Disclaimer: I own nothing but my constantly wandering imagination.

Last Regret

It took a while for him to remember. He almost wished he hadn't, but then, everyone he'd hurt deserved to have a chance to haunt him...

For two years James thought his last regret while being The Winter Soldier was almost killing his best friend on that helicarrier. Turns out it was actually the girl who'd tried to help him soon after.

After leaving the Captain on the muddy riverbank, he'd forced himself to remain on the move until he finally passed out in some woods on a narrow animal trail from what experience told him was a concussion, three snapped ribs, and a broken and dislocated arm.

Waking up, he could only remember flailing, screaming, reliving the horror of falling and the agony and nauseating shock of realizing his arm had just been literally ripped off at it's root as he dashed against the icy, serrated wall of the deep ravine.

By the time he fully came around, it was already too late.

His head felt huge, the pounding in his skull and the slight blurriness of his vision told him he hadn't been out long - not enough time to heal, anyway. The entire right side of his body felt like it was being grated with long, sharp spikes, and his breathing sounded like his lungs were full of gravel.

Squinting through the pain in his head, he realized he was on his knees, supporting his weight with his sooty, silver plated arm. The other one - the real one, the one that mattered - wasn't moving. He couldn't even feel it.

He turned his head slowly to look at it, cold water still languidly dripping from the ends of his hair. He found himself facing down a foreign sense of panic and deja-vu, as terrified as he could ever recall feeling that his right arm would suddenly be gone, too, a shredded, bloody stump.

It was still there.

The relief was short-lived. His black leather covered flak jacket, torn at the seam from the fight on the helicarrier, had split halfway to his shoulder. Dramatic bruising covered almost the entire arm underneath, and it hung limp. He prodded the skin, but barely felt anything but cold solid flesh in return.

Fear made him stand, but he clutched his head as the pressure built mercilessly, and his vision swam. After a moment, he took an uncertain step forward and stopped when he stepped on something that crunched under his boot. He blinked, frowning vaguely, then looked down without moving his head at first. He took a careful step back and saw a crushed, glittering smartphone.

There were also the twisted fingers of the delicate female hand that held it.

Hie eyes went wide.

He knew he shouldn't care, wondered wildly why the fuck he suddenly would now, but he felt his expression change as he looked down the corpse at his feet. A violent tremor went through him at the sight of it - of her.

A young woman, maybe twenty, with curly brown hair in a ponytail, medium skin and a slight but athletic build lay curled on the narrow trail. She was wearing sportswear, and a pair of neon blue shoes tied on her feet. A civilian, then. A jogger, most likely.

Her neck was broken, there was little redness, no lividity. He had made it fast then, at least, hadn't crushed her throat, or strangled her. No bruising meant no blood flow, so she'd died instantly. She hadn't had a chance to feel any pain.

Her eyes were closed, that was a small mercy, but her pale profile sure as hell wasn't facing any kind of natural direction.

He stumbled back again, falling against the trees, fast, short breaths grinding in his chest, whining out of his throat. He'd killed her, he knew it, even knew why - he'd been out, unconscious, but instinct was everything. The Soldier would have interpreted her approach, (not-to-mention any help), as a threat, and the smartphone was a beacon to enemies. He was currently vulnerable. There was no question why he'd done it.

The question was why he was suddenly so horrifically stunned by his own handiwork. Guilt was a foreign emotion - or at least it had been until he'd come face to face with the man on the bridge. Captain America...no, Steve Rogers.

'Steve. God, what would Stevie think of me now?'

A siren approached in the distance - he pulled himself up, suspecting the added blur in his vision as being from more than just concussion, and swallowed hard. He was panicking, breath rushing painfully, loudly as he exhaled through flared nostrils.

Forcing his back to the girl, he closed his eyes, squeezing them shut - and then he grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and rotated his shoulder while shifting the arm up hard. The shoulder went smoothly back into socket, the initial pain making him see white for a second, but the relief after was worth it. He could feel blood rushing back into the cold, broken limb, and could wiggle his swollen fingers a bit.

As soon as he was clear headed enough to walk, he left the trail. He wasn't sure if the girl had made a call or not, but the sirens hadn't been a good sign...course, there were sirens everywhere because of him, today.

He didn't bother looking back at the dead girl. He had nothing to offer her but a promise that she was the last innocent he'd ever hurt - and a lifetime full of regret.

A/N: Darker, yeah. Working on something full-length, needed to push Charming!Bucky back a bit to jump into Merciless!Winter. Shouldn't be too hard, emotions always take a nosedive this time of year. I freakin' hate January...