Disclaimer: I say, "Me no own." You say, "We no sue."
.21.
It snowed again, that first night. In the morning, Bucky stepped outside to find the car buried and their tracks obliterated. At least he didn't have to worry about aerial surveillance.
Now he had to focus on survival. He didn't doubt his own stamina, but Hal was fragile, susceptible to cold, infection, and hunger. He had assumed the role of provider, so he would provide.
The canned goods he'd brought inside the night before would keep them for a month if he rationed them carefully. As far as he'd brought his charge from civilization, he hoped to find some wildlife. If he had to, he was sure he could bring down a deer. But his most immediate concern was heat. Before he stepped out, he noted the fire had burned low, and he knew they would need more fuel. The easiest source came from the surrounding cabins. They all had furniture, doors, even sections of wall Bucky could take without leaving clear signs for any intrepid caretaker driving through.
Not that anyone would be driving through until the snow melted.
Bucky hoped for a long, hard winter.
When the cabins ran out of things to burn, he could turn to the endless woods surrounding his chosen shelter. He would need to dry all these things, of course. Whether the wood came from a nightstand or a stand of trees, it would need to spend time out of the elements before he could safely use it. Wet wood smoked. Smoke was an invitation for unwanted rescuers or nervous landowners.
As he searched the cabins for fuel, he came across several tarps tacked over broken windows and rotten walls, forgotten and abandoned as the structure around them came apart. He found a broken comb and rusty scissors buried under the shards of a broken mirror. An old cooler poked through the collapsed supports of a porch. The food within was long past saving, but Bucky scrubbed the container with snow, packed it full of ice, and took it back with his other finds. He worried about infection, and he wanted water on hand for boiling at all times. He never knew when he might need to sterilize something.
He found Hal exactly as he'd left her – shivering gently under a mammoth heap of blankets on the bed, precisely as he'd instructed.
"Stay here. Stay warm. Try not to move."
The girl with the perfect memory. The Compendium. How much of that was left? How much had the chair spared? Bucky doubted she'd tell him. She was cautious now. She lied. He couldn't trust her to reveal injuries, to ask for clarification.
Hydra had given the Winter Soldier programming. Missions. Training. His world was stark and cold, but it had structure, and he had purpose. H.A.M.M.E.R. had wiped Hal, but they'd given her nothing to replace what they'd taken. Her developing mutation had been an unexpected bonus, but they hadn't refined it, hadn't channeled it. They left her open and blank. Or they thought they had. Clearly, Hal was more resilient than they'd planned for.
The fact that she could gather her own thoughts long enough to speak at all was a testament to her endurance.
As he stepped in from the cold, bearing his gifts, she watched him. She didn't move, but Bucky could feel her thoughts reach for him. Her presence buzzed at the edge of his consciousness, tingling like a coffee high.
So close.
So open.
But utterly closed off.
He'd always loved fires as a kid. The smell. The energy. Electricity required wires and bulbs with endless circuitry to contain it. A man knew where he was with a good fire. The gift of the gods. Even in the wild corners of Europe with Steve and the Commandoes, they had fire. But, now, he thought the best thing about fire was the illusion of health it painted over Hal. Dusky roses fluttered over her cheeks. Her skin glowed with golden vivacity. He imagined the sparks of light caught in her eyes were proof of life, of inner fire rekindled.
Only illusion.
A long winter.
He had time to make it reality.
.O.O.O.
The third day, he noticed the circles under Hal's eyes. Deep shadows etched by sleep deprivation and stress. He couldn't help the stress, but she ought to be sleeping. She ought to be doing very little other than sleeping. She rarely left the bed.
After checking her ribs (the edges of the bruises had faded to blotched purple, tinted yellow in places), he took her chin and turned her face toward the fire. He had certainly not imagined the bruising under her eyes.
"Have you been sleeping?"
She tensed; he could feel her jaw stiffen in his grip. So he knew she was about to lie. She didn't like lying to him, but despite his promises to the contrary, he knew she still feared he would send her to the chair.
"Yes." She didn't look in his eyes as she spoke, focusing rather on a place beyond his right shoulder.
He frowned. Of course she would lie. He'd told her to sleep. She would never confess to open rebellion. But confrontation would only alienate her. Best to seek the source of the issue rather than demanding compliance. He thought of all his nights lying awake after he turned from Hydra. Rest did not always come easy.
