The Winter Soldier keeps his head low.
He is aware of the room behind him, and Handler in front of him. He does not recognize Handler, but he is the one who said the words, so he must be Handler.
He is aware of the room behind him, and he hates it. The urge to turn around is clawing at him, but Handler is in front of him, not behind. He cannot turn his back to Handler.
Luckily for him, Handler walks around him. The Soldier does not miss the fact that Handler walks much closer to him than handlers normally do. Does Handler not know how dangerous he is?
Still, protocol allows the Soldier to turn to follow a handler if he has not been instructed to remain still. He has not been instructed to remain still. The Soldier turns in order to continue facing Handler. Handler is good. Handler guides him to face the room.
The Soldier does not recognize the room or the agents in it. He keeps his head low, peering up through his hair to analyze as much as he can see. He sees many agents—ten, eight males, two females, all tense, fighters, different styles, threat level: extremely dangerous—around the room. They are all sitting around a glass table, all but two of them glowing red and all watching him.
He gets a shiver of discomfort down his spine. He does not remember how he was transported here. He does not recognize anyone in the room.
Situation: extremely dangerous. He must not disobey. He must show he can be a good Asset in the presence of new handlers and agents. If he is not good, he gets punishment. He keeps his head low, shoulders straight and hands behind him in parade rest. Silent, staring, ready, waiting.
"You can release them now, Wanda," Handler murmurs, speaking to one of the two agents who is not glowing. "Thank you."
He rubs gingerly at his throat but he does not wince at all. The Soldier does not understand why. Did Handler injure himself? But to hurt his throat? Handler was standing in front of him when he was woken. Did… did he…? Oh… This is bad. This is not good at all. He can feel himself sink. Handler will never think he is a good asset if he lashes out. He has already earned punishment. But why has Handler not punished him for it? The Soldier does not… he does not understand.
This does not stop him from noticing that the red glow must be some sort of cage on the agents. It disappears, and the redheaded woman—blank face, cold eyes, trained, familiar—instantly aims her gun at Handler. In a second, the Soldier is pointing his own gun at her, his eyes empty and cold.
Threats to Handler are not allowed.
He can be a good asset. He can protect Handler and Handler will think he is a good asset. He mentally runs through the arsenal he can feel hidden on his person and scans for any hidden weapons on the offending agent. He can likely take her down, but the other agents would pose a problem. Though the muscular blond next to the redheaded woman does not look ready for a fight. He looks ready to… the Soldier does not know, but it is not fight.
"Don't shoot," Handler's voice is sharp.
"Why shouldn't I?" the agent growls, keeping her gun steady. "You—"
"I wasn't talking to you," Handler snaps. He looks at the Soldier, who obediently relaxes the finger slowly beginning to squeeze the trigger. "Not a threat. Do not respond unless there is an assault."
"Confirmed."
The Soldier lowers his gun but keeps it at his side. He keeps his gaze straight ahead of him now, ready to react if there is a move against Handler.
He does not miss the near-silent whimper from the blond agent, a strangled, "Bucky." The Soldier does not understand. What or who is Bucky? Why does this strange agent look so… the Soldier does not know the word, but it is bad. The pain on the agent's face is bad. He knows it is not right, though he does not know how he knows. There is something about the blond… Something that the Soldier knows…
"Erskine."
Nothing happens. The redheaded agent gets many confused looks. The Soldier does not understand, but there is a strange tug in his mind that tells him he should respond, but he does not know how. The redheaded agent's brows furrow but she does not look surprised.
"You changed the triggers," she states.
Triggers. His words. The words made for him, to command him. Yes, he can vaguely recall now: that word was once a trigger, the one used to shut him down. That is the response this agent thought he would give, but it is not a trigger anymore so the Soldier does not respond to it.
"The Winter Soldier's triggers are changed after any mission where an unwanted party may have discovered them," Handler replies. His voice is bland, almost bored. "Call it a fail-safe, a last resort to ensure the Soldier can't be stolen."
"And you changed them after…"
"Yes. You knew the words, after all." Handler's head tilts as he watches the agent, but he does not look as soft as his voice has become. "Speaking of the triggers, I meant to remove them. Good time to open his archives… Soldier."
