They never told him what it was that they'd done. He didn't need to know. But he felt empty, disconnected. The fear hovered in his chest, right over his heart and he waited until they came in and freed him before he attacked. It wasn't the first time he ever retaliated but it was the first in a long time. It was easy. Scientists were there for science, not to fight. He snapped the first man's neck and by then he was on his feet and the second man was in his grip. He squeezed and dropped the body. By then, the two others who were in the room had realized what was going on. The woman screamed and threw herself at the door, pressing the keypad hastily. The man wasn't as lucky as he was the next one in the way. Although they'd stripped him of his weapons, he was far from unarmed. He grabbed the man by the back of his white lab coat and slammed him against the observation –there was a sickening crunch as the man fell in a boneless heap and a web of cracked glass crawled up the window. The door beeped and slid open just as the Winter Soldier stepped over the threshold. The woman gave a panicked cry and ran towards the next door which slid open and an armed force stepped inside.
"What did they do to me?" the Soldier snarled in Russian, glaring at the armed guards. They did not answer him. "What did they do to me?!" he shouted.
It was satisfying to see the way one of them flinched back, his gun going up, pointed right at the center of the Soldier's chest. The woman scientist was stranded between them, trembling like a fragile leaf that had fallen from her tree. Stranded and alone in the middle of what was soon to be a sea of violence. There were red stains all over her white coat. By the time he was done, there wouldn't be any white left.
The Soldier calmly turned to her, his hands at ease at his side. "Tell me," he ordered her, in brisk Russian. "Or I will kill you."
"Stand down," commanded one of the Red Room's agents from behind his shield. "Soldier, stand down. I will not let you kill her."
The Soldier smiled darkly. "You think you can stop me? Where could you hide her that I would not find her?" He scoffed as the man's eyes widened in alarm, like he hadn't realized just who or what the Soldier was. What the Soldier was capable of. They had made him an assassin and there was no one on the earth that he could not find or kill. "Let us talk," he offered instead. "And you can collect her when I'm done."
The men traded uneasy expressions between each other before turning back to the Soldier. It wasn't that the Red Room's agents were so frightened, so cowardly; it was that they could not shoot to kill. And while they could not kill the Winter Soldier, he was under no such orders. And if they thought some rubber bullets and tasers would stop him, they were sorely mistaken. He could disarm and kill them all long before they were equipped to take him down. Hydra had given him away on loan and on loan did not include his kill switches. And even if they had tranquilizers, there was enough adrenaline running through his system that he would burn through it. And considering their scientists were otherwise occupied, it would take some time before they got the dosage correct.
The commanding officer gave a slow nod. "Try and not kill her or it won't be pleasant for you," he cautioned before leading his men back out of the room.
It wasn't going to be pleasant for him however this played out. He'd already killed too many people. He wasn't sure how many, exactly. They would tell him later, he was sure of it. He eyed the woman who had curled up and was sobbing, like her tears would protect her. He wasn't going to ask again. He hauled her up, slamming her against the wall carelessly. They hadn't said anything about maiming or inflicting permanent damage although he knew the punishment, whatever they decided it to be, would not be any different. It would take them time to put together a group who could incapacitate him. He had maybe ten minutes before they got one of his codes or until someone decided to try risking tranquilizers.
"I-it's American made!" she sobbed, her arms up to protect her face. "Project Rebirth! Th-the little Widow brought it back. To make better soldiers, yeah?" she stuttered nervously, gesturing at him with shaking hands. "Stronger, faster, immortal, it is good, yeah?"
He didn't feel any different. He didn't think he looked any different. "What else?" he growled.
"Make Omegas Alpha! Maybe Betas become Alpha too?" Her English was quite poor. Why was she speaking in English anyway?
His orientation was a closely guarded secret. The suppressants did their job well. He'd figured out that Hydra had been injecting him with them a long time ago since he hadn't endured any side effects in years. But he still didn't feel right. He felt wrong. He felt very wrong.
"What. Else." He slammed her back against the wall once more, watching in grim satisfaction as she trembled and groaned in pain. He didn't have time for this. With a start, he realized he was speaking in English.
"Nothing!" she cried. "Nothing else! There is nothing else."