Brushing his thumb along the puffy skin below her left eye, he asked, "Do you have nightmares?"
She blinked, fighting to contain… something. Bucky hoped it wasn't fear. She had enough to fear without him.
"I don't think so."
Did she even know what a nightmare was? Her vocabulary was riddled with gaps, and Bucky only found them as he tripped through the holes.
"When you sleep, do you have… bad dreams?"
Hal's lip trembled, and Bucky realized what she'd been fighting as her eyes welled with tears. The first escaped and ran over his hand, scalding hot on his conscience.
"Do you have bad dreams, Hal?" he repeated, quietly. "When you sleep? Is that why you don't sleep?"
"I always have bad dreams." She answered in a whisper. Communication still challenged her, and it almost hurt to remember her easy speech when they met in the alley, when they spoke in the warehouses. When she reasoned with him. When she explained. Now, she could barely understand her own emotions.
Bucky lifted his other hand to her face, cupping her jaw as he stroked away the tears with his thumbs. "Explain."
A breath caught going in, and Hal bit down on her lip as miniscule sobs trembled through her shoulders. She had built lies to protect herself. But she couldn't lie to herself. Not forever. In lieu of an imposed identity, she'd strung together a delicate understanding of the world, and now that her frame of reference was beginning to expand (was she beginning to remember?), that framework was under threat.
"I don't think I can."
He wouldn't press, then. She wasn't ready. Best to stick to the issue at hand.
"Is that why you don't sleep? Bad dreams?"
"No." Her next breath shook so badly it sounded like five separate intakes. "I always have bad dreams. Too cold to sleep."
Still brushing away the tear tracks, Bucky raised his eyebrows. "Too cold?"
Well, at least he could do something about that.
"Here."
He folded her up in his arms and brought her to the bed. As she frowned up at him, he arranged himself behind her, between her body and the wall – the coldest part of the room. Pulling the blankets and quilts over them, he settled his metal arm over the covers, draped across Hal's shoulder, keeping her lightly pinned with her back to his chest.
Really, he should've tried this from the beginning. The young S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who had helped Hal in the back of the van said his body temperature helped regulate Hal's. Though Hal no longer suffered from hypothermia, his body heat was still an important tool in combating the elements. The girl had no body fat to speak of, and no muscles to fuel a strong metabolism. She was more susceptible than most to the cold.
For several minutes, she held herself stiff under his arm, and he forced himself to relax against her, waiting for her to grow accustomed to his proximity. And, gradually, she did.
He listened to her breathing slow, deepen, and gradually ease as she surrendered to her pressing need for sleep. The soldier required very little sleep, and for several hours, he simply rested there, settling his chin against the top of her head, closing his eyes, and enjoying this first simple victory.
.O.O.O.
When he slept, he always found Hal in his dreams, waiting for him. Some things never changed.
He stepped into a diner – a bunch of booths slotted around a broad, curving bar. All chrome and grease. He'd visited places like this all over Brooklyn with Steve, treating them both to milkshakes they couldn't afford and trying to chat up the waitresses. Well, he'd tried to chat up the waitresses. He usually succeeded. Steve, on the other hand, was lucky to get past, "Hello, ma'am," before his ears flamed red and he found spiritual revelation in the menu.
And there was Hal, perched on a round stool at the far end of the bar. Her eyes roved over the joint, drinking in the gleam and polish. When her gaze finally found him, she didn't seem at all surprised. Bucky had forgotten what that felt like, to be expected. It felt nice.
He swaggered down the bar and popped on the stool beside Hal, sending himself spinning with a kick to the bar's footrest. Coming back around, he clapped his hands down flat on the bar savored the rush of childish joy – memory.
"What ya havin', doll?"
Hal frowned at him, almost reproachfully, and James felt a spark of mischief kindle in his heart. How long since a dame gave him a look like that? How long since Steve had? Life was too damn serious. That was all.
Hal rubbed her palms over the lip of the counter, engrossed by the ordinary. "It's your dream."
James nodded to himself. "Thought it was." A thought dawned on him. "All these dreams, all the times I've seen you – have these been my dreams?"
"I…" She frowned. He'd caught her off-guard, and she took a minute to figure out the best answer. "I think so. Some of the… some details are mine. I think. When things don't match." She bent her eyes to her reflection in the bar's warped chrome.