The Soldier snaps back from having zoned out. He is to be given orders. He must show he can be a good asset.
"Lisá [Лисá; Fox]."
He frowns, something… familiar itching in his mind and before he can stop himself, he is asking, "...Lisá?"
"Yes." Handler's voice is soft and gentle as he looks at the Soldier. "Remember me?"
"…Lisá."
Yes, he remembers. He remembers now, like a locked chest was opened in his scattered mind. Handler… Handler is Serdtse [Сердце; Heart]. He remembers. Serdtse protected a few of his memories. Serdtse protected him.
The Soldier glances around at the agents again. He is surprised to find that he can place a name to one now. The redheaded woman, he remembers her. Younger, more scared. She is Krasnyy [Красный; Red].
He looks back at Serdtse. There is something he needs to know. He has enough memory to build pieces, but he does not know this place. Thankfully, Serdtse understands and nods and murmurs to him:
"All Lisá presets are acceptable and will not be punished under any circumstances."
The Soldier nods once and allows a small smile. He allows the stiffness in his shoulders to loosen and allows himself to ease his constant scanning of the room. He shifts his stance to rest his weight on one leg, cocking his hip out and tilting his head. He is still on guard, but he does not make it so obvious anymore. Serdtse in turn becomes more relaxed and reassured. Less… cocky and sharp, and more gentle. More like his Serdtse, the one he can have when it is just the two of them.
"Time?" the Soldier asks.
He is not hesitant, but he is not sure. He needs to know. He is not sure if he wants to know, but he needs to. How long has it been this time?
"About ten years," Serdtse replies. "You were only out for one mission after that, only a month ago."
Something in the Soldier's chest sinks. Ten years? Ten years passed since his last mission with Serdtse and he remembers none of them. And Serdtse… Serdtse is older than he remembers. Not by much, but older. He is missing more time and he hates it.
Serdtse seems to understand this as he places a hand on the Soldier's shoulder and murmurs, "We'll have time now. Sit down."
Serdtse gestures to the empty chair at the head of the table. It is a suggestion, not an order. Still, the Soldier nods, very aware of the studying stares of the agents in the room as he sits, Serdtse standing at his left shoulder and gun still in his hand. The agents look confused. Unsure. Not dangerous, but watching very closely. He glances over all of them, noting the sad blond agent looks better now. The agent is quiet, observing, but not pained and that is good.
The Soldier turns his attention back to Serdtse and asks, "Where?"
"New York," Serdtse replies. "Avengers Tower. I've been looking for you."
Confusion makes the Soldier's brows furrow. "Nothing can hide from Serdtse."
Serdtse smiles softly. "Not easily these days."
The Soldier notices the flicker of… something on Krasnyy's face and gives her a mix between a reassuring smile and his signature smirk in an effort to comfort her. He does not miss the shocked looks that the agents give but he does not flinch. Serdtse said there would not be punishment. The Soldier will take every advantage.
He looks at Serdtse and jerks his head in her direction, "Krasnyy is here."
He says it matter-of-fact, a note being taken. He does not miss the briefest crumpling in her expression at his words.
Serdtse nods and softly murmurs, "I know…"
"Did we escape?" He hears the way Krasnyy's heartbeat picks up. The quiet sigh that Serdtse gives. The Soldier knows he is wrong but he does not know what happened. "We did not."
"...In a way." Serdtse shakes his head. He does not look angry. Merely… sad. "Not the way we planned. Status report."
The Soldier pauses, taking a mental list before he replies, "Mentation, optimal. Respiratory function, optimal. Tissue oxygenation, optimal. Skeletomuscular system, optimal. Hydration and nutritional status, above acceptable."
Serdtse scowls. The Soldier does not understand why until he speaks:
"Current hydration and nutritional status is acceptable. Anything below current level is now unacceptable. Previous acceptable level is now cause for concern. Confirm."
"Confirmed."
The Soldier nods but he is still confused. Why is Serdtse changing his settings? Handlers will find out and they will punish him, and then they will punish Serdtse. He hears one of the agents ask Krasnyy. She replies, "They starved him and called it acceptable. The Infiltrator is making the amount of water and food he's had here the neutral, acceptable level instead."
