Steve Rogers
The plane shoots across the darkened sky somewhere over the Arctic Circle. Everything's quiet, all the passengers curled up beneath their cheap, thin blankets. Sam's snoring to Steve's right, earbuds still playing tinny music. Normally Steve can sleep anywhere, nodding off for a few minutes when it's safe, but for the last forty hours his thoughts have been preoccupied entirely with Bucky. The flight makes it worse. The roar of the engines lulls him into some semi-dream state where he can access memories he'd pressed down because their sweetness is too painful: a kiss that tasted like blood, his lips swollen from the beating the Franzetta brothers had just given him, Bucky pulling him close, arm around his waist, and Steve confused, because he liked girls and he liked this, and he didn't want it to stop—
A rapid fire burst of Russian crowds into Steve's thoughts. His eyes fly open. The Russian is followed by manic giggling, a few half-hearted shushes. A pair of flight attendants are getting breakfast ready in the service area. Is it breakfast? Steve's not sure. He knows he won't feel like eating regardless.
They're flying into Moscow because Steve doesn't know where else to start. The file originates there, in a old KGB stronghold called the Zvezdnyy Building, and Steve figures it's best if they do this methodically. Start at the beginning, work their way through the back half of the twentieth century.
Steve settles back into his seat. The flight attendants keep whispering to each other, their voices intercut with laughter, and he wonders what they're joking about. If Bucky were here, would he tell him? Lean over his shoulder, whisper the translation in his ear? It's hard to imagine Bucky speaking Russian, but it's clear from the file that he does, that he can speak Japanese and German and Chinese, too. Steve already knew about the French.
He stays alert during the remainder of the flight. Watches a movie on the screen set into the back of the chair in front of him. Something recent with a pretty girl falling in love with a handsome boy, both of them making jokes all the way through.. Watching it, Steve feels an immeasurable sadness.
Sam wakes up; the flight attendants serve the meal. A roast beef sandwich, chicken soup. It must be lunch time in Moscow.
The plane lands a few hours later, and Steve and Sam go through the disembarkation process largely in silence. Steve is still thinking about Bucky-the Bucky of the present this time, the Winter Soldier-and Sam looks bleary-eyed and sleepy.
"I hate flying," he grumbles as they wait for their bags to drop out onto the baggage carousel.
"Surprise to me," Steve says, and grins at him. Putting on a cheerful face. He doesn't want to Sam to know just how hard it's been to get Bucky out of his head.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I meant flying like that. Crammed into a sardine can, that little ding whenever the captain turns on the seatbelt sign." Sam looks over at Steve. "And is it just me, or does every single pilot sound like he's on quaaludes when he makes his announcements? Russian, American, doesn't matter. I'm like, spit it out, man."
Steve smiles. "Didn't notice."
"Yeah, well." Sam turns back to the carousel. "I'm just saying, my way's better."
"Your way couldn't get us to Russia."
"Too bad. Oh, hey, is that your bag?"
It is Steve's bag, the military-issue backpack he's used on every mission since he woke up. Steve heaves it off the carousel. A few minutes later, Sam's bag appears, and they leave the airport together. The air outside already has the frosted edge of winter, and the sky is a heavy, leaden gray. There's already a few patches of dirty snow on the ground.
"Hell of a time to come to Moscow," Sam says. "Right at the start of winter."
"We won't be here long," Steve says. He hopes.
Without the benefit of SHEILD assistance, Steve and Sam have to check into a civilian hotel. They use a couple of false names, pretend they're just tourists from Texas, here to see the snow. It's a nice enough place, a decent-sized room with a couple of twin beds, a window that looks out over Red Square. Steve unpacks his computer and the physical file and sets them up at the table beside the window. He doesn't move to open either of them.
"Hey." Sam's voice is soft, concerned. "You all right?"
"I'm fine." But then Steve shakes his head. "No, I'm not actually. I'm—I'm not sure what I'm feeling."
Sam walks over beside him and for a moment they stand there facing the window. Sam's good about that. If you want to talk, he'll listen. If you don't want to talk, well, he'll respect that, too.
"I don't know what we're going to find," Steve finally says. "And that's—that's got me nervous."