She whispered, "And the ash. The ash is mine."
James shifted, pretending his discomfort stemmed from the stool's thin padding rather than the dismal state of Hal's mind. He also pretended he didn't notice that, outside the diner's windows, snow fell.
.O.O.O.
Hal wandered the cabin. Not such a large space, she knew, but it felt vast. Her freedom hung loose on her, and she felt she ought to be… more. The soldier said her name was Hal. He seemed to think she was already more than she understood.
Each day, the soldier left to seek more fuel for the fire. He never left her alone for long, but once her ribs healed, he left her without orders. He didn't tell her to stay in the bed. He didn't even remind her to keep warm. Once he muttered, "Don't wander off." But that wasn't the same. She never left the cabin. Leaving the room didn't feel like wandering, though that word, 'wandering,' still blurred when she tried to pin it down with a solid definition.
But she was growing stronger. She thought of words she didn't remember hearing, and pulled together thoughts she'd never considered. The soldier assured her this was good. All she felt was confused. He never chided her for roaming the cabin, even when he came back, bowed under his load, to find her examining her shadow in a clouded mirror. He simply grunted, sorted his finds on the tarp by the fire in the warm room, and came back to stand beside her. He brought a blanket with him and draped it over her shoulders.
He nodded at the mirror. "Do you like this?"
Did she?
The movements behind the dust, the figure on the other side, fascinated her.
Curious. Yes, that was the right word. She shared the word, dropping it in his mind.
Whirring, his hand clenched. He did not always like when she spoke. He preferred to share her precious words with the air, where anyone could hear her. For a man so obsessed with stealth, he seemed strangely averse to her superior method of communication.
Breathing carefully, he unfolded his fingers.
She waited for him to ask another question. But he didn't. He only lifted the mirror and stepped out into the cold, taking clumps of snow with his flesh hand to scrub away the worst of the caked grit and cobwebs. Once he was satisfied, he shook the clinging snow off his palm and hauled the mirror back inside, dragging it back to the warm room. She followed him, lured by this strange thing baptized in the snow. As she had been.
More days passed, and she lost interest in the other rooms of the cabin. She would explore the snow, but the soldier did tell her to keep warm every now and again, and she knew the snow was cold.
She found she did like the mirror.
It was cold.
Cold was good. The suits had always kept her room just a little too warm. So cold meant escape. Snow, and wind, and a metal arm. Cold let her appreciate warmth. Blankets in her cell had always been uncomfortable. But nights with the soldier were pleasant. She enjoyed the weight of fabric bearing down on her, insulating her. And she enjoyed the living heat of a body pressed against hers. She fell asleep to his heartbeat. Though her ear was never close enough to his chest to physically discern the rhythm, she sensed the pulse thrumming along the base of his consciousness, and as she reached for him, looking for the color of his dreams, the heartbeat lulled her to sleep.
When the soldier left her alone, she sat in front of the mirror, trying to remember her face and pretending she wasn't alone after all.
She pressed her fingers to their reflection, allowing each finger to meet its image, one at a time, pressing the heel of her palm into the glass with a slow roll. The girl in the glass was so cold. Hal thought that meant she was free.
Outside, a series of muted bangs announced the soldier's – James' – return as he knocked the snow from his boots. He hadn't really given her that name, James, but she felt it near the forefront of his mind, somehow connected to her. She had yet to use it. They rarely used names. James reminded her that she was Hal from time to time, but it wasn't like they had to get each other's attention in a crowded room. They were alone in the snow. Just two of them and their reflections.
The door announced the soldier's arrival with a ponderous creak, and the room's atmosphere shifted as a new rhythm of breaths disturbed the air. With so few things to notice, Hal remembered everything. One moment was much like the last. She cherished each shift and change.
James dropped the fuel he'd brought on the tarp, making plenty of noise so she'd know he was busy. But she could feel his eyes assessing her.
"Didn't take you for the vain type."
"It's not that." She took her hand away from the glass, leaving ghostly fingerprints over her reflection. "I'm… looking for myself."
"Find anything?" The question sounded nonchalant, but Hal could sense past the words, and his intensity scorched her.
She couldn't blame him.
.O.O.O.
