December 2014
It had been months since Steve had caught more than a passing glance of Bucky Barnes. Sure, Hydra bases has started being blown off the map one by one, and not by them, but Bucky was always long gone before they got there. Even as Steve grumbled about it, he smiled fondly because Bucky always had been such a little shit like that. Always two steps ahead of them.
Though he hadn't seen Bucky face to face since the helicarrier crash, he had caught the rare sight of him on one or two security cameras before a building suspiciously went up in flames. It seemed that he wasn't trying to hide, because he brazenly walked right up to the front doors and barged them down without a second thought, a frighteningly dead look on his face every time.
As the months wore on and on, though, Steve noticed something. Instead of this all acting as some kind of catharsis and leaving Bucky calmer and happier, it seemed to be doing the opposite. He was getting more and more reckless, more vicious, more frightening and erratic with every base destroyed, and Steve just didn't know what to make of that. Was he not happy that Hydra was being destroyed, and he was the one doing it?
So, it didn't really surprise Steve when Bucky slipped up. The building had only just started vaguely rumbling when Steve arrived, shield in hand, to try and find some way to corner Bucky long enough to talk to him.
He was in a records room, flipping through files at an incredible speed, growling and snarling when he didn't find what he wanted. Steve stopped in the doorway, flinching when an even bigger boom echoed down the hall, before taking a step further into the room. Bucky glanced up, rolled his eyes, and then went back to his files.
"Hey, Buck. Doing okay?" He was trying to sound calm and nonchalant, but the increasing temperature and the continuing explosions kind of threw him off.
"Just fucking peachy," Bucky grumbled back, slamming a file cabinet closed before moving on to the computer. Long lines of green code flashed across the screen that Steve didn't even pretend to understand, but even that didn't seem to appease Bucky. Instead of just leaving it, he punched his left fist straight through the terminal, teeth bared in a nearly-feral growl. "It's not here! Why isn't it here?"
He desperately looked around the room again, lips in a tight line and hands crushed into tight fists.
"Buck? What are you looking for?" Steve asked, moving slowly closer to Bucky until he could place a hand on his shoulder. Bucky blinked quickly, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, before swirling out of Steve's hold to pick up the cabinet and slam it into the wall. Files went flying and the metal cabinet boomed against the wall. Bucky didn't wait another moment, picking up the next and then the next and the next, slamming them around the room in a frenzy.
Steve didn't know what to do; Bucky never used to be this angry, unless he really got riled up and then he would just get in a tizzy for a few days. This was unbridled anger and helpless rage. This was frightening.
When one of Bucky's wild swings got a bit too close to Steve's head for comfort, Steve realized that that was enough. He practically tackled Bucky, wrapping an arm around his chest to keep his arms at his side, and had a terrible sense of déjà vu. This was all strangely reminiscent of their fight on the helicarrier. Bucky struggled for a few moments, before he stopped, thunking his head back on to Steve's shoulder. If they hadn't been chest to back, Steve wasn't sure he would have noticed Bucky's shaking, or the fact that he was crying.
"Bucky, calm down. Come on, deep breaths," Steve coached, squeezing Bucky slightly to get his attention. Bucky sucked in a shaky breath, before letting it all out in one long stream of slightly hysterical laughter. He shook with giggles, shaking his head and sobbing.
"Calm down?" he asked, suddenly stock still, sounding so frighteningly calm that it sent chills crawling down Steve's spine. "Calm down? How can I calm down?" As if to punctuate his point, something large and loud exploded just down the hall.
"Buck," Steve tried again, hoping he could get them both out of the building safely before it collapsed on top of them. Even through the thick fabric of his suit he could feel the wet spots on his arms from Bucky's tears. "Bucky. Oh, fuck. Bucky. Please, you don't have to be scared. Hydra won't ever touch you again, I promise."
That didn't seem to calm Bucky, though. Instead, he threw his head back and slammed right into Steve's nose. The bone audibly cracked and Steve released him automatically, hands flying up to his face as he watched Bucky scramble to his feet. His usual graceful movements were now jerky and sluggish. From his position looming over Steve, Bucky leaned forward and practically spit at him, "I'm not scared, Steve. I'm fucking pissed!"
