice spoke from behind.
“We’d have our own indestructible club of mercenaries in no time.”
A chuckle. “And they won’t scream or bleed as much as she does! Less of a health risk!” I look down and realize I’d bled through all of my wrappings. If I stared for too long, I thought some fat worms were crawling from my stomach.
Not worms. My small intestine.
The first time I fought against the metal-armed Winter Soldier, I thought I was going to die. No, I was so sure I was. I instinctively wrestled against him, screaming at the top of my lungs as my bones grinded against each other like nails on a chalkboard from his bullying pressing. I didn’t know how to fight. Not really. But I was ordered to, to get into position, to spar, and my mind and body went to the closest thing it knew to fighting – childhood play-wrestling, scratching, then eventually being squashed like a bug, beaten to a pulp. I don’t even remember much, just the attempt of throwing a hit like I was five again, then being wrung like an old towel on the floor. Everything stung and I wasn’t sure I was breathing as I was put into ice. I just felt one thing — the skin under my nose — what was it called? — was cold. A runny nose. A bloody nose. If my mama was here, she’d tut and wipe it. But she wasn’t. They stuffed my body in the goddamn freezer without even wiping my nose.
An experiment, they said. To see the fullness of their surgical technique’s dexterity. Surgical technique. Not my own body, but their handiwork.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His footsteps were all I heard as I was dragged out like a bag of trash. The floor was cool against my wounds, and the only thing that soothed me before I slept for the next period of my life.
[Day 530]
I was in a crummy mood because I fucked up the ossobuco before I even started cookin’. Seriously, how the hell did I forget wine and pancetta!?
“It’s not that big a deal, you know.”
Nevermind. I know how I forgot. The little big man sittin’ across the table from me, flipping through his notebook like he didn’t randomly make out in the market with me when he thought people were following us. “It is to me!” I haven’t eaten a decent meal in decades before this, so it’s safe to say I have a hell of a healthy appetite. But I didn’t want to seem boorish, so I tried to enjoy other things too – I wore a nice strappy dress that had colorful stitches. My hair smelled like sugar and flowers from my conditioner. I even painted my nails a pastel pink with my single pot of polish. Lipstick that made my lips pretty. You know what Bucky’s wearing?
The same stupid stolen hoodie from Bucharest. His hair is stuffed under a baseball cap even though we’re indoors. Cargo shorts. And he smells like Dial soap. The meaning of effort to men has changed from 1940 to say the least. He stared at me with that dumb, soft, dopey look.
“Is your stomach hurting again?”
“No. Why do you always assume – ”
“Yes it is. You skipped breakfast and lunch today and you kept checking your skin for breakouts like a teenager.” God, what is his problem? “Don’t give me that look, you know you get pissy when you’re on your – ”
I wasn’t about to let him finish that sentence. “Vulgar man!”
He deadpanned. “Wild woman.” The edge of my towel smacks his metal shoulder before I go to the other side of the safehouse and burrow myself under our sheets. Bucky muttered something in Romanian – there goes my eye candy for the evening – pervert – before sighing and getting up from his seat. I don’t know what he’s doing until I hear the sound of sizzling oil and messy, blocky chops.
“James, you can’t cook. Stop it. Living in Italy doesn’t make you Gordon Ramsay.”
“Someone has to make sure we don’t starve.”
Ugh. I turn around to see his hands in the weirdest chopping position in my life, attemptin’ to cut celery stalks. His stupid hat was off and his jacket was zipped down and rolled up so I could get a good view of his muscled forearms and pecks –
“Like what you see?”
UGH. “MOVE, Bucky.” He snorted as I sauntered my way back to the kitchen. He was going to burn the veal at this rate. And his cuts aren’t even uniform. Weaponized incompetence much? “What the hell did you do to the celery?”
“...it absorbs better that way.”
“If I didn’t know you were so deadly with a knife I’d consider you a pacifist from just this.” He rolled his eyes and walked away. I could hear his footsteps – long, sweeping shifts across the floor – behind me. The sound made me sleepy in Carpathia, where he’d still be walking when I was curled up under the furs of our shitty bed in our shitty shack of a safehouse. It was a soft, grainy, hushing sound that comforted me. Not the clear, cold taps that came from his predecessor. This time there was a quickening to his footsteps, one I recognized whenever he felt like he had an urgency in doing something. I felt shivers down my spine as his felt palm and fingers lightly grazed the small of my back.