He looked down at her, suffering the daily struggle of reconciling this blank soul with the clever naivety she once held. She looked to him for answers, but he didn't have any to give her.
"What was I like?"
The question caught him off guard, but the answers leapt to mind without consideration. Curious. Vulnerable.
"Is that…? I can't tell. Did that bother you?"
He closed his eyes and resolutely quashed his frustration. He hated this mode of conversing. It didn't feel like he participated. She used questions as stimuli, collecting his thoughts, memories, and emotions to find what she needed before he could forge a response.
"I'm sorry."
The presence in his head grew. "Is this better?"
Нет.
"I'm sorry, I'll try to… wait."
He barely nodded, but her face softened until she was nearly smiling. She was still in his head. She'd just developed better manners about it.
Taking a seat on the bed, halfway across the room, he pulled out his glock and set to taking it apart. If he could keep his hands busy cleaning, maybe the task would reign in his thoughts. It was good she was asking questions. But there was only so much he could tell her, and that irritated him more than the ghostly intrusion in his mind.
"How did you know me? Before?"
Desperation and an underwhelming target. Looking for answers and finding blood as he sank the tip of his knife into the corner of her eye.
He fought to suppress the memories, but he couldn't help the burst Hal had already caught. He leaned forward to speak, desperately trying to communicate with his eyes, but she pulled away, retreating into herself as she strained to increase the distance between them. The firelight had no pretty illusions now. It caught in her eyes, stirring the building tears into pools of sparks.
"Hal…"
He all but threw his gun aside, rushing to kneel on the floor as he reached for her. He had to make himself less intimidating, he had to fix this before…
"Hal, just let me…"
"Get back!" She threw out her arm as she screamed, and James felt the force strike inside his head.
As he reeled back, she broke for the door. Tangled in a sticky weave of terrors and pain, he could do nothing to stop her. The more distance she gained, however, the faster the shadows faded, and Bucky found himself blinking up at the ceiling mere moments later, half convinced he'd felt all six months' of Hal's torture.
He climbed to his feet, clenching his fists until they stopped shaking. She was beyond the cabin. He could smell the cold from the open door, and he knew how much fear could augment even the weakest target's speed. Although he hadn't been out for long, the extreme conditions outside would kill her long before an animal or avalanche. She had no shoes. She had no coat. She could freeze to death in minutes. He had to find her. And quickly.
As he ran after the staggered footprints in the snow, he thought how, as he rediscovered the brighter parts of his own past, he had nothing but pain and threats to restore to Hal.
A/N: Blergablagabaaaahhh... life. It happens and so forth. Starting a new job Monday. Night shift. Will continue story, but updates might be even more staggered than usual.
The unanimous feedback was for a massive story rather than a sequel, so I will go with that. Brace yourselves. It's gonna be a big 'un...
That in mind, I still like the idea of chucking a challenge your way. I've teased several of you about naming a certain 'ship' that you are determinedly pushing towards open seas...
In case this wasn't clear in the chapter, let me explain that Bucky is more his old self in the dreams. Dreams are basically a trippy version of talking to yourself, so I imagine Bucky is either more relaxed or more Soldier-like when he's dreaming, depending on the dream. Due to Hal's stabilizing influence (ironic, considering..,), he has much more regular dreams. Flying fish and bits of memories, because he's now subconsciously trying to make his head, er, welcoming for Hal. So Bucky is more in tune with his old self in those dreams. And, slowly but surely, he's getting some sass back in his sails.
General FYI, I'm working on a project for NaNoWriMo, and I'm not sure if I've said this before, but I will put this fic on hiatus during November, because I can't do a full time job, a part time job, a massive original project, continue working on an original project with a friend, work on moving out again, and update. Hmmm. Looking at that list, I wonder when I became a masochist. Ah, well.
Thank you all for your continued support!
Replies to Anons:
Sah: Thanks very much as always for the review! Don't worry about your English! I think you're doing very well. Learning new languages is so challenging, and I salute your courage. Thanks again!
Adriana: Well, thank you and thank you! I'm happy I haven't chased everyone off with my moping, and I'm thrilled that everyone's enjoying the fic! Thanks again!
Inkwriter: INKY! Hi. Thanks for the review! Mwahahaha - I'm glad you liked it! This chapter was pretty choppy, but I hope it still flows okay and the characters are where they ought to be development-wise. Thanks again!