The Soldier glared at her and –
The doors slid open, revealing the Red Room's guard. The commanding officer had a gun pressed to the temple of a young redheaded girl. His face was a grim mask of determination. "Let the doctor go," he said, "or we put a bullet through her head."
The Soldier blinked. He had trained that girl. "You would waste her life for this?" he spat, waving the scientist at them like a ragdoll.
"Let her go," growled the guard, pressing the gun more firmly to the girl's skull. At least she looked unafraid. At least she had courage and bravery, the kind that the cowards behind her did not possess.
The Soldier dropped the scientist, holding his hands up in a display of surrender. But a display was just that. No more and no less. He waited until they had removed the scientist from the room, looking between the guards. The commanding officer still held his gun to the girl's head, so at least they weren't stupid. But when they walked out of the room, the commanding officer and his hostage took point. He reacted, disarming and disabling the men and women around him. When the commander turned towards him, gun drawn and the girl in a chokehold in front of him, he raised his hands in surrender. But Natalia was clever. She took the commander down just like Bucky had taught her and then he put a bullet through the man's head. He took her hand and ran.
He didn't know where they were going but he knew they had to go. They made it out of the compound, a military bunker in the middle of Russia. Snow billowed around them when Bucky felt the first bite of a bullet cut straight through his shoulder. He shoved Natalia ahead of him.
"Run," he hissed, already turning to face their pursuers. He didn't look to see if she had listened.
"Stand down!" called the nameless woman, the one who taught the girls their ballet.
He remembered, once, suddenly that she had said the ballet was to make them believe the lies. He wondered if it was the same with him.
"You will not take any of my assets, James," she said curtly. In her hands was a rifle and he knew that she had shot him. He had forgotten that here, here they called him James. He had a different name. He wasn't –he didn't know.
"She's just a child," he heard himself protesting, his hand over the bullet wound. Distantly he wondered if anyone in the world thought of him as a child. He was sixteen but he had a kill list so long he wasn't sure who was on it anymore. Or how many.
"We were all children once, James. Natalia's time for that has ended. Bring her back or I will take her away from you."
He did not bring her back. There was the sharp sting of electricity, of burning, of pain and then there was nothing. When he woke up, he was restrained in a chair and through the window he see the nameless woman addressing the redheaded child. She pointed towards him and he watched, resigned, as the Interrogator shoved a mouth guard into his mouth. His chair tilted backwards and he lost sight of the child who would no doubt be punished because of him. When Hydra came to pick him up, the worst signs of his torture had already healed up. Some of the burns were still there, reminding him of what he had done wrong. As he watched the Hydra agents filter into the room, he nearly sighed in relief when he saw that –that the man in the pinstripe suit wasn't there. Instead, it was John. Which really wasn't an improvement by any means.
"I hear you've made things hard on our friends here, asset," John said, standing in front of him.
They'd stripped him down until the only thing covering him was the underwear they'd left him with. John raked his eyes down his chest, taking in the signs of injuries where they still lingered.
"You know better than this," he tutted disapprovingly, wandering over to the instrument table. He picked up the wrench. "The boss expects better of you," he said, tapping his flesh hand with the wrench.
Bucky kept very, very still. He'd learned a long time ago that tensing up gave away the game, that the officers liked it when he did it. Then they would wait until he relaxed before they started beating him.
"But, you know, before he sent me here, he told me that physical punishment doesn't do much for you. You learn better by other means." John smiled dark and mean. "Like forgetting."
The breath caught in his throat.
"So I think we're going to have to take this place from you, since you can't even train little girls right."
"N-no, please," he stuttered, hating the way his voice shook. "Please."
John smirked and he brought the wrench down, hard and vicious. "What was that?"
Bucky moaned in pain, his hand vibrating in agony. "Y-yes, master," he ground out the words.
They wheeled him and his chair out to the plane and Bucky watched as his hand healed back up in front of his eyes. It was painful and disturbing and he wasn't the only one who had noticed.
"That's just not going to do, is it?" John asked, looming over him.
By the time they had landed back in America, the Soldier trailed meekly along after his captors. And when they fitted the machine over his head, adjusting the mouth guard, he didn't fight back.
He'd been in Russia for three years. And it was all gone.
