Author's Note: I know a lot of people have been eagerly anticipating this chapter, myself included! It was more challenging than I'd expected, trying to get in all of the thoughts and reactions I wanted Winter to have, fitting them in and around the action I'd already established in Make Me Whole. But I hope this will be satisfactory for everyone who's wondered what was going through Winter's head during this climactic battle.


This chapter takes place in Make Me Whole chapter 14, "Taking a Stand."

When I thought that I fought this war alone
We were one with our destinies entwined
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me the reason why

...

So will you please show me your real face?
Draw the line in the horizon
'Cause I only need your name to call the reasons why I fought

- "War" by Poets of the Fall


The first thing Winter became aware of was pain. Aches. Bruises. Weary muscles that weren't used to being overworked. Overworked? What had he been doing...?

With a jolt of realization, he snapped his eyes open. Very quickly, he became aware of three things: There was something hard and solid against his back, thick chains around his arms prevented his escape, and a man loomed over him, blocking the light. Fear jolted through his nerves, but then he realized it was Sam. And he wasn't in that dimly-lit garage anymore, but back in the cabin. He was sitting with his back against one of the wooden pillars in the living room, chained up tightly.

He looked up at Sam, his dry throat making swallowing difficult. "What did I do?"

Sam looked down at him with an inscrutable expression. "Enough."

A movement at the edge of his vision drew Winter's attention. He glanced to the side and saw Steve in the next room, lying on his back on the dining table. His chest was bare, wrapped up in bandages, one of his arms in a sling. Winter's stomach lurched, and he quickly looked away.

"I knew this would happen," Winter groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillar. Yes, he'd known—but what had he done to prevent it? How could he call himself their friend when he'd let himself get caught off guard? Why hadn't he just...left? While he'd still been himself?

Instead of berating him, Sam stepped closer and reached out to dab some alcohol on Winter's forehead. The stinging sensation told Winter he had a cut there, though he couldn't remember getting it. Alarmed, Winter tried to pull back, but the chains made that hard. "Don't be stupid!" he snapped, trying to turn his head away. "How-How do you know that I'm not...?"

But Sam just calmly continued patching him up. "The Winter Soldier wouldn't be worried about me or Steve. Besides, I need your help to move him to the couch," he added, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Steve. "So I think I'll take my chances."

There was nothing Winter could say to that, so he let Sam untie him, then got to his feet and followed him over to Steve. Close up, Steve looked worse than ever. Winter could see several scrapes and bruises, probably from the fight he didn't remember. How horrible was it to not even remember hurting your friend this badly? He noticed a breathing tube sticking out of Steve's chest, and realized his lung must have collapsed. Had he done that, or had Crossbones?

He couldn't bear to raise his eyes to Steve's face. He didn't deserve to touch him, or even to breathe on him, after what he'd done. Most of all, he didn't deserve the second (or was it the third, fourth, hundredth) chance he knew Steve would give him.

But Winter meekly followed Sam's instructions, helping him carry Steve to the living room and situate him on one of the couches there. Winter scurried about, fetching blankets, water, pills... Anything to stay busy.

But finally there was nothing more to do. Winter stood by Sam's side as they both looked down at Steve. As if drawn by a magnet, Winter's eyes slid up to meet Steve's. His heart quailed, expecting to see fear, anger, reproach, disappointment... But Steve's eyes were soft and warm, like they always were when they looked at him. It was like nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.

Steve's voice was barely above a whisper as he mumbled, "Okay," and drifted off to sleep.

Winter wasn't sure if that meant Don't worry; I'm okay or I'm glad you're okay. Maybe a bit of both.

Once Steve's eyes closed in sleep, Winter wandered over to the kitchen counter, where Sam had left all of their weapons. Next to Steve's shield was a familiar knife. Winter reached for it, but then he noticed a reddish stain on the handle. The blade had been wiped clean, but clearly this knife had tasted blood. Winter thought of the bandage wrapped around Steve's chest, and pulled back his hand as if it had been burned.

