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It wasn't anything she hadn't been expecting. Not really. The reality of it was still a swift kick to the gut, though.
Sharon arrived back in Berlin to find her office locked with the keycode changed and a few silently rebuking cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape malingering outside her door. Plus a bored-looking CIA officer standing by to 'help her get her things out.' Cheeks burning with indignation and yes, some righteous rage, too (she was not on the wrong side here; just as she hadn't been in DC!) she was briskly escorted back to her car and packed up faster than a kid flung off to summer camp by divorcing parents. As the officer went to close her driver side door for her, he leaned in close, facial features suddenly animated.
She nearly punched him on reflex for the unnerving proximity. It had after all, been a long damn day.
"WHAT?" she hissed.
"Stay angry. Stay alert. Stay low. Don't go home. Check into a low-profile motel and use cash. Read what's in the manila envelope in the top box behind your driver's seat."
"WHAT?!"
Jesus, she sounded like a broken record. Aunt Peggy would be sooo disappointed (and possibly pissed off that her favorite niece had gone and kissed her first love a scant few hours ago, but Sharon decided not to think about that quite yet. Honestly, it had been a little weirder than she'd expected). Oh wait, this guy was still talking.
"It's how to navigate the next rabbit hole we've found ourselves in, Alice."
She simply stared. To reiterate: long damn day.
"We'll – HE'LL – be in touch soon. Now go. Before the bureaucratic quicksand sucks you down. Or worse."
To her surprise the officer winked, leaned in closer and whispered, 'I think you're amazing, by the way. Had a competence crush on you since forever. Always had a thing for tall, badass blondes. Love to take you to the range – ammo my treat…or just make you dinner sometime if that's not too dull,' before he slammed her door shut and plopped his disinterested expression back on faster than one of Natasha's electronic masks.
Sharon tightened her knuckles on the wheel and felt her forehead crease in a Shar-Pei twist.
Long.
Damn.
Day.
Deciding to just roll with the uptick in events Sharon let the wheels underneath her do the same. She was sorely tempted to pull over and fish out whatever information her mystery man – crap, she didn't even get his name? why did she care? – had indicated, but wasn't going to if she was being tailed, and didn't want to look like she was looking out for one, either. So she deliberately drove in loops for a bit, then headed out of the city, hoping that if she was being followed it would just look like vehicular moping.
Even though her intentions were to appear upset and directionless, Sharon found that tooling through the beautiful countryside helped, because regardless of etiology, being fired sucks. She eventually found herself in a small, hilly hamlet with a 'mom and pop' looking series of little cottages ringing a small lake and decided to tuck in. Using cash as indicated, of course. After buying a few provisions at the little camp store (including a bottle of the darkest Cabernet she could find; to reiterate – LONG DAY) she brought her few boxes in from the car and rolled some tension from her shoulders as she looked around. Her cabin was cozy, comprised of a tiny kitchen, tinier bathroom, big bed and a huge fireplace. She settled herself into the adjacent armchair with feet up, warm flames and warmer wine in her hand to consider her options.
First on the agenda? The mysterious manila envelope. A very short note was inside.
'You're not alone, Agent. Never have been, though you may not have known it. Open the box marked 'Desk Drawer #2 Supplies', review and keep the contents safe for the owner. Hint: it isn't you. I'll be in touch soon, I promise.'
Only two initials after a dash – 'N.F.'
Sharon let a wide smile brim over her face for the first time all day.
Placing her glass down on the stone hearth, she leaned over to lift the box in question from the stack on her other side. Like the others she'd brought in, it wasn't too heavy, but definitely more than her printer ink cartridges, extra pens and old-school handheld Tetris game should've been.
She slit the packing tape easily with a fingernail, then gasped a little in surprise as she saw what was inside. She lifted it out slowly, carefully…especially as she knew how very wary the owner was. She held it out at arms' length, just looking for a moment.
This was the backpack that one James Buchanan Barnes had on when he was apprehended. The one confiscated from him. The one she couldn't get to when alarms had gone off after she'd absconded with their other gear. The only thing he'd kept safe and secure in his little hovel, according to Steve.
She was holding the most valuable item a defrosting Winter Solider had in his possession – and now it was in hers. She set it down in her lap and gave it the once-over for nasty surprises before opening some of the pockets. As expected, it held everything he'd need for a quick getaway: rubber-banded rolls of paper money in Euros and a few other different currencies, a few fake ID's, couple of flashbangs, small tool kit, two changes of clothes in zip-lock plastic bags and two pretty little Walther CCP and Ruger LC9 handguns. But that wasn't all.