Bucky pushed himself onto his feet and ran to the bathroom, emptying his stomach into the toilet. His spat, wiping his mouth with a cloth, staring at his flesh hand in alarm. It was just a hand. It was his hand, but that wasn't the point. His heaved again, spitting bile and water back into the toilet. He slumped back against the cool tiles, flushing the toilet as he lay there panting, his stomach muscles contracting. He closed his eyes against the bright lights. Everything hurt. His head was pounding but –but he had his answers. Answers he never wanted.
He slowly opened one eye to see Steve hovering at the door way. "Never talk to me about her again," he said hoarsely. But that wasn't all true. He desperately wanted to know more about what had happened to her.
Steve hesitated only a moment longer before walking in. He grabbed the cloth Bucky had used earlier, washing it out and soaking it with water again. He wrung it out before kneeling down, gently sweeping it across Bucky's brow. And he was going to bitch and complain about it except it actually felt good. It didn't hurt like everything else did. Steve got to his feet, flicking the light switch off and plunging them into darkness. Steve must have still been able to see in the semi-darkness as he fumbled around one of the cabinets –pill bottles rattled, water ran, and then Bucky was half sitting up as Steve offered him some medication.
"It'll help your migraine," he murmured, taking the cloth and running it across the back of his neck.
Bucky watched him suspiciously, reluctantly parting his lips and allowing Steve to put the pills in. Whatever had happened between them, Steve had no reason to try and murder him. They'd been stuck together for more than twenty-four hours and he hadn't yet tried when plenty of opportunities had arisen. Bucky gulped the water down afterwards gratefully. Fuck, he could still see –behind his eyelids, the memories kept playing. He threw himself away from Rogers, the cup clattering as it rolled across the floor and heaved again. Nothing came back up and he could only hope that the pills had dissolved already to do their job as he trembled. His stomach ached. But all he could think about was the way Natalia had looked at him, the way his deformed hand had healed back up, over and over. All he could see was the bodies of the innocent scientists he had slaughtered. The fear had triggered him, but it was definitely his body and his actions and instincts that had done all of that.
"Don't go," Bucky panted, hating the way his voice shook. He felt Rogers hesitate at the doorway again before coming over. "I don't –I don't want to talk about it."
"I'm sorry," Steve said, apologetic. "I didn't mean to –"
Bucky gave a weak, hollow laugh. "Always thought I wanted to remember." He pulled the damp, lukewarm cloth away from the back of his neck. "Pretty sure I was wrong about that," he grimaced in Steve's direction.
Steve took the cloth from him, setting it aside contemplatively. His hands tremored, once, twice and then they stilled. There was a smudge of ink on the undersides of his fingers and Bucky realized he must have been drawing. He wondered if he had spent time drawing like Steve if he could have hidden the way his hands were shaking.
"It's not always going to be good memories," Steve started.
"Haven't seen any of those yet," Bucky laughed mirthlessly. "Don't think I got any."
"You have a whole childhood you haven't seen," Steve insisted. "And a lifetime of other memories. They won't all be bad."
"Yeah, I sure hope so," Bucky muttered, exhausted.
"The bad stuff usually comes before any of the good stuff," Steve said gently. "It'll get easier."
Bucky scoffed heavily. "I think there's a lot worse yet to come, Rogers." He set a hand to his head, sighing in relief as the headache started to ease up. "I think I need to rest."
Steve helped him up and helped him over to the fold out couch. Bucky laid down slowly, his metal arm dangling off the couch in the position he found most relaxing. Hawkins mewed at him from the floor. But it wasn't rest he found. The next wave of memories came on harder and faster and more merciless than before.
He didn't tell anyone that he didn't remember Russia. But there were holes in his memories that he couldn't account for. More than one or two, more like five or six. And anytime he walked past The Room, overwhelming fear would slam into him.
He didn't know why.
He did his jobs. He went out, he killed, and he came back. And then his employers changed things up and he knew he had to do better, had to do more. He needed to learn skills he didn't possess. They took him to The Room and when he left, he knew how to dance every major dance that would occur at a fancy, political party. They shaved his hair and sent him out. He seduced the President's wife and played off like he was from a rival company.
He started a war.
He went to the extraction point and they returned him to The Room and he learned every major language as well as pattern detections. They put product in his hair, showed him to mimic it, shoved a pair of glasses onto his face and sent him in. He was a linguistics expert, adept at recognizing patterns and he told them exactly what the codes told him. It was all someone else's fault. Later that week, after he'd been extracted, the capital of Senegal exploded into a civil war.
