Part Three

Things carried on in the same vein for the next two weeks. For the most part you avoided leaving your room as much as possible, going out only very early in the morning or very late at night. The only exceptions, of course, where when Steve or Natasha would show up and drag you one place or another. You had trained with both of them a handful of times, and Natasha had even taken you shopping for new clothing using a sleek black credit card that you were sure belonged to Tony Stark, though if it was being used with or without his permission, you weren't sure.

Keeping to your room during the day time hours wasn't always possible, however. You were laying on your bed reading through The Count of Monte Cristo, which had been included in an assorted box of second-hand books Steve had picked up at a used bookstore, when you finally had to admit to yourself that you were starving. Your general unwillingness to leave your room had the unfortunate side effect of a lot of missed meals. You hadn't eaten since very early yesterday morning, and with your extremely high metabolism, it was catching up quick.

Reluctantly you set your book aside, stand, stretch, and head to the door. Upon arrival, you peek into the kitchen carefully, stiffen, then let out a sigh of relief. Someone was standing at the fridge, but it wasn't him. You recognize the man, though only from his picture and description linked off of the Avengers' Wikipedia page: Sam Wilson, A.K.A. The Falcon; ex-military pararescue turned freelance. You hadn't actually met him, or any of the rest of the team. To say you were a bit of a hermit was an understatement.

"Hello," You call out as you enter the room in an effort not to startle him. He turns around, a pitcher of juice in his hand, and when he sees you, a wide smile.

"Well hello there," Sam says, "You must be our new recluse in residence. You caused quite a stir when you showed up, now I can see why."

"Down boy," You tell him, a smile playing on your own lips, "I think Steve may have mentioned the…" You gesture loosely to your head and his smile widens even further.

"Sam Wilson," He tells you, followed by it's a pleasure to meet you.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Sam Wilson," You respond to his thought as well as his words and he raises his eyebrows.

"My man was definitely not exaggerating, that's pretty freaky girl," Sam laughs and pours two glasses of juice, handing you one. "So, they tell me not only can you do the crazy ESP stuff, but you're pretty tough too. Think you could take me?"

You feel him before you hear him, though you should have noticed his approach sooner. Instead you were showing off, basking in the pleasure of a positive social interaction. "You wouldn't stand a chance," Bucky says. You can't see his face, but his voice is calm, steady, but you can feel the emotion under the surface. It made you physically nauseous, and you knew now that you wouldn't be able to eat if you had to. "She would tear you apart. That's what she does."

Sam looks beneath the two of you, a slight frown on his lips. "It was nice to meet you Sam," You tell him with a tight lipped smile. You steady yourself, and then turn around. He's standing just inside the doorway and you meet his eyes briefly as you approach the kitchen door. You drop yours at the hate you see there, just willing yourself forward. It doesn't help that he physically recoils from you as you pass him. Your hands start to shake the moment you're out of sight and you have to force yourself not to sprint back to your room; your whole body was screaming at you to get away from Bucky's emotions. Even behind your closed door it felt like they were still there, suffocating you. Steve was right, this stalemate couldn't last. You had to try, and if it didn't work, you had to leave.

—

For the first time since your arrival you slip the small black pouch from under your pillow. You hold it in your bare hand, feeling its familiar, comforting weight. You sit like this for a few minutes, gathering your courage, until you undo the small tie, turn the bag over, and give it one gentle shake. Something cold and heavy falls into your palm and you close your fingers around it. Immediately you're assaulted with memory; you can feel him against your skin, feel the way he felt about you in 1944 when he had closed your fingers around these dog tags and the pressed his lips against yours in a silent promise—you don't so much as drop them as thrust them away from you. They bounce off your lap and onto the floor, shining up at you as you wipe aggressively at the tear that slides down your cheek. You yank your gloves back on before you pick them up, still taking care to grab them by the chain, and return them to your bag.

You knew it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't enough. But it was the only move you had to make, and you could only hope that it would be enough to make him doubt, even if it was only for a second, that what you had done wasn't voluntary. That you hadn't purposefully betrayed him. That maybe, just maybe, you really did want to help.

It takes another three days before you work up the courage to make the delivery, and even then you wait until the dead of night before you dare to step into the hallway. The floor is cold on your bare feet as you walk silently in the direction of Bucky's room. Steve had offhandedly pointed out which door belonged to each member of the team the morning you had followed him to his bedroom to collect the box of books. You don't hesitate, you knew if you took even a second you would snatch the bag back up and beat a hasty retreat. You don't. You return to your room empty handed, but you can't help the tears that leak from your eyes; the contents of that bag had been your only proof, even if it was just to yourself, that at one point James Buchanan Barnes had loved you, and now they were gone.

