Chasing Ghosts, Part I
Chapter 4
The hotel room is colder than he remembers. James tries to sit up, but he can't. Alarmed, he looks down to find a series of thick leather straps holding him to a table. He panics, struggling to break them. He should be able to, but he can't.
A shadow passes over his face, and he looks up into a pair of pale blue-gray eyes flanked by long, dark hair. It's him—or the Winter Soldier, at least. The light from the window gleams off the metal arm, which points in his direction.
"I thought you were dead?" The Soldier asks him. Then he shrugs and turns around, facing another table. Steve is strapped down to that one. His thin, unhealthy frame looks even smaller under the heavy leather bonds, but it's definitely Steve.
The Winter Soldier stares at Steve for a moment, looming over him.
"Get away from him!" James shouts. The Soldier doesn't even look back. He climbs up on the table, straddling Steve's 95-pound body. He rears back and drives his metal fist into Steve's face. Steve doesn't even grunt. It's not right.
Three more blows and Steve's face is a bloody mess. The Soldier glances up at James, frowning in disapproval. "None of them are innocent."
The punches begin falling again. James screams impotently, straining to break the straps holding him down, but he can't. Finally, the blows stop. Steve's head turns and he's staring at James past one swollen eye and a broken nose.
"End of the line, pal."
The Winter Soldier rears his fist back again, and finishes it—
"NO!" James jackknifed off the pillow, scattering the papers that surround where he'd fallen asleep on the bed. He panted, trying to catch his breath. His metal arm was stretched behind him. He turned his head to see what it was snagged on, and found the wooden headboard in splinters where his hand gripped too tight. He released it, shaking the wood shards and sawdust off his arm.
His arm. The Winter Soldier's metal arm. The arm that nearly beat Steve Rogers to death aboard the Helicarrier. The arm that had strangled his handler in Washington. The arm that had held Valery Karpov still while he stabbed the knife into his throat.
James shook off the absurd line of thought. Arms didn't kill people. It was an appendage. The metal arm was as much a part of him as the other, flesh one.
That was the problem.
HYDRA gave him the arm. Gave him his missions. Gave him a purpose when he couldn't think of one himself. An evil, bloody purpose. They'd trained him to be an assassin. An asset that could do what their other assets couldn't. Get to people and places that supposedly couldn't be reached.
HYDRA was the problem. It always had been. HYDRA had all but wiped out his unit in Italy. HYDRA had captured him and turned him into a pincushion first and a monster later. HYDRA had nearly killed Steve numerous times, and then tried to use him to do the same.
HYDRA had to go.
James glanced over the notes he'd been making over the past two months. The names and faces related to the Winter Soldier—that he thought were related to him. It struck him like ice water. He'd been going about it all wrong. It couldn't be personal. No matter what they'd done to him, his mission was bigger than that. Bigger than him. HYDRA had to be destroyed, and it had to be destroyed before Steve got to them, because they wanted Steve. They'd always wanted Steve. Captain America. Dead...or worse. Destroyed, either way. They'd taken James because Captain America was out of reach. Second best thing.
On some level, they'd taken James because they knew he could get to Steve when they couldn't.
Steve had to be kept out of it. James had to keep Steve out of it.
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
Present Day
Cleveland, Ohio
The debriefing went mostly as expected. Agents Howard and Doyle confirmed that they'd apprehended almost two dozen lab technicians and scientists on HYDRA's payroll. The dozen or so armed guards were dead, most from the fighting inside the underground bunker, but a few had poisoned themselves when captured. Some things hadn't changed from the old days.
Steve and Sam kept Bucky's name out of the proceedings. The DoJ and General Rayburn were still working out details of the deal President Ellis had struck with Steve, so until that arrangement was in place, it was best to keep the words "Winter Soldier" as far away from the FBI's hunt for HYDRA cells as possible. Officially, the assassination of Karpov was unsolved. Unofficially, the Bureau was more than willing to accept that it was the result of some unknown infighting amongst HYDRA factions. Such infighting was considered good, since it might make the FBI's fight easier in the long run.
In the aftermath, Rhodey volunteered to escort the prisoner transport carrying the HYDRA detainees out to a special holding facility in Utah. They still didn't know the importance of the men and women they'd caught, so having the Iron Patriot cruising alongside the plane made the agents inside much more comfortable. He'd rendezvous with Cap and Falcon as soon as they knew where they were going next.