Sam nods. "I can understand that."
"I think, maybe we'll find him, it'll be that easy." Steve shrugs. "I know it won't, but I keep hoping, you know?"
"Yeah." Sam presses one hand against the window and leans forward, peering out at the city. "And I hope you know that whether it's easy or not, I'm gonna help you." He glances at Steve over his shoulder. "You do know that, right?"
Steve grins. "I do, yeah. That's not what I'm worried about." He sighs and sits in his chair. "Seventy years," he says. "It's dumb for me to so impatient."
"I don't think so." Sam turns and leans up against the window, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side. "You're one hell of a friend, you know that?"
Steve laughs, a bittersweet ache lingering in his chest.
"I'm serious, man. One of my buddies tried to kill me—twice—I'm not sure I could do what you're doing." Sam jerks his chin toward the view of the city. "You flew halfway across the world to find him. That's impressive."
"You say that," Steve says. "But I think you would too. Go out and save one of your friends." He doesn't mention that his loyalty to Bucky moves beyond friendship, into a realm undefinable in the forties and only just starting to make sense to Steve in 2014. Here they at least have a word for it.
Sam shrugs. "Maybe. All I'm saying is that just flying out here, you've probably done more for him than anyone else has done in years. Don't forget that."
Steve blinks. He wonders if that's true, or if maybe someone else loved Bucky at some point during those seventy years. He's surprised when the thought doesn't make him jealous. Rather, he's comforted by the idea that Bucky might had a few moments of happiness somewhere in the dark mystery of his past. Steve had it with Peggy, didn't he? Even if he doesn't have it anymore.
"You can't keep beating yourself up over this," Sam says, and Steve nods, staring out the window at the cold city.
The translated files on Steve's computer tell him that zvezdnyy means means starlight, but the drive to the Zvezdnyy Building takes them through a neighborhood of dank alleys and scraggly, starved-looking trees. There is nothing about this place that suggest starlight.
They're in a rented car, old and nondescript, the engine rumbling hoarsely beneath the hood. Steve has his shield, and they were able to get a couple of guns from a nameless man working out of the back of a pastry shop, plus ammunition. Nothing more than that, though, and after a year of working with SHIELD, Steve feels unarmed.
"Turn left," Steve says, glancing down at the GPS on his phone. "We should be coming up on it."
Sam slows as he turns. He peers over the top of the steering wheel. Steve looks out the passenger window. The street is abandoned. The storefronts are broken and graffiti'd, and snow has piled up on the sidewalk, uncleared.
"I think we're gonna get lucky," Steve says. "It looks like no one's been down to this entire area in years."
"Still rather play it safe," Sam says. He squints out the windshield. "You think that's it up there?"
Steve follow his gaze. "Maybe." The Zvezdnyy Building is supposed to be a compound, from what Steve could tell from the file, and that's what this looks like. A thick gray wall rises out of the cement, dying vines curling over it in rattling swirls. The road dead-ends into a metal gate, and Steve can just make out the top of buildings over the fence.
Something moves beyond the gate.
"Stop," Steve says, but Sam has already hit the brakes, slowly enough that the car won't, hopefully, draw attention.
"You saw it, too," Sam says in a low voice.
"I'm not sure it's abandoned."
Sam doesn't answer except to ease the car forward a few feet. Another flash of movement beyond the gate. A face looms out of the shadow. Something glints in the pale sunlight.
"He's armed. Get us out of here," Steve says.
"Don't have to tell me twice." Sam pulls the car around in a three-point turn and directs them back the way they came. Steve glances over his shoulder. The Zvezdnyy Building retreats into the distance, and the man with the gun steps out from behind the gate and watches their car leave.
"I'll have to break in," Steve says.
"What's this I shit?" Sam picks up speed. "You know I'm going in there with you."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't." Sam pulls the car up to the curb and turns off the engine. He looks over at Steve. "How do you want to do this?"
"We have no idea what we're getting into," Steve says. He doesn't like this, going in without a plan, without a mission beyond find Bucky.
"I noticed." Sam reaches into the backset and grabs one of the pistols. "But I don't see how we've got much of a choice, do you? We couldn't find anything out about this place back in the States."
