[1]
.
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He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know who he was. Not completely. There were pieces of him scattered throughout his memories, all of them different from the last.
The Asset.
The Winter Soldier.
James Barnes.
Bucky.
All of these names represented him, but he didn't know which one of them he was. None of them felt quite right on his skin. So he shed them all, leaving him nameless for now.
But that was alright.
Being nameless would get the job done.
His head lolled as he tried to straighten his neck and he opened his eyes. He could barely move his fingers and toes, but maybe that was because he was strapped down to an upright metal table of some kind that made a noise of protest at his weak attempts at moving.
Everything was blurry and wavering in front of him. He blinked several times trying to clear his vision, but it only helped a little.
He was able to see that there were men and women scurrying around him, carrying cardboard boxes and other things in their arms. All of them passed him with barely a glance.
Some part of him cautioned at opening his eyes more than a sliver, and his instinct appeared to be correct when he caught sight of the men hovering near the only exit in the room. These men wore black tactical gear, holding rifles in firm grips. Their eyes were flicking around the room, not bothering to help with the cleanup process.
His breathing picked up; he didn't remember much yet, but he knew that those men were there for him.
He tensed against the straps that were wrapped around his limbs and chest, but they fit snugly to his body and even his strong arm couldn't get free, though it whirred angrily in response.
He realized a moment later that there were alarms blaring somewhere in the building, loud enough that it was making it difficult to hear properly, and that red lights were flashing in the cold room, casting a crimson glow on everything.
The red made him think of blood, and his breath picked up again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, images flashed of bodies lying motionless on the floor in a pool blood.
They were all missions. His missions. Nameless and faceless people who he had killed. Back when he had been the Soldier. The Asset.
He recoiled internally against those terms, wishing that he could be Bucky or James, so that he could be a good man instead of a killer.
But he knew that for now, he needed to be that. For now, he was the Soldier. Bucky and James couldn't get the necessary job done. They would recoil at what needed to be done, and he couldn't have that. Not when he was in the heart of HYDRA (because where else could he be?).
He stiffened suddenly, feeling eyes on him, and he abandoned all pretense of unawareness, shifting his gaze to the onlooker.
It was a man in a white coat, who flinched when the Soldier's eyes landed on him, pinning him into place.
"He's aware," the man yelled over the distant alarms, still staring at the Soldier.
The atmosphere in the room shifted from frantic to scared in an instant. They all stared at the Soldier with varying degrees of fear, and he stared back silently.
After a brief moment, one of the men in a white lab coat strode forward, shoving his files at a woman standing near him. He stopped in front of the Soldier, critically looking him over.
He reached forward with a small pen light, flashing it at the Soldier's eyes.
"He's responding normally," the man called over his shoulder. "I think those idiots down on the first floor might not have fucked him up that much. There was worryingly little info on what they did after he was picked up. Morons." This last word was muttered under the man's breath.
One of them in the black gear came to stand next to the man in the white coat. His dark eyes settled on the Soldier, and while this man might have been a threat to normal people, the Soldier wasn't normal, and he felt nothing but contempt for the man in front of him.
"Is he useable, Doctor Franklin?" the man asked. "Or do we need to move him?"
The doctor, Franklin, paused still eyeing him. He didn't look like he wanted to touch the Soldier to do a closer exam, which was smart; the Soldier was in the mood to bite fingers off. "I don't know. I'm not sure what the first floor morons did to clean him up after he was captured again. For all we know, he could have most of his memories from the last mission still intact."
I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend.
He blinked against the abrupt words that tore through his mind, but his reaction went unnoticed.
"That doesn't help, doc," the man in the black said, hands tightening on his gun. "Either we use him now or we box him up and send him out of here before shit really hits the fan."
Franklin eyed him again, uncertainty warring in his eyes.
"Use him," he finally said. "We don't have the time to box him up. Besides, hopefully first floor did their job and he's ready to go."
"Yeah, they better have wiped him and doped him," the other man in the black muttered but didn't argue with Franklin.
He motioned behind him to his men, who snapped to attention. Two of them came forward to cluster around their commanding officer, while the other one stayed by the door.
Franklin backed away.
Wisely, as it turned out.