Tony was running facial recognition programs on every security camera Stark Industries owned—of which there were thousands all around the country. JARVIS was monitoring bank activity, watching for any name that corresponded to any of the aliases listed in Pierce's files, former S.H.I.E.L.D. files, and from the documents discovered by the FBI raids. The trouble was, they didn't know Bucky's patterns. Natasha was right about him being a ghost. He'd been trained to disappear, even in plain sight. For the time being, Steve and Sam could only stay in Cleveland, waiting for responses to their reports to Ellis and hoping Stark came up with a lead, any lead.
So, Steve and Sam were enjoying a leisurely brunch on Uncle Sam's dime. Which meant a Denny's off of Interstate-71. Fortunately, they were running a "bottomless pancake plate" special. Sam had already learned to aim for buffet or "all you can eat" around a guy with a super-soldier appetite. From the looks the waitresses were giving them, he was pretty sure Steve Rogers was still making history, even if it was just local restaurant legend this time.
Despite his ever-ready appetite, Steve had been sullen since the night before. Withdrawn. Getting so close to Bucky and missing him had rattled him. Sam needed to put his friend back on track.
"So..." Sam prompted between pancake reloads and coffee refills.
Steve, ever the gentleman, wiped syrup from his mouth and raised his brow in question. Sam smiled. "You were telling me about Azzano. You bust in like John Wayne, take out a few hundred HYDRA goons, had a knock-down with the Red Skull, and then marched four hundred newly freed men back to base..."
"Hm," Steve nodded. "Not much to tell, really. Bucky and I met up with the others in a clearing by the woods. A lot of them were wounded, so we had to load them up in some trucks and tanks Dugan and the guys had taken over. It was a thirty mile hike. I spent most of the time scouting ahead to make sure we didn't get caught."
Sam arched an eyebrow at the modesty of "not much to tell." History begged to differ. He was more focused on Barnes, though. "I'm surprised Bucky could walk thirty feet after what you said he'd been through, let alone march thirty miles."
"There were a lot of rest breaks," Steve smirked. Sam laughed. There he is, he thought. Steve shrugged. "Bucky was always like that. Never could keep him down long, even when we used to get into fights with the neighborhood kids in Brooklyn. By the time we got back to base, he was already hitting on the ladies at the nurses' station."
Steve's smile faded just a bit. "It was a front, though."
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
6 November 1943
Northern Italy
S.S.R. Base Camp, Along the Adige River
Colonel Phillips had grilled Steve for almost five hours about the HYDRA camp. Steve had drawn a detailed map of the layout, and the safest route to it from where they were, since the colonel seemed eager to move in and examine whatever was left. Mr. Stark's research team was reportedly already prepping to travel to the site.
Most of the four hundred freed prisoners had been trucked to five other field hospitals further behind Allied lines, mainly to ease the load on the S.S.R.'s relatively small medical staff. Most of the 107th, including Bucky, were still there in camp. Phillips and Stark both wanted to talk to Bucky, but the Army surgeon had insisted he rest for a few days at least. From what Steve had overheard from the other room, Bucky was in bad shape, despite having made it all the way here on foot without much help.
Steve was exhausted. He hadn't slept in two days, and had been fighting, marching, or otherwise on his feet for three. Erskine's work was amazing...but Steve was beginning to feel every mile he'd walked in his feet. Once Phillips had finally dismissed him, he went back to his tent, next to the U.S.O. ladies' dressing tent on the outskirts of the camp. As he passed, one of the dancers gave him a look he'd never seen before—and frankly instilled terror in him—so he smiled but walked a little faster until he reached the flap of his tent and ducked inside...then stopped short.
Bucky was inside, sitting stiffly in the wooden armchair beside the bed, rubbing his hands together nervously. He flinched when Steve burst through the tent flap and laboriously pushed himself to his feet to stand at attention. Steve could only blink for a moment.
"Bucky...what are you—? They told me you were asleep in the infirmary. Geez, sit, sit. You look like you're gonna fall over."
"Sorry to— I didn't mean to impo—" Bucky all but collapsed in the chair and awkwardly pointed to his right. "I had to get out of that hospital and my bunk's about seventy miles that way."