In the very bottom of the bag's main compartment, in another sealed zip-lock were two small books. No, not books – journals? One was blank and looked new. The spine wasn't even creased yet. But the other? This had a handkerchief tied around it. It unknotted slowly under her cautious fingers to reveal a worn leather cover over pages fluffed slightly with long attention. Only one identifier; the word 'me' written in felt pen on the inside flap. Sharon opened it carefully, both in respect as well as trying to keep some loose papers in their respective spots. After being assured nothing would fall out of place or blast her hands off, she turned back to the first page. His handwriting was lovely; fine lines and loops of cursive flowed down the paper from his mind to hers.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes, 'Bucky' for short. I didn't know that for a long time. Sad, huh?
She bit the edge of her lip. It was.
First thing I remember is being on the broken helicarrier with tears and blood dripping down my face. Blood wasn't unfamiliar. Tears on the other hand….I was never a crier I don't think; not that there's anything much wrong with it. Then Steve falling, and I dropped right after. Chose to, and it was the first thing I chose to do since the last time I fell – well second if you count quitting the mission. Apparently big machines and I are a horrible combination, whether they're physical or political. Anyway. Pulled him out and left him on a riverbank for his friends to find, because I sure as shit wasn't much of a help busting him up like that in the first place, now was I? Wouldn't be real popular if I hung around waiting with him. No big 'welcome home, soldier' for this POW, nope.
Hell, no. Not like I expect different.
No rest for the wicked.
Besides. I had stuff to do, people to see, or see to, I guess. Met at the rally point with my regulation thousand-yard stare on and let them patch me up, knock my shoulder back in and then I took my recovery team OUT because even with scrambled eggs for brains there was NO WAY I was going back into the belly of that dying beast. Not that they didn't deserve it, sadistic little fuckers. And with everything else being so screwed up – the Orwellian sky literally falling on all the chicken littles…well…I got away cleaner than I would have without an expensive technological disaster. I've paid a high enough price already.
And I had places to go. "Away" seemed like an appropriate first option.
Then the museum seemed like a good next. Got to assess the source and intel you're given and only dopes need to be brainwashed into knowing that as fact. He wasn't lying. Steve, I mean. Ornery little cuss – that's the very first thing I remembered about him without prompting actually, even if he wasn't so little anymore. We had history. We were friends. Seemed like good ones too if that little snip of video was any tell.
Watching made me feel sick, because I can't remember the last time I laughed that easy for real, and I don't think it's just because they scorched me so bad. It had been awhile. Long while, and I haven't done it since I've been this me. Maybe I won't. Again. Ever. That's okay though – been through worse. Put others through worse than that for sure, so flat-affect Limbo'll do just fine and dandy, thanks.
Cardinal rule of combat: if you're compromised, get out and get low to lick your wounds. So I did. Got to use some of those ill-won skills and safe-house spoils for my own means. For a change. Who the fuck's going to look for me across an ocean in a country where all the people who know I can speak the language are hiding (or dead) themselves?
So a few months down the line and trying to move back into my frontal lobes here I am in Bucharest in my own squalid little corner of the world. It is mine, though, and that feels good. Isn't much, but I'm well used to making due. Great Depression. War. Standard bullshit like that. Blocked my windows with newspapers first hour I was in the spot, though I honestly didn't know at the time if it was to keep prying eyes out or my broken pieces in and you can't pull THAT off in a ritzy neighborhood. Anyhow, I won't steal if I can help it and this is what I can afford doing under the table odd jobs and stuff. I won't be on the radar.
Anyone's.
Not ready for any of that.
Sorry, Steve. Knowing what I do of you now, you might be looking, but this egg isn't ready to hatch. Might never, but you'll be okay. Haven't needed your pal Bucky to take care of you for a long damn time.
You always hated when I tried to anyway, punk. Point in your favor. So.
So….I'm denned up here because it's nice not to run. For now. Cover and recovery, because even a predator like me needs that sometimes. And I'm starting with my head – or the barbed wire and swiss cheese brain I got left with. Never needed to write down anything. Used to have a good memory, I think. Childhood stuff comes back the easiest so far. Maybe because Hydra didn't need to fry much of that out of me? Anyway, I recall being decent enough at school without working too hard and not ever needing to write down grocery lists for my ma; not that we'd ever get that much at once so I guess that's saying something. Or all the shit it took to keep Steve above ground: kid always had a Cadillac spirit in a jalopy body. But this…ALL this other is…yeah. So. Diaries aren't just for little girls anymore, though I think they're called journals now. I got a bunch already with just nuts and bolts stuff. Useful. Who knew? At least I don't flip my lid anymore when I blank on something I've already recovered because I know it's written down someplace. I mean, even normal people do that, right? My gran used to complain that she'd walk halfway up the stairs and forget what she was after without a string on her finger, and she wasn't even that old. Or electrocuted over and over.