“Got something for you.”
I turn around and look at what’s in his metal hand. It’s a pretty, small box of sweets – Babà, sponge soaked in rum (a selfish buy, I knew, because he liked the booze that the cake was soaked in), my favorite cannoli, and some fat, powdered buns with a thick stripe of sweet cream running right down its middle. I suddenly felt a lot less angry. “There was a shop closing and relocating, so everything was on sale.” A pause. “You can have the Babà if you don’t want cream.”
“But that’s your favorite.”
He shrugged. “I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth to begin with.”
That’s it. My lower lip trembled and I started to feel that hot, annoying twinge from my nose as I fought the urge to cry right then and there. Realizin’ what was happening, Bucky hastily put the sweets aside and started scrubbing my now-teary cheeks. “Christ. I can’t do shit right by you when you’re like this, huh?”
I let out a childish sob before hiccuping my way through braising and baking the meat. It had to cook for two hours, so during that time we gorged ourselves on the desserts at the table. The safehouse smelled like hot oil, sweet onion, pastry sugar, and fluffy milk. “Buck?”
“Hm.”
“If HYDRA didn’t take you, what would your life look like?” A random question, I guess, but it’s been on my mind for a while. I wanted to go to school and make a better life for myself. But what if you already had a good life before? Bucky shrugged, wiping his hands clean of the syrup that soaked his digits with a napkin.
“Probably nothing special. I would've gone home to my family. Friends.” A pause. “Steve would’ve still gone under the ice, though.” I internally wince at that. He’s been so bitter with the outside world, and yet his recovering memories are given so much grace. Even Steve, when he’s not afraid of getting arrested. “I guess it’s better I stayed.”
“But HYDRA was hell.”
“It was,” he said simply. “But I couldn’t sleep well knowing one of my own wasn’t going to make it.” Another pause, this time he looked at his feet. “Two, counting you.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Charmer.”
He gave a rare, dead, bitter smile. “That’s me, doll. Real charmer.”
I look down at the box of desserts. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you for all those years, though.” I shake my head. “Idiot, I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.” Bucky’s head tilted slightly and his gaze got soft. “I didn’t recognize me for seventy years. No one did. Don’t blame yourself. Besides, you were too busy getting cut open and made to croak like a toad in biology class.” His jaw clenched a little at that. “We were nobodies. No one recognized us, and no one cared. At least, no one who knew cared.”
“You talk like someone actually recognized you as the Soldier before Steve.” He hesitated. “Bucky?”
“There was…one. I think — no. I know. Just before I killed him.”
My brow furrowed. “Who?”
“Howard Stark.”
[Day 880]
My morning started a lot better than I thought it did. Probably the guilt from last night, but I woke Bucky up with a kiss. My head was already resting on his shoulder, so it was easy for me to trail my lips to his Adam's apple, his jaw, his chin – by the time I got to his lips, Bucky seemed more aware of kissing me than being awake, as I could still hear his heavy breathing. See, he breathes heavily when he sleeps; borderline snoring when he’s not too tired. In Carpathia I grew very used to the sound as the man practically hibernated every night after we started bed-sharing. My plan was to give a light peck before breakfast, but his metal hand went to the back of my scalp and formed my kiss into something deeper.
“S-stop – ” I try to gasp for air. “I’m tryin’ to treat you, not eat you!”
Bucky’s voice was heavy and low from exhaustion, his eyes not even open yet. “Other way around for me.” His body was soft despite the worked muscles, his old shirt and pants making his whole form pressable like fabric.
“You’re awfully flirty for someone who usually gets up at five every morning.” Usually from nightmares, then he clings onto me and refuses to let us out of bed until after the sun is up.
“I had a quiet sleep for once. Then woke up to you kissing me. Am I supposed to be in a bad mood?” My face burned at that.
“Do you want coffee or not, Barnes.”
His metal hand moved to grab my own fingers, and where he made my palm rest on his cheek. His beard prickled my skin, but was pleasantly warm to the touch. The pearl from my fake ring gleamed proudly under the honey-gold sun that was peeking through our blinds. His skin looked so pretty in the sunlight – he was naturally pale, but the sun made him warm up in Italy, and the tan was something that I learned was seasonal. Bits of that sunny warmth was starting to color him again, and a pretty pink-red ran through the thin of his lips. His eyes opened and two big blues were staring at me. Almost like stained glass because of the light.