Steve scoffed lightly, then moved over to the bed and sat so they were facing. "We've been roommates for a decade. You're never an imposition, ya jerk."
Bucky looked terrible. Dark bags beneath his eyes made his face look sunken and gaunt. White bandages stood out starkly around his bruised wrists from where the restraints had held him to the lab table. Bucky's eyes raked up and down Steve, though, like he didn't believe what he was seeing.
"Buck? You okay?"
The other man blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I— I can't get over how different you are..."
Steve tried to shrug it off, smiling. "It's the same old me."
Barnes huffed. "The same old you wouldn't have broke into a Kraut labor camp and sprung us all."
"Sure I would have," Steve smile turned into a smirk. "I just would have been breathing a lot harder."
That got Bucky to laugh. "Well, you're still the same punk. Nice to know. You're gonna have to fill me in on this..."
"I will. But, tomorrow, all right? I'm glad you're okay, Buck."
Bucky swallowed thickly, only nodding. He sat for a moment, eyes drooping, before struggling to sit up again. It was the weakest Steve had ever seen him. Keeping up the facade of the hard-charging sergeant all the way back to the base must have been torture for him.
"I...I should go find a place to rack out—"
Steve stood quickly and gently maneuvered Barnes over to the cot, all but pushing him down onto it. "No. You're staying right here. You're exhausted, Buck."
Barnes shook his head, obstinately. "I'm in Officer's Country, Steve. This is your tent."
"Yeah, and I'm giving you a direct order, Sergeant. Go to sleep." Steve retorted. Barnes frowned. Steve knelt in front of him. "You're been through hell, Buck. I formally give you permission to lie down, right here, and I'll fight anybody that tells you you can't."
Bucky laughed again, tired but sincere. "I think that's one of my lines, kiddo." He obeyed, though, dipping back onto Steve's pillow with a bone-weary sigh.
Steve settled into the vacated chair and tugged his muddy boots off. He watched as Bucky's stiff posture gradually relaxed, then stretched his legs out into the middle of the floor. He was close to dozing off when Bucky mumbled.
"Steve?"
"Yeah?" Steve looked over. Bucky's eyes were just slits, and judging by the slur in his words, he was barely conscious.
"Thanks...for comin' after me."
Steve smiled, watching his friend slide into sleep. "Always."
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10 November 1943
London, England
S.S.R. Command Headquarters
The S.S.R. unit left Italy two days after Steve rescued the prisoners. A mostly British force remained to comb the remains of Schmidt's factory for intelligence, but the survivors of the decimated 96th and 107th Infantry Divisions, along with the remnants of the British 18th Parachute Battalion, were consolidated and reassigned to the S.S.R. under Phillips.
Most of them returned to England by ship, but the colonel ordered Steve to fly back with him and Peggy aboard Stark's plane. Bucky was included, since the S.S.R.'s experts in London were eager to question him as to what he'd endured in Schmidt's laboratories. Steve wasn't thrilled about Bucky being interrogated again—by their own side, no less—but Bucky asked him not to dispute it. He was just as happy to get out of Italy and not have to endure a week on another cramped transport ship.
"We get to fly in a plane, Steve! How often does that happen?"
They landed in London in the early morning, and by noon they had arrived at base in the city. After that, Peggy corralled Steve together with an Allied intelligence group and had him pouring over maps, communiqués and photographs, elaborating on everything he'd seen in Italy.
Bucky was taken in for a thorough debriefing by Dr. Joseph Reinstein, Erskine's once assistant and now the S.S.R.'s lead medical researcher. Steve had met Reinstein. He seemed brilliant, but his people skills needed work. His questions tended to be blunt, detailed, and totally devoid of sympathy. Steve wasn't keen on leaving Bucky to his "tender mercies," but Phillips gave him little choice in the matter.
His eyes were practically crossed with fatigue after a day spent staring at maps, files and paperwork, so Steve headed to his newly assigned, private quarters—Peggy's doing, he had no doubt. That morning, he'd asked Bucky to meet him there whenever he was done with Reinstein.
When he got to there, Steve found it larger than his tent in Italy—a desk, two cots, two chairs, and a cabinet for clothes—but not by much. It did come with a separate bathroom off to the side. Stepping inside, he found Bucky curled up under a green blanket on the left-hand bed. He stepped over, trying to see if his friend was awake or not. He kept his voice low, just in case. "You okay, Buck?"