—

You're standing in the kitchen eating a post-workout sandwich and chatting with Wanda and Vision when he comes in. It's different this time, you pick up absolutely no emotion coming from him. He was prepared then, he had come looking for you this time, and as if on cue the dog tags drop subtly from his hand, confirming your theory. It had been almost two weeks since you had made your midnight drop, and you had started to lose hope. You had been eaves dropping on Steve's thoughts from time to time, trying to see if Bucky had mentioned it, but unless Steve was absolutely determined to keep it from you, Bucky hadn't told him about your little package.

"Hey guys," You say softly, "You mind giving us a minute?" Wanda's thought comes to you, gentle: Are you okay? You respond with a tight smile.

"Be nice," Wanda says lowly as she passes Bucky in the doorway; he doesn't respond. Neither of you speak until the pair are out of earshot.

"Still wear the gloves, huh?" It wasn't what you had expected him to say. Your eyes drop to your hands and the thin black suede that encased them; you had finally gotten around to replacing your HYDRA issued pair. They were nondescript, but still looked a little odd paired with your tank top and jeans. You force yourself to focus; your mind was running in circles around the missing input from Bucky. You weren't used to being blocked so throughly.

"It helps," You remind him. Bucky hasn't taken more than a step or two into the kitchen, keeping his distance, but the two of you keep your voices conversationally low. Raised voices would bring outside intervention, something you were keen to avoid.

His eyes dart away from yours, his jaw tight. You ache to know what's going through his mind. His hand clenches around the chain, his knuckles standing out brightly against his skin. "You kept them."

He's still not looking at you. It makes it both easier and harder to respond. "Someone important to me gave them to me."

That does it. You feel the anger and confusion and sadness lash out at you a second before he strides forward, stopping just a few feet from you. "That's bullshit," Despite his emotion his voice stays low, "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but if you expect me to buy that you're here because you care—" He stops, his nostrils flare as he looks at you, "You destroyed everything that was good in me. You killed me."

"I didn't," Your words come out a whisper, "The fact that you're standing right here proves that's not true."

"Steve had to tell me my mother's name," He whips the words at you and you step backwards in response, your back hits the counter painfully.

"I'm sorry," You tell him, "I am so sorry. I can get them back Bucky, all of your memories are still there, and I can get them back for you."

As if just noticing your proximity Bucky takes several stumbling steps back, "You're not coming anywhere near me."

"I wouldn't do anything without your permission."

"You didn't ask the last time," He says darkly. He starts to leave, and then stops himself. "You know what? Let's here it. What's the story you've been feeding Steve about all this? What did you tell him to make him let you stay here? To make him think you were safe?"

I showed him Bucky," You look up at him, your eyes begging him to listen, "I showed him my memories. You know I can't lie like that."

"I don't know anything about you," Bucky snaps, "And you're not showing me anything. Tell me."

You don't know how to start. At first you think that nothing is going to come out, and then the words start flowing from your lips without thought: "You wouldn't listen. You were so stubborn so good." You shake your head, "They wanted me to wipe all of your past memories. They wanted a blank slate that they could program to obey orders without question. They said if I didn't help them that they would kill me, and I refused. I would've rather died than erased you. Then they threatened to kill you. I remember laughing in their faces; 'You wouldn't', I told them, 'You've put too much work in to back out now'. I remember him smiling, and I knew then that they would kill you, if only to spite me. 'A soldier unwilling to carry out orders is useless, girl,' he said." You swallow, unwilling to repeat any of the things your commanding officer had threatened, "I had no choice but to comply, but I did have options: I didn't have much time, but in the time I had I came up with a plan. I would hide the memories instead of erasing them. That way once I figured out how to get us out I could remove the memory block and we would both be free. I didn't know that they were building the chair. I didn't know that they would put me on ice." You take a deep breath, calming yourself, "When I woke up and realized how long it had been. That you were missing…"

You don't know what else to say and fall silent. You can't look at him. The moment stretches painfully, and then Bucky lets out a humorless snort. "Well, I guess I know one aspect of that story is true," You look at him cautiously, "You have been on ice this whole time. You haven't aged a day."

"It does wonders for longevity," You joke weakly, "I just celebrated my 95th birthday. Can you believe it?"

He looks at you and his fingers reflexively tighten around the dog tags again and for a brief moment you pick up his thoughts: a brief memory of him wrapping your fingers around the metal disks; him marveling at how small and smooth your hand felt in his. Him dropping your hand to brush a stray hair away from your face—The mental wall slams back down, and Bucky looks at you, his expression filled with anger at your intrusion. "Stay away from me," He warns before sweeping out of the room. You slump back against the counter, eyes closed as you steady yourself.