"What happened to Crossbones?" he asked Sam, who was wearily bustling around the kitchen. Winter deliberately turned his back on his bloodied weapon.

"He got away," Sam said, grabbing three plates from the cupboard. "Skull's dead, though. Crossbones left when reinforcements started showing up. We haven't seen the last of him."

Winter nodded. Crossbones never gave up on his prey once he'd caught their scent. He hated Steve, that much was plain to see, and he would definitely be coming back to finish him off. And this time, Steve had a collapsed lung and a dislocated shoulder. He wouldn't be able to fight or defend himself. He was utterly vulnerable.

"Here." Sam shoved a plate into Winter's hands, with a sandwich and an apple on it. "Try to eat something, okay?"

Winter couldn't look up, even though he could tell Sam was trying to catch his eye. He took the food into the bathroom, rather than putting on his bandanna like he'd been doing for months. Once he was alone, he sat with his back to the door, mechanically shoving food into his mouth and staring at the floor.

He was a liability to the others. Why hadn't he realized it before now? If he couldn't stop Crossbones from turning him into the Winter Soldier again, he wouldn't be able to keep from hurting them. And next time...what if they didn't make it out alive? What if his knife found its way to Steve's heart next time? What if he shot Sam in the head? What if he simply stood by and let Crossbones torture them to death?

He was a danger to them. He had to leave.

When Winter left the bathroom and brought his plate back to the kitchen, he found the others fast asleep in the living room. Steve lay stretched out on the couch where they'd placed him earlier, chest rising and falling steadily thanks to the breathing tube. Sam slumped to one side in the armchair next to him, snoring softly.

Winter stood over his friends, studying their sleeping faces, for a long time. Like the Grim Reaper, casting his baleful shadow across their blissfully serene faces. Even now, they didn't realize how close they were to mortal danger.

Sam looked so exhausted. He must have been the one to get them off the battlefield, Winter suddenly realized. Steve had been wounded. At best, Winter would have been unconscious—at worst, actively trying to kill them. But Sam had patched them up and brought them back to safety, silently going above and beyond the call of duty. As he always did. He asked for no reward, and all too often, he got no reward—save for the dubious honor of calling them friends.

And Steve...somehow, he looked so small, lying there with no shirt and his uniform pants still crusted with blood and grime. With the bandages, bruises, and haggard look of pain on his sleeping face, he looked so much like he used to. Before the serum. Before Captain America vs. Hydra. Before everything had gotten so messed up.

Winter's chest felt heavy with the weight of all those years. He could remember, so vividly it hurt, all the times he'd taken care of Steve when he'd looked like that. He'd bring Steve home, clean him up, bandage his wounds... Sometimes he'd have to beat off whoever was using his friend as a punching bag.

But now what had he done? He'd been the one beating Steve up. He'd stabbed Steve right in the chest, and now he couldn't even breathe without help.

I hurt you, he thought, gazing down at his best friend. You gave me the clothes right off your back...protected me...hid me... You saved me from myself, over and over again. And I hurt you. How could I hurt you?

But it would never happen again. Even if Winter had to shoot his own brains out, he would make sure he never laid a finger on them again.

His steps were heavy as he forced himself away from the couches and began to make preparations. He knew this was the right thing to do. He would leave them, draw Crossbones' attention, and stay far enough away that he wouldn't bring any more danger to them. It would mean never seeing them again—it might even mean dying—but that was the price he'd have to pay. And he was willing to pay that steep price. Their safety was worth it.

Even so, he found his movements reluctant and sluggish. He set about packing up his things, just the bare minimum of what he'd need. He packed a backpack full of non-perishable food, a change of clothes, and as much ammo as he could fit. But as he did so, he kept finding himself falling still and staring into space.