The agents know. They will report it to the Head-Handler and they will be punished. But Serdtse does not look worried so the Soldier shrugs and decides that this must be allowed.
"Access archives." Serdtse's voice is calm, at ease, like it always is with him. The Soldier blinks, waiting for further requests. "Move all memory content to archive. Confirm."
"Confirmed: all memory content has been archived."
"Initiate protocol: Factory Reset. Authorization code: Black Infiltrator—" Serdtse stops suddenly, his gaze hardening. He scowls, and hate twists his expression as he continues, "Theodore Zola."
There is a quiet, angry growl from the not-sad blond agent, but he does not pay it any mind. Instead, he focuses on the harsh twist of wrong in his gut. The name Serdtse said is not right, but he does not know why. He will find out when he has time to think. He keeps his focus on Serdtse.
The Soldier's head tilts curiously. "Protocol: Factory Reset. Warning: all memory content not archived will be lost. Conflict: the Asset is not scheduled for factory reset. Last reset: thirteen years ago."
"Override. Secret key: 32557038."
The Soldier ignores the sharp intake of breath from the not-sad blond agent. He does not know why the agent continues to draw his attention, but he does. However, Serdtse has his attention right now.
"Confirmed protocol initiation: Factory Reset. Begin?"
"Begin once lying down. Keep protocol on standby until condition is fulfilled."
Now confused, the Soldier nods. "Confirmed. Why?"
Serdtse smiles widely, and the Soldier knows he does not mind the question. Serdtse always liked when he asked questions. He asked why once. Serdtse said it shows that he is not just machine, that he is still human and that he likes human, not machine. But HYDRA liked machine, not human, so he could not be human for Serdtse very often.
"You pass out in factory reset," Serdtse says, metal hand on metal shoulder. "If you're already lying down, you won't hurt yourself."
The Soldier nods in understanding before asking, "Why reset?"
Serdtse's face does something weird. The Soldier does not know why. Did an unwanted party discover his triggers on the last mission? But it would be a Head-Handler resetting him if that were the case. No, this is something else. This is what Serdtse wants, not any handler, and the Soldier likes pulling something over the heads of the handlers.
"Remember I said we escaped, just not in the way we planned?" Serdtse says slowly.
The Soldier nods, now able to guess, "This is so they cannot take me back."
"They won't get you again, Buck," the not-sad blond agent says.
His voice is low, angry. He is not angry with the Soldier though. He is angry with them. HYDRA. This cannot be HYDRA, then. This Avengers Tower… Avengers. His handlers briefed him on the Avengers, did they not? He can vaguely remember something about threat designation and orders to either flee or eliminate, depending on who he was faced with. But now it looks like these Avengers are allies. Not HYDRA. The Soldier is alright with that.
But who is Buck? This is not the first time the agent has said it. Bucky, he said before. It was to the Soldier. A name. Is it his? He does not remember that name. He is the Soldier, the Asset, or to Serdtse, he is—
"He's not just a machine," one of the agents says. He is sharp-eyed, sandy blond hair and calculating. "Barnes is still in there. What did you do?"
Serdtse purses his lips and takes a long moment to reply, his voice clipped and short. "In 1985, I created a set of presets for the Winter Soldier. We were on a mission together. I was tired of waking up to find that he remembered nothing. I always remembered him though, so I made sure he would remember me. Anything that relates to me, he will remember and archive so it will never truly get wiped."
"And when those presets are… enabled, he actively remembers," the same agent finishes, getting a nod from Serdtse.
The man beside the agent—dark hair, richly dressed, analyzing—lets out a long whistle. "Why not have him remember everything? That seems kinda fucked up."
Serdtse's face contorts in rage and the Soldier frowns.
"I'm fucked up," Serdtse hisses, "I know that. But if you could trust that I love anyone, it would be Dusha [Душа; Soul]."
