1 : Sic Vis Pacem Para Bellum

"You know me." His voice was harsh as he said it, damaged from fight and fire. The helicarrier spiraled closer and closer to the ground with them faltering inside of it, both fighting for one man's life.

"No,I don't!" His response, his eruption, was chaotic, full of hatred, pain, and determination. The only relief he found was from pounding his fists into the cause of all this chaos — the one that shifted his reality.

Gasping awake is never a worthwhile experience. Combine it with the fact that he was now hearing voices echoing down the tunnels he found as refuge, it was a recipe for a special kind of disaster.

He had been successfully evading many of the tunnel's occupants for a few weeks now, including the owners of the aforementioned voices. When he first entered the vast series of underpasses somewhere north of Washington, D.C. he was content to spend his time healing in the damp dark. The tunnels connected to sewer lines and subway systems throughout the northeastern megalopolis and were rife with steam vents. So it wasn't quite as cold as most would assume, the air was actually thick and tepid.

To be honest, he found himself tired of the seemingly endless chill available in the northern states. He realized that the warmth of the tunnels had a new effect on him, it made him feel safe, maybe even protected. Part of his mind knew that it was a simple illusion, a combination of unregulated hormones and neurotransmitters blindly rediscovering the proper routes in his brain. However, it was still there and it was somehow comforting — a completely new experience all in itself. Though he still struggled with the theory of preference, he did like the warmth that rushed through the tunnels — though the smell could be better.

He stood slowly, using the wall to steady himself. He was in no way at mission standard since the last fight. All of the injuries, though healed, combined with the running, the confusion, and eventually, the hallucinations were beginning to take their toll.

Despite the healed shoulder and superficial wounds, everything inside of him burned with a devastating sense of loss. This had been the longest he'd been out of stasis, and in his mind, he forced himself to believe that his psychological symptoms were all simply issues with his inability and unwillingness to go back to base. A part of him might say he felt free, but with all that was happening, fear made it difficult to focus long enough to feel much of anything other than confusion. The duality of his clarity could be blindsiding.

He was damn tired of all the running, but it never really occurred to him to stop. His routine was shattered, his perfection a mere illusion. He always completed his missions and returned to command, he'd never had any critical issues until that day on the bridge. Failing this mission — command being destroyed — he was a gun without a holster or a sight, still deadly, but wayward. Something that was far more dangerous than he'd ever been before.

He no longer had mission parameters and his devotion to the objective was mangled into a monstrous rage.

He struggled with something else too. The hallucinations appeared to be getting worse. Flashes of moments he could not remember and words he never believed he would say littered his dreams. In the quiet moments, the small glimpses of an odd sort of peace would be shattered by a familiar and confusing face. This all started to worsen after he went to that damned museum and snuck into the exhibit that was created to honor him. It made everything so much worse and he had left D.C. not long after. He wanted to piece himself back together, regain some inkling of whoever he really was, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He didn't know how to even begin.

Things were volatile and unstable, in his mind and in the rest of the world. The entire planet had been tilted on its axis. A crazed sort of disorder permeated society and there was an unfortunate resonation in his memory. He had an inkling that he was instrumental in conducting chaos in the name of order and his actions echoed within the halls of History. Yet, despite the chaos and mistrust, despite the devastation and destruction, despite how everything seemed to be worse, he wasn't sure he believed it really was.

At least now, he was free.

But what did that really mean?

He leaned his head back and sighed. He'd never felt so weary before — or rather, never remembered it. He sat alone in the tunnel, slick moss cradling his head and spine and providing a comfort he was willing to admit he enjoyed.

Liked.

Emotion.

Preference.

Choice.

All these new words with doubled meaning swirled within his shattered mind. He was constantly grasping at thoughts and whispers, desperate for something — some truth that until these past few days had not been a concern for him in his stalled life.

He'd never needed the truth before, he had only needed the mission. Now, without a directive, he felt adrift and dangerously close to losing the tiny sliver of control he had left. Without the mission, without parameters, the behavior of a ruthless cog in the Hydra machine would result in something catastrophic.

He closed his eyes and tried to rest this time, the voices far enough away to not cause alarm. Resting his eyes was a very foreign sensation to be done by choice. On missions, he rarely needed rest until his objective was complete. So now, he was running himself ragged, to the point where cat naps and fantasy integration no longer sufficed. He was finally hitting his true breaking point and it was terrifying.