Steve, wide-eyed and bleeding, shoved himself up far enough to sit up against the wall. "I can understand why you're angry…," he began, but Bucky slammed a hand up between them, stopping him then and there.
"Do you really think I'm that selfish? That I'm that naïve? I'm not angry because of what they did to me. I'm angry because I don't know where my son is!"
Before that could fully register in Steve's mind, Bucky turned on his heel and stormed from the room. As the ceiling shook over him, he heard Bucky holler back down the hallway. "If you don't want to wear this building on your head, I'd get out now, punk!" Steve rolled his eyes, even as he stood up and started sprinting from the building; good ol' Bucky, even now he was still looking out for Steve. He made it out just in time for the building to fall apart behind him. When he looked around, Bucky had vanished as well.
With the fire at his back and nothing in front of him, Bucky's words finally hit him fully.
Bucky had a son?
May 1981
His mission was supposed to have been simple. His handlers had set him up in a nest, watched him fiddle with his rifle, and then had promptly been attacked by the target's personal guards.
Obviously, the mission had devolved from there.
Oh, the soldier wasn't quite complaining. The hidden fire deep in his gut stoked by his hatred of Pierce was still there, simmering, until it found a suitable victim. The twelve man group of guards sated it, briefly. As he wiped his blade off on one of the men's jackets, the Asset turned back to his gun and sighted up the target, lining up the shot in a second before pulling the trigger and watching the target drop to the ground; her long, dark hair almost covered the blossoming wound in her chest, but not quite.
Now that he was finished, he dropped the gun and turned to glare at his useless handlers, who were still trying to pick themselves up from the ground after the impromptu attack.
"We are finished here," he growled in Russian. It was a tic of his; when his handlers annoyed him, he spoke in Russian and watched them flounder around trying to figure out what the hell he was saying. It usually amused him, but today he just wanted to get back to base. He had a fractured rib that needed set and one of the guards had smashed a panel in his metal arm during the skirmish.
For once, he was actually looking forward to maintenance.
The ice that came after, well. That he was looking forward to less.
His handlers grumbled at him, leaving a few behind to dispose of the bodies, and the rest escorted the soldier back to base. His mission was done, and now all he wanted was his maintenance and his sleep. He was filthy, covered in blood and dirt, but he didn't much care. He didn't care that his hair was matted with drying blood, or that half his face had brain matter splattered across it, or that his ribs were throbbing along with the beat of his heart.
He just wanted his damn maintenance and his fucking sleep.
The handlers herded him through the base once they arrived, still grumbling about him and the shit storm the mission had become. Though the soldier was surprised to find Control at the doors waiting to greet them, he hid it well. The spike of anger and resentment he felt at seeing Control once more, he hid expertly. His surprise and confusion at the presence of a tiny, black haired boy standing beside Control, less so.
What was a child doing on a Hydra base?
The boy was fidgeting beside Control, staring up at the Asset with giant, grey eyes. Control seemed to be waiting for the Asset's reaction, but the Asset knew any reaction beside blankness would be dangerous. He stopped before the Secretary and awaited his orders as he mused over the possible outcomes of this situation. He really hoped Control hadn't brought the child for him to murder; he would do it, but he wouldn't like it.
Control gave him a quick, sharp smile and the Asset felt dread curdle through his stomach; that smile never boded well for anyone. He averted his eyes and stared down at Control's tie pin, waiting for his instructions. That tilt of the head, though, allowed for a better view of the boy at the edge of his vision. He was looking up at the Soldier with wide, curious eyes, just barely tinted with the beginnings of horror. It was only with that realization did the Asset remember that he was practically dripping with blood from the ambush, and inwardly flinched. He had probably scarred the poor kid for life.
Whoops.
"Mission report," Control stated, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "now." The Asset lifted his gaze to a spot somewhere over Control's left shoulder and debated his choice of wording. Due to the presence of the child, the Asset curbed the particulars of his report.