One such time, he passed by the couches where his friends lay slumbering, and slowly sank down to sit on the coffee table next to the extra rolls of bandages and Steve's half-eaten sandwich. He stared at Sam's hand, dangling over the armrest. Steve's hand, resting on top of his stomach. Winter longed, with unexpected intensity, to reach out and hold those hands, though he knew it would wake them. He wanted to feel their warm, comforting presence. To look at them, and see Sam's quick grin. Steve's eyes softening as they looked at him. He wanted to join them in laughter, to listen to them talk, just to reach out and know they were there.

But if they were to have the opportunity to do any of those things again, Winter wouldn't be around to see them. That was the cruel irony of the current situation.

A creaking sound told Winter that he was gripping the edge of the table too hard, so he quickly let go and stood up. "Goodbye, Sam," he whispered. "Goodbye...Steve."

He walked over to the kitchen counter with all their weapons, and took one of his pistols. His other hand reached for the knife, but came to a stop as abruptly as if it had run into an invisible wall. He...He couldn't. A shudder ran through him as he imagined the impact running up his arm when the blade bit into Steve's chest. The warm blood splashing over his knuckles...

No. He just couldn't. Winter left the knife on the countertop, and turned to leave.

When Winter opened the front door, he hesitated in surprise. The sun had dipped behind the mountains and darkness set in swiftly. He'd wasted too much time on regrets. If he didn't hurry, he'd never manage to get away.

Closing the door carefully behind himself, Winter made his way to the car. He'd thought this part through already. It was the obvious choice—Steve and Sam would need the car, but he could use the motorcycle to get away quickly on his own. It wasn't even stealing, right? Steve had given it to him...right? He'd even said the purpose of the gift was to help Winter when he was ready to move on.

Here I go, Steve, he thought. Moving on. And I can only do it because you gave me the right tools. Just...don't hate me when it's all over? I'm trying to do my best.

He was strapping down his bag on the back of the motorcycle when he heard a voice behind him. "Never pegged you as the type to run away."

Winter whirled around, whipping out his weapon, only to find Sam leaning casually against the hood of the car, as if he'd been there the whole time. When had he gotten so good at sneaking around? Or was Winter really that preoccupied?

With a huff, Winter tried to expel the anxiety coiled like a giant spring in his chest. He turned back to the motorcycle, shoving the gun back into its holster and picking up his helmet. "I'm not running away."

"Oh, do you prefer 'sneaking off in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye'?"

"It's the only way," Winter said curtly, setting the helmet back on the seat. It hurt to have to spell it all out for Sam like this. Speaking the words out loud made them too real. "I'm a danger to both of you as long as I've still got Hydra in here. I'm just...trying to protect you."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "And what happens when Crossbones comes back? Because he will be back, I can guarantee you. He won't stop until Steve is cold in his grave."

"Then I'll draw him away from you," Winter said, hating each word he spoke even though he knew it was the right thing to do. "I'll make sure he follows me far away, until you can escape."

Sam kept talking, but Winter's attention flitted away from him. The bushes rustled and Winter frowned into the darkness around them. Had he heard the sound of footsteps, or was he just being paranoid? Was that the snick of a door closing?

"Shut up," he muttered, peering into the darkness around the front door.

"Look, you can't just—"

"No, shhh!" Winter listened intently, but he couldn't hear anything more. His nerves were jangling, every sense alert for the slightest disturbance. Had he waited too long? Should he have left earlier to draw Crossbones off?

When Winter peeked around the corner of the cabin, he saw nothing amiss...but something still wasn't right. Glancing over at Sam, he saw that he'd picked up on it too. Winter inched cautiously forward, holding his gun at the ready. The filmy curtains in the front window prevented him from seeing any details inside, but he could make out a shadow bending over...like a man leaning over one of the couches...

Winter's heart leapt into his throat, but his mind stayed clear as he quickly latched onto a plan. He pressed the gun into Sam's hands, whispering, "Kitchen window. You distract him."

Moving as swiftly and lightly as possible, Winter crouched down out of sight and circled around to the back of the cabin. The only lights inside were the lamps in the living room, so the kitchen was completely dark. Thankfully, though the ground sloped down where the closed-in deck was, one kitchen window was close enough to the ground that he could reach it from the outside.