They put him back in The Room and dyed his hair and he left with the clearest understanding of how to hack into computers. By the time they had extracted him; he was severely dehydrated and bruised while Yemen burned underneath them.
It was when they sent him to Russia that everything went pear shaped. His hair was short and he was stuck in a tuxedo, waiting to poison a young politician when the next opportunity arose that he saw her. Red hair pinned back from her face with an elegant emerald comb, dressed to the nines in a skin-tight dress that left nothing to the imagination. She put a knife in his target's abdomen and twirled away into the night long before he even realized it had happened.
They weren't happy with him. They sent him to Mongolia after that, on the heels of the politician's adopted son who had started making a fuss. He broke in through the bedroom window and choked the life out of the man before he disappeared again. But they sent him straight through to Bulgaria instead where he ran into the same assassin. She flashed him a cold, empty smile as she danced her way towards him. He didn't know why he did it, but something about her was terrifying to contemplate despite her familiarity. And he wasn't scared of her, but he was scared of something much worse. He ignored her, dodged her advance by grabbing the lovely wife of the Prime Minister of Romania and dancing her across the floor before trading her for the Minister of Finance. He pled off on dancing, saying he was exhausted and lured the man over for drinks before giving him a poisoned drink. By the time the man was dead, Bucky was already out of the country.
They sent him to Asia after that; worried he was attracting too much attention in the northern parts of Europe. So instead he spent his time wining and dining with the Japanese yakuza. They weren't impressed, frightened or interested in Hydra but they were interested with his capabilities. And although it was unfortunate, it had to be done. After three months, he murdered the head of the yakuza branch and let their mole take over. The man was capable and efficient, he just needed some space. And with the target very obvious on the Soldier's back, the mole was able to mobilize the gang against him. From there, he could finish his takeover of Japan.
It was Sri Lanka after that. There were rumors and whispers about illegal secret government experimentations. Nobody liked how those turned out. He took out the guards and investigated the prison himself, leaving no one alive. The prisoners or the experiments, whoever they were, weren't in a shape to fight back. They weren't even in a condition to be aware of what was going on to them. Most of them were comatose. The others, the others he didn't like to think about. Little better than half alive, hobbling and moaning like they were dying, the sound of their cries had been audible the moment he entered the wards they were kept in. Some would have called what he did a mercy. But murder was still murder and for the first time in a long time, he felt unclean. He felt like there was something wrong with what he'd done.
"Left no one alive," he reported in, for the third or fourth time that month.
Time was elusive to him. He couldn't always remember where he had been or what he had been doing. But there was always a mission. And unless his orders specified that they needed someone alive, he didn't sweat the details.
So they called him back to America for the first time in two years. He was sure he'd seen most of Europe and Asia, some of Africa, but mostly he just remembered the bloodshed. The redhead was a long forgotten memory. They sent him to Virginia to 'recover' and while he was there he could train a new resource of theirs who was supposed to be promising. Strucker had labelled him a troublemaking sharpshooter. When Bucky got there, opening the doors to the barns where the kids were kept, that was all he saw. A bunch of kids. The Swordsman greeted him and pointed out the one Hydra wanted to see trained up. He watched as the Swordsman put a blindfold on the teenager and hauled him out of the barn. The barn was only one part of a large complex Hydra had built in the middle of nowhere.
But there was housing for Hydra operatives in the area and he supposed that from far away, they might have resembled a town. They were anything but. The Swordsman hauled the struggling teenager along until they reached the townhouse that had been designated for the Winter Soldier's use. He was of a higher level than both the teenager and the Swordsman even though the Swordsman was going to be in charge of all this. He watched as Duquesne went to remove the blindfold and he waved him off, tossing a katana at the teen's feet.
"Fight," he barked.
The kid slowly knelt down and picked up the sword, unaware of Duquesne moving well out of the way in their small gym. It was unique to the house. The kid didn't protest or argue that he didn't know how to use the weapon, but he held it well enough. He didn't know where he had learned to use swords himself, but apparently he was a fairly adept swordsman. He didn't take Duquesne's as he stepped forward, scuffing his feet. The kid didn't react. Maybe he wasn't as sharp as he –
The kid swung out and he deflected with his arm just in time. Well. He stood corrected. In seconds, he disarmed the kid and had him pinned to the floor. "Try harder," he said, getting back to his feet and letting the kid go.
