Darkest of Winter

All characters belong to Marvel Comics

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The Winter Soldier stood in the middle of the shower stall, limp shoulder length dark brown hair drenched with the pulsating beats of warmth. He closed his eyelids, sealing out the light as he breathed in the steam encroaching over his throbbing muscles—blood escaped his soft lips as he pounded his fist against the tile wall, gritting his teeth and fighting against the echoes of ghosts lurking inside the drifts of his memory.

He felt the metal of the gun against his fleshy fingers, the stench of gunpowder and the sounds of screams from his victims—targets of Hydra. He became desensitized weapon —a frozen shell of a man turned into a ghost of winter.

There was a time where he forgot what a kiss felt like—the sound of his mother's voice and the firm grip of friendship. Everything—his existence, name and heart became replaced by the coldness of metal digging into his skin—condemning him to live forever in ice—awakening only to complete missions.

Now, he was on the edge of remembering his old life—"Bucky Barnes," he murmured against the rush of water splashing over his parted lips. "James Buchanan Barnes—A soldier from Brooklyn." He clenched his eyes, tighter-fighting against the trepidation pounding in his skull. "I was some skinny punks friend—-big brother."

He leaned his densely muscled body against the wall, swallowing the water as felt his soaks locks of hair lash over his jaw. "Steve Rogers." he rasped, tears leaked from his eyes. "Someone's friend… My friend."

He snapped open his pale azure blue eyes widened as he gasped out a harsh breath, "I almost killed him—-" He shook his head, allowing the tears to dissolve into the walls of steam over his trembling body. " I almost lost him…:" his voice drifted, anger churned in his veins as he became frozen in a moment of raging and temperate thoughts.

"I saved him… Pull him out and held his life in my…" He narrowed his watery eyes down at his metal arm, clenching the fingers into a fist—"… Hand."

He crashed to his knees, allowing the blood of his wounds to wash down the drain-tears of Bucky Barnes—the soul trapped with the hollow shell of Hydra's greatest weapon created ripples in the blood. "Red," he released a feral growl, sliding his fingers against the ceramic, listening to the screeching of metal pulse in his ears. "It's always the color of red… Nothing will ever change… " He clenched his eyelids shut, "I will just keep on seeing blood, fire and ice—for the rest of my life because it will always burn inside of me."

He shifted his dark blue embers and stared intently at the droplets sliding on the glass, catching the spectrums of amber and crimson—his gaze became haunted by the images of stolen life.

There were a number of emotions waging war in his blue eyes—grief, rage, pain and fear. He was distressed. The monster—the untamed beast who smashed skulls and broke bones with his bare hands was afraid of himself—-programmed to kill without mercy—-without reason. He wasn't a good soldier; he became a weapon—cold and hollow as the ice the birthed out his new existence.

Desperation rippled in his veins. Anguish seared through the dark fabrics of his twisted, marred soul. He reeked of sheer exhaustion, mentally and physically—but his ice-like eyes remained alert and lethally guarded.

"When can I live again?"

He reached for the taps, twisting off the hot water and allowing the cold to pierce his skin. He had become immune to the feeling of ice entering his body—he felt it every day—since he dragged across the snow into Hell.

Turning off the water, he rose up and stepped out of the shower, instantly pulling on a pair of frayed jeans—he leaned against the bathroom sink and twisted the taps.

He drew out a shaky exhale, he was caught in a division of the present and past. The world around him had changed forever; streets were distinctive and even people were different.

He spent his days entrapped in the darkness, shielding himself from the sunlight. His youthful, rugged face had become swathed with a thicker stubble; square jaw line bruised, and overcast circles shrouded his striking steel blue eyes.

Inside, he was an emotional wreck, fighting off the dark angel, they transformed him to become—breaking his silver wings off, diminishing his noble spirit and making him believe that there was only death to harbor. There was no more valor, honor—-freedom.

Just a lot of red on his ledger that kept on running on his knuckles every time he pulled the trigger.

"You're a soldier," he caught his labored voice cutting into the steam of the bathroom. "You're just a face that can easily be forgotten. Your purpose is to kill the enemy—-nothing else."

He stared intently and confused at the ghost in the reflection, studying the details and sharp curvatures of his face; the scars on his torso and coldness in his severe gaze of azure as shadows of malice became entrapped inside his pupils. He was frozen in the moments of seeking for his existence, a captive in a delusion which passed through his densely muscled frame.

Cold water filled the ceramic basin, and the washcloth was stained with blood. He lifted his shaky hand, tracing his fingers over his bristly jaw with a gentle caress. He stared at the dark-brown strands ending at the curve of his chin, and then with a dismal glare welling in his blue eyes, he looked down and hard at his metal cyber tonic arm. He clenched his metal knuckles into a tight fist—feeling no heat just coldness.

He lifted his arm, ready to punch the glass of the mirror—-ready to shatter his reflection into jaded pieces.

His beautiful shaped, fleshy lips altered into a fierce scowl, a growl rose up his throat as he unleashed his aggression and rammed his fist towards the mirror, but then stopped as an item jarred his attention-a chained necklace with two engraved dog tags hanging on a towel hook.

James Buckanan Barnes

Sergeant 32557 T42 43 B

107th Infantry

He clamped his eyes shut, squeezing his lips into his skull, flesh and metal gripped through his wet stands-he parted his lips, voice cracking a familiar number out with an unsteady voice, "32557..." he blared out, his breath wispy and strained. "I am Sergeant 32557-I have a name. NO!" He roared, clenching his fingers into fists as memories recessed from the murky depths of his mind.

"The procedure has failed a second time." The malicious German voice of Arnim Zola buzzed like static in his pounding ear drums. The short and stocky doctor stood next to the medical table, adjusting his glasses against the bridge of his nose. "We must try again. The subject is getting weaker and his mind can only take so much before it allows us to invade." He placed his stubby fingers on the device-a huge metal probe hovered over the sickly captive-Bucky Barnes. The young soldier was strapped down to the table-his ashen skin slacked with layers of fresh sweat, his handsome features ruddy and steel-blue eyes pale.

"I am Sergeant 32557.." Bucky choked out, tears rolled down his youthful face. "My name is James Buckanan Barnes-My best friend is Steven Grant Rogers."

Zola lowered the humming machine down, sharp spikes filled with an unknown substance jabbed in Bucky's neck-the young man jerked and twisted under the straps as his veins seared with liquid. The doctor sneered, staring at the discomfort etched across his captives glistening brow, he gently brushed his fingers over the drenched strands of chestnut-stroke Bucky like a twitching and wounded kitten. For a moment, Bucky laid there in stillness, his pale growing pale and muscles coiled against the jolts erupting in his bones, and then he screamed out anguish cries, tasting metallic slide down his raw throat as Zola performed another injection.

"Now, let's try this again..." Zola hissed, pulling back the probe. "What is your name, boy?"

Bucky jerked his head from side to side, he opened his watery blue eyes, allowing the green haze of light to become entrapped in the darkness of his dilated pupils. He coughed out blood, drops of sweat rolled over his jaw. "James Buckanan Barnes-"

"You've failed to please Hydra, Sergeant Barnes." Zola dejected with disappointed laced in his voice. He wiped the young man's sweat dotted brow with a cloth. Bucky's lips parted, he let out a low breathy pant. "No matter... We will try again until your mind belongs to me." Zola wrapped his hand around Bucky's neck, squeezing his fingers into a choke hold. "If you disappoint us, we will turn you into a limp vegetable and allow your friends to come and take you home."

Bucky turned his head away, he spoke in a weak voice that was too strange for him to vocalize."I need to get back home... To Steve... The little, shinny punk-My friend."

Zola clenched his teeth, withdrawing a step back, "When I'm finished with the injections, you will not even remember you have a friend named Steven Rogers... You won't know him."

"Yes-I will." Bucky snarled out a heavy breath, defiance burning in his blue eyes. ""I will know him."

"I kept the tags with me when the plane went down." A low, palliative and a familiar voice wavered behind him; lulling him back. The Soldier tensed his posture and craned his neck, meeting the wearily cobalt chasms and short golden hair of Steven Rogers. "They never got lost in the ice."

"The serial numbers…" He muttered out in a scarce whisper, blinking his eyes as his head narrowed. "They belong to a good man.." He swallowed, piecing everything together as his voice became distant. "Your friend… Right?"

"One of the best," Steve replied, with a faint smile crossing over his lips.

"Do think…" He was hesitant as he looked at Steve with a firm gaze. "I could have been him…. Your friend?"

Steve cautiously moved closer to him, and grabbed the dog tags and placed them over the Soldier's neck. "You are my friend… Even though you can't remember who you are… That will never change because I know you're James Buchanan Barnes, the tough kid from Brooklyn that never gave up on a punk like me."

"James," He replied with a weak smile, eyes glistening as he fought for the control of his own mind. "I like that name. You can call me by that name."

Steve nodded, smiling with restored warmth breaking over the grimness of his youthful face, "Well, James," he began. "Is there anything you want to do today?"

James narrowed his head, looking at his metal hand. "I want you to show me how to live again… Steve."

"Okay," Steve answered, stepping out of the bathroom, he turned around and stared at the dark locks of hair draped over James's face. "But first, you need a hair cut, James."

"The hair stays, punk." James growled back, slicking his damp strands back.

Steve grinned, knowing that his best friend, his lifelong blood brother of Brooklyn was slowly returning to him.

"Whatever you say, jerk."