He'd never worried about individual thoughts or conscious decisions before. He was given a plan and he completed it, no question, no qualms. There was no room for dissent, for beliefs, there was only room for the mission and its objective. Now he just felt disjointed, collapsable, finally realizing why it was so necessary that he be wiped and frozen after every single assignment. There was no time to feel guilty about actions he couldn't remember or faces he couldn't place.

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of voices, now dangerously close to him. He must have fallen into a deeper sleep while he was leaning up against the cool, soft moss covering the wall behind him. His exhaustion was eating away at his skill set, but in the last few months he had not found anywhere that felt truly safe enough to rest in. He adjusted slowly and quietly, listening intently as the voices edged closer still.

The voices of course, were casual and conversational, no indication that they were searching for him, the mysterious tunnel interloper. He had been trying his damnedest to stay hidden and separate, until he could formulate a plan — perhaps even a mission of his own.

The two voices echoed off the walls and he was able to pin point their location and estimate what kind of opponents they would make. So far, one voice seemed to belong to a heavy set male with a baritone voice and a bum knee by the sound of his steps. The other belonged to a frail sort of fellow, light on his feet with a gait that suggested he was just a bit taller than the asset himself, and a voice all in his nose. They bickered affectionately through the passage as they approached his hidden dwelling.

He was hoping they would turn down another path, one that was unoccupied, so that he would be left alone and allow him a few moments of respite from his own thoughts. He didn't want to kill anyone anymore, not because of his conscience, but more rationally, evasion. It was an easy trail to follow, the one lined with corpses.

To stay alive, right now, all he needed to do was hide, to remain a mystery, and ensure the protection of his existence - The Winter Soldier.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.

"Bucky." The word left his lips unbidden, but nonetheless of import. It tasted like a poison on his tongue, but the name was sweet in his throat, something thick and almost smothering. He could remember it vividly, voiced by the man that seemed to haunt him the most. Eyes that consumed him wholly, the weight of his name on those lips seemed almost…sacred.

He jolted back to awareness, his instincts in full force as he heard the shuffling footsteps of the two men walking into his section of the tunnels.

He'd need a new place soon if one of them —,

"Hey!" One yelled, his voice booming against the stone walls and rattling about within the asset's skull. There was a period of terrible silence that followed, but it dissolved into an uneasy moment of uncertainty, "Christ man, you scared the shit out of us!" He chuckled nervously, "Narc is that you?"

"Nah, Narc went to Hoboken." The one with the nasally voice replied.

"Oh." The large one seemed nonplussed and thought for a moment, "Hurler? Is that you?"

"Christ Tox, it's not Hurler!" His friend hissed. In the pervasive darkness, the soldier heard the thin one turn to face him, a shuffling of clothing to signify that he was raising his arms slowly, "Look man, whoever you are, you just need to get the hell out of here, okay? We don't take in outsiders."

"Well," the one with the deep rumbling voice began, "not unless she approves." The thick one, named Tox evidently, added.

"Still," The thin one replied thoughtfully, "he'd have to go to her and make an appea— God dammit, Tox! We need to get rid of him, not give him a welcome brochure!" He quipped harshly, suddenly realizing what Tox was giving away.

Tox voiced his undesired opinion, "Why don't we tie him up?" He began and the asset tensed, "Take him back and see what we can get for him on the surface?"

The thin one sighed, "Do you have any idea what Callisto would do to us if we brought some stranger to her all tied up?!" He hissed. "You've heard about what happened before! Peace topside, peace underside, right?"

"Sure, but the witch wont be happy if we leave him here and she hears about it. We gotta get him out." Tox continued as if the soldier weren't even there.

The thin one let out a full body sigh in response.

The soldier tensed, reaching a slow hand behind himself to search for a hunk of rock to use as a weapon. He could kill them with his bare hands, but the less evidence he could leave of his presence in this city would mean that much more freedom. Judging by their words, behaviors, and demeanor, he was under the impression that these men, these civilians, had known of a battle they never cared to be a part of and didn't want to repeat it. That would be an advantage for him: impassioned soldiers were just about as useful in a fight as an infant.

"Fine!" The other finally replied in succession. He seemed to turn towards his companion and hissed out a rushed response, "We will take him back. Sid should be coming around soon — maybe Sid'll know what the hell to do." Though the asset heard all of it, he stayed still and waited. The man turned back to face the soldier, hands raised and trying to seem non-threatening, "Look —," he started, but never finished.

