Title: It was not by their sword that they won the land
Disclaimer: the ex-Winter Soldier and Captain America aren't mine
Warnings: references to the Winter Soldier's experiences at Hydra
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 640
Point of view: third
Prompt: Avengers movieverse, Bucky Barnes, "I was born twice." Bucky having to learn the most simplest, basic things all over again. [Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex]
Later, much later, he thinks, I was born twice.
.
Fear is something he never loses. Rage. Hate. Despair. Too, he can walk and talk (though his vocabulary is small), aim and fire, read and write (though missions have not called for either in a long time). He remembers how to drink but not what is necessary to drink. The necessity of food, he loses until he sees non-combatants putting – something in their mouths, bringing their teeth together, swallowing. He wonders if such an action might appease the pain in the middle of his body. He knows how to relieve waste and clean himself.
He has many skills, all hard-won, and he utilizes them to steal what he learns is called food. He eats and is sick; he eats something else in smaller quantities and is not sick. He makes his way along the coast, eating different things, drinking water (and only water, for that was a hard lesson) and sleeping when his body's newly-awakened signals tell him so.
He is afraid. Angry. He ignores the hatred and despair for there is no outlet, and – non-combatants are not targets. There are no targets, not unless… but he turns from the thought and focuses on the – the – not painful? smell.
There are trucks that carry food, which non-combatants drive, and cook and sell. He has money because of his many skills and he buys a warm sandwich, goes to a nearby park, settles in the back beneath trees, and eats. Once, he can almost remember, he had loved food. He was hungry often, so that… little girls could eat. And the small man, whose name he can almost whisper, sometimes.
Names are something he does not fully understand. His handlers had names they called each other. He had a designation, like the guns and knives they gave him for their missions. To his face, he was only asset. Sometimes, not even that.
He has a name, he thinks. The target – ex-target – Captain America…
He shakes off the thoughts so that he can eat the sandwich bite by bite, to feel the different textures of the layers, the tastes. He does not have words for the tastes, and he licks them off his fingers when the entire sandwich is gone.
It is a – adequate? Good? Nice? Whatever the word, it is that kind of day. Somewhere between winter and spring, neither too warm nor too cold, with a wind that rustles the leaves above him. He watches the young children and their keepers, the old non-combatants and their dogs, the sun as it crosses the sky.
He notices the dark-skinned girl notice him. He leaves then.
He returns the next day. And the next. He – the trees are – he thinks that he misses words. Once, they were familiar, he knows that. He finds a building of books, and within it a dictionary. He spends all of one morning reading it.
Now he has the words, but still is unsure of how to piece them together.
But. Pleasing. Pleasant. Want. Desire.
He enjoys sitting beneath the trees and watching non-combatants live.
The little girl continues noticing, and slowly comes closer. On the seventh day, the little girl stands in front of him, spine straight, head held high, and says, "Hi."
He gathers his words slowly, but he finally returns, "Hello."
There is fear in him. And anger. Hatred and despair. He has known them longer than anything else, and he knows they have no place beneath these trees.
And now, watching this strange little non-combatant child sit down, hearing her ask, "Wanna hear a joke?" he feels something else.
Because of the book of words, he knows it is excitement.
He does not know many things. But he does want to hear a joke (something meant to be funny?), so he says, "Yes."