It’s the first time I truly understood what a heated gaze felt like – that small, simmering warmth behind the eyes that came when you knew someone was focusing on you as intensely as you on them, and your pupils are now too rigid and careful in their movements for fear of fucking up and breaking the moment. “Maybe later. I got something for you. I was going to save it for a better occasion, but…” His brows furrowed slightly, and suddenly his face ran hotter under my palm. “...you’d probably like it now all the same.”
That makes me perk up. I haven’t gotten a present in seventy years, safe for the book Buck got me in the mountains and the ring in Italy. “Yeah?” He nodded, then groaned as he got up. For a second I thought Bucky was going to get the present, but then he leaned in and kissed the crook of my neck, then my shoulder. Then he left. Cripes. Was it bad that I didn’t want to stop this whole playing house thing? When he proposed it when we first got here, I just assumed it’d be a coping mechanism, holding hands and occasionally cuddling, not this. Whatever this was.
He went to the little kitchen and grabbed something from one of the drawers. An old shoebox that definitely wasn’t his. Bucky plopped it into my lap and took his seat back onto the mattress. I hum. “Gee, I hope it’s a puppy.”
Bucky snorted. “You wish.”
“No, you wish. I know you feed that stray outside our apartment. You’re not very subtle about it,” I lower my voice and try to imitate his Romanian rasp. “‘You look like a freak, you know that? Your legs are sticks but your belly’s all puffed up – you’re probably full of worms. Disgusting. Cats can clean themselves, why can’t you?’” It sounds mean, but really, his voice was always full of affection. Or, at least, I heard it in his slightly lighter tones and how he’d always make little kissy noises to attract the little guy. Scrappy little pup who’d try to bite and gnaw his shoe until Bucky gave him our leftover bones and totally not say good boy, pal, you’re a good boy in the most quiet voice ever. If only our apartment allowed animals. He flicked my ear.
“Open it before I change my mind.”
I lift the box’s lid and am surprised at what I see. DVDs. A lot of them. BBC - Agatha Christ’s Poirot. BBC - Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. BBC - Emma. Some lady named Julia Child. Then, to get patriotic, a clearly-American show called Grey’s Anatomy, from seasons one to eleven. I look at Bucky, who looks oddly avoidant. “Some English professor was selling them at the market, and I figured since we can’t risk getting a signal for the internet, it was barely two-hundred Lei for the whole box and you always complain about being bored so –”
Oh, you sweet, stunted man. I kissed him before he could finish his sentence, and a sound of relief escaped his throat as he returned it. “You darlin’ dumbass, James-Buchanan – we need a proper tv to even see all this.” It’s ironic. We’ve got a million little nooks and crannies in this tiny Depression-style place, all stocked with weapons and supplies for an emergency that’ll never occur, and yet we have no television or DVD player.
He grunted, clearly forgetting that part. “...I’ll grab something with an adapter later.” I can’t believe I got pissy with him last night, so much so that he wanted to give me this early. Now I really feel bad. I scooch closer to him.
“What do you want for breakfast, handsome? I’ll give you anything you ask.” Well, not anything – I usually had to make do with the limited amount of fruit, discounted vegetables, coffee, and whatever the hell he grabs from the stalls when it’s time to restock. Bucky rested his chin on my shoulder, where the cotton of my sleeve couldn’t defend against his prickled beard. He smelled like our old floorboards.
“Anything is fine.”
Ugh. “Y’know, something that hasn’t changed despite HYDRA treatin’ me like a test dummy for seventy years is my taste in men.” I turn my head. “And I hate boys who are indecisive. Pick somethin’ to eat or else.”
“You’re bad at being nice.”
“Pick, boy.”
He huffed, like it physically pained him to have an opinion. “...I like it when you poach the fruit I get.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“The cornbread you made in Carpathia was nice.”
I smirk. “Now was that so hard?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
We took turns taking showers and getting ready in the bathroom. When he finished washing up, I went inside to brush my teeth. My toothbrush’s bristles were frayed, so I called out to Bucky if he had any backups. “In the cabinet” – opening it, I stare at a small jar filled with identical, pastel-pink toothbrushes with medium-firm bristles. A sticky note with my name on it was slapped on the front.