The soldier threw a handful of dirt and gravel towards the face of the thin man and he let out a peal of inventive curses as he clawed at his eyes, tumbling backwards onto his backside.

"Thumper!" Tox bellowed before unleashing a guttural snarl and charging at his friend's assailant.

The soldier was hardly affected by the sound as he stood to his full height, flexing muscles that were dormant too long and adjusting the set of the failing metal arm that graced his side. His training and advantage outmatched both of these feeble opponents, even when combined. So this was not a moment he felt fear, this was a moment of surprising clarity.

His lip curled when the thundering stomps of the large man neared, an acrid stench accompanying him. The scent was pungent and brash as it got closer: the putrid odor of unwashed skin, deleterious breath, and something chemical. It almost caused the soldier to falter, but he stayed focused on the man's movements in the crushing darkness.

He easily evaded the grasp of Tox while the one called Thumper was still cursing, not at his loss of vision in the pitch black path, but the grit beneath his eyelids ripping at his cornea. Turning to face another charge, the asset dodged a meaty hand, batting it away quickly with his metal hand and leaning into a punch with the other arm to ensure the thick one would go down. He reminded himself viciously: no bodies, no clues, no path to follow. He must never be found, no matter what.

His punch landed with a sickening crack from the jaw of his opponent. His human fist was meant to be a compromise, to disarm, but not to kill — not if he didn't have to. However, this simple grace he allowed himself, that singular choice not to kill, possibly cost him his life.

The asset screamed, an agony unlike any other burned down to the bone of his gloved fist. Something wet and hot slowly dripped down his knuckles, eating through the leather and rolling down the thin skin on the back of his hand, leaving a trail of what felt like fire in its wake. As he pulled back his hand, meaning to cradle it against his body, he could hear his skin begin to bubble and fizz with whatever was now coating his fist and trying to make a path up his arm. He had not felt this sort of anguish in quite some time.

The assaulted man, Tox, stumbled to his feet and charged again, a roar akin to that of the fullest rage escaping his diseasedmaw and threatening to rip through the asset's ear drums. The soldier stepped back, attempting to assess the situation in desperation. He'd fought much more skilled opponents, better armed and seemingly more dangerous than a chunky thug and his skinny sidekick. When he landed that punch, what should have been enough to knock the other man out for a few hours, ended up landing him in a whole new heap of trouble: what he believed to be skin against skin, a fair fight, ended in a sensation similar to having his hand dipped in molten tar.

Tox rushed at him and the soldier dodged again, swinging his leg up and back down as the man crossed in front of him, a powerful kick to his assailant's back that instantly dropped him to the ground with a groan.

The soldier hissed out a breath a moment after his balance was restored, feeling a stinging rush of air cut up the back of his calf and slowly up his leg. Where his pants had been tucked into his boots, were now tattered fragments of material that had been dissolved, just like whatever was eating away at his skin. The edges of material coated in whatever slime was capable of burning down to the hypodermis was now brushing softly against his calf, getting stuck to hunks of flesh only to be ripped away with any movement. Gritting his teeth, he stilled himself and pushed away the pain, reframing his stance to shield his weak points but doing his best not to allude to his vulnerability.

"Thumper," Tox grunted out after a halted breath, "You okay?"

"Yeah!" Thumper replied, bitterness heavy in his tone as he roused himself.

"We don't —," Tox began, using the wall to stand up, but was interrupted by a loud crash that resulted in him getting thrown backwards.

The soldier had moved fluidly and almost silently, side stepping towards the wall of the tunnel and using his metal fist to punch a hunk of wall that was sent flying towards Tox, the one he knew to be the immediate threat. If he could keep the large one at a distance and defeat the thin one first, he could easily outrun the rotund man. Survival, that what he needed to focus on. He needed to survive.

The soldier did what he was best at and charged the frail man named Thumper with a determined grimace hidden by the darkness.

He leapt upon the man, the asset's body outweighing him and his skill surpassing his. They tumbled to the ground in a heap of straggling limbs in pure darkness, wrestling and rolling, curses being thrown in every direction when the metal fist landed a blow. The Winter Soldier was surprised by the fight in him, but ended up pinning him easily, and he pulled back his metal hand, ready to end it.