The clasps on the leather straps loosened, freeing the Soldier's arms and chest, and that was enough for him to jerk forward, grabbing two of the soldiers in either hand and cracking their heads together with a satisfying crunch.
The officer swore roughly, jerking his gun up.
The Soldier wasn't worried about taking a bullet; it wouldn't be the first time, but even he wouldn't be able to shake off a bullet to the head.
But then the rifle clicked, jammed, and the officer swore again, desperately trying to pull the slide back in an attempt to clear the chamber and fire.
But he was too slow.
He died with a gurgle as metal fingers crushed his throat.
The room was chaos, most people trying to flee, but those who couldn't were soon lying motionless on the floor in puddles of blood.
A few of them tried to fight back, and the Soldier felt a prick somewhere on his neck like an angry bee, but it was minimal pain and he ignored it, focusing instead on killing those in reach.
He wasn't sure where his aggression was coming from, but he did know that when the fogginess cleared he would remember that it was justified. The blood and crushed bone felt good under his fingers, even while a part of him (the good part. the Bucky part) screamed to stop the violence.
But violence had been fed to him for years and years, and while it wasn't quite all he knew, it was all he wanted for those around him.
He saved Franklin for last.
The man had gotten shoved to the floor in the stampede for the exit, and hadn't managed to get up again. Blood was streaming down his balding head from where his head must have smashed against the floor, dripping onto his white coat and staining it.
Franklin whimpered as he towered over him.
"Stop! Soldier, stop immediately!"
He didn't stop. He stooped down and pulled Franklin up by his throat. The man hung in the air, legs flapping uselessly as his fingers scratched at the hands around his neck. It didn't do any good and he only tore his nails against the Soldier's metal hand. His face was turning purple, and while the Soldier quietly enjoyed Franklin's discomfort, he did have some questions. So, the Soldier eased Franklin's feet to the floor and loosened his fingers a bit.
Franklin coughed and gasped for air, fingers still tight against the Soldier's hands.
"How long?" the Soldier asked, voice rough and cracking.
Franklin's eyes widened.
"Wha-what do you mean?"
"How long have I been here?"
"Two days," Franklin said. "You were found outside the grounds, skulking around the fence, half-starved. We brought you home."
Home? He was still hazy on the details, but he knew this place wasn't home. Home was...something else, or maybe someone else. He didn't know.
"How long since my last mission?" he asked.
"Months. You've been out in the cold for months, Soldier. Don't you remember?"
He cocked his head to the side; he did remember. At least he remembered the last mission HYDRA had assigned him. But he hadn't been sure how long it had been or what his other missions had been; the memories were there, on the edges of his frayed mind, just out of grasp.
"First floor really did fuck you up," Franklin muttered. "Idiots couldn't even do one thing right. Didn't wipe you properly, or at all by the looks of it, and of course they couldn't be bothered to put you on ice so—"
His eyes widened as the pressure around his neck increased again. He died a moment later.
The Soldier let the body drop to the floor with the others. He looked over them in grim satisfaction. Blood was pooled and splattered along the white walls, giving the room gruesome color.
The adrenaline that had been pumping through his body abruptly stopped and the many nights of no food and general lack of upkeep caught up to him. His legs gave out and he crumbled to the floor among the bodies.
His vision was going blurry, and he steadied himself with one hand. He hated how weak he felt, and knew that if there were more people coming he wouldn't be able to fend them off.
He took a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking back to the night he was caught.
The memory came to his mind easily, and he remembered it clearly. But more importantly he remembered what had come before that: the last mission. He now knew it had been months since he had rescued that man (Steve) from the river.
He had been without a mission after that moment, and hadn't known what to do. Emotions and memories had started to worm their way back into his mind, making the choice not to go back to HYDRA for him.
His hands curled at the thought of HYDRA. They had only given him pain. Years and years of it. He couldn't remember all of it, but had whispers of the damage they had caused flickering along the corners of his mind.
It was because of what they had done to him that he had then adopted a mission for himself after days of shivering and screaming himself hoarse in a corner somewhere.
He needed to destroy HYDRA until they captured or killed him. He believed he would never find peace until they were gone (and maybe even then peace might not find him).
