AUTHORS NOTE: This has got the comic BuckyNat/WinterWidow relationship in it because I wanted it to. There's really no other reason. Just go a long with it. Predominantly a Bucky one shot though. It's all about him. So don't flip out, they're not what this tale of woe is about.
Snow crunched under the Soldier's boots. He'd reached the safe house at the estimated time. He'd searched the house for bugs or messages or anything that might send alarm bells back to his masters. He did all this according to the usual protocol. He'd found nothing. The Soldier surveyed the perimeters. Looking for the same nothing. Anything that would stand out. Anything that could compromise the mission. He could fuel his body with whatever it needed after he'd reported back.
The safe house was surrounded by trees. A few were dead around the back. Nothing of interest. One of the dead tree's stood out to him. There was nothing that set it apart from the rest of the landscape. Nothing at all to imply he'd been compromised. The Soldier investigated anyway. There was a hollow through the roots at the back, empty apart from the typical moss and leaves blown in from the wind. The Soldier dug through it anyway.
Old mangled material began to appear. A strap. A buried rucksack. It would have been dingy even without what looked like years of mud. It didn't look like it had anything explosive in it. The Soldier placed his left hand over it, safe by the metal. Nothing immediately hostile. The Soldier pulled it from the ground. Covered his tracks. Bringing it inside when he was done.
The contents crumbled. Nothing dangerous at all – but he'd still inspect it before reporting back. It was effectively full of paper. Old newspaper clippings that were crumpled and ripped, all nesting a small notebook bound with brown leather. The Soldier took it out, the front had been massacred. The leather pealing apart where someone had taken a knife to it. The cuts formed block letters.
FOR US, PUNK.
Now it seemed important. Something about it hit the Soldier with attention. He sat at the kitchen table, unhooked the string that kept the book closed, and turned to the scrawls of writing inside.
That's right I'm talking to you.
The importance the Soldier attributed to the document only heightened. He didn't know why.
We're empty. Haven't you noticed? Do you still wonder who our parents were? Do you still stand in a city and wonder if we were born there? Probably not. I never used to. Things are just starting to feel strange – and if I don't write this down
I just know I need to write this down.
There was nothing to indicate this book was meant for The Soldier. It looked like his handwriting, but his handwriting could look like anything depending on what it was needed for. The force of the carving on the front implied anger. Anger. The Soldier didn't have emotion. That didn't mean he couldn't recognize it. It was important he did for certain missions. It was in the tone too. The tone felt familiar. Oddly compatible to his methodical mind. For us. Our parents. Where we were born. It was almost as if…
The Soldier had used this safe house before. He'd been told he had.
I just helped a kid out of a dumpster. I wasn't told to do it. No mission. I just did it. I did it…Maybe it was me, anyway.
It definitely wasn't the Soldier who had written this, then. No mission? The concept didn't sit right in his head. But the rest of the note did. He didn't know why. It didn't make any sense.
I don't know what's happening.
Do you ever hesitate by an alley where some skinny boy is stuck in a fight?
Do you ever flick your eyes away from a target when a red head walks past?
Only for a second. Not long enough to make a difference to the mission. But you do it.
The Soldier's heart was pumping differently. Fluttering? Pounding? It was always even. It was even when he pulled the trigger. It increased as it needed to when he ran. It hadn't done this before. Not that he could remember. His entire body felt uneven. Anxiety? The Soldier did not have emotion.
I think, maybe, he called us Buck.
I think she called us James.
Buck. James. A shot went through him. He knew those names. Not just as he'd heard every other name. These ones meant something.
I think he spoke to you in English.
I think she spoke to you in Russian.
I think they punished all three of us, in different ways.
Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm just remembering old aliases. Something about it just feels right. Like there's something hydra didn't give us. I know that sounds crazy. I just needed to write this down.
The Soldier stared at nothing. It was crazy. The Soldier was Hydra. There was nothing else. Buck and James sounded nothing alike. English and Russian completely different heritages. They were just aliases. And yet the Soldier's hand was shaking. Not a lot. It wouldn't have been visible if he wasn't holding pages. The Soldier did not shake. Physiological reactions rattled through him that he was not programmed for. He flicked his eyes back on the notebook where the pages had spread apart. The first one was full of the first note. There was no more writing until the new page. Not on the back of the other. The person who had written it had done everything they could for the next message to be found again.
Natalia.
Steve.
Yes.
They're going to make me forget again.
The Winter Soldier closed the book. Ready to return it to the tree.
Yes.
They were going to make him forget again.
AUTHORS NOTE. 2; THE RECKONING: I feel like my characterization is a little off in this one but you can't have it all. Please review with feedback and all that.