Bucky is his name for me. I am no longer Bucky. I am no longer James, I am no longer Yasha. I am none of them, and all of them.
I know not what to call myself. A broken vase is never the same. Break it more than once, and it is less and less a vase.
But I am no longer the void. Shards of life remain, are reclaimed.
My mother's favourite dish – peach pie? Pastila? Did I know my mother?
There are holes that cannot be filled. Ragged edges that never dull. Scars that vanish, reappear elsewhere, were there the whole time.
She confuses me. For him, I know of the one he remembers, but those memories are distant and faded, as though looking through a frosted pane of glass. I am not, have not been that friend for so very long.
For her, there are too many conflicts. I was many things for her.
Instructor, mentor, partner, lover. Enemy. Murderer.
I remember killing her, the blood dark on my hands. (red blood, red hair, red rooms.) I watched as the life drained from her eyes. I left the body where none would find it. No loose ends.
So how is she alive? I cannot resolve the pieces, they do not fit.
Nothing fits. My skin itches, the cuff chafes. Without my left arm, I am unbalanced, at a loss. It was safer, they said. For caution's sake.
I look at her, and she knows, as I do, that the arm makes no difference.
He pleads to let me keep it, wishing to spare me further indignity. It is odd, the concern he feels.
Somewhere, the echo is almost familiar, and I tell him so. But then the glimmer is gone. His earnest expression dies.
The man in the wheelchair has come to visit again. He likes to pull and push at the pieces, trying to put them together like a curious child. But there are too many, and no corner pieces.
In time, Mr. Barnes, in time. He says patiently, his mouth stretched in a line.
He leaves, and I am scattered, unsettled with the unresolved question of my mind. I shiver, but not from cold. I wish to focus, but there is nothing to ground me. I pull at the restraint on my wrist until the metal bites, but it is not enough. My head spins and spins, the blood rushing past my ears until I hear nothing else, but I know I am shouting.
Then, the darkness descends, and there is silence.
I wake to find the slack in the chain lessened, my ankles chained separately to the bed. There is room enough to sit up on the mattress, but nothing more.
My clothes have changed, and there is blood between my knuckles that didn't get cleaned away.
Well, then.
In the space outside my cell, he stands with her, and they're both arguing with another man, who's scowling.
"We can't do that again, not for a while. You saw how it messed him up! He's had enough people poking around in his brain. He has to rest." His arms are folded, his stance angry.
"He took out three of my guys while missing an arm. It took another five to sedate him. Clearly what he needs is more rest." The other man spits out in distaste.
She meets my eyes, then shifts away. She speaks calmly. "Xavier said that his mind retreated into the Winter Soldier persona to protect itself. We need to move more slowly, cause him less stress."
The man frowns at me, and I stare back. "Hardly seems worth the effort." He sneers. I sneer back.
"I know you don't mean that, sir." His words are light, but there is steel underneath.
The scowling man leans close in response, speaking in menacing tones. "Just make sure he doesn't cause any more havoc."
They disperse, going in different directions. The blond man comes to stand at the glass of my cell, looking in. I can't parse his expression.
I know she is there, beyond the edges where I can see.
I do not know what he looks for.
I snap out of a light doze, and I know she is there. She comes closer.
Our eyes meet. She braces herself where she stands.
"I killed you," I say. I can think of nothing else.
"I killed you too." She says, doubt passing between her brows.
"The pieces don't fit." I tell her in Russian.
"If your face looks skewed, don't blame the mirror." She speaks in return.
I bark a loud laugh, making one of the sentries outside turn his head sharply. The corner of her mouth twitches up.
Her humour is brief, for a cloud settles once more. "I poisoned your vodka." Her tone is flat, her face blank, but her eyes betray her distress. "Then I burned your body. The arm I buried."
I eye her curiously. "I left you to rot in the alleys of Smolensk."
She doesn't flinch. I didn't think she would.
There is a hollowness surrounding the memory in my mind. I can see the strands of her long hair slipping through my fingers, remember an ache in my chest. It's one of few moments that has more underneath it.
"I think... I think I did not want to kill you."
My words surprise her, but she covers swiftly. "You remember...us?"
I frown. "There is colour there. Emotion." I can't explain my meaning, it frustrates me.
She nods, though, her brows drawing slightly together.
"It is like that for me as well." She says this as if one who knows what it is to flounder in the sea of my mind. It angers me, my frustration turns hot.
"What do you know of it?" I snarl at her, and she draws back. "For you it's an anomaly, an outlier. A piece that sticks out funny. I do not even have a name." I glare at her, breathing hard with fury, my words a jumble of English and Russian.
Her expression carefully blank, her body still, she regards me for a long moment. She waits. Eventually my anger cools; it was never truly directed towards her. My head tips to my chest and I gasp in air, utterly spent.
This is when she speaks.
"You have a name. You only have to decide what it is."
Her words wash over me, and there is a revelation hidden somewhere in them, but I cannot grasp it yet.
She turns to leave.
I lift my head. There is a question I must ask. "Does he know how many people you've killed?" For some reason this is important to me.
"Do I?" She asks softly.
/tbc
A/N: So Bucky, Steve and Natasha have captured my soul and my feels, and I haven't even seen the movie yet. (It will destroy me.) I wanted to write something from Bucky's fractured, messy POV, and it's become quite the exercise in style variation, especially with the first person. I would love to hear what you guys think. :) I have more written, because I can't with these guys. *hugs Bucky tight*
NOTE: if you have seen the movie already, *please* do not leave any spoilers in your reviews. Thank you.
I've used some of the comics' history for Natasha and Bucky's backstory, with the Red Room and the memory manipulation and the brainwashing (of course), and for now I'm keeping it that Russians are responsible for creating Bucky. I have no idea what they'll do for the movie. Because of this, I used the name Yasha as a Russian equivalent of James, for when he is manipulated into thinking he is Russian/the Winter Soldier. I have so many lovely ideas for how well the brainwashing didn't hold out over the years, either because of insufficient care or technology, or Bucky's original spirit, etc. We'll see how much gets explicitly used in this story, but I have plans for some stand-alone fics in this 'verse as well.
And to confirm, the people Bucky sees in this chapter are Steve, Nat, Fury, and Xavier. I don't want it to be too confusing, but at the same time Bucky is incredibly confused and mixed-up right now, so it is purposely not too clear.
Thanks for reading! Enjoy the movie whenever you see it, guys! FOUR DAYS.
*ANOTHER NOTE: This is connected to my teensy Winter Soldier drabble titled For Now I Am Winter. ;)