Natasha's quiet footsteps enter the kitchen and a moment later her hand is on yours as you clench the counter beneath your fingertips. At first you think she's worried about the countertop, needlessly, you're in control, but then you realize she's worried about you. You can't help it, you pry a little, and are treated to an image of yourself in her head: your face is pale except for hectic patterns of red on your cheeks. You let out a breath and open your eyes. "I saw him leave. Thought Stark might be replacing that countertop again," she gives you a sympathetic smile.

"Not today," You try to sound casual, but it comes out flat, tired. "I—oh." Your knees finally give and you slide down to the kitchen floor weakly. Natasha's worry would be overwhelming if it weren't for your own spiraling emotions. She lowers herself to the ground beside you, her shoulder touching yours.

"I get the feeling that this goes deeper than Steve or I imagined," Natasha says after a minute or two, "A little beyond a 'debt', maybe?"

"Just a little," And suddenly you can't keep it in anymore, any of it. You take a deep breath, steady yourself, and then you tell her the whole thing.

"I was born in Feldkirch, Austria in 1920. My mother's name was Edith, she worked as a seamstress before my sisters were born. My father, Rolf, was a good man, a carpenter. I was the youngest, Ingrid the middle, and Margaret the oldest. Shortly after I was born my mother had gone back to work and Margaret often looked after us, although she herself was only eight, and Ingrid six. We didn't have much, but it was a good life. Even as a young child I was a little different, though if anyone else noticed, it went unmentioned. I always seemed to know when my father was in a good mood and I could beg a few schillings off of him to take to the local market for treats, or when to stay out of the kitchen because mother was apt to shoe you out with a broom. Sometimes when people would touch me I would have strange thoughts; I didn't realize until I was older that they weren't mine. I never told anyone this, not my parents, or my sisters. I was afraid they would think I was lying, or worse, crazy.

"I kept my secret for a long time, and it wasn't until 1933 at the age of thirteen that I made what would come to be a fatal mistake. Mother had sent me to the market to pick up bread for dinner and while I was there I bumped into a man. The moment our skin touched I felt his worry, a worry so deep it was almost fear, and an image of a watch. Normally I wouldn't have said anything, but I was sympathetic to his fear, and the watch was so unique. It was a pocket watch, and engraved in the metal was an octopus, but it's head had been replaced by a skull. Even still I might have kept my mouth shut had I not just seen the same watch, sitting at a market stall, just minutes before. 'Excuse me,' I said to the man, 'The watch you're looking for is just back that way, at the stall where they're selling the Apfelstrudl'

"The man looked at me in shock for a moment, before a smile appeared on his face. 'Why thank you young lady,' he said, just as polite as you can imagine, 'You've just saved me a world of trouble'. He didn't ask me how I knew he was looking for a watch or how I knew which specific watch was his. I was relieved as he simply went off in search of it, though I should've thought of it as a red flag."

"They came for you," Natasha says quietly, and you smile sadly.

"Yes. They came for me. Two nights later I woke to the loudest noise I had ever heard. I sat up in bed, and on either side of my my sisters sat up as well; from the room across the hall we heard my mother scream and then another deafening bang. Margaret got out of bed and went to the door while Ingrid begged her not to open it. I was frozen in place as Margaret pushed the door open. It wasn't a second later before another bang filled the room and Margaret was thrown backwards. I didn't realize what had happened then, in the confusion, but I realized later that he had shot her point blank in the head. She had just turned eighteen. I'm thankful now for the darkness in the room, so I did not have to see. Ingrid screamed, and began pulling at my hand, trying to get me off the bed. The man, I didn't realize then that it was the same man from the market, the one with the watch, grabbed my sister, lifting her easily from her feet. Despite the ringing in my ears from the gunshots I still heard the crack as her neck broke. 'Please', I begged him as he turned to face me in the darkness, 'Don't hurt me'.

"It was a childish plea, and the wrong one. In that moment I should've been begging for death. Instead I received a needle to my arm and when I woke up I was in the cell where I would spend the next six years of my life. I had no question as to why I had been spared and brought to this place; the grinning skull of the octopus decorating the floor made this obvious. My own carelessness had led to the deaths of my parents and sisters."

Natasha opens her mouth, but you raise your hand to quiet her, "I know that I couldn't have known what my mistake would cost, but they shouldn't have been the ones to pay. I was taught many things during those years. I learned mathematics and science from some of Germany's best, an education that never would have been afforded to me otherwise. I learned how to speak many languages like a native. I learned how to fight and defend myself. I learned how to kill. My preternatural abilities were explored and honed. I wasn't put to the test, however, until the war began.

