The house is quiet, dark, and empty. It is filled with the clutter of a life well-lived, and the windows are open to receive some of the warm summer breeze. The smell of the lakeshore is carried in upon it, and the asset can hear the sound of children laughing by the sand. Outside, someone is cooking meat on a grill top.
The target has a big family. The asset knows this because they programmed it into him. He waits inside the house for the target.
There are low rumbles in the distance. The asset is not startled because they programmed that into him as well – for this mission, it is a non-issue. It is the American Independence Day. In celebration of overthrowing a colonial ruler with whom they had close cultural ties, citizens light fireworks. The asset has no opinion on the matter.
The asset moves to an open window on the second floor. He can see the target's large family spread out beneath the house on blankets, or on the tops of cars. He watches in shadow. If anyone sees him he will have to kill all of them. It would be easy from this vantage point.
There is another rumble, and a brief splattering of 'ooo's and 'ahh's. The way that the light catches on the lake holds the asset's attention. He looks up. There are streaks of multi-coloured fire in the sky. They fall beautifully. He blinks, and he is somewhere else for a moment – a dock, near a large city. "Happy birthday, Steve," he feels himself say. His voice is unfamiliar to him, and the way that he forms his words are foreign.
The asset blinks again, and he is back in the dark house. There are more fireworks, this time in quick succession. The door behind him opens. He turns on his heel to see the target, fat belly spilling over his belt and an alcoholic beverage in his hand. The asset shoots. The target falls.
Outside, the family claps and honks car-horns. The show is over.
The asset returns to base and debriefs. His handlers show concern. The asset is confused when they strap him tightly into the chair. He hates this – he hates this.
"But I have completed the mission successfully," he says. They give him a look of pity. He does not understand it.
"Open your mouth," they tell him. He opens his mouth.
He is unmade and remade. He marches into cryo. He thinks about nothing as his heartbeat slows.
Steve thinks about Peggy.
The plane is sinking fast, and the water has almost completely overtaken the cockpit. There is no space left for him to breathe, and so he waits.
Last dance. Steve thinks of scuffed floors and high-heeled shoes. Steve thinks of death. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. The cockpit is completely submerged. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. Steve has been attempting to hold his breath, but he knows that it's useless, that he is going to drown. Music croons in the background. It feels like he is going to sleep. His hands are wrapped around Peggy's - Bucky's – Peggy's – wait, no.
Bucky's hands are wrapped around his waist. The floor creaks beneath them. Steve is numb. Bucky smells like cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave. Everything is hazy.
"Just like going to sleep, huh, pal?" Bucky whispers into his ear. Steve is so cold. Steve is so cold that he is hot – so hot. "Hey, it's just like a fever. It'll break," Bucky tells him. Steve nods. The plane sinks.
Steve goes to sleep.
The asset wakes up.
He has knowledge: it is 1968; he will be in Los Angeles. His target is an American politician. This mission requires him to go undercover. He has never gone undercover before.
They dress him in popular fashion that is not too popular. They shave his face. He keeps feeling his skin with his right hand. He does not know why.
Some of his handlers are nervous, but the asset is not because the asset does not feel. The asset simply does. And so they let him out on the streets. He knows where he is, and what he is supposed to do. It is estimated to be a quick mission. It is not infiltration. It is a quick assassination.
The target is laughably unprotected. The asset waits. He is hidden in the crowd.
Behind him, two civilians are speaking.
"- about Bavasi leaving the Dodgers?"
"Yeah, and Fresco Thompson's taking over –"
"Ricky doesn't think Fresco's gonna last the year."
The asset does not know why he turns around. "Dodgers?" he asks.
The first civilian, a thin and willowy boy no older than twenty-two with dark-rimmed glasses, says "Yeah, the LA Dodgers?"
"LA Dodgers?" the asset repeats.
The other civilian, dark skinned and well-built with an l-shaped scar on his chin, says "Yeah, like baseball?"
The asset shakes his head. This is wrong. "No, no. LA?"
The second civilian grimaces, nods. "Yeah, like Los Angeles? Like where you are right now?"
The asset furrows his brow. "Los Angeles?" He knows what Los Angeles (city, California, USA, population: 2.816 million) is, because they told him, but he is still at a loss.
Civ-1 laughs. "Man, this guy is blitzed."
The asset shakes his head again. "No, no. Brooklyn Dodgers," he finally manages to spit out. The name feels funny on his tongue. He identifies it as a part of a city in the United States of America (population: 7.89 million). Beyond that, it has no meaning.
Civ-1 laughs again. "Yeah, used to be the Brooklyn Dodgers."
The asset balks. This is very wrong. "When?" he asks.
Civ-2 scratches his chin. "Uh, sold to LA like ten years ago?"
The asset is shocked by what comes out of his mouth. "What the hell?" he shouts. The civilians laugh.
Civ-1 asks "Dude, where have you been?"
Civ-2 says "Can you hook me up with whatever dope you're smoking because I want to get down with that."
