Fic: Rattle My Brain; Return My Memories (Captain America: The Winter Soldier; Following Post-Credit Scene (Post Scene 2))
Chapter: One; 2,432 words
Fandom: Captain America; Captain America: The Winter Soldier; (eventually Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/ Potential OC
Summary: Two months after the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes finds himself in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, trying to find memories, one more time. When someone unexpected triggers one- sending him on a mission to get the answers he needs.
Author's Note: Spoilers for Everything Marvel. Ever. Not really, just mainly Captain America and Cap 2
Bucky stared at the screen, trying to absorb every piece of information. It was him, he knew that much, but what he read, he couldn't recall. It hurt his head, attempting to make heads or tails of everything that he managed to find. It was amazing the amount of records that had been kept in the years since the war- since he had become a robot of the Russians… Hydra… Whoever it truly was. The memories would flash at the most unlikely moments, the smell of a deli on an unfamiliar street in Brooklyn, a song on the radio, a book on a shelf. All of this in front of him. Nothing new. Nothing from the dozen or so times he had made his way through the exhibit in the two months since he'd become free of Hydra.
It wasn't the escape he wanted. He wanted answers, he wanted the feelings of familiarity and the possibility of a history to come to him easier than it was. He couldn't- wouldn't track down the man whose name had started to pluck a string of familiarity, Steve, who- according to the videos and screens, had been his best friend up until the end.
Till the end of the line.
He could remember saying that at some obscure point- the familiarity had been in his mind since that last fight. Details slowly pouring out of the woodwork. A camera. France. The rest darkness. But the way that Steve had said it, the emotion, the honesty, the need for something that Bucky had no ability to give him- had brought him a level of comfort, behind the anger and angst that seeped through every muscle in his body. That one phrase, that was the reason he lugged the punk out of the water, not leaving him to die, even though every order running through his mind told him otherwise. Orders that drove him insane for the next week, as he drove himself into isolation out of fear of going insane.
The orders, the words, the commands- they eventually subsided, but not until he had made it clear to himself- a promise- that he would not pursue his old friend until he had answers. Until he could form the slightest bit of a story, and be sure that it wasn't some figment of his imagination that had been programmed and implanted into his head. Instinctively- at least at the basic emotional level, he didn't want to hurt anyone else if he didn't have to. That included those who may or may not have once been his friends.
His jaw tightened as he forced his eyes to read the screen just one more time, following the words slowly, praying to any God that would listen for even a second worth of memories. No luck.
His feet pulled him away into the next room where a reel of videos played. The man on the screen looked like him, but nothing was familiar. His mind wandered, listening to a child get scolded by a security guard. A minute later of the child whining and crying, a voice soft, more familiar than anything else he had been able to recall.
"Here kiddo, now you can be a hero. Those grouchy guards are a bit stuffy, huh? Don't mind them."
Bucky's eyes followed the voice, coming from a brunette- a museum employee- who had just handed the young boy a small shield, immediately ceasing his crying with the nod.
Had he seen her before? Sure, she had probably been around during his previous visits, but what was it. Something about the way she looked, the curvature of her body, the small features. But something more. Something about the voice, the words. A bit stuffy, huh? His eyes glazed over as his mind processed.
Russia. St. Petersburg Underground. 2009.
A soft smile pulled across the brunette's face as soon as the door slammed shut following the exit of the scientists and officials. He could have sworn that she was still a child- though his perception of time and age had slipped away, causing him to question even that base assumption that she appeared barely 18.
"They're kinda stuffy, huh?" Her voice was kind, soft- the complete opposite of what he had become used to over the years. He was sure he could sense a bit of laughter, perhaps a way of breaking the tension that had been building in the room for far too long, yet managed to linger even after the instigators had left. She was, possibly, American, though she spoke with perfect Russian inflection when the situation warranted it- that much he could recall.
He returned a slight nod, his blue eyes connecting with her hazel ones for the slightest fraction of a moment before returning his gaze straight ahead. The feeling was one of discomfort, he wasn't sure what from. The contact was new. She was new, the first female researcher that he could remember. As much as he could recall from what he had overheard, she was there as a favor to one of the long time officials, a niece or granddaughter with skills that she needed refining, and a project that needed brains like hers. Something horrible had happened to the man she was replacing, though as much as he strived to recall, the memory was blank, like so many others.
The smile remained on her face as she moved around the room, grabbing equipment. Again that feeling- it was her skirt, tan-khaki- he could see it under the snow white lab coat. Familiar from a time and place that was just outside of his mental grasp.
"I'm just going to place these on your temples," she said, holding up electrodes attached to a machine by the wires.
He nodded once more and sat up straight, a moment later, her warm fingers brushed aside his outgrown hair. Gentle. The word stuck in his mind, it was an action so unlike what he was accustomed to. Even the way the scientists and officers did the slightest actions- hand him food, push him faster down the hall, speak to him- it was so crude, brash and angry.
She sat eventually sat down on a stool in front of him, computer rolled next to her. "Alright, you can relax." He obliged, leaning back, preparing himself, instinctively, for the pain- physical and mental- that usually accompanied these tests. "I just need to establish a bit of a baseline to work off of. So all I am going to do is list off some words, just to take a look at the activity in your frontal lobes."
There was silence. He nodded, looking straight ahead, wondering why she seemed to act different from everyone else.
"Would you prefer I speak the in English or Russian?"
His choice? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; the options were always made for him, never consideration to any preferences that may have been tucked deep down into his scarred and suppressed mind. "English, please," his voice grated through his dry vocal chords. When was the last time he spoke? He couldn't recall.
