Once again, I've fallen victim to another wonderfully realized Marvel MCU character. And while we can all agree that, after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes has abandoned the role of antagonist, I think it's fair to say he still has a long way to go before he can ever return to the person he was before. This will be a different sort of OC fic, but I'm very excited to share it with readers. Thank you for reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy.


Winter Song

Chapter One

Adrift


November.

The room would never work. It was cheap, yes. Its location was ideal. Safe. Close to two of the busier subway stations. And the owner didn't give two shits about his tenants as long as they paid him on time. Payments were dropped through a slot on his door on a monthly basis. It was a building infested with vagabonds and others looking for a place to stay hidden. None of his neighbors would be friendly or curious.

But this room…it felt too familiar. Its commonality exposed fractured memories of old safe houses and hideaways; prompting flashes of the life he was trying to run from instead of the one he was seeking to understand.

The late autumn air, still fresh from rain made filled the room with a dank, musty smell that coated the wooden floor and peeling painted walls. The ceiling was low enough that, when he stood, he could sense its tatty stucco surface just above him. The floors were old and even the slightest applied pressure elicited a screeching creak. There was only one window and it was too narrow for his stocky frame. If an escape was necessary, he would have to plow through it and that would be a dead giveaway.

A single light hung from the ceiling, its bulb more orange that white. When one of the trains went rushing past outside, it would sway and flicker like a dying flame. A slow ping of dripping water could be heard from every corner of the room, but he had yet to find the source of its constant racket.

Dismissing any lingering concerns, he sat on the edge of the bed that pulled out from the wall. He could feel and hear the springs shudder under his weight.

Already, the room felt more like a cell than a shelter. Even though he could still feel the key resting in his pocket, the lock on the door felt outside of his control. He swallowed, a harrowing sense of dread sparking in the back of his mind.

Did he have control? Or was this a dream? An illusion maybe. Another sensation imprinted on his brain like so many before. Was he really free of them? Those that had controlled him?

His chest tightened as doubt began to creep over him, constricting like a snake. No, he was certain he had successfully eluded them in Romania. He would bet his life that his pursuers were still scouring the eastern boarders, gobbling up the false indicators he had left for them.

Pierce was dead. So were many of his men. But not all. Not the scientists. Not the doctor. There were always survivors. Cut off one head…

But they were not the only ones attempting to track him down.

You know me.

"No." He muttered, his voice hoarse and thick with exhaustion. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back with the stranger's voice. But he could not shake it. The sound of it. It clung to his brain as if searching for it' place, desperate to show him that it's nature was true.

You know me.

"Quiet." He growled, standing too quickly. His head spun and his aching legs buckled underneath him. He collapsed on the bed, his vision blotted black. His limbs went numb and his stomach swam like a stormy sea. He could feel his control over his body slip away from him.

Another blackout. They were beginning to grow more frequent. Another reason to fret. Another reason to surrender himself. He was vulnerable without the assistance of the doctor. He had never been taught how to fight these sorts of battles.

He was far and away from all he knew. Or rather, what he had been "programmed" to know. Was that the word for it? Programmed? Maybe not. It would have to do. He couldn't decide on a better one. And that was a detail that could wait.

He rolled onto his back, his bloodshot eyes trained on the ceiling. Blinking, he tried in vain to will his vision clearer.

Your work is a gift to mankind.

He groaned again, ramming his flesh and bone hand into his skull. What he would give to quiet the voices. They were no help to him now. Only temptations, distractions, nightmares…

In times like these, he longed for the uniformity of his past life. The one he could still remember with succinct clarity. The one that had not been erased. Or stolen. Stolen? Yes. Stolen.

In that life, he had no memory of this. Being lost. Without direction. Without a clear sense of purpose. His reality had been so simple. Two shades. Black and white. Allies and enemies. One mission after another. There had always been a plan. An extraction. A safe house. A support team was always waiting for him to do his part. When the mission was completed they were there mop of the mess and cover his tracks. The world's greatest strategists were called in to assess his missions and assure the best method was deployed. No variable was out of place.

Then it was on to the next mission. That, or there was the ice. And sleep. Dreamless and painless.

He had nothing now. No orders. No plans. Only the money he had relieved from passing strangers and unprotected homes. Stashes he had been made aware of during his days as Pierce's asset.

There was only one thing he possessed that was fully his own. Desire. White hot, and burning at all hours. A desire to understand who he was. To sift through the lies until he came across what was true.

Which is why he had come here. Coordinates 40.6928° N, 73.9903° W. Brooklyn, New York, United States.

This city was his home. Or it had been. At one time. Whether or not he would be able to track down any information or access any lost memories, he couldn't be sure. But as of now, it was the only lead he had managed to get his hand on.

He lifted himself up, his eyes looking for the table that sat under the window. His sight blurred and he held a hand to his head, waiting for the room to quit its spinning.

There on the table stood his only key to a life he had yet to confirm even existed at all.

A file he had stolen several months past. Though it felt like it was so long ago. He couldn't register the date anymore.

He knew every word of it now, having poured over it almost one hundred times.

Along with four pages of army documentation dated 1945, there were three pictures and two names.

The first picture was the largest. It was a young man. If he turned his head a certain way it could have been a mirror image.

This was James Buchanan Barnes. This was him. Supposedly. All he had was the word of one man.

The man in the smaller picture. The man on the bridge. Given name: Steven Rogers. Alias: Captain America.

His...friend.

He cursed under his breath and stretched out on the bed again. His head felt heavy, has if he would sink through the mattress and fall through the earth. Trying to fend off the voices again, he began muttering all he knew, filing through the paltry bits of information it had taken him almost eight months to procure.

Still he could hear them, like whispers now. Flitting around his head. Ghosts eager to haunt him, waiting to strike. All this talk was helping. What he needed was sleep. And he needed it now.

He waited, trying to slow his shallow breaths, praying that soon the noise would cease and his world would fade to black.


Fortune for once, was on his side. He slept for some time and not once was he plagued by voices or images that still meant nothing to him.

When he woke, he had no memory of falling asleep and no concept of the time. During his sleep he had rolled onto his stomach. His prosthetic was resting under his head and when he shifted his weight and pulled his neck up, a sharp pain radiated through his shoulders. He cried out, his whole body as stiff as the steel in his prosthetic.

Rolling back onto his side, he gazed towards the window. Faint light poured in from the cracks between the blinds. But was it the light of dawn or dusk? What time had it been when he first fell asleep? What day had it been?

I don't know. He thought. Can't remember.

He sat up, his shoe-clad feet hitting the floor hard. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress as he tried to gather his wits about him again.

Whatever the day, whatever the time, he knew he had slept too long. It would take time, far too much time, for him to feel truly awake again.

He stood up, realizing that he was hungry. And this time, it wasn't a hunger he could ignore. He needed sustenance.

Remembering that he had a watch in the pocket of his jacket, he plunged his hand inside at pulled it out.

06.45

Good. It was morning. The streets would be close to vacant. He could get what he needed and then continue his search for a more fitting shelter.

Zipping his jacket, he grabbed the clip of cash he had slid under the mattress and stuffed it in his back pocket.

He pulled a baseball cap from the table and fitted it on his head.

Now that he had all of his possessions on his person, he left the apartment; not bothering to lock it behind him.


And that's chapter one! I should say first off that my 1st chapters are always much, much shorter than the subsequent ones. This chapter very much so. I usually aim for my chapters to be at least 3x this length. My OC will be introduced in the next chapter. I find it's always best to start with the canon character and I wanted to establish his status.

Again, thank you for reading. I hope to "see" you next time. I would love, love, love to read what you think of this start. Thank you!