"Fuck you," spat the boy.
And for a long moment, the Winter Soldier had no idea how to respond. He wasn't used to the children fighting back. They never fought back. They just did as they were told. But he watched as the kid got back to his feet, blindfold still in place.
"No," he said slowly, staring at the boy. "Bend knee."
"Fuck. You," the kid repeated succinctly.
Duquesne started forward but stopped at the Soldier's gesture. It was a position that the Soldier himself was personally familiar with. His Alpha superiors liked to have him that position as often as possible. It made them feel powerful. It was easy to shove the kid down, to wrap his hand around the back of his throat even as the boy still struggled.
"You are not superior," he said. "Stay. Down."
The teenager of course refused. And it was a battle of wills that took nearly all night before the Soldier was the victor. The teenager exhausted and a little bruised –it was hard not to hurt the kid with how hard he fought –was bent over, arms behind his back and winded. But he held his position, just the way the Soldier had wanted him to. It was impressive he'd survived training with this much spirit. But it was the least damaging of punishments and the most he was willing to inflict on the first living human he'd seen in a long time. Since a girl with fire in her eyes. He wondered where he'd met that girl, seen her, but the memory slipped away and he was left standing over the teenaged marksman. He pulled back.
As the operative in charge, Duquesne was entitled to his own room. The Soldier and the marksman were forced to share a room. It wasn't crowded; the house had more than enough room. But it was the closest he had been to another person in a very long time.
"Hey," the teen asked, late at night when Duquesne had long been asleep. His snores echoed through the house. "What's your name?"
The Winter Soldier didn't answer. Didn't the kid realize he wasn't meant to be friends with a pitbull? He was designed and trained to be an efficient killer and there was nothing he was better at doing. He didn't leave survivors or witnesses. He was the best at what he did and there was nothing that would or could stop him from that. And people didn't like to talk to someone like him who had killed as many people as he had. His hands were drenched in blood.
"Hey!" the teen hissed, apparently determined. "I said, what's your name?"
"James Buchanan Barnes," he replied automatically. He blinked in surprise.
"That's a mouthful," said the teen, his arms folded under his head. "My name's Clint."
"I didn't ask," he replied, confused.
Clint snorted a laugh. "Yeah, well you don't gotta ask either. So what do you do here?"
"I teach kids how to kill," he replied, staring at his ceiling, watching the moon's reflection cut through the room. "And tomorrow, I'll start teaching you."
"Like killing someone is hard?" He hadn't poised it as a statement, but he wasn't asking either.
It wasn't something you asked. "When you do it enough, it isn't," he said.
He wasn't surprised when his only answer was the echo of silence. It wasn't the kind of response that left much to respond to.
Bucky woke up with a gasp, cheeks damp in the early dawn. He collapsed back against the couch, just aware of Steve passed out at the end of the couch. The television was on, an old black and white romance movie. Bucky wrapped his metal arm closer to his body, staring at the screen blankly. He caught bits and pieces of the plot, in between Rogers' snoring and the bits of memory that still plucked at his consciousness. Slowly, he reached over and grabbed the remote, flicking the tv off. He glanced at Steve, who was out like a rock. He wished he could remember him. Maybe the memories wouldn't hurt so much if they weren't so ugly and nauseating. He didn't know how he could have ever wished such a curse upon himself. For the first time in his life that he could remember, he brought his hands together and prayed to stop remembering. But it wasn't a surprise that for someone like him, such a simple wish was too much to ask for.
"You're going to change the world," he explained, kneeling down in front of him. "Do you understand how important this is for us?" He smiled kindly. "This one sacrifice, this final sacrifice, will do everything we need."
Bucky nodded slowly, seated in the expensive office chair as he watched Pierce.
"But you see this man?" Pierce pointed at the screen without looking back. "His name is Steve Rogers. Or Captain America as his moniker." He made a disgusted look, and Bucky had to resist flinching. That look never meant good things for him. "He's just a soldier. There's nothing special about him except for the belief that people put in him. They think of him as their American ideal, their one true icon, a beacon to guide them in times of darkness."