Winter longed to smash through the glass and race inside, but he forced himself to move slowly, making no sound as he eased the window open. Cautiously, he hoisted himself up and crawled through the window onto the counter. His foot nudged against a glass sitting on the counter, but just at that moment three gunshots cracked through the air in quick succession, covering up any sound he'd made.

Winter dropped silently to the floor, crouching low and hoping those bullets hadn't been meant for him.

"Step away from him," Sam's voice said from the front door. "Now."

"Well, well, well," Crossbones sneered. "The dog leaps to defend his master, but he's all bark."

Winter crept closer, keeping low and circling around behind Crossbones. As he moved, he caught sight of the bloody knife Crossbones held in one hand, pointed down towards Steve's still form. With a sickening jolt, Winter recognized the knife. His knife. The one Steve had given back to him. The one that had nearly killed him, now held in the hand of the most ruthless person they'd ever known.

The sickening dread hardened into fear, then rage. He couldn't tell from his angle whether Steve was even alive or not, but Winter was through with standing by and watching him get hurt. He would die before he let that knife touch Steve again.

"And what did you do with the mutt?" Crossbones continued. "Couldn't wait to get rid of him, could you? Finally realized you're dealing with nothing but a feral—"

Winter charged forward, ramming his left fist into Crossbones' side. The man's body armor protected him, but the blow still knocked him off balance. Winter pushed his advantage, driving Crossbones back from Steve's couch.

Crossbones' eyes widened in surprise at first, as he hastily raised his arms to fend off Winter's blows. But then his lips curved upwards again in another cruel smile. It was a gleeful, eager grin—like he finally had the chance to do something he'd never been allowed to before.

I'm going to kill you, that smile said. And I'm going to enjoy making it hurt.

"What's the matter?" Crossbones sneered as Winter barely managed to get his left arm up in time to block the knife from slashing at his face. "I think you're losing your touch!"

Winter tried to grab his wrist and twist it, to make him drop the knife, but Crossbones snatched his hand away.

"You've gone soft, hanging around these two," Crossbones spat as they traded punches, circling around each other in the limited space they had. "They let you forget your place, and now you think you deserve this? Don't let them fool you! You're nothing but a tool, and they'll throw you out as soon as they don't need you anymore!"

"You're...wrong..." Winter panted, still grappling desperately for the knife. But Crossbones stood at the top of the steps leading down to the seating area, and Winter couldn't get the right leverage.

Crossbones loomed over him, little more than a silhouette against the dim light of the lamps. "Then why don't you take off the mask? Isn't it because you know they'll hate you when they find out what you really are?"

"No..."

Crossbones' fist collided with the side of Winter's head, deliberately aimed to miss the protection of his mask. Winter grunted as pain lanced through his temple and stars exploded in his vision. For a moment, he almost thought he was back in the chilly concrete room where they would beat him until he stopped resisting. Until they'd shove him back into the chair...

"A liar and a pathetic coward," Crossbones continued, grin widening. "That's what you are, Soldier! If they told you any different, it's because they're stupid enough to buy your lies!" His fist landed squarely in Winter's stomach. Pain scorched through him as he doubled up, all his breath gone. Winter curled in on himself, everything going dark for a moment.

Bang!

For a moment, Winter was sure Crossbones had shot him and everything was over. But when he opened his eyes and peered upwards, he found Crossbones facing away from him, aiming his gun across the room at...

Winter reached out and yanked as hard as he could on Crossbones' leg, making him stagger to the side just as he fired his handgun again. The sound of shattering glass as a lamp toppled over met his ears, rather than the sound of Sam hitting the floor.

Crossbones tried to kick Winter, but Winter had recovered enough to roll away. He used his momentum to roll to his knees, fending off Crossbones' furious blows. Winter staggered to his feet, using his metal arm to defend himself from Crossbones' furious swipes with the knife.

