Bucky was drifting, lost in a world where he could almost tell the difference between his vivid, technicolor dreams and the real, grating memories that constantly weighed heavily on his burdened mind. He marked time by how many of those rose hued dreams flitted by; and by how many dark, twisted memories would play soon after. Some would assume that cryo-sleep was just an empty expanse of dreamless slumber, but Bucky knew that wasn't the case. It was almost as if he remembered more while he slept than while he was awake. Memories from his life pervaded every second of his consciousness, a steady stream of scenes that he both welcomed and feared, but was helpless to influence. That seemed to be a recurring theme of his long life; helplessness. He was finding that he was getting so damned sick of it.
A memory, real and stark, suddenly played in his mind; a memory he recognized and found himself repeatedly longing for. A memory of you.
He felt your bright, glinting eyes fixed on him, boring into his back as he was once again led to that damned chair for another round of conditioning. HYRDA had a mission for him; that was why they'd woken him from cryo-sleep today. He knew what awaited him in that chair, he knew the lashing pain that would follow, and though every fiber of his being rebelled, the truth was that he was just too disoriented to fight back. It was always like this after he regained consciousness; always there was the headache, the slight nausea, that horrible feeling of being thrust harshly out of time. And always there was the pain.
The HYDRA agents in this Siberian base seemed to revel in causing him pain, in watching his muscles go rigid as agony gnawed at him and listening as his voice became husky from his frenzied screams. And yet beneath the horrible, bloody fabric of his existence there was the smallest thread of gold, the tiniest measure of comfort amidst his tedium. You.
Somehow, inexplicably, incredibly, the fact that it would be your small, gentle hands that would be there to steady his reeling body, your deft fingers that would unstrap him from the chair, freeing him from his torture, that it would be your low, thrumming voice in his ear telling him that he'd be alright, that the pain was done now, helped to calm him in ways he couldn't describe.
He didn't even know your name and yet he'd memorized the graceful curve of your neck, the striking, feminine beauty of your features, the kind gleam in your gentle eyes. You were a haven of light in this cold, dark place; a sanctum of warmth and softness. Where he was usually met with only harsh biting words and grizzly missions, in your presence he found something more precious than the sweet relief of unconsciousness. With you he found kindness. He found a kindred soul. He found peace.
He'd almost forgotten what that felt like, but when you were near, he remembered. He wanted. He ached.
Your cell was conveniently placed directly in front of the chair that he was currently being strapped into and to distract himself he greedily searched the dark shadows playing before him for just the barest glimpse of your face. Mercifully, he saw you shift among the darkness, moving to the front of your cell. A strange, intense kind of relief twisted in his chest when he saw your slim fingers curl around the grimy bars, your knuckles going white from the force of your grip. It seemed to pain you when you saw him being tortured. He didn't like that; you shouldn't hurt. Not when it could be prevented.
Sometimes he almost thought he saw tears glinting in the corners of your pretty eyes, or glimpsed your full lips parting as you drew in a shaky breath while you watched him writhe in pain. But maybe he was just imagining it; he was having a hard time differentiating between what was real and what wasn't. His waking moments were becoming hazier, less clear, and he could admit to himself that it made him afraid.
Usually he was so groggy from being woken from cryo-sleep that he was compliant as the HYDRA agents strapped him in, but this time, spurned by your beautiful tear-streaked face, he fought back. The reinforced metal cuffs pricked at the skin of his right wrist, snagging the sensitive flesh there. Suddenly, that small, painful sensation made him angry; furious even. He was sick of all the prodding and poking, of all of the abuse and pain. The metal fingers of his left arm curled around the throat nearest to him, crushing the windpipe beneath his grasp with ease. The reaction in the agents around him was immediate and fierce.
Uncountable sets of strong arms pressed down on him, overwhelming him with their breadth and pure calculated brawn. He was shoved back into the seat within seconds, his strength overcome, his rage fueled muscles barely controlled. Initially he was surprised by the fervor of their counter attack, but in hindsight he supposed that HYDRA would have been prepared enough to put preventative measures against him in place, just in case. It was a smart move; he couldn't deny them that, though as he was effectively subdued, both of his arms strapped once more to the hard metal chair beneath him, his rebellious heart still beat wildly in his chest in fervent insubordination.