Pierce paused, his cold blue eyes on Bucky. "Times of darkness such as if they found out the truth behind Howard and Maria Stark's deaths. We wouldn't even have to give Tony a push, he'd fly off the handle and. Come. Straight. To. You." Pierce smiled. "Of course, Captain Rogers, once he's in love with you wouldn't let that happen. He'd stand up against the entire American army if he had to keep a loved one safe. And that is something I need to have happen. Because with the world distracted over Captain America and his betrayal of everything important to them, do you what that gives me?" He waited, like he actually thought Bucky would answer. (He knew better than to answer. Pierce didn't like answers, he liked silence and obedience and above all results).
"It gives me time. Time that I'll need in order to move all my pieces. Not that you would know anything about that, would you?"
Bucky shook his head.
"You are the most important piece for us," he explained gently. "You're going to go undercover as James Barnes, honorably discharged military veteran. And when you get a letter about meeting Steve Rogers, you will accept. You'll go to him. Make him fall in love with you."
Bucky nodded.
Pierce smiled and pulled back. "This is the most important job of your life. And when you're finished, you'll get to be America's new hero."
Bucky was pretty sure America wouldn't want a hero like him, but he couldn't say why. He held still as Pierce's scientists dragged the machine down over his face.
"James Barnes honorably discharged military vet due to your missing limb. Pleasant, charming and witty. I'm sure the Captain –anyone, really –would enjoy a man like that. I want everything else buried."
"Trigger word, sir?" asked one of the scientists.
Bucky was going to be a new hero, a new face to the world. Pierce just needed some time in order to arrange for everything. And he would gladly do it.
"Three little words, good doctor. Let's make sure we hit everyone where it'll hurt the most. Make it, 'I love you.'"
The rest of those memories slotted neatly into place. Meeting Steve, charming him and teasing him in equal measure. Taking him apart with dedication and joy. He really hadn't known anything else –he had just been a simple man. With simple wants and pleasures, unaware of the assassination he was going to bring about to Captain Rogers. He watched as Steve opened up, relaxed around him. The emotions were there too, just underneath the surface, filled to the brim with a sick kind of joy and love that he never wanted to experience again. It was the most horrifying thing he'd done in his entire career. Maybe not the goriest, maybe not the most violent, but it was the most wretched and depraved. He made Steve Rogers fall in love with him. And then he tried to put a knife through his heart.
Bucky stumbled to his feet and just barely made it to the bathroom in time to empty his stomach. He wasn't aware of having eaten since the last time he passed out, but he must have at some point. He was a horrible, horrible human being. He shouldn't be alive. He wasn't meant to be alive. Pierce had wanted him dead. Pierce wanted him to kill Steve and then to be executed afterwards. Why wasn't Hydra hunting him down then? Hydra should have been hunting him down so that they could frame Rogers…
Except they were already doing that. The media, the president, the Avengers. All of them were very publically condemning Steve. But no one was there to watch Pierce; no one was watching the rest of the world. Bucky rinsed his mouth out, flushing the toilet before hurrying back to the living room. Steve wasn't there. He flicked the T.V on, searching through the news channels. Nothing. Nothing! His phone was gone, disposed of to reduce his chances at being tracked after having killed Fury.
Everything was a frame. They were framing Steve. For what Bucky had done. S.H.I.E.L.D. was Hydra. Tony was being strong-armed into his stance. What would be the next play? What would Pierce make them do next? Steve wasn't the only one in the know, but he was the only one with the power to convince and change the public's perception. But now, even if he did say something, no one would believe him. They would think that it was all Bucky's fault, that Bucky had convinced Steve of this insanity. He fell to his knees, clutching his head. Such a neat little trap and with his memories jumbled and screwed to hell and back, there was never a question of whether or not it was going to work. It had worked, even if Steve was still alive and breathing, no one would believe him. Pierce was free to orchestrate his plan.
Think, he told himself angrily. What will Pierce do next? Turn the Avengers on each other. Make a mockery of their heroes; neatly move them out of the way. Tony had friends and he couldn't protect them all –he'd be the first one forced to attack. Or Clint. Clint had a brother, at the least and despite how much he hated him, Bucky was pretty sure threatening to murder him would motivate Clint into action. Natasha was supposed to be an Avenger –she probably didn't have anyone that could be used against her, per se, but they would frame her easily enough with her past. They had those records from the Red Room; they could paint her as some kind of spy. There was the alien god who wasn't on earth and then the green monster, which was missing if Tony's warning, could be trusted.