It had worked for a bit, and he had spent months going from compound to compound with little regard to his safety or health. Most of the places had been easy for him to burn to the ground.
At first HYDRA had thought he was coming back, but they quickly wised up to the fact that he wasn't their Asset anymore. He shed that name like a snake, becoming a ghost, flitting from one place to the next, killing and leaving only smoldering remains behind.
Of course, he forgot that he needed to do things like eat and sleep, and that had been his mistake.
But it had never been something that he had to think about before; HYDRA had taken care of most of that, keeping him in fighting shape, ready for the next mission.
He had been too weak two days ago and they had sent a force outside the barbed wire to meet him.
He remembered killing most of the team with ferocious effectiveness until they sent another team out and he was forced to give in to his exhaustion.
That was the last thing he remember until he had woken up in this room.
There was no telling what had been done to him for those two days, but that Franklin man had seemed to think the first floor hadn't done their job, which explained his still present memories. They hadn't drilled into his head to snatch them away.
But they had done something else because his limbs were weak; weaker than they should have been, and his head was swimming. He would have been panicking a bit more, but he knew this feeling.
This is what happened when he came back from missions angry and scared with memories of his past knocking around in his mind.
His handlers couldn't contain him when he was like that and eventually they started injecting him with a drug. He didn't know what it was, but it was enough to make him compliant and sometimes reliant on it. He didn't know for sure, but he thought that each base used different types of the same drug. Some of them made him feel heavy and tired, while others would make him beg for more, which wouldn't be given to him. Those ones were the hardest to get past. The drugs that made him reliant took days to shake off, but HYDRA had always made sure he was clean before putting him back into his box.
This appeared to be one of the stronger doses. His back hunched over his hands that were a tangled heap on his thighs. His breathing was picking up and sweat was already beading over his skin.
If he had been any slower at killing the HYDRA men and women after getting injected, he would have been brought down and they would have been able to lock him back up.
They still might if he didn't get out of the base soon.
He didn't know what lay beyond this room, and he realized he still didn't know what the flashing lights and alarm was about.
It was distant worry now; the drug was swimming in his veins.
There was a scuffle of feet outside the door and clipped voices. His eyes snapped up, glaring at the approaching soldiers through the curtains of his filthy hair.
But he had no real fight left in him, and if HYDRA wanted to reclaim him, he wouldn't be able to stop them.
Men dressed in black appeared through the doorway with rifles pressed to their shoulders. They moved with precise movements, marking them as well trained soldiers. If he wasn't fully in the grips of the drug, he might have been a little impressed (not that they would have been able to stop him; there weren't enough of them to bring him down).
There was a sharp intake of breath when they caught sight of him, sitting in the middle of the floor amid the piles of bodies and blood.
"Holy shit—"
"That's...!"
He didn't really know why, but his lips stretched into a humorless grin, making the men, who had frozen on the threshold of the room, flinch back. For a moment, none of them moved. They didn't look like they wanted to get within his reach. He didn't blame them for that.
"Someone call Fury," one of the men said after a beat.
He didn't recognize that name, but that was no surprise really; he had too many holes poked through his mind. But perhaps these men weren't HYDRA.
The thought of them not working for HYDRA filled him with something close to relief, but it was short lived. He might not know who they were, but he couldn't trust the way they were looking at him.
The men still stared at him, never loosening their grips on their weapons, when a few minutes later a dark-skinned man, wearing an impractical long black coat, swept into the room, stopping short when he saw the Soldier sitting in the middle of the floor.
He stared at the Soldier for several beats with his single eye, and the Soldier glared back, forcing his shaking hands to still.
"I'll be damned," the man finally spoke.
The Soldier raised his eyebrows, feeling weak, but determined not to show it.
The man turned slightly, but wasn't stupid enough to expose his back to the Soldier.
"We just found the Winter Soldier, boys."
It was at that moment that the drugs took over completely and the Soldier keeled over, wondering where he was going to wake up next.
.
.
It was absurd to think that Fury and what was left of SHIELD would be able to bring the Winter Soldier into custody without suffering heavy losses. But that was what had happened, and even Fury, who knew his considerable talents were great could hardly believe it.