"I remember." As far as Steve has learned, the Zvezdnyy Building fell into disrepair at the end of the Cold War. There shouldn't be men with guns guarding the gate.
"Let's do this," Sam says, and he climbs out of the car.
Steve grabs the other gun and his shield and follows. The wind is colder than it was when they left the hotel, a sharp, insisting lashing he feels through his thin coat. He pulls back the hammer on his gun and holds it out, low ready. Sam nods at him.
They move.
Despite having no plan, no intel, and no knowledge of this place, they manage to skitter through the empty streets without trouble. When the Zvezdnyy Building's wall comes into view, they duck into a nearby alley. Steve's heart thuds hard against his chest. He's more nervous than he normally is before a mission. It's only partially because of the uncertainty of breaking into the compound.
He doesn't know what he's going to find in there. About Bucky.
Steve peers around the corner of the alley, scans the top of the wall. He doesn't see anything but that guard at the gate. The guard's more alert than he was when they drove by, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk with his gun. But he's alone.
Steve nods once at Sam. They slip out of the alley, bodies crouched low, feet whispering against the sidewalk. The guard picks his head up, turns their direction, and releases a round of bullets. Sam hits the ground but Steve flings out his his shield. The guard cries out and collapses to the ground. A cloud of black birds erupts off of a nearby roof, looking like static against the sky. The echo of the gunshots reverberates through the still streets as the shield ricochets back around to Steve's grasp.
Silence.
"Go," Steve whispers, and they race forward toward the gate. Sam grabs the guard's assault rifle and slings it over his shoulder, checks the perimeter. Steve kneels beside the guard. His pulse is steady, but he's unmoving. Good. A keyring dangles from his belt, and Steve grabs it and tries each key in the lock until the gate pops open. He steps in first, gun out. It's a courtyard, dead trees growing out of cobblestone. Empty. Steve knows it won't be for long.
"There," he says to Sam, pointing at a carved wooden door across the courtyard. "I'll try the keys. You cover for me if I need it."
Sam nods, and Steve takes off across the courtyard, shield up over his head. He has just run past the first of the trees when the bullets starts, streaks of heat and light he feels rather than sees. Shooting from the front of him, from the windows in the building; shooting from behind him, from Sam. Someone screams. A man in the building. Not Sam.
Steve slams up against the door and jams the key into the lock. Doesn't work. Tries another. Someone shouts in Russian. The bullets stop and Steve knows that means they're amassing for something worse. Tries a third key. Third time's a charm. The door opens.
"Sam!" Steve shouts across the courtyard.
"On my way, Cap."
Steve wants to tell Sam that he's not Captain America right now, that he's not sure he's going to ever be Captain America again, but instead he slams in through the door and faces a trio of guards who open fire immediately. He throws up his shield and the impact of the bullets runs down his arm and then he jumps, kicks the middle one in the face, knocks the other two off to the side. They slam against the wall, slide down the floor. Out cold.
Steve picks up one of their guns and tosses one to Sam, who catches it, shoves into the waistband of his pants. They move forward through the hallway. It looks the way Steve would imagine an abandoned KGB building to look, the walls water-stained and rotting, the floor covered with a layer of dust. Except that dust has been tracked through with footprints, and no one hires guards for an abandoned building.
"What do you think's going on here?" Sam whispers to Steve. "HYDRA?"
"Maybe." They come to a doorway; Steve kicks the door in, swings his gun around. The room's empty. A metal desk is shoved up against the far wall; a broken window lets in streams of gray sunlight. "I don't know."
Footsteps echo overhead; more shouting in Russian. Steve has never wished he'd been stationed on the Russian front more than he does right now.
The hallway dead-ends into a stairwell. Steve knows damn well they're going to find guards waiting for them at the top, and he can only hope, only pray, that beyond those guards he'll find something that was worth all this fighting.
Sam glances over at him. "You ready?"
Steve nods.
The minute their feet touch the first stair step, the stairwell explodes. Steve deflects the shots with his shield and Sam fires upward around the bend in the stairs and they both run, heads down. Steve isn't thinking, just fighting, just surviving. His ears ring from the gun blasts and when Sam shouts his name it sounds far away.