"Then why—"
The Soldier cuts him off, not liking the way he is speaking to Serdtse. "If I remembered too much, they would punish me or punish Serdtse. I would not let them punish Serdtse." The agent goes to speak again and the Soldier growls, pointing his gun. "Continue to annoy me, and I will not hesitate to shoot. Even you, Krasnyy."
He may threaten agents. They are not handlers. He will shoot if they continue asking questions. Serdtse protects him, and he protects Serdtse. That is how it has always been. That is their team.
All of the agents, except the two on his left, tense at the threat. Good. They are aware of his threat level and they know he is not joking. Much easier. The Soldier notes that the way they tense is in preparation for a fight, not to flee. That is different, but with Serdtse, he does not back down.
"Bucky," the not-sad blond agent says again.
That is annoying. The Soldier turns his gun to the agent but he does not shoot. Instead, he studies the strange agent and he sees that the agent studies him too, almost sadly. There is something familiar about the agent. With a frown, the Soldier looks from the agent to Serdtse and back again before announcing:
"I know you."
The wide, almost-tearful smile that spreads on the agent's face makes something twist in the Soldier's chest. Yes, he is sure now. He knows this agent and—
"They have him, Cap— ...Steve. He's still alive."
That is what he said. He went to these Avengers for help. He does not remember when or how it happened, but he knows he came to this Avengers Tower himself. The not-sad blond agent; he is Captain America... Steve. He is Steve.
Steven Grant Rogers, world's biggest punk, his mind supplies, and the Soldier remembers. He remembers, there was a mission, and he was alone, but he malfunctioned—remembered—and the memory related to Serdtse, so it was archived and now he remembers. Serdtse was small and Steve was small, and they were all together. He knows Steve, knows him like he knows Serdtse.
He knows Steve, and that is not something he will let anyone take away from him.
"Dusha." He blinks, hearing Serdtse calling him. He looks up and Serdtse gives him a smile. "Dusha, official change in designation."
The Soldier's head tilts and he sets the gun on the table in front of him, resting his elbows on either side of the gun. He has made enough connections to know that this is not HYDRA and that these Avengers must now be allies. Still, he knows it is smart to properly alter his programming to be sure that he cannot be used against allies. Hurting new allies is bad. He does not want punishment, for himself or for Serdtse, so he nods in permission.
"Prepare for a change in designation." The Soldier can feel the way his programming wakes up. It hums like a machine being started up, ready for commands. Serdtse points to the two agents on his left, the young woman and man sitting slightly further away from the rest. "Maximoff, Wanda, and Maximoff, Pietro. Designation: operative. Confirm."
The Soldier nods. That is accepted easily. Serdtse points and continues:
"Stark, Barton, Odinson, Wilson, Banner, Romanova. Designation: handler. Confirm."
Six handlers. Two operatives. One left.
The Soldier smiles to himself and points to the not-sad blond and looks at Serdtse. "Rogers, Steven. Designation: stubborn idiot."
The surprised grin that spreads on Serdtse's lips satisfies the Soldier. He has not seen Serdtse smile like that yet. It is nice. The snorts of laughter from the new handlers are nice too. Steve scowls but he is grinning too much for it to matter. The Soldier smirks, proud of himself for the various reactions.
"Close," Serdtse says. "Designation: head-handler. Confirm."
"Confirmed. Explanation needed."
When Serdtse hums in confusion, the Soldier makes a gesture to the new handlers. They are allies, it is a formality. The Soldier can guess that they will not actually give him missions. Designation is a precaution in case his programming takes over. Still, they must be briefed.
"I can take this."
The Soldier brightens at Rebecca's voice. He had forgotten about her. She is nice, like Serdtse. A friend. He can now see her face to his right, just the same as he remembers. She has not changed. It is nice.
"Reb," he greets.
She smiles, "Dusha. I have collected all video surveillance of your time awake, should you wish to view it."
He nods. "Later."
Rebecca nods in understanding before turning her attention back to the new handlers. "There are agents, operatives, handlers, head-handlers and the heads of HYDRA. Designation directly affects how the Winter Soldier interacts with them." A hologram of the hierarchy appears over the glass table. "Agents are below him. If provoked, he could do whatever he wanted with them as long as handlers haven't forbidden him from acting against them."
"Handlers are the ones he answers to?" Handler Barton guesses. "And head-handlers are like the main handler?"
Serdtse nods. "The orders of a head-handler overpower any others, except for a head of HYDRA."
"Like Pierce," Head-Handler Steve says darkly.
"And operatives?" Krasnyy cuts in, drawing Head-Handler Steve from what appears to be anger.
The Soldier does not know why he is so angry with former-Head Pierce, but he does not ask. Knowing what he remembers of Head-Handler Steve, it likely has something to do with bullies.
"Operatives are above agents, below handlers," Operative Maximoff-Pietro replies. "They do not necessarily work with the Winter Soldier, but if they do, they are the ones who provide the help on missions. They don't give orders… just help in the maintenance and handling of the Soldier. Important, but not that important."
"And removing the triggers, that factory reset," Handler Banner says, looking to Serdtse, "What will that do to Barnes?"
"Factory reset protocol renders all active triggers void and ineffective." The Soldier replies instead and he notes the surprise from the handlers. He cannot help but give a smug smirk at being able to surprise them. "All not-archived memory data is lost. Archived memory data is saved. Basic settings are saved. All skills needed for missions are saved. New triggers are usually implemented after reset. Not this time."
"Never again," Head-Handler Steve says and the Soldier knows it is a promise.
He likes Head-Handler Steve. Steve is nice. He knows Steve and having someone he knows as a head-handler is nice. He feels secure. Serdtse has designated him head-handler, so he must be good.
"It's late," Handler Wilson says. "We all need sleep, so—"
"Hold on," Handler Odinson says, the first time the Soldier has heard him speak. "One question." Serdtse gives him a curious look but does not speak, so Handler Odinson continues, "Why did this multi-headed beast take you?"
Serdtse blinks and does not reply for a long time. The Soldier begins to grow worried, reaching for Serdtse before he really registers the movement. It is one of the few movements that requires no hesitation. The Soldier remembers. He remembers enough to know that the Asset showing anything for the Infiltrator does not result in punishment, that the Handlers failed to burn emotion from him enough times that they had given up. It had become accepted that the Asset and the Infiltrator were one, and that only made their punishments worse.
Very aware of all the eyes on him, the Soldier lifts his flesh hand to place it over Serdtse's metal one, the one still resting on his metal shoulder.
"That's a fair point," Handler Stark says, and his voice is not mocking or flashy, but smart and thoughtful. "You were a kid. Why would HYDRA want a kid?"
"They didn't," Serdtse replies. His voice is clipped, muscles tense. Then he smiles, a wry smile that the Soldier does not like at all. "I asked myself the same question when I first found out about the manipulations. I went searching, and I found the plans they had."
Serdtse waves his flesh hand out in what the Soldier recognizes as his gesture to Rebecca meaning, 'You know what I'm hinting at. You can show the files relating to it.' The holograms that come up have nausea settling in his stomach.
"They didn't want me," Serdtse's voice is hard. Hard and curt and hateful. "They wanted you."
Holograms of sketches, Head-Handler Steve in a black uniform, shield painted a blank grey. Sketches of him, of both of them. Metal arm and metal shield together, two red stars. They are together in dark HYDRA uniform; in cold, piercing, stone glares; in strong, unwavering, unmovable stances; in no hesitation. There are plans there too. People to target. To assassinate. And a name.
The Black Infiltrator.
Head-Handler Steve is very pale. All Handlers are very pale. Even Operatives Maximoff-Wanda and Maximoff-Pietro look pale. Serdtse's lips are pursed, a sign of his silent yet raging hate. The Soldier feels sick. HYDRA wanted Steve, wanted to make Steve like him. They could never be allowed to do that.
"What…?" Head-Handler Steve trails off, wide eyes scanning over the diagrams and sketches.
Serdtse shakes his head. "They wanted to wipe you, alter you, then send you back to the American army as if you'd escaped and found your way back. A silent poison to wipe them out. They were going to use you as a spy for as long as they could, and use Dusha as the silent assassin."
"So why didn't they?" Krasnyy asks, and the Soldier hears in her voice that she is trying not to break.