"They had planned for me to be their resident torturer, but it quickly became clear that I wasn't up to the task. I was unable to separate their pain from myself and would be unable to continue, no matter what threats were thrown in my direction. Though disappointed, they worked around it. I became a confidant, patching up their injuries while I plucked every secret from their brain and spilled it to their enemies. I still was tasked with killing them, but I told myself that I had spared them pain in life, and was mostly able to give them quick and easy deaths. I told myself it was a mercy, compared to what could have been done to them.

"In 1940 they began their experimentation. I only heard rumors, but the ones I heard were distressing, to say the least. They spoke of some kind of medicine that would make people stronger, faster. I couldn't imagine HYDRA having anymore power than they already did. From what I could understand, however, all of the subjects who underwent the process died. I worried that they would take me, but I assured myself that my abilities were too valuable, that I wouldn't be risked. I was wrong of course, though I wouldn't know that until 1944 when they came to me and told me of their success and subsequent loss of their test subject. I was confused at first, I thought that they wanted me to go after him, and then they restrained me.

"The process was painful. I thought that I had already endured unimaginable pain during my training, but I was very much wrong. When I was woken up I killed three people before they were able to restrain me. I was later told that it took four times the lethal dose of the sedative to calm me. The serum did all that they hoped; I was stronger, faster. My eyesight improved as did my hearing. The men who taught me hand to hand combat suddenly couldn't compete with me any longer. It felt good." You give Natasha a derisive smile, "Unnatural, but good."

"James Buchanan Barnes was returned to HYDRA in 1945. They never told me that he was the previously escaped prisoner, but when I heard how he had fallen from the train I knew he had to be, otherwise he never would've survived that fall. I was in the room when they operated on him, first amputating the arm and then later, when the cybernetic arm was attached. I kept him calm, soothed him, even as I suffered under the weight of his pain. I conjured up mental images of fantastic places that I had never and would never go, visions of paradise I had seen in books and paintings. You see, I liked him even then, covered in blood and roaring in pain. I thought he was beautiful.

"They kept us together. I taught him Russian and Mandarin and French while he recovered. I would hold his hand and tell him about my childhood in Austria and he would show me memories of Brooklyn. He was heartbroken when it was reported that Steve Rogers had died, and in turn so was I. He had shown me so many memories of him, that I felt as if I too had lost a friend. During those months I learned everything their was to know about Bucky Barnes and he learned everything their was to know about me. I held nothing back from him except my darkest secrets; the things I had done for HYDRA, the things I was still doing for HYDRA, though on some level he must have known. It wasn't more than six months later when they put a gun in his hand and told him to put a bullet in a man's skull. Bucky said no. They threatened him, and still he refused. When the barrel of a gun was put to the back of Bucky's head, I knew I had to act. I pulled the pistol from Bucky's hands and shot the man who sat kneeling on the pristine white floor, begging for his life.

"They weren't happy, that I knew. That night I told Bucky, mentally, that we needed to run. The thought had cycled between us before, but that night we began to consider actual plans. I was pulled from the cell the next morning. I was told that they needed to release a prisoner, but they wanted his memories erased. During the next few weeks I did it countless times, but never fully; I always just hid the memories away. It felt too cruel for words to destroy someone's life in that way. I didn't realize why they had suddenly taken an interest in this particular aspect of my abilities until they told me to wipe Bucky. I refused, naturally, even after they threaten to kill me. It wasn't until they threatened to kill him that I knew I had no choice.

"That night I returned to the cell and he was waiting for me. He thought that HYDRA was going to kill him. He didn't say it out loud, but he didn't need to. He had been wearing a pair of army issued dog tags when he fell, and they were the only thing HYDRA had allowed him to keep. That night he slipped them from his head and gave them to me. 'I want you to have these,' he told me, 'No matter what happens you hold onto these and you remember me, okay?' And then he kissed me for the first and last time. I told him that I would get him out, I promised him and he promised me, and then I put my fingers to his temples and erased the man I loved."

The kitchen is silent besides the ticking of the clock. You wipe your palm across your face; it comes away wet.

"That's what Barnes had in his hand when he left, wasn't it? The dog tags?"

"I left them by his door a few weeks ago. I thought it would prove somehow that I never stopped…" Your lip trembles, "They were the only thing I had left of him, and now I've lost them too."

Natasha grabs your gloved hand in her own and squeezes it tightly. There's nothing more to say.