The asset is at a loss. Something is going on. He has been compromised. He needs to complete this mission and get back to base. He needs to get control of himself. Instead, he asks "Why?"
Civ-1 gestures to the asset and says "Dude, listen to him. He's straight outta New York City, this has gotta be heart-breaking for him."
Civ-2 answers the asset "Money, man, big fat cats with money make the world go 'round."
The asset growls. He gives the civilians a withering look. They are not his target, but he wants to kill them, and he does not know why. "I have been compromised," he says simply, and slips away quickly. He leaves them buckled over with laughter.
He completes the mission. It is messier than he would have liked. He knows what is waiting for him. He does not wait for their direction. He debriefs, and goes right to the chair. He opens his mouth before they ask him to.
There are three boys and two girls. They're just kids, probably no older than eleven. Their shoes are well-loved, their smiles are wide, and they are playing baseball.
Steve watches. He is at a park. He is absent-mindedly sketching. The kids began the game and are continuing on without any indication that they know who they are being watched by. One of the girl's has a home-made Captain America backpack. Steve can see the paint on the haphazardly drawn shield peeling. It makes him smile, because it's the kind of thing that he would have done when he was a kid.
One of the boys has a mean pitch, a good pitch. He's small and wiry, with dark hair and dark skin. Steve sketches him, but it turns out wrong. Different than what he had planned. The pose is off – it's more Bucky than this kid, and Steve decides that he might as well give into his inclinations.
Bucky was a cute kid. Steve cocks his head as he draws. He dresses Bucky in modern clothing, like the stuff those kids are wearing. It's a concession. An acceptance of his reality.
Bucky wanted to be a baseball player. Steve used to tell him that he could do it. Steve still kind of thinks that maybe he could have done it. He had such aim, such force. He was so precise. Maybe if he had more opportunities. Maybe if he wasn't so preoccupied with taking care of Steve. Maybe if he hadn't gone to war.
Steve sets down his pencil and his sketchbook. He's not tired, but he feels exhausted. He gathers his things and slings his bag of his shoulder. As he leaves, he hears someone scream "Bye Captain!"
It's the girl with the backpack. She waves. He waves back.
On the ride home, he wonders if they made any Bucky Barnes trading cards.
The asset is waiting. All things have been set in motion. The target should be taken care of.
The car crashes. The accident is horrible. The target has been taken care of. The mission has been accomplished. The asset views the twisted wreck from a nearby building top. He is to take care of any survivors, should they exist. They do not. Nobody comes crawling from that twisted metal hunk, once so pristine, so ("- way of the future, Steve –")
The asset has completed the mission, but there is something beyond his programming telling him that he has failed. His handlers share split-second, worried glances.
Tony smiles for the camera. His hand is on Steve's lower back. When the photos are taken, he turns and says "Cap'n."
Steve offers a smile and nods.
"Glad you could make it to the party. Well, not glad as much as I am shocked, but hey, it's Christmas."
"Thanks, Tony," Steve says. He does not want to be there. He does not particularly want to be anywhere.
They pose for another picture. Tony sticks his tongue out. Steve smiles uncomfortably.
The girl with the camera blows a kiss to them both and then rejoins the crowd of people.
"Hey, I'd love to stay and chat, but hanging out with the ghost of Christmas past isn't how I intended to spend my party, so enjoy the free booze, and have a happy new year," Tony offers. He shakes Steve's hand and then disappears into the mass of people. "White Christmas" hums merrily in the background. Steve shifts uncomfortably.
There is a figure to his right shoulder. She places a gentle hand on his back and glides to his side. She is short and dressed in a tight, silver gown. Her red hairs falls in her face, and then down the line of her neck and to the swell of her breasts. She does not look at him.
"Hey, Natasha," he says.
"Steve," she murmurs back. Her countenance is cold, and she has a drink clutched in her right hand. He does not think that she's taken a sip of it.
"Your hair is different," he tells her, at a loss for anything more substantial to say.
The side of her mouth twitches into the warmest half-smile she is willing to give. Another guest would think she was smirking. "Yes," she says. "It is."
Spy stuff, Steve thinks. He's right.
"So," she begins, "See anything fun?"
He stifles a laugh that comes out more bitter than intended. "No," he says, "Not really." He was always bad at this stuff.
She pouts. "How about her?" she says, gesturing toward a dark-haired woman. The woman is tall and slender with an open back dress daring enough to show off the slope of her spine. She is taking a sip of her martini and speaking with a well-dressed man with a goatee. "She looks like fun."
She looks like the kind of girl Bucky would go for. "She's, uh, she's not my type."
"Hmm." Natasha taps her finger on her chin. "You have a type." She scans the room. "How about her?" She gestures to a small girl with dark skin and short hair, laughing loudly with a group of glitterati.
She's cute, Steve thinks, but the part of him that will always be a ninety-five pound kid from Brooklyn holds him back. He can see her looking past him, or leaving on a train to Florida. "Nope."