It had been months since the fall of SHIELD and the reveal of HYDRA's growing cancer in the midst of it. The Winter Soldier hadn't shown his face throughout it all. He hadn't come up for air as far as anyone could tell, and everyone was looking; Steve and Sam among them. Those two had been looking for him almost since the moment Steve had checked himself out of the hospital, but they hadn't had any luck.
Fury hadn't exactly been looking for the Soldier—he had been trying to dismantle HYDRA across Europe as well as in the States.
He had only been half-successful. Some of the bases had already been abandoned when he got to them, void of any useful information, while others had been operational, ready to be picked clean and then destroyed by Fury.
But some of them had been completely burned when he had arrived, and an unsettled feeling had dogged Fury since the first smoking base they had found. He didn't know who was destroying the bases, and while he applauded the effort, he didn't like the idea of an unknown wandering around picking off HYDRA bases.
But it made sense now.
Of course it was the Winter Soldier. Who else could it have been? Fury admitted privately, that he felt stupid for not having guessed it before.
The Soldier was barely been a threat. He was sitting with his legs in a tangled mess beneath him, in the middle of one of the upper level rooms. The room had once been a sterile white, but wasn't anymore. The walls were painted with the blood of the doctors and assistants, who lay scattered around the Soldier with blood pooling around their still forms.
The Soldier sat among them, dark hair hanging around his gaunt face. He was staring at Fury and his men, but Fury's eyes flicked down to the Soldier's hands, both flesh and metal, which were soaked in blood.
Fury, not one to be easily cowed, felt a shiver ripple down his spine as he stared across the room at the weapon who sat in front of him. He forced a grin on his lips and turned slightly to his men, not giving his back fully to the Soldier, "Well, I'm be damned. We just found the Winter Soldier, boys."
Fury turned back to face the Winter Soldier, noticing that the Soldier's body was trembling, from what, Fury didn't know, but he didn't look like he was in any shape to take on all of Fury's agents, something that Fury was grateful for.
Fury watched in a little bit of awe when the Soldier's eyes grew hazy and then rolled backwards. His body pitched forward in a boneless heap over his legs. He didn't move again, and for a moment, Fury thought he had died. But then he saw the slight movement of breath coming from the body.
Behind Fury, his men shifted, unsure of what they were supposed to do now; he assumed most of them had expected a fight coming, and when faced with the Winter Soldier there was always a good chance that most of them wouldn't have made it out of it alive.
Agent McCall, one of his better agents from SHIELD came up next to him in the doorway, staring at the limp body in front of them.
"Sir?" McCall asked, her voice low and nervous. "What do we do?"
Fury didn't even hesitate with his answer. "We take him."
That was now four days ago.
Fury's men had taken the Soldier's limp body out of the base, leaving it burning behind them. They had loaded him onto a quinjet with metal handcuffs that had been designed for holding Captain America, and flew to Fury's fully loaded base in the mountains of Wyoming.
The Soldier had been stripped of his gear and most of his clothes, leaving him barefoot and shirtless. He was put into a metal and glass cage that was equipped with only a metal cot. Fury didn't answer his agent when she asked who the cage was originally meant for; secrets were like currency to him, and besides, the cage, while in use for the Winter Soldier could still be used for its intended.
A man with more emotions than Fury might have felt sympathy for the Soldier, who lay in a heap on the ground of the cell (he had fallen off the cot almost immediately), his bare back and torso rippling with corded muscle, but also layer upon layer of scars. Most white and old, but some fresh and red. His metal arm was the most grotesque of all; the flesh ripped and jagged where the silver met his body.
But Fury wasn't most men and he felt only the slightest stirring of emotions when he looked at the weapon in the cage.
The first day of his imprisonment, the Soldier had lain, first on the ground, and then on the cot, sweating and shivering. It was clear he was going through some sort of withdrawal, but from what Fury and his agents weren't sure. It was clear that the drug was the only reason he had been so easy to capture back in the HYDRA base, and for a brief moment Fury was almost thankful to the HYDRA agents who had managed to pump the drug into the Soldier's system.
The Soldier weaved in and out of consciousness. He tried clawing at his flesh arm, tearing strips of skin away in bloody lines before moving his attention to the plates of his metal arm where he bloodied his nails trying to remove it.