Had Stark really not realized this was coming next? Because it was. There was a war being brought to America, right to Steve's front doorstep. All because of Bucky. Someone should have killed him a very long time ago. At least then, they might have prevented all of this. As he got back to his feet, he felt disgust settle low in his gut and he wondered how Steve made it through each day. The James Barnes he knew, never really existed. The man he'd been in love with, never really existed. Instead, there was Bucky, playing charlatan. Maybe he was only alive still because Steve could only see his long-lost best friend. Bucky curled his hand into a fist. Bucky had no right to be connected to the hero Steve had spoken of. He wasn't a hero. He hadn't ever been a hero.
And if he could, if he thought it would help anything, he would walk out of this apartment and hand himself over to the authorities. But he knew it wouldn't do anything. Despite how tempted he was, he made his way down the hall and into Steve's room. Steve was flat on his back, sheets tangled around him as he slept soundly. Bucky knocked on the door briefly, watching as Steve jerked upright in alarm and then relaxed when he recognized Bucky. For a brief moment, Bucky imagined how easy it would be to kill him. Steve probably would have let him out of some misguided sense of honor. He could stab him through the heart before he was any wiser or wrap his hand around his neck –
"Buck, you okay?" Steve asked voice low and worried, his hair mussed.
Bucky wondered how he had ever hated this man. "No, not at all," he replied, and even to him his voice sounded absolutely wretched. It sounded like he had been screaming himself hoarse. But no one was awake; no one had woken him so he assumed that wasn't it.
"What's wrong?" And Steve was alert now, sitting upright, all traces of sleep gone.
"It's my fault," Bucky said hoarsely. "It's all my fault." And he sank to his knees. "I-I'm so sorry."
"Buck, Bucky, what are you talking about?" The worry had crept into his tone, and Steve was halfway out of bed.
"I've doomed you," Bucky whispered. "We can't –you can't stay here, Steve. We have to go."
"What, Bucky, I don't understand."
Bucky was on his feet, his hand around Steve's wrist. "You need to leave. They'll be coming. Soon. Iron Man, Widow, Hawkeye, one of them will be here. We have to go. We're putting Rebecca and Dan in danger; they're going to find us."
"Why would Tony try to warn us if he's going to come after us?"
"Because Hydra!" Bucky snarled, as quietly as he could manage. "Because Hydra wants you out of the way because now that Nick Fury is dead, you're the only thing standing in their way. I'm the scapegoat, that's been their plan, but you, you're the martyr to die. They're going to kill you Steve. And then rally the world together, against the good guys."
"We have to –" Steve stopped, his eyes widening. He sat back down on his bed. "No one will believe me, will they?"
"That's the point. I don't know who you called earlier, but you need to assume you can't trust them. Hydra is S.H.I.E.L.D. right? They know everyone's weak points, right where to put pressure. You can't trust them." He waited for the inevitable question.
Steve nodded slowly. "You remembered more?"
Bucky blinked, stunned. That –that wasn't the question Steve was supposed to be asking. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "Yeah, I remembered." Steve was supposed to ask how he knew he could trust him.
But Steve didn't. Steve just threw on his clothes and walked out of the bedroom. He glanced back towards Rebecca and Dan's room, like he wanted to tell them. Bucky set his hand on Steve's arm tentatively.
"The more they know, the more danger they're in."
"We need to get out and lay low, somewhere far away from people," Steve supplied.
Bucky nodded. "We need weapons to defend ourselves, and time we don't have to figure out what to do next." He paused, looking Steve over. "Where's your shield?"
"I left it with a friend," he replied. "We should go there first. He probably won't be home." Steve glanced at Bucky, sharing a smile with him. "He usually isn't."
"How far away?"
"Not long. He's in an apartment building in Brooklyn. Maybe thirty minutes from here on foot."
"If your friend isn't usually home, how are we getting in? And where does he usually go?"
"He usually spends time with his husband," Steve answered, pulling his shoes on. "And we're going to let ourselves in because he keeps a key under a welcome home mat on his fire escape."
Bucky blinked, processing that slowly. "Why?" he asked.