When I showed him the jar, he was still buttoning his jeans and lacked a shirt. It was hard not to blush a little at his perfect back – I could label his ribs and muscles if I wanted to. Pale skin illuminated from the window’s sunlight behind – in Italy it was slightly golden from the sun. Perfect man, I hate how my stomach is doing tidal waves inside me. Bucky shrugged, not looking in my direction. “You always use those.”
“Which ‘those’? Pastel pink brushes or medium-firm bristles?”
He grumbled something and grabbed a shirt to slide on. I try to ignore the fact that the toothbrushes that are pastel pink are only one in a set of five, implying he probably bought a shit ton of brush packs in order for me to have a jar full…I don’t want to think about how much of our budget went to my dental preferences.
Bucharest is warmer now, but not unbearable. Not the South by any means, as I’m at least able to breathe when I step outside the apartment. Bucky doesn’t like it, me going with him to get groceries, but I’m not about to stay inside all day, legs be damned. “You’re just straining your legs at this point,” he tried to argue while adjusting his cap. “It’s better if you stay inside. Preserve movement.” Preserve time, he means. Buy more time, as much as I can.
I rolled my eyes. “And waste clean laundry by not bein’ worn? C’mon handsome, you know I can’t do that.” Calling him handsome was bullshit at this point – I only ever called him that to cajole him, mitigate his temper when he had a flare-up. Bucky picks up on it and doesn’t look convinced. I sigh. “James. I’m fine. Let me walk, it’s the least I should be allowed after bein’ cutted and gutted for seventy years.”
The mention of the past always makes him weak. His gaze softened slightly – you can’t tell, but he stares slightly longer and his jaw lowers; meaning he’s not actually pissed. He sighed too. “You’re sticking with me the whole walk. And take my arm.”
I snort. “Yes mother.” Taking his offered crook, I notice his gloves. It’s the one where I stitched back after it got snagged in Germany. Faint hot pink sutures (I bought a small spool at a discount in Carpathia) that you can barely notice. Safe for his baseball cap, all of his clothes had some kind of stitching from me – old tears on his sleeves, darned socks, to jean adjustments to his size. We both wear bits of each other: I was wearing a pair of Bucky’s pants I’d snatched in Carpathia, of which I personally trimmed and sewed to my size, along with my own recently-bought top and sneakers. Stolen maroon Converse that I bought as a joke because of those boots the sergeant once got me, but the color was slowly growing on me. At the very least they’re a good fit.
The square was supposed to be busier than usual, because of the tourist season that’s upon us, but since it was still morning people were sparse. Bucky did his standard “look both ways before you get caught by a government agent” stare before making our way down to the market. The stalls were lively and packed, from flowers to baskets things were being sold left, right and center. I squeeze his arm. “I want to look at the flowers.” Then added, “on my own.”
“I can buy you flowers,” he grunted, his hand going into his pocket. I deadpan.
“No offense, but I’d rather go alone. Besides, you don’t even know what pads I prefer, how can I trust you with flowers?”
That makes his face go pink. “It’s not my fault they have weird labels – wings. Night defense. Extra strength. What the hell are you guys fighting every month to be getting that kind of wording?”
“Just go, Buck.”
Bucky frowned. “I can wait, you know.”
“Bucky,” I glare. “The damn stall is only twelve feet away from your precious plums. Ten if you don’t count the fountain that you tried to drown me in when we first met.” His eyes widened at the mention and then he grumbled. Something about emotional manipulation. Adding onto that, I adjusted his hat and tugged on his jacket. “Please?”
“Fine. Be back in twenty. I’ll be waiting at the fountain.”
I pecked his lips. For the act, of course. “Thanks, mister.”