"Her?" Natasha counters.
"No."
"How about her?"
"I thought you were a master spy?"
"Shut it, Rogers."
And so the night continues.
And so the day continues.
They have been on alert for weeks and the Winter Soldier has not said a single word to her. They have their orders and their dispatches, and their days are orderly and dull: sleeping in shifts, eating the standard-issue protein bars, keeping watch over their area. It is all going well, it is all on time. The mission should be completed within two days, whenever the target crosses the threshold of the hotel.
Natalia is on watch. She has a gun pointed through the small window of their attic hide-out, targeting the foyer of the hotel next-door. Natalia is settled. Assassinations are easy.
The Winter Soldier sleeps soundlessly. At least, she thinks that he is the Winter Soldier. Her partner has been given no name, and she has not heard a handler refer to him as anything other than "the asset".
Still, it feels childish to assume that he is a myth simply because his profile is unknown to her.
The Winter Soldier stirs. Within in moments of waking, he is on his feet. She hates the way that he moves. It is almost inhuman. She does not say a word as they switch shifts. She thinks about his metal arm as she takes his place on the ground. It is still warm. There is no sleep to be had.
"Fall asleep," the Winter Soldier says in Russian. It startles her so much that she begins to assume a fighting stance before she realizes that it is him. He has a handgun aimed at her. They are working off of reflex.
"Did you speak to me?" she asks. He nods slowly. His eyes are very blue, and they are very dead. He places the gun back into it's holster.
"Fall asleep," he repeats. He speaks slowly. His voice is raspy. His pronunciation is too perfect. She does not fall asleep.
Then, "What is your age?"
She hesitates. She does not know if she likes this. "Thirteen years." That is what they tell her.
"You are very young," he says. She raises an eyebrow.
"Strange thing to say," she tells him. She's seen him train younger. She's seen him fight younger. If he is who she thinks he is, she knows that he's killed younger.
He blinks once, twice. "Yes. It was." He shifts. The sun is beginning to set. This mission is making her weary.
Sleep overcomes her, and she wakes up to the crack of a gunshot. Cold moonlight is streaming in through the holes in the window. The Winter Soldier has taken care of the target. It is go time. She is up, on her feet, and out the door. The Winter Soldier is following directly behind. Within twenty minutes, the hotel is ablaze.
Natalia radios in. They are to meet at a safe-house twenty miles deep in the forest. They steal a car. She is exhilarated, with her hands on the wheel. She has just completed a mission with an agent who could possibly be the Winter Soldier. If she were another person, or in another profession, it would be cause for bragging rights.
They dump the car in a nearby lake. The ice has thawed, and it sinks to the bottom without any indication that it had ever been there. They walk the remaining five miles to the safe house. The fire climbs high into the night.
"You are cold," the Winter Soldier says. It's true, she is, but it was not a problem. Without speaking, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over her small body.
"Thank you," she says. She does not know if she means it. What extra warmth she is gaining from the jacket is outweighed by the discomfort she feels. The jacket smells like him. She never forgets it. They wipe her, and it always comes back.
They are on mile three, two more to go, when she notices that he has begun to walk differently. It may be the snow, or exhaustion, but that is unlikely. His movements are less controlled, easier. It is like, slowly, he is beginning to become a human being. Like an artist slowly sketching a drawing of a man, first controlled and then stylized.
"May I see?" she asks Steve, in the future. He moves backward, gives her a view of his sketchbook. Her blood runs cold in her veins.
"It's Bucky," he says. A commando, the name registers in her head, but she is too horribly transfixed to take real note of it. "He would always, uh, he would always take his coat off and give it to me in the winter. I really needed it back then, but I would get stubborn about it." There is fondness in his voice.
She moves her hand, without thinking, to the bullet-wound on her abdomen.
"He seems like a great guy," she says. Her words fall hollow.
"Yeah," Steve says. "He was."
Steve is dreaming.
He saves the world. The war ends. They let him go home, but there is no home. So he starts doing missions for SHIELD. He dances with Peggy ( - lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. It's an old smell. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. His hands are wrapped around Peggy's -).
He marries Peggy. His mother is in the crowd. She is dressed nicer than he's ever seen. There are tears in her eyes. Peggy is beautiful. Her dress is long, and white, and her lips are red as apples. He kisses Peggy. She runs her hands through his hair. She tells him she loves him. He loves her.
They buy a house. They do not settle down. They save the world a few more times. They have kids. They keep saving the world. They name their girl Josephina. They name their boy James. They grow up strong. They do not get sick. They do not die. They go off and get married, and have children of their own.
Steve does not freeze. Peggy does not forget. They leave flowers for Bucky at Arlington.
"That's a beautiful dream, Steve," Peggy says. She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.
It is the third time that he has told it to her.
The asset does not dream.
"Hello, soldier," they tell him when he thaws. "You have a mission."
"You're my friend!"
"You're my mission!"