"Mission complete. Target eliminated." He kept it short and to the point, leaving the details for his handlers to fill in. No doubt they'd try to paint the ambush as his fault, and embellish their parts in the fight, but he was used to the mistreatment, even if he couldn't remember everything all the time.
"Good." Control glanced back down at the boy and tugged him forward, one too-large hand encompassing the child's entire upper back. "I believe it's high time you had a reward. This is Brock Rumlow. I thought you two could spend the day together." The Soldier stared back at Control, slight confusion twitching his eyebrows. Nevertheless, he accepted the new mission without fuss. He had no choice, and he had been given worse mission before.
"Yes, sir." He took the man's dismissal and followed a guard down to the showers to clean off. He attempted to clean himself more thoroughly than usual, not wanting to frighten the boy. There was just something about him. The Soldier couldn't point out what it was, exactly, but he felt familiar. The boy was only a little over five years old, silent, and wide-eyed, but he looked like someone the Asset couldn't quite remember.
As he was scrubbing the brain matter from his face, it hit him.
The boy had his nose. His eyes, too. His hair was spikey and short, but he's sure if he touched it without the gel in it, it would be silky and smooth, just like his own when it was cared for properly.
If he had not trained himself to curb his reactions, he might have actually collapsed to the floor in shock. Instead, he calmly replaced the bar of soap and turned off the water. He wouldn't waste another minute more, he had things to do. But no reason to look too over-eager.
He had no definite plan, but if this boy was his son, he wanted desperately to know he was safe. In the hands of Secretary Pierce was not the safest place he could be, the Asset knew.
The Soldier threw on his clothes, tugging the tac vest tight against the sting of his rib; what was a little crack in the face of getting to know his own child? He had soldiered through worse before. Clothing in place, the Soldier stomped down the hall and came to a halt when he found the boy waiting on a bench, legs swinging idly back and forth as he stared at the ground. The Soldier stopped right in front of the boy and waited, watching closely when he glanced up at the Soldier long enough to flash him a nervous little smile.
The Asset nearly choked on air.
That smile. If he hadn't thought it before, he knew for sure now. That smile was his, when he was playing a part. When he had to assume the identity of a civilian, and he was lying through his teeth to get what his handlers wanted.
"Your name is Brock Rumlow," the Soldier stated, licking his lips because he didn't know what else to do. The boy's fake smile faltered, and his gaze flickered to the metal arm, before he looked back at his face and smiled again, this time something small and just a bit frightened but real.
"Yeah." His voice was small and soft, almost shy. The Soldier took a moment to think through a plan, before he hefted the boy to his feet and started marching him down the hall. The Soldier was lucky; he had been good so far this mission, so he was allowed more freedom throughout the base. He didn't want to talk to the boy in the hallway where the guards could easily eavesdrop; the gym would be louder and more public, but it would also allow them more privacy.
The guards followed a few steps behind them, silent shadows that the Soldier ignored. He shoved his way into the gym and bullied his way over to the empty sparring ring. He lifted the boy up to sit on the mat, bringing them up to equal footing.
The Asset was extremely cognizant of the guards standing a few feet away, watching their every move. Though they seemed to be staring at any and everything but the Soldier and the boy, the Asset was not stupid; he knew that they could hear them, and that every word would be sent back to Control. He had to be careful of what he said.
"Now, what are you doing here? Children are not meant to be here."
The boy swung his legs slowly, biting his lip. He looked just a bit frightened at that, his eyes flickering to the guards before he turned back to the Soldier. The Asset was quite proud, warmth spreading through his chest at the movement; the boy was intelligent enough to know to curb his responses due to the listening ears.
"My daddy works here. He said I could come with him today, but then he left me with Mr. Pierce, and he said I had to be good and do what I was told." His voice dropped, becoming almost too hard to hear in the busy gym, and he whispered guiltily into the Soldier's ear, "I don't really know what I'm supposed to do."