Sharon ran her thumb over the large space between these words and the next ones, but wasn't sure why. Trying to soothe, perhaps.
Gritty? Too much? Whoopsie-fucking-daisy, then. What passes for my sense of humor's pretty dark now, but it sure beats being a shell full of someone else's weaponized shit, I guess.
Anyway.
Sharon suddenly felt voyeuristic; she was literally seeing the inside of someone's mind spiral out into the light and air. She flipped a couple of pages without reading – just skimming over words and a few pictures jammed between. They almost looked like mimeographs – yes, the scent of the ink lingered when she brought the little book close to her nose. From a library copier, maybe.
The next few pages yielded a grainy image of Steve and Natasha from the Chitauri incident torn from some newspaper and a few pages of tight writing with no paragraph breaks between…but she found herself reluctant to read these. She wasn't sure why.
Sharon turned a few more and was shocked to find herself staring eye-to-eye with her aunt in her prime. The strength of the gaze took her breath away, even faded and fuzzy as the picture was. The neat script continued.
Agent Margaret Carter. Steve's Peggy. A bombshell in every sense of the word. Bright, fearless and dangerous as all hell; blasted my little Stevie's knees right out from under him simply by existing. Of course I'd heard she respected him even before the experiment so I might've loved her a little bit just for that. And for how she handled people; a punch, sass, blistering silence…straight-shooter decorum personified. Literally - I cracked up when Steve told me about how she tested his new shield for him! Yeah, not many could sit Cap on his ass but she did it without even breaking a sweat. He would've married her in a heartbeat if she'd let him, and I know she'd have done him proud. Brilliant tactician and hell of a lady. I wonder what ever happened to her.
Sharon felt her throat clench. Among all the other things she had not processed effectively yet was this loss. So much had happened to her aunt. And Steve. All of them, really. She took a sip of wine, resettled herself into her chair and kept reading.
I wonder what would have happened to a lot of other people unlucky enough to meet me if I had not been what I was.
Jesus.
'My work has shaped the century.'
Thanks, asshole. Some fucking legacy that is.
I was weak enough for them to 'shape' me, is the whole goddamn problem with THAT. So, have to lay low, figure things out. Wait…something's coming to mind just now…yeah. Yeah. I remember overhearing scuttlebutt when Pierce was first brought on board – I'd got real good at the blank no one-home-here face early on - tried to keep as much together as I could between sizzle sessions. I mean. Captain America is NOT the only stubborn jackass to ever bounce out of Brooklyn despite what he might say. But. Pierce. He was a lot younger, yeah. That arrogant bastard's hide's been steeped in blood almost as long as mine. Anyhow, someone had said one of the reasons he'd been chosen was because he looked like Cap on the reels: big, strong, solid fella. Quiet, commanding. Supposed to make me tune in subconsciously, I guess. Mind him better. But goes to show how much they could miss the point: everyone and their granny knows Cap's official image but seem to forget that until he let himself be turned into an irradiated pincushion Steven G. Rogers was just a mouthy little whip of a thing and madder than a wet cat most of the time. That's the guy I knew the longest. If they'd brought in some little prick full of piss and vinegar it probably would've worked better in the long haul. Kind of funny, though…not 'funny ha-ha' unless you go real dark like me I suppose, but still.
She flipped a few more pages. Stopped when the beautiful writing got denser. Heavier. As if he were grinding the pen into the paper, weaving the words into reality with pressure alone.
Could save trouble and off myself, of course. Can't say I haven't thought of that. I mean, we've all of us got just a one-way ticket on this ride anyhow so who's to say punching out early is the worst thing? Seems easier to think on, some days. Better than slogging away never knowing what my head'll burp out next. Or who might find me.
But if I give up….
…if I give in to what I hate to admit I want real bad sometimes…
…just a rest…a fucking break...
…then they'd have won. For real. And those shitbirds don't deserve the satisfaction whether they know it for sure or not so I'm not having that.
Not yet, anyway.
I get to CHOOSE, now. And I do. Everyday. Sometimes hour to hour, but I do choose.
Besides, even if I'm not playing with a full deck yet (awful hard with most of the cards either singed or missing – man, can I kill a metaphor or what?!) I can do this.
So what is 'this', exactly?
I'm gonna keep breathing.