"Cold," Bucky replied quietly.
Steve chuckled. "Yeah, England in November. I thought New York was bad. How'd it go with the docs?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Steve," Bucky whispered, voice cracking.
Damn, Steve cursed silently. That was what he'd been afraid of, letting Bucky be debriefed alone. Reinstein's questions could be probing, at best, and asking someone as proud as Bucky to talk about being tortured... Steve frowned, but kept quiet. Bucky had undoubtedly been interrogated enough for one day. He noticed that Bucky was shivering, even under the blanket, so he grabbed another one off the other cot and draped it over him. It didn't seem to help much, so after a few minutes, Steve discarded his uniform jacket and lowered himself onto the cot beside Bucky, draping an arm over Bucky's shoulders to help keep the heat inside the blankets.
"Remember the winter back in '35? That January?"
From his vantage point over Bucky's shoulder, Steve saw the smile form. "That damned radiator was always on the fritz..."
"Except now our positions are reversed," Steve chuckled.
Bucky's laugh was a little high-pitched, not like his usual laugh. Steve noticed, though, that his shoulders didn't stop hitching after the laughter faded. When he looked down, Bucky had buried his face in his hands. The next sound Steve heard was a barely concealed sob.
"They wouldn't stop, Steve," Bucky said softly, voice ragged. For a moment, Steve thought he meant the doctors at his debriefing, until Bucky continued. "For weeks. Didn't matter how much I s-screamed or begged...I begged them, Steve, but they wouldn't—"
Steve tightened his arm around his friend, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder. He didn't know what to say for a while, afraid of making Bucky's ordeal worse. Finally, he remembered what Bucky had said to him the night after his mother's funeral.
"I know it doesn't feel like it right now," he whispered into Barnes' shoulder. "But it'll get better, Buck. I promise. It'll get better."
Bucky didn't speak again. His shoulders stopped shaking a while later. Steve didn't sleep, he just kept watch. It was hard seeing his best friend like that. Bucky had always been the stronger of the two of them. Maybe he still was, even if not physically. Bucky Barnes reduced to tears was something Steve never wanted to see again. It made him want to go back and strangle every last one of the HYDRA fiends responsible. He'd always hated bullies...but now the bullies had never been so big or so close to home.
They stayed that way on the cot until reveille sounded. Steve rolled gently to his feet, trying not to wake Bucky if he could manage it. He'd let him sleep all day if he wanted. Bucky, though, was too well trained. He slowly got to his feet after Steve, though he didn't meet his friend's eyes. He grabbed a folded towel off the other bed and headed for the door. Steve said nothing about their brief conversation the night before. If he knew Bucky, they wouldn't speak of it again.
Bucky stopped before reaching the door. He turned halfway, avoiding Steve's gaze. He was still staring at the floor, biting his lip, when he spoke quietly. "I...thought I was going to die. I probably would have, if it hadn't been for you."
Steve didn't know what to say. He knew he didn't need to say anything. They'd never kept score. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded. "Colonel Phillips was talking about putting a special squad together, to go after HYDRA. When you're up to it, I'd like your opinion on who could be in it, Sergeant."
Bucky blinked for a moment, before a genuine smile creased his face. He stood a little taller, taking the lifeline Steve offered him. "Yes, sir. I'd be happy to help...Captain."
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Present Day
Denny's, off of I-71
Sam was speechless for a few minutes. He hadn't expected Steve to lay Bucky's story bare like that. "Steve...have you ever told anyone that story before?"
Steve shook his head, staring into his coffee. "Wasn't anybody's business. And...after Bucky di— After I thought Bucky died, it seemed wrong to share it with anyone else."
It was an enormous gesture, sharing a secret like that with Sam. He was floored, honestly, to be offered such trust by someone he'd—in all honesty—idolized growing up. "Thank you." The words seemed inadequate.
Looking up at last, Steve fixed Sam with those piercing blue eyes of his. "I told you because I need you to understand, Sam. The war made Bucky a killer—it made us both killers. But, what he is now...HYDRA made him that."
Sam suddenly realized that they were talking about the night before, when they'd discovered Karpov executed.