"That works for me," she offered with another smile," No need to respond, just relax."
He watched her turn back to her computer, fingers clacking away. He braced for pain. None came. Just the words she promised.
"Caterpillar. Rain. Car. Strawberry. Run. " A paused between each word, accompanied by the clacking of the computer keys. This time her hand left the keyboard, she faced him, "Slipper," his head twitched to the right side, an uncontrollable action. She was silent; turning slowly to the computer, her typing had slowed. He watched as she drew in a deep breath, her puffed up chest slowly decompressing. Their eyes met, she knew something, and the twitch- was it not normal? Her smile had completely vanished, she looked almost pained.
"Mission," his muscles tightened, the mechanics in his left arm shifted, the fingers tightening to the arm of the chair, one by one sending the sound of sharp cracking of slowly splintering wood into the air. He was suddenly filled with anger, yet unsure why. No one had told him what he was meant to be angry at. There was fire in his eyes; his muscles shook with unprecedented ire. And the girl- she looked terrified- eyes wide, turning back to her computer typing even faster than she had before.
"One last one, Sgt. Barnes," A pause, a lifted eyebrow and a hopeful look on her face," Banana," All the anger, the need to attack, kill, wreak havoc vanished. Muscles relaxing, the fire vanishing, clear headed His eyes met hers, a look of disbelief on her face, she nodded before breaking eye contact and turning back to type again.
Her feet shifted onto the floor, standing after a moment of hesitation," Good Job."
"That's it?" His scratchy voice reaching the airwaves once again. It seemed so simple; he'd been expecting much worse.
She nodded, hand on her hip, eyebrows raised," Yes Sgt. Barnes, that's it." He sat forward as her warm fingers found his skin again taking the devices off, returning them to the hook on the side of the machine.
"You know my name, I don't know yours," the words slipped out of his mouth with little thought, he braced himself for lash back. He couldn't recall them ever referring to her as anything but 'the girl' or 'devushka' by the Russians.
She sat back down on the stool, back straight. No lash back came. "That was rather rude of me, huh? Sorry. I'm Colette Tsvetkov, Sgt. Barnes."
"Nice to meet you," he was sure that he'd now spoke more in the last half hour than he had in the last year. The conversation, what little of it there had been with the tiny brunette, was nice.
She smiled before she turned back to her computer, "Nice to meet you, too." He shifted in the chair. Her eyes stayed plastered on the computer screen," Look, I'm done. You can go if you'd like. However, I'm going to be in here doing some stuff for a while," she over at him for a moment eyebrow raised," You're more than welcome to stay in here while I am."
He sat for a moment, taking consideration of both options. It was a dead giveaway. He'd choose the lab with the kind company, over the cold, lonely cell of a room, any day of the week. As Colette clacked away at the keyboard, Sgt. Barnes- Codename: Winter Soldier, leaned back into the chair. He could have sworn he'd seen her smirk.
The memory surfaced- one of the few that didn't need much other context in order to make things understandable. He shook himself out of his daze, finding the brunette employee flashing him a quick smile- that too so familiar- and then walking off as he offered a quick one in return. His feet pulled him from the spot, out of the museum, somewhere- anywhere to process it all. He managed to get to the convenience store down the street before his mind changed. The plan was no longer to dwell on the recollection, but to collect more answers.
She had been one of those who had messed with his mind. They had answers- they knew what had been done, so logically, they had to know what needed to be done to fix him. Buying a newspaper with funds he'd found tucked away in the oddest location a memory had driven him to, a cabin in the woods- he headed back to the museum.
He knew it was wrong, that there were better ways to find answers. But he couldn't help himself. No one gave him a second glance, it was just the scruffy an in a baseball cap, sitting on a bench and reading.
The paper hardly got any attention from him; it was nothing more than a prop. The news was… different than he was used to. So much hate, anger, violence. No support for soldiers and the war they were fighting, and so little respect for everyone, from the President to the kid down the street. It turned his stomach. He longed for the days past, and constantly wondered when the country took a turn for the worse. His daily wandering through the museums hardly gave way to an answer- any answer that he was looking for.
But she had them, he was sure of it.
The night came upon him quick. He hadn't realized just how much of the day he had squandered away in the museum. And before he knew it, her familiar face- Colette- was bounding down the stairs of the museum, headed down the same streets Bucky had been haunting.
A deep breath pulled through his lungs as he followed in the shadows, as quiet as death. Her face was the same, he could see it as the neon lights in the windows flashed against her pale skin as she walked briskly past them. Every so often, he could see her look back, as if she knew that there was someone following her. Barely a thought passed through his determined mind. She had answers, she knew, he knew she knew. His muscles tensed, closing in. Chest tight, a struggle to pull a breath into his anxious lungs. Predator and prey. His own personal mission. He had been away from it too long, what seemed to be written his genetic codes was taking over. She was closing in on his opportunity. The alley he knew he could grab her and slip down, no prying eyes, just a clear shot to his hideaway.
His toe caught the sidewalk, the sound of shoe scraping against the gravel caused her to stop and turn back, and he turned into a shop. He lingered for a moment then took back to the sidewalk. His eyes scanned the area, it amazed him how empty it seemed, though he was sure many families were settling down to dinner. He sped up, shoving the newspaper into his back pocket, his feet almost silent on the ground beneath his feet. He closed in, mentally counting the yards till he needed to make his move and then there it was.
Left arm around her waist, right palm over her mouth. She fought, kicking back at his shins, wiggling and struggling to get away as he backed them into the alley, the brute strength that had been natural to him for what seemed like forever, feet taking them where he needed them to go.