He hadn't said a word, or made a sound throughout it all. The silence of his suffering was almost overwhelming and Fury knew some of his agents were feeling it more than others. He sent those ones away.
They gassed the chamber to knock him out and then went inside to hook an IV to his arm, making sure that he wasn't going to die from dehydration.
On the second day, the Soldier had lain in his sweat-soaked cot, staring up at the ceiling while the IV gave him the necessary fluids. He was awake and seemed aware for the first time.
Fury had tried talking to him, but it was like the words couldn't reach him through the glass and the Soldier didn't even move.
The third day came and went with an agent changing the IV. The Soldier had blinked sluggishly at him, but hadn't moved.
The fourth day was an explosion of difference. The Soldier had ripped the needle from his arm, ignoring the blood that spurted from it. He had shoved the pole with the half full bag to the corner of the room. Then he had stripped his bed, bundling the sheets and put them in the corner with the pole.
When that was done, he sat down in the middle of the floor, legs crossing in an almost childlike manner, and stared at the wall of glass that surrounded him with sharp eyes.
Fury knew that the Soldier could see through the glass, but he couldn't guess what the Soldier was thinking when he glared at Fury, who stared back with his arms crossed over his chest.
The Soldier didn't look particularly worried about his current situation, but he also didn't look like he was about to snap and go on a killing spree if let out of the cage. That was a good sign, and made the vague plans in the back of Fury's mind sharpen. Not that the Soldier looked like he would even cooperate with Fury if given the chance.
And while Fury hadn't quite hammered out his plans for the Soldier yet, he knew better than to leave a sharpened weapon lying around for just anyone to use. It was better that Fury keep hold of this particular asset. He would, of course, keep the news of the Winter Soldier's caging to himself and the few agents who had helped bring the Soldier in. Fury liked to keep most things close to the chest, and this was something that he especially didn't want people to know about.
If Steve Rogers caught wind of the Soldier's whereabouts, there's no telling what he would do, and Fury couldn't have that.
.
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"So how long as it been?" Tony said. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?"
Tony's voice grated at Steve's ears and he winced a little, trying to hide his reaction with a casual hand brushing across his mouth.
"It's been at least a few months." Tony paused. "You think you would've given me a call after the whole thing in D.C. Just to let me know you're still alive and all that. Did you know I had to get all that info from Natasha? I could hardly believe that she would bother telling me at all, that woman has more secrets than—"
"Tony," Steve snapped, digging his knuckles against his eyes. He briefly closed them, trying to will away the headache threatening. He knew he was being short with Tony and he couldn't hide the annoyance that was practically seething from him, but it had been a long couple of months and Steve was finally allowing himself to feel discouraged. It was a feeling that had been growing in his chest since the last five failed attempts to find Bucky and the hope of finding his friend was turning to ash in his mouth and it tasted bitter.
He looked up at Tony, whose face was flashing with hurt that he was quickly trying to brush away. Steve felt a flare of guilt; Tony didn't deserve that.
Tony leaned back into his overly plush couch, crossing his legs and stretching an arm over the top of the couch in an attempt to look like he didn't care what Steve said.
"All I'm saying is that it's been a while," Tony said.
"I've been busy," Steve offered half-heartedly, trying to settle more comfortably in his own chair.
"Yeah, I know," Tony said, eyeing Sam, who had just entered the living room, looking refreshed and cleaner than the last time Steve had seen him. "I see you're busy making new friends."
"That's Sam," Steve said, frowning slightly. "I already introduced him."
"I'm Sam. We've met," Sam added, lips twitching a little as he took a seat next to Steve. "Thanks for the shower." He jerked his chin in the general direction of the bathroom.
"You're welcome," Tony said with a shrug. "I have lots of bathrooms here, so it's not a problem." He paused. "Can I just ask, what happened to the two of you that got you so dirty?" He gave Steve a pointed look, eyes raking up and down Steve's dusty clothes and grimy face. "And is that blood I see splattered on your neck?"
Steve's hand automatically went up to his neck, wincing as he felt the stiff, flaky leftover blood that he hadn't managed to wipe off.
"It's complicated, Steve finally said, rubbing a hand at his face, probably smearing the dirt worse.