When the boy mentioned his father, the Soldier had the undeniable urge to destroy something. He wanted to shout that that man was a fraud, he was not his father, that the boy's real father was right in front of him. His chest hurt and he didn't know what to do about it.
He kept a straight face and breathed through the fire threatening to crawl up the back of his throat.
"Well, I'm sure we can find something to do," the Soldier tried to placate, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. The warmth emanating from the boy was shocking, so much so that the Soldier nearly allowed his brow to raise to reflect that shock. Did the boy have his serum, after all? He shivered at the thought, at the ramifications of that. What if he was being trained to be an Asset already? What if they were willing to hurt him to get him to do what they wanted, just like they did with him?
Shoving these thoughts so far away that they were nearly on the moon, he hopped up on to the mat with the boy and helped him stand, settling himself into a ready position. If they were training him to be a soldier, the Asset would make sure they found no fault in his form. He could do this for his boy, to keep him safe. The child gave him a bright grin and started copying him, moving along with the Soldier as he went through exercises.
After a while, the boy face scrunched up in thought and he asked, "What's your name, Mister? They never told me."
The Soldier's movements paused for a fraction of a second, and he cursed himself for the slight slip up. It was an innocent enough question, he supposed. He just didn't have an answer. "I do not have a name," he admitted, squinting off at the wall so the boy wouldn't see his confusion or anger or shame.
That seemed to liven the boy up. "That's not true! Everybody has a name. What do people call you?"
He thought about it, continuing to move his body through the simple exercises. "The Asset. The Soldier. The Winter Soldier, to be specific."
That didn't seem to appease the boy, though. He abruptly stopped in the middle of a movement and stomped over to stand in front of the Soldier. He tugged insistently on the man's hand until the Asset was kneeling in front of the child, eyeing him curiously. Brock's nose scrunched up in thought, even as he reached out and took one of the Soldier's fingers in his tiny hand. "Those aren't really names, though. They're titles, like your job," he explained, as if the Soldier were a child. He seemed to stew in deep thought for a moment, before tugging the Asset's hand once more and squeezing tightly, his smile bright as sunshine. The Soldier was still staring at their linked hands, his breath hitching in his throat.
This was what he wanted.
He barely knew this child, but he was his. Brock Rumlow was his child, and all he wanted was to be able to do this forever. Hold his boy and protect him and care for him.
"How about 'Winter'?" the child chirped, looking up at him with a toothy smile, a real smile, and the Soldier nearly melted right there on the mats. Noticing the guards watching them intently out of the corner of his eye, the Soldier curbed his reaction and simply nodded, short and quick. Though his face remained blank, he let his eyes shine with gratitude and happiness. He was almost afraid to smile back, not just because of the guards watching them, but because he was slightly frightened that his mouth might not remember how.
"Alright. Winter, it is." The newly christened man squeezed the boy's hand, his son, and Brock beamed back, proud of being so helpful.
He released Winter's hand in favor of bouncing around the mat instead. "Do you think that's why they wanted us to meet? So I could help you find a name?" The boy sounded so earnest, and Winter couldn't bear to stomp on his reasoning by explaining that was most certainly not why they had wanted them to meet.
"Perhaps, zaichik." He paused for a beat, then sat down on the mat across from the boy. Brock noticed right away and bounced right back, smiling wide. Biting his lip, Brock glanced up at Winter for a long moment before making his move. The child flopped down right next to him, easily manipulating Winter's metal arm to rest around his tiny shoulders. Feeling a slight sense of wonder, Winter squeezed the small shoulder experimentally, and nearly grinned when the boy let out a long, content sigh. He burrowed closer to the man, clinging tight to the straps on Winter's tac vest.
"What's that mean?" the boy asked quietly, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.
"It means 'bunny'. You were hopping about like one, I thought it was fitting. If you give me a name, I should have one for you. Yes?" Winter bit his lip and fidgeted; perhaps he had accidentally said something wrong. What if the boy didn't really want anything to do with him, and he was just trying to be good like his daddy had told him to?