Over Crossbones' shoulder, Winter caught sight of the front door, open wide to the night. If I can just get him over there...

Winter resumed the attack with renewed vigor. He didn't let up for a second, knowing that if he did, Crossbones might level the gun on him—or worse, one of the others. Winter punched and kicked him as fast as he could, not worrying about strength or accuracy so much as keeping Crossbones occupied. Crossbones backed up, stumbling when he reached the top step. Winter lunged forward, hoping to knock him over. But suddenly there was a knee slamming into his unprotected stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Winter fell, coughing and gasping, to the floor, knocking over the coat tree with a crash. It felt like the outline of Crossbones' kneepad was etched into his midriff.

Just stay down, a menacing voice murmured in the back of his head. There's nothing you can do. You can't even save yourself. You're pathetic. Weak. Useless.

Strange. The voice in the back of his head used to sound like his own voice, or sometimes like Steve's. It had fallen silent for so long, Winter had actually thought the monster was gone. But here it was again—and it sounded like Crossbones.

You've already hurt them so much, the voice continued as Winter gasped and struggled to get his hands and knees under him. Why don't you just give up and die already? It's what you deserve.

Once again, a gunshot cracked through the air, but Winter didn't feel a burst of pain. With difficulty, he craned his neck around and saw Crossbones facing away from him, pointing his gun at Sam.

Sam stood in front of Steve's couch, favoring his bloody left leg. But even though he wavered as if the slightest breeze would knock him over, Sam held his ground. In both hands, he clutched Steve's shield, ready to defend both of them.

In a flash, Winter remembered the night when he'd fought that last desperate battle for his soul, when he'd finally told the voice to go away. Steve had shielded him then. The memory of Steve's unfailing kindness had chased away every shadow. The star on that shield had been his guiding light for so long. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment?

Sam took only a second to aim, then threw the shield at Crossbones with all his might. Crossbones barely dodged out of the way in time; the shield glanced off his wrist and clattered onto the floor. The gun fell from Crossbones' hand, but he raised the knife instead and stomped over to Sam. "That's the last time you'll get in my way."

Winter desperately pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his metal arm, but his ribs still ached with every gasping breath. He lost his balance and had to grab one of the wooden pillars to keep from falling down again.

He could only watch as Crossbones knocked Sam to the floor. As Steve reared up from the couch, desperately clawing with his one good hand. As Crossbones slammed his foot viciously onto Sam's wounded leg.

Sam screamed. Crossbones laughed. Winter burned.

The shackles cut into his arms and legs. White-hot iron pressed against his bare chest, digging into his flesh with the sizzling sound and smell of burnt meat. He screamed.

"You see?" said a gruff voice with a thick accent that almost obscured his words. "Already, he heal. This one? Yesterday. Healing is good for Asset, is no so good for rememberings. He forget pain, so you have to do many time. Then he forget, but body remembers, yes?"

"Got it," said a young voice, quivering with anticipation. Eager to impress.

"You do now," the gruff voice said. "So he know who to fear."

The young man grabbed the branding iron and advanced, keeping a wary eye on the Winter Soldier, like a dangerous beast barely held in check. The Soldier bared his teeth like the wolf he was, but they all knew it was an empty threat. He couldn't move an inch as the branding iron closed the distance and seared his flesh again.

Crossbones' face was smooth and clean-shaven, devoid of the lines and scars he would acquire over the years. But his eyes gleamed with the same perverse delight as he drank in every last scream.

Winter closed his fist around Crossbones' neck from behind, yanking him back from his helpless victims. He didn't remember moving, but he was right behind the man now, his fingers clenched tightly around Crossbones' throat. In one easy motion, Winter flipped the surprised man over his shoulder and threw him to the ground.

Winter cast a quick glance over his friends. Steve lay on the couch, face scrunched up in pain, his left arm cradled against his chest, but still breathing. Sam sprawled on the floor, clutching his blood-soaked leg with both hands and panting heavily. Winter longed to drop everything and help them both, but instead he turned his back on them and faced Crossbones once more.