The sky wasn’t sunny at all, but not dark grey with storms either. A threaded grey-white, and the weather was surprisingly mellow. Bucharest could get awful with her heat post-spring, but here it was still decent enough to where you didn’t feel uncomfortable wearing a jacket. Since the market was a little barren I was able to get a good view of Bucky’s stocky frame as I mindlessly perused the little buckets of blooms for something that I saw from a recently-bought magazine I had of that fabulous actress on front, with the nice sunglasses and the great brown paper bouquet of peonies. Meryl Street, her name was? Or Sheep. Bo Peep –
“Ați dori să cumpărați câteva, domnișoară?” A voice brought me out of my thoughts. Looking up, the vendor was wearing a cap over his balding head and had a polite smile. I must’ve been taking my sweet time – I nod quickly, pointing at whatever looked freshest: some little blue blooms, with delicate small petals and the most vibrant yellow centers. I asked what kind they were – Nu-mă-uita. Forget-me-nots. Even the flowers remind me of him. Him and his shitty memory.
As I waited for my flowers to be wrapped in a fashionable paper cone, I scanned the area for my fake husband. Once. Twice. The third time, my stomach felt a twinge of sick.
Bucky was gone.
I don’t know how many times I ran around the plaza and the little streets, looking for him. He couldn’t have just left, could he? He knows he’s a good hider, all Winter Soldiers are, but he would’ve at least given me the heads-up! I ignored the pain in my legs, the spindly feeling that was beginning to grow as I made a lap around the buildings of University Square for the umpteenth time. There I was, holding a now scattering bunch of blue blooms, wondering where the hell the sergeant could have gotten. The petals mocked me, it felt, as they swirled off into the wind without a trace of their earthly paper ties.
I fought the urge to gag as I went back to the safehouse. Safehouse, who was I kidding? It was an apartment. A really well-gunned one, but no safehouse. Maybe raiders got him, maybe someone took him – he’s a Soldier, but he’s still trying that “new leaf redemption” thing that makes him terse with other people in an attempt to be polite. I felt dangerously untethered.
The newspaper in my hands that once held my flowers were now empty and wrinkled from my sweaty grip. I take one look at it before throwing it back away, but something caught my eye –
WINTER SOLDIER CĂUTAT PENTRU BOMBARDAMENTUL DIN VIENA
The man in the blurry picture was too skinny to be Bucky, and yet his name was plastered all over. King-killer, peace-summit destroyed, a delicate relationship ruined because of the Russian weapon. People died. The image of a young Wakandan diplomat covered in blood, sitting at a bench, clearly shellshocked as he watches a body covered in a blood-stained white cloth be carried away in a stretcher.
‘As long as the Avengers don’t fuck anything up, nothing will happen to us. As long as they stay cohesive, and remind the world that supers like them are necessary for good. No one would think twice about anything beyond the macro…’ I keep mentally chanting this in my head as I sprint down the old streets, my legs hurting like all-hell as I make jagged turn after jagged turn in order to make it to our place –
The door was already blown open and the curtains I’d recently gotten now had bullets torn in the fabric. The floor was punched open. Only his bag was gone. Mine was still hidden, nestled in the floorboards next to it. His glove – left hand – laid forgotten. The memory book was no longer tucked away, now thrown open across the room. So was the gun safe. It wasn’t until I almost stepped on his wedding band, nestled next to my pack under the boards – he never takes that ring off, it had to be on purpose! – did I finally start hyperventilating. The thoughts came at an unwelcome pace – he left me behind. Grabbed his bag and dipped. Took the gun to be safe. If that’s the case, why didn’t he also take the first aid kit and stash of cash? Or the memory book? Emergency tickets?
I grab my own travel pack, slip the ring over my finger, and go to where the door was blown open. This place was poor and crime-ridden, so people knew better than to keep their doors open for so long – I clambered down the stairs and into the concrete hallway to hear –
BOOM!
I heard the grenade before I felt it. My body was forcefully pushed against the wall, a sharp pain going up my metal spine.
“ – no!”
A familiar voice made my eyes snap open. Low, icy – he was definitely saying something smart-mouthed. He’s not very polite otherwise to the feds.
BANG! BANG!
Deafening gunshots from just down the ways – I didn’t even feel dread as I bolted to where the sound of the gunshots was coming from.
The view was clearer now – some men in thick vests. Guns. Bucky nearing an opening. He looks pissed. Steve. Captain America’s shield. The last time I’d seen it up close, Hitler was still alive.
Steve…Steve…STEVE – my mind caught up as I quickly got up and tried to make myself invisible to the agents – a fail as one saw me and yelled – suddenly Bucky barked something in my direction before flinging himself out the open balcony. Cap didn’t think twice to follow, and soldiers began to holler at each other to chase the men down. I, forgotten and scrambling, was running three floors down by then, just barely able to see Bucky’s outline falling in the distance. Seeing him jump out of a multi-story window would almost be funny if there wasn’t a giant man in a black catsuit chasing after him.
Giant man in a black catsuit. He had claws. It would almost be funny if he didn’t nearly scalp Bucky, who looks scared shitless with wide eyes and scrambling legs.
I know it sounds terrible, but I didn’t hesitate as I took out my own handgun from my pack and tried to aim – shit. Bucky had his own gun, but the man’s suit deflected his shots like pebbles. “Fuck, fuck, no – no – ” of all the times the metal in my hands could make my fingers tremble, now wasn’t the time. The damn thing made my aim awful, and with Bucky and the catman practically climbing each other – fifty-fifty chance I make the shot, and –
BANG!
“SHIT – ”
“Do NOT – ”
I nearly screamed at the top of my lungs as I felt someone tackle me to the ground. A coldness clenched my chest as a godforsaken helicopter began to angle itself like an invasive wasp above the men, trying to shoot at Bucky. “Let – LET GO OF ME, YOU SON OF A – ”
“HEY – HEY – ! Do you want your man in one piece or not!?” The voice was familiar, even if his face was covered by distracting red visors. Sam’s dark skin was shining from sweat – he was wearing metal wings – on top of his clothes.
“Let me go, angel,” I hissed. His grip on my arms tightened. I look back out – Bucky was gone, and so was the catman – “Oh no, no – ” This couldn’t be it, this can’t be it –
“Hey, hey – don’t do that! C’mon, we have to go, now!” Sam let go of my wrists and pulled me back up to my feet.
“There’s no way we can get there in time,” I say shakily. “They’re super soldiers, and – ” Sam rolled his eyes then scooped me up. I tried not to scream as he jumped out the balcony and glided above the rubble buildings. I haven’t flown since the war, and this was much more abrasive than a post-Wright plane. “Why are you helpin’ us? Didn’t Buck almost kill you!?” I yell above the wind.
“Yeah, and I’m gonna beat his ass to get back at him! I promised Steve to help keep him alive, not alive and well!”
“Then why bring me!?”
“You want the free lift or not!?” He must’ve stayed to bring me back. Only Steve could know where we could possibly be because of the broken burner, but that was forever ago – I’m surprised he considered me as a part of his priorities. Not because he’s uncaring, but as Captain America I just figured he’s got bigger fish to fry.
Our vision suddenly went dark, with flashes of light – a tunnel, narrow walls in a half-circle roof that made Sam’s wings all of a sudden too big for its environment. There were cars all around us, speeding frantically as if they’re not all dated Toyota Corollas and Honda Civics. Before I knew it, I was flung out of Sam’s arms and into one of the cars. The sudden sharp blow to the left of my forehead let me know I landed somewhere in the backseats.
“You okay!?”
Steve’s voice made me try to lift my head. I bit back a groan at the echoing pain now throbbing above my brow, looking at him I realize he’s wearing his helmet. Lucky bastard. “Are you always this much of a shitty driver!?”
“It’s about to get worse – !” Before I could ask what he meant, my back got flung to the side door as Steve jerked the wheel to his right, making the damn ride nearly tip over.
I couldn’t tell what was happening anymore. Sam Hell, if anything, as the sound of tires screeching, and the vroom of angry agent’s engines filled my ears. I gripped to the floor of the car for dear life as my body got dragged from one end of the vehicle to the other, at some point I just kept my head down and tried to ignore how the warm windiness outside, dizziness of my head, and how my body felt as if it were on fire while being pulled around reminded me too much of the black blizzards that nearly killed me as a kid. The only difference was that my folks aren’t currently here to hold me tight and tell me things were gonna be okay.
When my head nearly banged against the roof of the car, did I open my eyes. Steve flung us out the window and we both scrambled out of the flipping Chevy in order to avoid getting crushed to death – for the first time since the market, I saw Bucky up close as he wrestled the catman again, this time kicking him off a stolen motorbike he then fell off of.
The adrenaline in my body lessened at the sight of him, even if he looked beat-up and pissed off, and I finally felt the blood that had been running from my nose and down to my now-red chin. When Steve approached him, I followed, and I saw as Bucky’s gaze switched from wary to reluctant as he let his best friend’s arm extend to proverbially shield him from the incoming black cars that were now circling us. His jaw kept clenching and unclenching as his blue eyes darted for any hope of a possible escape. Then stopped once he realized I was standing next five feet away from him, probably looking like a rabid animal.
Bucky’s darting gaze softened, and his jaw unclenched. It was enough for my body to accept that we were out of danger, and so my shoulders slumped as I began to pass out. My mind went black before I even hit the floor.
The next time I woke, I felt both more comfortable and more in pain. My muscles were sore from the adrenaline, and I could practically hear Bucky saying I told you so as my overworked limbs refused to do so much as lift a finger. A new sensation ebbed across my body, something cold and numbing and bruising I felt too heavy to move from the chair I was strapped in. I really did it now, I realized. Too much movement quickens the degradation, and I had been doing aerobics for the past hour. Or, at least, I think it’s been an hour.
“I told them not to strap you. Your body, I imagine, is already held down by its own machinations.”
A familiar voice entered my ears. Looking down — oh, I was unchained — then back up. A young man who looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it…
“No interesting words? You Americans do like being dramatic. The French accent you did last time had me perfectly fooled, at least. I never thought the Winter Soldier would have a French companion while I was looking for him.”
Thin lip. Glasses. Pale. Slight facial hair. Almost handsome, but too-shrewd with his too-thin lip.
And skinny like the guy in the newspaper. He smiled faintly at my realization.
“Ah. There you go. Don’t worry, my dear. This will only be a quick visit from me. Pure admiration, that’s all.” The room we were in was white, with cold air and a long, plastic table separating us. The chair I was in was also white as he began to slowly walk towards me.
It reminded me of those scientists who’d have that same kind of saunter after hours of experimenting on me. They’d strap me to a chair, do their worst attempt at playing butcher, then after cleanup and stitches come in to view what they considered the equivalent of a prized painting in the world of science — a test subject that survived. He did that same walk, and I suddenly felt very numb, very, very tired. Another kennel. This was another kennel. I’m back in there.
“Is it true that they mastered inputting obedience through surgery? It’s a myth, of course, in the medical community, but Soviet documents are often heavily redacted…” he was standing, but then he kneeled to get to my eye level. He lifted my chin, and I suddenly felt aware of the dried blood that crackled and caked the lower half of my face. “If I order you to bark, would you?”
I want to die.
He let go of my chin. “Don’t worry, I’m a gentleman. Really, I hold no interest in you. It’s your fellow agent I want. If he acts the way you did in the tapes I found…” something warm tinged my chest, enough for me to try and move again. “I’ll keep you around as a backup puppet.”
With that, the Sokovian walked off. His footsteps lessened as his image left my peripheral, and something got stuck in my throat. Looking down. The rings that we had in Italy were now cracked — shitty, cheap prop jewelry that got mussed during the tussle of the chase. The pearl was gone, leaving an empty holder for nothing. Torn off.
The funny noise escaped my throat again. Then again, and again — I sounded like some ugly, dying seal, trying to keep my voice down as I sobbed out of some animalic instinct in realization that everything has gone wrong. I slap my aching palms over my mouth, attempting to collect myself. I realize, then, that the Sokovian underestimated my own recovery time. My muscles still felt heavy as I tried to stand up, and I hissed before my legs could buckle and let me fall to the ground.
Bucky, I kept thinking to myself. I had to find Bucky. We had to go home. Move again. That’s all. Move again. Maybe a bus, or train, or hike.
BANG!
It’s just like Germany.
BANG!
I just have to find him and run away again. These hallways are nothing. The people slumped over were napping, that’s all. One was curled in a corner, crying, but that’s probably from someone else —
BANG!
I take the unconscious agent’s gun from her belt. I just had to follow the trail of agents. They looked so peaceful, asleep. My head also felt floaty, as if something about getting detained took a weight off my shoulders. Nothing really felt real anymore — nothing threatening, at least.
I wonder if Bucky — no.
No.
Нет.
Говно.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My eyes drag mind back from the clouds and back to the room of unconscious agents.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They were coming from down the hall.
Tap. Tap. Tap.