"Bunny?!" the boy exploded, smile wide and blinding, and Winter berated himself for thinking something so stupid. The boy was barely five, he couldn't be that good of an actor yet. "I can be a bunny. Watch!" The boy hopped up and Winter watched on in shock. Had the child not just moments ago been close to sleep? Where had all this energy come from? Nevertheless, Winter gazed on as the child hopped around, crouching low and then propelling himself forward, hopping around just like a tiny little rabbit.
"Do I make a good bunny, Winter? A zay-chick?" he wondered, horribly mispronouncing the Russian endearment.
Winter felt the skin around his eyes crinkle, though he was careful to keep his face tilted away from the guards, as he tried desperately not to smile.
"The best, zaichik." Then a thought hit him, and Winter reached out to tug the boy closer. "Child, would you like to learn Russian from me? And fighting? What about that?"
The boy's face looked nearly blissful. "Really?!" he shouted, and more than a few heads turned their way at the outburst. The other agents that had been using the gym had been keeping a healthy distance between themselves and the Soldier, but now they were openly staring at the interaction. Winter scowled in their general directions, moving his ice cold gaze around the room, meeting as many eyes as possible. He was silently daring any of them to say a word.
"Would you like that?" he repeated, turning back to Brock, where the boy was practically vibrating where he stood.
"Yes! Please? My momma says I'm real smart, and she says I need something to burn off all this energy I have, and I'll be good. I promise! Please?"
The Soldier nodded, his eyes flittering to half-mast. "I will ask the Secretary, when I see him next. Perhaps one of the agents can talk to him, if I do not see him before I leave."
Brock smiled so wide Winter was frightened he might pull something. The boy collapsed in front of him, a content little ball of goo, and Winter spent the next hour giving Brock his first introduction to the Russian language. The boy seemed to soak the attention and the knowledge up like a sponge, parroting back phrases and words nearly perfectly after a few repetitions.
When he saw the guards shuffling closer to them, Winter knew his time was nearly up. "You have done very well, zaichik. I will see what I can do about further lessons." Brock noticed the guards coming closer, too, and reached out quick and fast to wrap his arms around Winter's shoulders, squeezing tight.
"Thank you, Winter. I hope I see you again. You're real nice, even if you do look kinda scary sometimes." He pulled back and gave him one last smile, before he went up to one of the guards.
"Do I gotta go home now?" he asked, sounding whiney and petulant and Winter couldn't be more proud. His boy knew how to put up a façade, a mask! He was showing the guards that he wanted to go home, just so they wouldn't have the chance to force him.
"Yeah, kid. Your dad's waiting up in his office." The guard was gentle when he lifted the boy into his arms and started walking him out of the gym. Brock rested his head on the guard's shoulder and waved sadly back at Winter.
The Asset turned to the remaining guard and followed him out of the gym, down to the basement cell, and into the chair before he remembered the promise he had made.
"If you see Pierce," he said, taking a deep breath to steel himself, "ask him if I can give the kid lessons. Russian and fighting. He was asking. Kid's a fuckin' genius, if you ask me." He waited until the guard, some young punk that looked like he hadn't been out of the Academy more than a year or two, nodded before he submitted to his maintenance.
Huh. The maintenance and the sleep he had been so looking forward to not half a day earlier was now just an afterthought. What he really wanted now was his fucking son and a safe house they could disappear to.
As the chair tilted backwards, he went through the process of hiding his memories. He didn't need everything from this day, but the highlights would keep him up to date on his child. The way he smiled. The way his eyes lit up at the sound of his voice. The way he moved and the way he talked and the way he smiled and the way he looked and the way he…
Everything. God, he wanted to remember everything.
But he knew he couldn't, so he tucked away only what was important.
He would remember his bunny, his little zaichik. No matter what.
The electricity ramped up, and the metal wrapped around his head, and he screamed through the bit in his mouth. He screamed, took a breath, and then screamed some more. He would remember. He had to. His little zaichik, his zaic…
He blacked out.
The year was 1981. The Winter Soldier remembered nothing. But a tiny little rabbit…