Crossbones had regained his feet, coughing and swearing in a voice even more hoarse than before. "Why do you keep fighting?" he rasped, backing up a little and switching the knife to his right hand. "You know your place."

Winter squared his shoulders and raised his fists. "My place is right here." Standing in between the life that had been forced upon him, and the one he'd chosen for himself. Defending the only friends he had, prepared to throw everything away for their sake.

Crossbones let out a harsh laugh, and for a moment Winter thought his eyes flashed red. His arms turned to tentacles, his tongue lashing the air like a serpent's. For a single terrifying minute, he could hear the sound of every creeping doubt and fear that had plagued his mind.

"Do you really think they're your friends?" Crossbones sneered in the same scornful tone as the voice in the back of Winter's head. "I know what kind of people they are, and I know what you've done. Captain America is the last person in the world who would ever care about you."

The monster towered above him, seething with rage. But Winter was not afraid.

"It doesn't matter who I am," Winter said, as something heavy and round pressed against his foot. The shield. "And it doesn't matter what I've done. Cap might be the last person in the world to care about me...but he was also the first. I won't let you hurt him."

Winter flipped the shield into the air with his foot, snatching it easily with his right hand. Crossbones' eyes flashed with hatred, but when Winter slammed his metal hand between them to block the knife, for once he felt no fear. Up till now, every time he'd fought had either been an act of mindless subservience or cowering desperation. All he'd been able to focus on before was his fear of pain and punishment, or the terrible things that would happen if he failed.

But Steve and Sam were behind him now. He couldn't see them, crouching wounded and helpless at his back. But he could feel them. He could hear their labored breathing, he could sense their eyes watching his every move. He almost thought he could feel the warmth of their hands as they entrusted their lives to him.

He didn't worry about the consequences. He didn't ask himself if he'd be able to defeat Crossbones, or wonder how much it would hurt if he didn't. Steve and Sam needed him to protect them.

So he did.

His movements were effortless. It was astonishingly easy to knock the knife out of Crossbones' hand and grab it himself. Suddenly, the tables were turned. Crossbones backed up, blocking Winter's blows as best he could and retreating towards the open door again. His eyes widened with fear, his teeth clenched in a rictus of disbelieving fury.

An unexpected wave of exhilaration rushed through Winter as he fought. Of course he'd felt a burst of adrenaline every time he'd fought before, but it had never felt like this. No, this...this almost felt like joy. Like when the three of them went running together—pushing their bodies to the limit, all working towards the same goal.

He didn't feel the perverse pleasure that had lit Crossbones' face while he tormented the others. But somehow, even as Crossbones lunged at him and knocked him to the ground, as they rolled over and over, grappling with all their strength...it felt right. As if he'd finally, finally found the true purpose of his life.

He was the Winter Soldier. He'd been made into the deadliest weapon man could contrive—against his will, true, but that didn't change what he'd become. It had been wrong for Hydra to force him to fight their battles...but now that he was able to make his own choice, he discovered he'd thrown himself right back into the fray.

He was Winter. He was the Soldier. He was their Soldier.

Crossbones rolled on top of him, pinning him down with his weight, and wrenched the shield away with a sudden twist. He lifted it over his head with both hands, ready to smash it down on Winter's face. His eyes gleamed with triumph.

Winter saw the opening and took it without a moment's hesitation. He plunged the knife deep into Crossbones' neck.

The shield was still heading straight for his face, falling from Crossbones' faltering fingers. Winter hastily knocked it aside with his left arm. The shield fell harmlessly to the floor with a clatter that sounded deafening in the sudden silence.

Crossbones let out a few choking, rattling breaths, then he lay still, slumping back awkwardly on Winter's legs. Winter lay tense on the floor, half expecting him to suddenly lunge at him again. But Winter's knife stuck all the way through Crossbones' neck. Blood pooled around him, soaking in a wet, warm patch on Winter's knees.

The monster was slain.


Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.

John 15:13