Tony made a humming sound, wincing at Steve's face; the dirt definitely smeared. His eyes flicked back up to Steve's.
"Here's the thing," Tony said, "I know that it's not. Complicated, that is."
Steve felt his eyebrows draw down and his hands stilled their attempts at cleaning his face and he felt his annoyance rising once again. "What?"
Next to him, Sam tensed, and Steve felt a rush of gratitude towards the other man; Sam had barely known him when he offered Steve his services, and the months they had spent together had drawn them closer together. Steve had grown to rely on Sam, and Sam on Steve.
And here Sam was, once again, ready to follow Steve's lead in whatever he decided, even if that meant kicking Tony Stark's ass.
"Don't give me that, Cap," Tony said, waving a hand. He leaned forward, propping his elbows onto his knees. "It's like you think that I couldn't find the little secret you've been keeping from everyone."
Steve tensed, exchanging a quick look with Sam. Sam hadn't been with Steve when Zola had revealed just who had killed Howard and Maria Stark, but Steve had told him the basics. If Tony had found out there was no telling what he was going to do. Steve had wanted to be the one to tell him, and now—
"I know that you're looking for you long lost pal. Good ol' Bucky Barnes," Tony continued, not noticing when Steve let out a thin breath of relieved air; Tony didn't know. With that crisis not yet present, Steve focused on what Tony was saying again.
"I also know that Barnes was in HYDRA's hands for decades, for about as long as you were asleep in the ice, Steve." The jab was intentional, and Steve winced. "They spent years working on him, and now he's nothing more than HYDRA's pet—"
"Don't," Steve warned, hands tightening into fists on the chair's arms. Tony stared blandly back.
"He probably isn't the same man you knew. Actually, scratch that. We know he's not the same man. That was fairly easy to figure out after he tried to kill you on that helicarrier. I'm not sure what you're expecting to find when you do actually manage to get your hands on him. It's been a long time, and HYDRA's been digging their fingers around in his head for longer than the two of you have been friends—"
"Stop." Steve's voice was steel, and Tony's mouth shut with a snap, his eyes shuttering.
The two of them stared at each other, but this time Steve didn't regret his harshness. Tony had been looking to get a rise out of him and he had succeeded, but to what end Steve wasn't sure.
"Sorry, Cap," Tony said, voice even. "I know you don't want to hear this."
"You're right. I don't," Steve said, getting up and circling around his chair.
"But you need to," Tony said, raising his voice. Steve stopped, eyeing Tony. "You keep going after him and he will kill you. I'm not fucking around here, Steve." Tony stood up too. They glared at each other.
"Tony..." Steve started.
"Let me repeat that," Tony cut in, voice slowing. "You go after the Winter Soldier and he will finish what he started in D.C."
"No." Steve shook his head. "No, he won't."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know him."
"No, you knew him," Tony snapped, jabbing a finger at Steve. "Just because he couldn't finish the job, doesn't mean that he won't take another crack at it." Tony dropped his voice, chin ducking to his chest briefly. "I don't want to see you get hurt, Steve. If you're not careful, you'll die going after him."
Steve took a breath, letting it fill his lungs and wash away the anger at Tony's words. He sighed, posture relaxing as he raking a hand through his hair.
"I'm not going to die, Tony."
Tony held his gaze for a long moment. "I sure hope not." He paused. "At the rate you're going, it's not going to be long before you find him. Or he finds you."
.
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A/N: First! I'm super nervous to be posting this because I don't have the whole story planned out yet (tho I have some of the basics floating around in my head) and because I haven't written long fics in like two years and I'm not sure I have the stamina for this anymore. So hey leave me some nice and encouraging reviews please?
Second! This is vaguely connected to a one shot I wrote about Hawkeye right after the Winter Soldier movie came out. That fic is called What Happened to Barton, and yes, that means Clint is going to be featured in this story (I've missed writing that boy).
Third! So like I said, I'm all nervous about this, but I'm also really excited to share this with you all. I've had parts of this story written for almost a year, but never felt like I had a grasp on the plot until I randomly decided that I was going to finish it like a week ago. Actually, it was because I've been insanely busy with stupid adult life and also needed a major break from writing my original novels.
I'm rambling now, so I'll just leave it there.
Enjoy!