Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot of this story.
A/N I posted this years ago on so I decided to repost it here and make a few improvements whilst still holding true to the old version.
Symbol
Hydra Base, 1943
Cold. Heavy. That's all the unfamiliar appendage was to him. A piece of cold metal replacing the arm that he wasn't even sure what happened too. There had been the horrible, endless falling; wondering when he would meet the ground and cease to be. Then there was a pain. So much pain. And then finally, darkness. Those memories did not seem to have any place in what he knew. When had he fallen? All he knew about what he was was the white-coated scientists and the dark cold rooms of where he was kept. He knew pain though. He knew it well. Mostly, it was the only thing that made sense and was consistent in what he knew.
"Test your arm." It was a command. No choice was given. There was never any choice.
So he did as he was told, as he always did. The man never looked up from his clipboard. He was always writing, yet somehow always watching. He rotated the arms a few times, bending it at the elbow and squeezing his fingers. It worked just like his other arm. Only stronger. Something told him that he shouldn't be listening to the white-coated man. That he should stop obeying. He tried it once.
He wouldn't disobey again.
The white-coated man was still writing, never looking up. Resting, he lowered his arm, letting it hand heavily at his side. He caught something in its reflection. A face. Himself? He didn't recognise who he saw ...but it must be him. He knew it was him.
Why couldn't he recognise himself?
Unsure, he let his eyes wander to where metal met flesh. There were so many scars. He traced one of them absentmindedly, wondering... He caught himself too late, and with a sudden spark of fear he turned his eyes back to the white-coated man.
He was watching him. But he didn't tell him to stop.
Slowly, he let himself inspect the metal plating of the arm. There was an obvious coldness under his fingertips, yet somehow the arm could feel the softness of his skin. He traced one of the plate layers to the top of his shoulder.
He saw a flash of something. This time not in the reflections on the arm, but in his mind. It was something silver. A wing? He wasn't sure, the image already fading from his mind.
It left him with a sense of emptiness. Like he had lost something.
The white-coated man ceased his writing. "What is it?"
That was a question. He wasn't asked questions. Frowning, he tried to find a way to answer. "Something's missing," he decided.
The white-coated man remained silent for a while, writing nothing. "Missing? " he finally spoke, his face expressionless.
"…I don't know," he answered, his hand slowly leaving his shoulder. "A symbol? I don't know," he said again. "Maybe."
He was being shoved into a chair, the metal arm restrained while more white-coated man fussed over it. They had some sort of pain with them. Red. It didn't hurt, so he musnt' have angered them by asking a question, yet the closeness of all the people made him feel like the air was being ripped from his lungs. They were too close.
But he didn't dare move.
When they were finally finished he found himself being pulled to his feet before he could even properly breath again. They didn't back away, and he soon found himself being equipt with some kind of armour. Yet none of it covered the metal arm; something about not wanting it to be restricted. He looked down at it now, curious to see what they had done. There was a blood-red star there, right on the shoulder.
"You have your symbol now. Do you like it?" the same white-coated man from earlier asked.
So many questions. He wasn't asked what he liked. He wasn't supposed to like or dislike things. But he did. He didn't like the star. It was a brand. Red and aggressive. Not at all what he had seen. It made him feel sick to his stomach.
"Well?"
He wanted it gone. He needed it to be gone.
"Answer."
He eyes the white-coated man. He held a mask instead of the clipboard.
Lie. He should lie. Pain would come if he didn't. They would put that mask on him he said the wrong thing. And you can tell them to put it where the sun doesn't shine. Resist. He clenched his fists at his own thoughts. He would not listen to them again. "No," he said through gritted teeth.
The white-coated man expression grew dark, "no?"
His eyes grew wide. No, he hadn't meant- they were too close again, holding him down. To close. The man with the mask stepped forwards, and not a second later the mask was locked around his face. Silenced like a dog that barked too much. Was that was he was? A dog that barked too much at his master?
He wasn't sure what else he could be.
Smithsonian, 2014
Bucky pulled the baseball cap further down his head, hiding his face from view. Slowly, he made his way through the crowds of people. There were so many... so many people that likely knew who he was better than he knew himself. They probably knew Steve well too. How could they not, his story was on every wall, plaque and table. He was there too, the other Bucky. They Bucky that Steve seemed to think he was. Steve had been a lot shorter once. That Steve seemed ...more familiar than the other. He wasn't sure why.
He would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed how in any picture that he or Steve were smiling, the other was with them. They had been friends. Steve still seemed to think they were friends.
And then he saw it.
On the portrait of himself. Right there on the left shoulder. A wing.
A symbol.
He gripped the fabric of his own jacket, where it should be. Not some fucking star.
Steve also had the wing, but on his helmet. It obviously meant something, but he couldn't remember what. He knew something though, but it wasn't the symbol he had needed.
It was Steve.