Before he could follow through on his punch, the thin man surged upwards, bucking the soldier off of him and sending him scrambling to roll onto his feet almost two feet away. The soldier perched into a low crouch, facing his enemy with a renewed knowledge and a hint of a thrill at this hidden strength. These two civilians didn't seem to be so normal after all. Of course, he should have assumed as much. Not many normal people enjoy lurking about in the dark, abandoned passageways of New York City.

But he refocused.

They could not defeat him.

The Winter Soldier never failed.

Every mission was completed.

Except for his last. The one objective that he knew.

Steve Rogers.

In the splinter of time he allowed his mind to wander, he lost his advantage. The thin man ran at him and all the soldier had time to do was brace himself as the soles of two worn boots collided with the arms crossed in front of him for defense. The metal arm had done its job as a shield, but the force of the kick was so powerful that it rammed into his already injured hand and sent him flying backwards with a resounding crack of metal against bone. His flight was only halted when two beefy arms wrapped around him and held him tight.

Pain surged through him, comparable at least to some of the tactics used by Hydra to mold him into the tool of the century. The pain seemed to illuminate pathways in his brain, pulling out horror stories that began to cycle through his mind. Every attempt to struggle against the acid laced grip resulted in more force, more power, and more pain. A searing burn surged through him at every point of contact and no matter how he tried to twist away, the man held on for dear life.

Unable to hold it in any longer, the asset let out an inhuman sort of howl. An anguish, bred from misery and pain, ripped through his vocal cords and echoed throughout the entire tunnel system, dislodging gravel and dusting it upon them from above.

"Jesus…" Thumper whispered softly as he took a step forward, trying his best to see through the darkness. Tox was holding on tight as the stranger thrashed against him violently and then suddenly went still.

A/N

Here is a summary of what this story entails stolen from the X-Post on AO3 (because it allows for much more detail). This is my first Avengers fic that's rooted deeply within the MCU as well as Universe 616 in the comics (Mostly Captain America and Thor). Lore has been taken from each of the individual Avengers' comic in order to create an origin story for my Original Character. So there will be things that are bent and twisted in order to fit the narrative. First and foremost this story is Post CATWS and non AOU compliant, its most likely non Civil War compliant. I started writing this right after CATWS was released, but I got very very ill and had to take a break that lasted about a year. I have about 40 chapters written and I'm currently in a slump but wanting to write again. I'm hoping that posting here will be the kick in the ass I need to get myself motivated. Enjoy:

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/F F/M M/M Multi

Fandoms:

Captain America (Movies) Captain America - All Media Types Captain America (Comics) Winter Soldier (Comics) The Avengers (Marvel Movies) The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types Avengers (Comics) X-Men (Movies) X-Men (Comicverse) X-Men - All Media Types Iron Man (Movies) Iron Man - All Media Types Iron Man (Comic) The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types The Incredible Hulk (Comics) The Incredible Hulk (2008) Marvel Cinematic Universe Thor (Movies) Thor - All Media Types Thor (Comics) Marvel 616 Marvel (Comics)

Relationships:

Steve Rogers & Original Character(s) James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Character(s) Steve Rogers/Original Character(s) James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Original Characters Pepper Potts/Tony Stark Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov Bruce Banner/Betty Ross

Characters:

Steve Rogers James "Bucky" Barnes Original Characters Tony Stark Natasha Romanov Clint Barton Bruce Banner Thor (Marvel) Loki (Marvel) Odin (Marvel) Heimdall (Marvel) Charles Xavier Logan (X-Men) Callisto (X-Men) Ororo Munroe Sam Wilson (Marvel) The Morlocks Other Marvel Characters

Additional Tags:

Marvel 616/MCU Crossover Alternate Universe Action/Adventure Canon-Typical Violence Sexual Content Resolved Sexual Tension Gender Confusion Polyamory Developing Relationship Mixed Race Original Character Pansexual Original Character Agender Character Gender fluid original character asexual pairings Mental Health Issues Body Horror Loss of Identity transference Attachment Issues Unrequited Love Requited Love Angst Loss Minor Character Death Guilt Paranoia Emotional Hurt/Comfort Friendship/Love Comic Book Science Evolution Asgard Stark Tower Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters Mutants Background Relationships Medicinal Drug Use Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con Period-Typical Racism Period-Typical Sexism Implied/Referenced Torture Past Child Abuse Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References long story like really long I'm Sorry (i'm not sorry) So many ships Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant