Story! Yeah! This is my attempt at surviving until may of 2016. If this doesn't work I may need to go to the hospital 'cuz I got Obsessionitis, also known as the Fangirl Syndrome. And this does contain spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier in heavy amounts. No slash, expect some violence and injuries.
"Then wipe him and start over."
The Winter Soldier had heard those words over and over again and if he went back to Hydra he'd surely hear them again, but he wasn't going back. That man, the man from the helicarrier, had awoken a spark of memories, just a few, and now the soldier needed to know more. He needed to remember.
He'd just left him there, broken and hardly alive, and he had walked away from him, that man who was the only mission he'd failed to complete. He couldn't do more to help him because the Winter Soldier's being was tearing apart. Part of him yearned, needed to complete his mission, return to his 'keepers' and follow orders like 'a good little assassin'. But the other half of this tormented freak was determined never to fall into the hands of Hydra again. He'd had a life before Hydra, hit lists and this damned metal arm and he wanted to remember it, remember that man. But his obedient half wouldn't let him; it demanded control.
The Winter Soldier was in the city now—he had no idea which city, but it hardly mattered—and as the forces pulling at him got stronger he felt more and more dangerous. Stumbling into an alleyway, the assassin fell onto his knees, struggling for dominance over his own mind. His wet clothes suddenly felt too restricting, though; he had never cared about their confining fit before. His metal hand, the only truly usable hand he had, scratched and tore at his uniform, starting with the fabric around his broken arm. As the material ripped the Winter Soldier looked down and noticed a symbol sewn into the inside of sleeve. It was the Hydra insignia: a skull with tentacles coming out of it. Sickness filled the soldier for it seemed as though that image, that emblem, stored inside it a thousand, identical memories.
The memories surrounded the Winter Soldier. How many times had he been frozen and unfrozen, wiped, conditioned and tortured when he fought? For far too long his life had been a blur of memory wipes and orders to kill.
"Put him on ice."
"Then wipe him and start over."
"Mission report…Mission report now."
"Your work has been a gift to mankind."
"But if you don't do your part I can't do mine."
Raging anger built inside the soldier and his metal fist slammed into the ground, no doubt leaving a small crater in its wake. He looked at it, the fake arm, and noticed for the thousandth time that it was unscratched, undamaged. The metal rarely ever suffered under the force of bullets, EMPs, or the dozen other things that had been thrown at it. In fact, that…man's shield had been one of the few things to ever cause it harm—at least, this particular arm. Over the countless years he must have spent working for Hydra he'd possessed over seven different models of his 'arm'. They'd made upgraded versions, as if his arm wasn't deadly enough already.
"You are to be the new fist of Hydra."
The Winter Soldier slammed his fist into the pavement over and over again, wanting nothing more than to do serious damage to his lump of metal. He hated Hydra—he realized it now, after all these years—and everything it stood for. He wanted to break the fist of Hydra. He wouldn't let them use it again. Again and again and again he drove the cold, lifeless hand into the ground, wishing it more harm than he could remember ever wishing anything.
"People are going to die, Buck."
"They already have!" the Winter Soldier screamed, his arm speeding up its rapid punches.
"Please don't make me do this."
"I knew him."
"You know me."
"No I don't!"
"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."
"Then wipe him and start over."
"You shaped the century."
"The man on the bridge, who was he?"
The Winter Soldier pulverized the ground, yelling and screaming as his two halves tore each other apart.
"Prep him."
"The procedure has already started."
"People are going to die, Buck."
"You shaped the century and I need you to do it one more time."
"Bucky?"
"I'm not gonna fight you."
"Bucky, you've known me your whole life."
The arm never dents and never damages. An invincible monstrosity fused onto his being.
"You're my friend."
"You're my mission!"
"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."
He wanted the arm gone. He needed it off! He had used this arm to kill hundreds of innocent people. He had used this arm to beat the man from the helicarrier bloody. He needed to be free of it so he rammed it again and again against the broken pavement.
"Shut up!"
"But I knew him."
"Who the hell is Bucky?"
"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."
He stopped. The silver arm relaxed. Hydra had taken his memories, his free will, his very life from him. When they found him he had ceased to exist. Bucky had died falling from that train. For seventy years they had imprisoned even his memories. But now he had a name, now he had remnants of who he once was. A breadcrumb trail he could follow. It was time to find and resurrect Bucky. That man—Steve…knew him. He could help.
The Winter Soldier stood up and let a shard of sunlight hit his face. It felt too warm, too intense, but he knew he'd get used to it. The light glinted off his arm and shone too brightly for the soldier's eyes. The Winter Soldier moved his arm away from the sunlight, but then stopped when he saw something.
On the knuckle of one of the metal fingers was a small, barely perceptible dent. A dent that had never been there before. Bucky smiled ever-so-slightly for the first time in decades and left the rather-decimated alleyway. He knew of a place where he could find information about both himself and the—Steve. But first, a wardrobe change.
"Are you ready to follow Captain America into the Jaws of Death?"
"Hell, No. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I'm following him."
Panting, Steve slid into a chair and downed a big glass of water.
"Dude, that was like, thirty pushups. I know for a fact that you can do ten times that and not even be winded," Sam Wilson said as he exited the bathroom. "What's wrong? That magic serum in your veins bothering your stomach? Got a super-soldier flu? Or is being really patriotic all the time just that exhausting?"
Steve smiled briefly, but stared down at his empty cup as if it held all the answers he was looking for. "Nah, I'm just…" Steve trailed off, choosing to look out the window as the cup revealed nothing.
Sam sat down in the chair next to him. "Hey, I get it," he replied kindly. "Some of the soldiers I worked with went into the service as some of the healthiest and fittest creatures on the planet. But then they come back home and, even the ones who aren't badly injured, suddenly are tired all the time. They don't sleep right, food doesn't seem natural, and it's like all the life has been sapped out of their bodies." Sam put a friendly hand on Steve's shoulder. "These are usually the men and women who lost someone."
"Yeah, well, I just learned that the person I lost never died in the first place," Steve said, standing up, walking to the mini-fridge and opening it. "You think that'd make me happy. Stronger."
Sam shook his head. "Not if the person in question is an amnesiac assassin working for the very people the two of you tried to bring down. I mean, if that happened to Riley—" Sam paused, cleared his throat and continued, "I'd be a wreck. I would have given my life for that man, but then to turn around one day and have to fight him? To consider the possibility that I might have to kill him?" Sam sighed. "I don't envy your situation, dude. And it makes sense that you're a bit winded; that's all I'm saying."
"Yeah, well…as soon as we find Bucky I'll be right as rain," Steve responded, closing the fridge and turning away from it empty-handed.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Sam said, pulling his iPhone out of one of his back pockets. "Natasha sent me an E-mail a few minutes ago. She might have some news." Sam plopped into a chair while Steve rushed to his side, gazing intently on the small screen over his shoulder.
The E-mail from Natasha simply read:
This was posted from Chicago on YouTube fourteen minutes ago. Have the colorful captain take a look.
And directly beneath was a YouTube link in light blue. Sam clicked on the link and a video player opened. During the three seconds—which felt like an eternity— it took for the video to load Steve pondered how, seemingly, all it took was three months in the twenty-first century to turn him into an impatient child and rob him of the tolerance a ninety-year-old should have. Or perhaps the simpler explanation was that no amount of age could keep at bay the nervous energy that even thinking about his long lost friend instilled in him. The video loaded and began…and Steve had no idea what he was looking at.
The image on the video was blurry and indistinct. It was kind of a blackish brown color. But even though the visuals weren't working out so well, the audio was coming in loud and clear.
"Hey, Charles, a little help here? Everything's fuzzy," a young, male voice said. The camera kept moving marginally, but its clarity never improved.
"Seriously, Zach?" said another, slightly older male voice, which probably belonged to Charles. "You're a child of the twenty-first century; you can't keep acting as inept with technology as a ninety-year-old man." The camera moved some more, as if someone had grabbed it. "There." Something beeped faintly and then the camera began to zoom out, revealing in the process that Steve and Sam had been staring at the lid of a dumpster the entire time.
"Oh…." Sam murmured in understanding.
The—possibly a teenager's—camera continued to wander all over what seemed like a fairly nice, spacious alley, which was formed out of three, red-brick buildings. "Thanks, Charles," the kid, Zach, said. "I can figure out how to take pictures just fine, but, for some reason, I suck with video."
"Somehow I find that more depressing," Charles replied. The camera focused on Zach's friend for a moment. Charles was a teenager, as Steve had guessed, with a vaguely cocky—but ultimately kind— attitude. "Anyway, like I was saying before you turned into an interrupting cow," Charles continued, making Steve briefly wonder what reference or phrase he had missed this time, "I've now got an angry girlfriend on my hands, which, let me tell you," Charles chuckled stressfully, "is no picnic."
As Charles talked the camera kept scrolling over various things in the alleyway and even the street, where a little girl was sitting on a sidewalk, beyond. "Sarah wants me to take her somewhere nice for our anniversary, but I had to say no because mom insists that is 'family night.'" Charles sighed. "Seventeen years, Zach, and I still have no idea what 'family night' is supposed to mean? What is it? Some cruel kind of torture parents inflict on you for pooping so much as a baby?"
Steve was beginning to wonder why Natasha sent this video to them, since, so far, it was pretty pointless, but then the camera slid past something foreboding and oddly shiny. Steve's stomach dropped and his heart jumped. He knew what he had seen, even though it had only been a second.
"I mean, what do they expect from me?" Charles kept rambling. "Am I supposed to—"
"Charles, shut up," Zach interrupted in a low voice. The camera seemed almost to fall as its lens pointed at the ground. "Look over there…" Slowly, painfully slowly for Steve, the camera crawled back up and focused on a man sitting on the fire escape of one of the buildings. It was Bucky.
Steve sort of fell into a chair: all the energy draining out of his body. Bucky looked different—again. Instead of the intimidating uniform he had worn the last several times Steve had seen him, he was wearing ragged and baggy jeans, an ordinary t-shirt, and a brown hoodie. His face was hidden slightly from view since he seemed to be transfixed with the ground below him, but Steve could see how it both looked more relaxed than their last encounter, but also more exhausted and thin. Bucky was hardly moving, just sitting on the fire escape, his normal, flesh and blood hand gripping the wrist of his metal one as if it was injured—or perhaps like someone holding something filthy and disgusting.
"Whoa…." The kid, Charles, exclaimed quietly and Steve had to agree with the sentiment. "Who is he?"
"I have no idea," Zach replied slowly. "Do you…think he's maybe an ex-soldier of some kind? You know, with the-that hand and all?" Zach asked hesitantly. Bucky still wasn't moving, he just sat there, frozen.
"Maybe," Charles conceded. "But what's he doing here? You'd think that someone who's been to war has better things to do with his time than just…this."
"He could be homeless," Zach guessed, "my dad's always ranting about how poorly the government pays veterans. In his words, the government 'uses, abuses and then loses' them."
"He looks…miserable," Charles said slowly. "Should we, I don't know, help him or something?"
Suddenly there was a terrible screeching sound and the camera whipped around. Steve's nearly non-existent fingernails dug into his palms in worry. His best friend was memory-less, on his own, and sick-looking; that alone was enough to make Steve's heart beat with fear. The camera refocused on a truck with an unconscious driver spinning out of control. Then across the lens a swish of brown fabric and metal whirled by as Bucky ran down the alleyway.
The camera whirled around, giving them a fuzzy view of the ground, a wall and a pair of shoes as it shook powerfully. When the camera finally stabilized two seconds later the kids were apparently at mouth of the alleyway and the camera was trained on the truck, which was still serving this way and that, like an animal unable to make up its mind. Steve scanned the video desperately for a sign of Bucky, but he was nowhere to be found. Then the truck crashed headlong into a lamppost.
The camera lurched backward. "Gahhh!" the boys chorused in horror.
"Charles, call 911," Zach ordered, keeping his camera steady on the scene playing out in front of them.
Abruptly there was an ear-shattering screeching sound and the camera zoomed in slightly on the lamppost which was swaying back and forth. And then gradually, almost as if it were in slow-motion, the lamppost fell, heading straight for a shop window in front of which cowered a little girl who was hiding behind several cardboard boxes, apparently thinking they could protect her.
"No!" Steve cried out, reaching instinctively for the child, but even as he did and as the lamp careened for her, a flash of brown and silver sped past the zoomed in camera screen and snatched the child. The camera zoomed out slightly just as the lamp crashed into the store window and Bucky's shadowy figure curled protectively around the girl a few feet away. Shards of rending glass flew everywhere, including straight into Bucky's back, but the soldier remained hunched over the child until the last piece of glass fell to the ground.
A woman ran out of the damaged store frantically calling, "Hannah! Hannah!"
Bucky stepped away from the girl to reveal her safe and completely unharmed. The mother rushed to her child and picked her up in her arms, hugging her fiercely. "Thank you! Thank you!" she sobbed happily, but Bucky just turned away from her, giving Steve a good view of his back where spots of blood were forming around the slivers of glass imbedded in the hoodie, and walked swiftly to the truck and proceeded to pull the unconscious man out. Bucky laid the man on the ground and leaned in closely, listening for a heartbeat. After a couple of seconds Bucky's face stiffened and then he blew into the man's mouth and started compressions. After several compressions and zero response from the driver, Bucky frowned deeply and leaned away slightly. What happened next nearly made Steve jump in surprise. Bucky's arm spun around lightning fast in it's socket several times and then the metal hand opened up and pounded down on the man's chest where his heart was. Electricity flashed around the hand and the man's body convulsed as if it had been defibrillated.
Suddenly the driver lurched upwards and he began coughing and sputtering, opening his eyes slowly. Bucky grabbed one of the driver's arms and pulled him into seating position.
"What-what happened?" the man asked, his voice raspy.
"You had a heart attack," Bucky answered, his own voice quiet and smooth. "You should get check out by a doctor." Then Bucky stood up and started walking away and not one of the dozen or so people that had gathered around the scene tried to stop him. Bucky began heading in the direction of the kids, who backed away as he neared, but the soldier paid them no attention. He climbed limberly up the fire escape he'd been sitting on not three minutes ago and ascended it until he reached the top of the building. Then, without looking back even once, he vaulted himself onto the rooftop and out of sight. The YouTube video went fuzzy and then abruptly ended.
Steve deflated entirely and leaned heavily against the back of his chair. "He's okay," Steve exhaled slowly, beginning to smile. "Bucky's okay."
A couple of things for those of you who might have questions. Bucky briefly thinks about how his arm has been updated over the centuries and, in case you're wondering, I did a minimal read through of some of Bucky's history in the comics and I believe that is comicbook canon. Also, when we see Cap it's set roughly five weeks after Bucky pulls Steve out of the water and then walks away (originally it was gonna be three weeks but I feel like this makes slightly more sense) so when Bucky saves the girl and the truck driver his arm and any other injuries he sustained should have healed a while back, considering that he has heightened healing abilities like Steve.
I'm not entirely sure how long this story will be, but I've already got the next couple of chapters planned out and if I can't think of anything beyond that then I'll end this story there. I'm hoping to make this story more than just a bromance flick that's all talking and no action because that seems greatly out of character for any superhero story, so if all you want is these two guys sitting down and having tender conversations then this might not be the place for you, even though this story will have a couple of those.
I don't know when I'll update so I won't make any promises. And for those of you (if any) who are still waiting for me to update my other stories, I'm sorry, I'm so dang sorry. I'm trying so hard to write those stories, but it's not really working at the moment. In fact, this is the most fanfiction I've been able to write in freakin' forever. I'm still making a strong effort to write those stories and I shan't give up on them, but please be patient with me because writing for me right now seems like trying to fit my head into a peanut butter jar. Painful, weird and impossible. But hopefully this will inspire me to write more.