"He's a victim," Steve continued quietly, deadly serious. "I will never blame him for it."
"I get it," Sam replied, equally serious. "I do, Steve."
"If he was here last night, it means he's going after HYDRA, too," Steve added, not appearing happy about the possibility. "If they get their hands on him again..."
Steve trailed off, looking more miserable than when he'd started talking. Sam hated seeing it.
"We'll find him before that happens, Steve. I promise."
Sam meant every word. He just prayed he'd be able to keep that promise.
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13 November 1943
London, England
"Is this everybody?" Steve asked, reading the list on the clipboard.
Bucky nodded, scratching at his upper left arm. The medics had seen some puncture wounds there—likely injection marks, they'd said—the day they'd examined him in Italy. The marks had healed already, but Steve had noticed Bucky scratching at the area ever since. "Yeah, that's them. To be honest, I don't know much about Morita, but Dum-Dum says he's a good man. Helped them fight their way out of the camp."
Steve gave him a half-smile. "'Dum-Dum?'"
"Corporal Dugan," Bucky explained, tapping the first name on the list. "They saved my life in there, Steve. They're good men."
"What happened?" Steve asked quietly. They were in one of the bullpens in Phillips' underground headquarters. Officers and aides were milling about all around them, not giving them a second glance, but Steve didn't want anyone to overhear.
Bucky glanced around at the other people, and kept his voice low, as well. "I got sick. Those cells weren't heated. One of the overseers beat the hell out of me when I couldn't work. He told all the guards that if I couldn't work the next day, to let him know and he'd drag me out and shoot me in front of the others. Make an example. Dum-Dum, Falsworth and the guys, when they found out they rigged a...rigged an "accident" on one of the assembly lines that afternoon. Killed the bastard before he could kill me."
Steve was horrified. Not that the prisoners would do such a thing, but at how close Bucky had come to dying in that hellhole. "God, Buck..."
"Don't start, you worry wart," Bucky warned, punching Steve in the kneecap. "I'm right here. Takes more than pneumonia to take me out."
"Pneumonia?" Steve cried, a little too loud, as a few of the analysts glanced up at him. Frowning, he hushed his voice. "That's serious Bucky! Did you tell the medics?"
It occurred to him even as he was asking the question that Bucky had shown no signs of pneumonia when Steve had rescued him. That was...odd. His own experience with it a few years before—
"I was hacking my lungs up when they brought me to the isolation ward," Barnes said, rubbing his arm again. "Then the injections started and...I don't know, I woke up one day and I felt better. I didn't exactly have time to ask why while they were working me over."
That last comment was laced with bitterness. At Steve's concerned look, Barnes growled and shot him a dirty look. "Do you want to talk about me? Or do you want to talk about this super-squad of yours? 'Cause I don't want to talk about me."
Steve held up his hands in surrender. Bucky suddenly looked ashamed at his outburst. He dropped his eyes to the floor and gestured to the clipboard. "You wanted my opinion, Stevie. These are your guys. They're just dumb enough to say yes to this crazy idea."
"Okay," Steve replied. He bit back asking Bucky if he was all right—again—for fear of a busted lip. Instead he got up and took the list to one of the staff secretaries and asked her to send a request to the men listed to meet them there in an hour.
Bucky overheard—surprisingly since he hadn't moved from the desk—jumped up and walked over to Steve's side. "No! Not here." He leveled a look at Steve that clearly said he thought Steve was out of his mind. "You wanna ask five guys who just got out of hell to walk back in again? You buy them drinks."
He looked at the secretary, who frowning at them both. "Where's the nearest pub?"
TBC
A/N: For those who might care, the 96th and 107th Divisions are fictitious, as is the British 18th Paratrooper Battalion, so far as I can determine. Bucky was obviously in the 107th in the film. Given Falsworth's red beret, I'm assuming he was a British Paratrooper.
In the 40s, flying in an airplane was still a novelty, hence Bucky's excitement.
"Dr. Joseph Reinstein" was an alias of Dr. Erskine in the comics. Seemed appropriate to use that for his replacement.
Thanks to ink-phoenix on tumblr, whose blog pointed me to the "Captain America: The First Vengeance" comic, which detailed Bucky's stay in the labor camp, and pointed out that it must have been Bucky who gave the Commandos' names to Cap.