His pulse roared fiercely in his ears, his eyes locked with yours as he desperately tried to escape, railing against his bonds savagely. He watched tears streak down your ashen cheeks, watched sympathy and anger fill your luminous eyes, the sight making his heart twist strangely in his chest as he still attempted to reach your padlocked cell so that you could run into the frigid night with him. Some small part of him realized that he was still locked in that infernal chair, awaiting the inevitable agony that always followed, but his strong mind allowed one brief fantasy of flight. He pictured your small, slim fingers entwined with his as he led you to the door of the bunker, him fearlessly protecting you against any that dared to confront you. He saw your proud expression as he escorted you to safety, shielding your vulnerable body with his large, strong one, confidence that he could keep you safe soaring in his chest.
His lips had just barely upturned in the smallest of smiles when the pain came.
They're fighting…about me.
You thought with much chagrin as you painstakingly attempted to comb the numerous, gnarly tangles out of your long, drying hair, listening with mild sheepishness as Steve and T'Challa discussed your sudden presence in his stately home. You'd just emerged from a much needed, luxurious, possibly too-long shower in T'Challa's huge state of the art bathroom. Everything in this sprawling palace was clean, obviously moneyed and steeped in a luxury that you were sorely unaccustomed to. You'd learned the owner of this mansion's name soon after you'd woken from a few hours of much needed sleep, feeling rested but no less anxious. The man you'd encountered on the balcony was named Steve, and he'd been seated by your side when you'd snapped awake, your pulse pounding wildly in your ears as you'd gasped in ragged breaths and tensed your protesting muscles in preparation to run once more.
Steve, with his kind, sparkling blue eyes and his low, comforting voice, had explained where you were and whose hospitality you were currently benefiting from. In turn you'd told him, in general, less gruesome terms, what you had been through and who you were running from. His handsome face had paled when you mentioned that different versions of the super soldier serum had been tested on you, and you were quick to reassure him that you in no way blamed him. To the best of your abilities you'd answered the questions he'd posed to you, futilely trying to fill in the gaps in your knowledge. The world had changed immensely since you'd last been a thriving member of society, and about some changes you were markedly glad.
For example, judging by the scanty, plunging neckline of the white tank top and the low ride of the tight matching shorts that you'd been given to wear after your shower, it seemed that most, if not all, of the 1940s modesty that your adulthood had been steeped in had been thrown out the window in more recent times. Not that that particularly bothered you, before HYDRA you'd always reveled in your femininity, in your womanhood; taking lovers, though admittedly fewer than you would have if there had been sufficient, easily accessible birth control in your time, enjoying long nights of rambunctious dancing and sometimes indulging in Bacchanalian drinking. Not that it mattered anymore; HYDRA had stolen all of that from you too, along with your bodily autonomy, years of your life and your freedom.
You shook yourself hard at that dark thought, pushing aside the pain of the past in exchange for the promises of the future. He was here, you could tell, you could feel him. You weren't quite sure exactly how or why you could perceive his presence so keenly; it was as if he was a bright spot in the back of your mind, a constant presence that warmed you in your coldest hours. You'd always mused that it had something to do with the serum that had been used on you; perhaps there was an agent in it that made you more sensitive to other recipients of the formula. After all, every time you'd had to euthanize a failed winter soldier it'd torn painfully at you, biting deep into your very being; you'd felt the breath leave their body as acutely as if you'd been punched in the gut; you'd gently closed their eyes and smoothed their wrinkled brows with shaking fingers.
With an aggravated huff, suddenly incredibly angry and fed up with the melancholy memories of the past that insisted on plaguing you, you finally gave up on your unruly mane and left it to snap haphazardly down your back as you began to don the clothes folded neatly beside the marble sink. The delicate, airy pieces fit you beautifully, as if they'd been tailored for your size and shape, conforming to your body and accentuating your curves. It had been so long since you'd felt like a person, let alone a flesh and blood woman, that you were beginning to feel dazed by the lavish treatment you were receiving.
Suddenly Steve's raised voice cut through your thoughts, "She's been abused, tortured and held prisoner by HYDRA, the enemies of the organization that you and your country have shown allegiance too." There was a subsequent moment of silence so deafeningly quiet that you could hear your own heartbeat pounding thunderously in your ears, then Steve's voice again, "If nothing else, help her because she has nowhere else to go."