"Look out!"
A hulking, dark figure slams toward Steve and for half a second he thinks it's Bucky. The the figure's foot connects with his shield and Steve shoves him back and he hits against the wall. No metal arm. Short hair. It's not Bucky.
More guards are waiting at the top of the stairs. Their guns look like fireworks. What a stupid thing to think, but Steve thinks it anyway, dazed from seeing Bucky in the silhouette of his attacker. Fireworks like that Fourth of July in '39, when Bucky snaked his arm over Steve's shoulder, kissed him hard on the mouth in the summer swelter—
No.
Steve hurls his shield at the guards and it slams across their midsections, toppling them over. Steve and Sam jump over their unconscious bodies and move forward. Their uniforms have the HYDRA logo, skull and tentacles. He knows that Sam sees it, too, and they exchange quick nods.
Every part of Steve is tense with battle anxiety, his skin crawling with the anticipation for whatever's going to come at them next. But nothing does.
This hallway doesn't have the abandoned air of the first floor hallway. The walls are clean, freshly painted over, and the halogen bulbs in the fixtures cast everything with a unearthly golden glow. The doors are neatly labeled in Cyrillic characters. Steve tries the closest one. Locked. And the guard's key ring doesn't open it.
"Shit," Steve says beneath his breath. He tries the next door. Same thing.
And then, behind him, he hears the squeak of rubber against hardwood.
Steve whirls around, shield and gun up. Sam's already there. Both of them stare down at a woman in a white lab coat, her hair piled messily on top of her head. She lifts her hands over head, says something in Russian.
She sounds afraid.
"Do you speak English?" Steve says. "Ou en français?"
She nods. "Some English." She takes a tottering step backwards, bumps up against the doorframe. The door's open. Steve peers past her. Inside is dark, underlit with a pale blue light.
"What do you know about the Winter Soldier project?" he says.
The woman's eyes widen. She turns and dives toward the open door, but Steve is fast enough to jump in front of her. He looks into the room. It's small, the light emanating from a computer sitting at its center. He turns back to the woman.
"What do you know?" he says.
She presses up against the door, still scared.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Steve says. He gestures at Sam. "Either of us. We're just trying to track down the Winter Soldier."
"You can't," the woman says.
"Do you know where he is?" Sam says.
She shakes her head. "I'm not—I'm not sure of the English?—not authorized. I know of the project and its history, but only academically."
Steve stares at her. He's not going to walk away from here with nothing.
"What do you do here?" he says.
The woman looks at the barrel of his gun. "They'll kill me if I say. They might kill me anyway."
"We can get you to a safehouse," he says.
"No, you can't." She lifts her eyes to his face. They are very dark, almost black. "You have no backing anymore, Captain America."
Steve doesn't say anything.
"You have no access to safe houses."
"We're not going to let them kill you," Sam says.
"Hmm." She slumps against the wall, drops her head to the side.
"Steve, talk a look around," Sam says. "I'll watch the door. Maybe you can find something."
The woman looks at him. "You won't find anything in English."
Steve ignores her, moves into the room. It's stuffy. Hot. There's a space heater in the corner, that must be why. He goes over to the computer, hits the space bar. Everything's in Russian. He wishes Natasha were here with him. He clicks on an icon, opens it up. The screen fills with Cyrillic characters. He closes out. Clicks another icon.
Bucky.
The air slams out of Steve as if he's been punched. It's Bucky, Bucky's picture, and pages of text, and a map. A map.
He whirls around, points his gun at the woman's heart. "You lied," he said. "You know where he is. He's right here." He jabs his finger at the computer. "Academically, my ass."
The woman doesn't say anything, just stares at the gun.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," she says, her voice flat. "I didn't lie to you. I'm only studying him. To replicate the project." She squeezes her eyes shut. "That, they'll kill me for that."
"I won't let them." Steve lowers her gun and steps toward her. "Just tell me where he is."
She lifts her gaze again, and her eyes shimmer and a tear drops down over one cheek. Sam looks over at him, frowning.
"Just wait," she says. "Wherever you are, there he'll be."