They both startled when the kitchen light flashed on to illuminate Rebecca standing there in a soft, white housecoat. "You're leaving," she said, looking between them. She didn't seem surprised.
"We have to," Bucky felt compelled to say. "I'm sorry. We don't have time. We can't tell you where but we have to –"
He didn't get a chance to finish speaking before Rebecca had thrown her arms around him and was hugging him tightly.
"I don't care," she said, fiercely. "I don't care. Just promise me you'll come back. Both of you, promise you'll come back alive."
"Yes, Becca, of course," Steve said gently. "We'll come back as soon as we can."
"What he said."
Rebecca gave a watery laugh, pulling back. "Okay. Okay. Just. Be safe out there." She looked between them both before hugging Steve just as tightly. "Call me if you need help. If there's anything I can do. If you're dying, call me to say goodbye because I need to know."
Bucky laughed despite himself. "You're a worrywart. We aren't going to die and if I'm dying, my last breath is going towards shoving my fist through whoever did its' heart."
Rebecca let go of Steve and said, "Not anymore. It now goes to phoning me and telling me their name along with saying goodbye or I will murder you myself, okay?"
Bucky rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, mom."
Rebecca shoved his arm. "Just be safe."
They left in the darkness through Rebecca's fire escape. Bucky was impressed and a little startled at how silently Steve could move but he followed after him, aware of Rebecca watching as they disappeared into the night. It was easy enough to avoid the patrols by keeping to the back alleys. Homeless people didn't like cops and cops seemed to feel the same. If Hydra had been out, it would have been a different story. But as things stood, there were no obstacles between them as they made their way into Brooklyn, towards Steve's friend's apartment. And, true to his word, hidden underneath a door mat and balanced very precariously on the grating of the steps, was a key that let them into the apartment.
The apartment was empty, just as Steve had predicted. It was a little bit of a mess; empty pizza boxes stacked on the counter, a man's suit jacket thrown haphazardly across the couch. There was a target set up at the end of a hallway –where a normal person might place a decorative vase or plant, this person had a bull's eye target –stuck with several arrows. Steve didn't seem surprised by any of it as he walked down the hall, opening a closet or pantry door. He pulled out his shield and a leather holster with magnets attached. It actually made a lot of sense to carry it that way.
"How are you going to conceal that?" In his memories, it didn't seem quite so American, quite so conspicuous. How had this man ever worked for a covert, undercover operation?
"I'm not going without it," Steve answered stubbornly. He reached around his shield and he must have pushed a button because his shield was instantly cloaked, blending with the background. He turned around and put it over his back where it remained hidden, barely obvious at the top of his shoulders. "Stark made some adjustments to it. And it comes with cloaking technology that'll stand up against any natural environment."
"Will it stand up in battle conditions?" Because that was the real question here.
"Stark said 'probably' when I asked him, so that's as good as a yes to me."
As good as a confirmation wasn't actually a confirmation. "Does your friend keep any guns around here?" Knives were good and all, but he would really feel better if he could have a trigger under his finger when they walked into a fight. And it was a matter of when, not if.
"No, he's really more of an archery guy…"
Hawkeye. Of course. Bucky sighed loudly. "A guy who can shoot arrows like that has to be pretty decent with a gun."
"He is. He just won't use them unless they're necessary."
That sounded like Clint, alright. If he did anything, he didn't do it in halves and he would only do it if it was as complicated as he could possibly make it. "Do you know anywhere we can grab a gun without robbing a weapons dealership?"
"Not in New York," Steve replied. "Normally I would say the Tower, but that's out. Phil's would be the next best bet, but he's in the field last I heard and his place is under more surveillance than a maximum security prison apparently."
"Who told you that?" Bucky asked.
"Clint as he's the one holed up there for now. Otherwise he'd probably be here, but he splits his time between his apartment and Phil's when Phil's out of town. And when Phil is in town, really."
"Phil's his boyfriend?"
"You've met him before. Agent Coulson, Phil Coulson."
Bucky's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I didn't think that was Clint's type."
"I don't think Clint did either, really," Steve replied, climbing back down the fire escape. "Or Phil, for that matter."
A/N I love you all. Comments are the best. I don't have Internet, it's sheer luck I was able to come into town and post this today. Thank you :)