As the truth of the Captain's words rang in your fractured mind, echoing unpleasantly amid the painful memories of the past, you decided it was high time you showed your gratitude to your gracious host and put a word into the increasingly heated conversation that these men were having. Steve had described T'Challa as a stalwart man; classic and composed with just a hint of mystery. When you swung open the door of the bathroom and stepped out into a pristine, light filled living room that held two slightly irate superhero's, you had to say that you agreed with Roger's.
T'Challa was a tall man, his dark gaze fierce and his large body finely muscled. His alluring ebony skin gleamed handsomely in the midday light. He wore a well-fitting charcoal suit that was unmistakably expensive and had an air of authority about him that had you suddenly standing up a bit straighter. When you entered the room both of the men turned to face you and you fought the strong urge to fidget.
"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting," You began, your voice husky from misuse, its low rasp almost unfamiliar to you, "I just thought that I should meet the man who was so generous as to let me use his commodities, and welcome me into his beautiful home." As you spoke you reached out a surprisingly steady hand for the Wakandan King to shake, wondering the whole time if your presumption was too bold.
T'Challa's mouth upturned in the barest hint of a smile at your words before he strode forward and clasped your small hand in his large one, his calloused fingers rasping against yours. You felt a small measure of relief as he spoke, his deep, slightly accented voice ringing in the spacious room, "You are not interrupting at all, my dear," He kept ahold of your hand, shifting it in his grasp so that your palm lay face down against his upturned hand, his grip encompassing, demanding, "Unfortunately I have other urgent matters of state to attend to, but when I return I very much look forward to getting to know you better. In the meantime, please make yourself at home here. I understand that you and Mr. Roger's have your own pressing matters to engage in."
His elegant, diplomatic words and the implications that they carried stunned you so intensely that it was a few long moments before you found your voice to respond. Your courteous reply was given just in time to bid him goodbye as he strode towards the door on the far wall. Before he left he drew in close to Steve, your enhanced hearing the only thing making you privy to their hushed exchange.
"My hospitality is generous, Captain," T'Challa said, his low voice now filled with all the Kingly authority befitting a man of his station, "But even it has limits. Take that to heart."
Steve's curt nod was his only answer, and with that mysterious conversation and an elegant cant of his head in your direction, the Wakandan leader left, leaving you alone with Steve. The Captain took a deep, seemingly steadying breath before he turned to you, his features softened by concern.
"How are you feeling?" He asked, his tone worried and his deep blue eyes anxious as he smoothly steered the conversation away from the puzzling exchange that had just occurred.
"Better," You confessed, rolling the tightly wound muscles of your arms and back as you spoke, "But I came here for a reason," You said, trailing off as that presence, his presence, throbbed more insistently in your mind, "And I'd very much like to see it through, if that's alright with you."
The smile that Steve gave you in response to your words was equal parts understanding and apprehensive, "Bucky, he's-" Steve stopped, glancing down to where his booted feet scuffed at the carpeted ground before continuing, "He's different from when either of us knew him; he's not totally the guy from Brooklyn that I knew, and not totally the soldier that you did. You have to be prepared for the scenario where he might doesn't meet your expectations."
At that you smiled warmly and moved closer, crossing behind the elegant white couch that dominated the far wall of the room to face Steve, "I know that, I do, I just wanna see him. Once, just once," You said, emotion making your voice thick, causing tears to well in the corners of your eyes, "He might not even remember me, but I need to know Steve. I need to be sure that he's safe."
He surveyed you for a few lingering moments before he sighed deeply and nodded, turning towards a huge set of double doors. You followed eagerly, your heart pounding madly in anticipation. Finally you were about to see him, to speak with him, the man who'd saved you from madness, who'd comforted you when you'd been convinced that no one else could. Although Steve had said not to have expectations you couldn't stem the wild flow of hope that promised that maybe, just maybe you could give him some measure of the comfort that he'd given you. That maybe, even though you were battered and broken, abused and worn, you could put your fractured pieces together just enough to find peace. After all, wasn't that the very thing you were searching for? The very thing you'd give your last breath to possess?
And with your soldier, maybe, just maybe, you could have it.