I'm gonna stay low.
I'm gonna goddamn eat what I can afford when I want. Oh my God, chocolate – so good. Little bit of heaven on the tip of your tongue.
Sharon quirked a grin at this. She felt the same way and was surprised to feel a little spark of kinship with the man who had put her through a cafeteria table earlier. She shook her head slightly and kept reading.
Sleep when I want. When I can. Nightmares suck, though. No fun. No sir.
I'm gonna let the little old lady three doors down pay me in sarma and cheek pinches and layer me like a cake in her dead husband's old clothes when I play Mr. Fix-it in her crappy apartment. He died from pneumonia apparently, and out of misplaced guilt or whatever makes sense in her sweet cotton-top head she just wants to bundle me up something fierce. Which is fine; I've done enough cold to last a lifetime. Makes us both feel good; nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I would have wanted someone to keep an eye on my ma and the girls after Dad passed and me gone. Hope someone did. Besides, our building super is in pretty rough shape himself so can't do much and don't ask too many questions of me, so. Hah. Jeez, maybe I could play matchmaker for those two. Get fed and a break on my rent. Make someone happy for a change instead of standard issue murder and mayhem.
The next few lines are sloppier; the pretty script turning ugly as the words do.
Fuck that.
Not anymore – not ever again, please God. If He's even real…well, hell – how could He be, state of the world and all? What people can do? Have always done to each other?
Fuck Him too, then.
There are a few pages ripped out after that line, but Sharon can see the impressions of what looks like large, block letters and then scrawling loops and cross-outs. The next words are on the top of a fresh page underneath those imprints and the juxtaposition is heartrending.
I used to be a good person, I think. Tried to take care of people as I could? That feels familiar in my bones, my gut…but maybe not. Could be wishful thinking…kid stuff. Fairy tales. A little balm after everything I've done. But I have no way of knowing for sure until my mind comes back all the way instead of flirting with me. If it does. Seems fickle. Like a beautiful, spoiled dame with a mean streak a mile wide who'll grind you into the dirt because she's been warped enough to know she can.
And just like when you fall in love against all your best intentions, there's nothing you can do about it but wait and hope it all turns out with everyone's soul none the worse for wear. Have to hope, right? Otherwise, what's the point of trying? Living? Anything at all?
I ask myself every day. Sometimes more than once.
Sharon brushed a quick hand over her prickling eyes.
But it's okay. Okay enough. Like I said, I get to choose what I can now, and I'm choosing to try that 'could-be-familiar' version of me on. Maybe not all the time, or even very well – like wearing Sunday Best over a dirty body, but… I can choose.
That's gotta count for something, right?
Right?
The sigh caught her by surprise and even with at least a third still unread, she closed the book. Sighed again. Stroked gentle fingertips over the worn cover, replacing it carefully in the backpack and hoped that wherever he was, whatever had become of them, the man she'd just had a glimpse of got the answers he sought.
Everyone lost deserves to be found. If they want to be.
Sharon tangled herself in spiderweb thoughts for a while after, and only startled out of her reverie when her phone chirped. The number came up as unlisted, but there was a small photo icon of a cartoon pirate with an eyepatch glowing on her screen. She was grinning before she even heard the deep voice say, "Hello young lady. I'd like to begin a conversation with you. Interested?"
Sharon barely needed a nanosecond to take stock of who she was and what she came from before answering.
"Absolutely, sir. You have my complete attention."
She heard a rumbling chuckle. "Wonderful. Let's get started."
And she chuckled herself at the sharp knock on her door.
I tend to like poking in the less-frequented corners of fic when I play at writing. In part because I'm still testing the waters and also because The Big Takes are done so often, and often so well! So this is just a little peek into Bucky's mind from the perspective of someone who is peeking, too. In general, I like Sharon Carter. Woman is smart, determined and does her damn job, whatever it happens to be at the time and yet *does not* toe the established party line when her internal compass disagrees. Those are the actions of someone who is not a shill, nor automaton. That said, the kiss between her and Steve in CA:CW made me cringe. Not just because of the potential Steve/Bucky thing (now, that is part of it for me, although I like them as strong friends, too - and I tried to leave the story a little nebulous in that sense so people can read through the lens they prefer). But...the timing, the NEW INFO TO STEVE regarding Sharon's relationship to Peggy, the fact that Falcon and a slightly defrosted Winter are a captive audience to Cap's slick lady-killin' moves...just *awkward all around*. To me. But I wondered what parallels could be drawn between characters as 'apparently' distant as Sharon and Bucky, and what her thoughts on his might reveal.