"I crashed into the arctic," Head-Handler Steve guesses, his voice tense. "They probably couldn't find me or thought I was dead."
Handler Stark lets out a long whistle. "Holy fuck."
"And when they couldn't get to me—"Steve's gaze pierces into Serdtse with a hate so volatile, the Soldier is surprised he cannot see it in the air—"they took you instead."
Serdtse nods once. It is almost comical. Steve and Serdtse are so alike, in appearance and the glares they are exchanging, hate not for each other but for the organization that has wronged all three of them.
Serdtse suddenly smiles wryly as his gaze pierces Head-Handler Steve. "You know, one of the biggest things that saved you and dozens of people HYDRA wanted dead?" Serdtse pauses, glancing down for a split second. "You didn't jump after Dusha."
The Soldier does not quite register the acidic taste in his mouth. He is just suddenly hunched over, bile passing his lips and onto the floor to his right. He hears several people startle and he senses the presence of Head-Handler Steve behind him in a second as he throws up.
"Buck," Head-Handler Steve places a hand on his flesh shoulder in worry.
His voice is tight, a tone the Soldier recognizes as 'I'm trying to help and trying not to break down myself.' He can remember that that was a common tone to hear in Steve's voice.
The taste of bile in his mouth is not unfamiliar. He is left panting and shaking and unsure. He does not remember why, but the thought of Head-Handl— of Steve jumping after him, though he does not remember jumping from where… It makes him absolutely sick.
The Soldier wipes at his mouth and leans back in the chair, too tired to deal with anything else. Serdtse reaches into the backpack he has brought with him and produces a metal water bottle, handing it to him without a word. The Soldier knows he is expected to drink, and he does not have to force himself to do so. The water is cool, taking some of the disgusting taste away from lingering in his mouth.
"Alright there, Snowflake?" Handler Stark asks with a raised brow and a worried tilt of his head.
The Soldier shrugs weakly, "Alright as I can be, considering I just puked up my guts."
Handler Stark's eyebrows shoot up, a slow smile spreading on his lips. Head-Handler Steve's hand squeezes his shoulder and when the Soldier looks, he sees the small smile being reflected back at him.
"Come on, Buck." Head-Handler Steve gestures with his head towards the hallway. "We should get you cleaned up."
The Soldier stands obediently, following Head-Handler Steve until he realizes that Serdtse is not with him. He stops and turns back to the room, brows furrowed in confusion.
Knowing his concern, Serdtse shakes his head, "I'm staying in a different place in the tower. But I'll be here in the morning, Dusha, I promise. We can talk then."
Slowly, the Soldier nods in understanding. Then he turns and follows Head-Handler Steve out of the room.
•••
"This is such a nice place."
I stand near the elevator, looking at the apartment. Wanda walks further and spins around, deftly avoiding Pietro's path as he speeds around exploring.
"Three bedrooms," he calls on one lap around before he's off again and then back again. "All with a closet and personal bathroom. One main bathroom. Laundry room. Big kitchen."
"We can see the kitchen, Pietro," Wanda says, rolling her eyes.
The entire floor of the tower is like a large apartment. The elevator opens into a large room, the kitchen to the right and the lounge to left, two small steps leading down to it. There's no wall between the two, it's all joined together. There's a hallway along the wall across from the elevator, closer to the kitchen side of the room. This is where Pietro is saying the bedrooms, bathroom and laundry room are, from his few-second-long exploration.
"It appears the elevator needs to be answered like a door," Rebecca informs. "So someone would have to wait in the elevator to be let into the apartment and cannot just walk in of their own accord. There is also a door to the stairwell in the laundry room. JARVIS monitors voice-only in all personal rooms, and only after his name is said, and though cameras and thermal-sensors are present, they are only enabled in an emergency. I've already blocked JARVIS from this floor."
A small smirk of amusement crosses my lips at that. "You just love to break into someone else's things, don't you?"
"I have to find fun somewhere, General. It appears that Doctor Banner's floor is right above this one, followed by the rest of the Avengers' floors."
"That close?" Wanda asks, turning back from the tall windows along one of the lounge walls. She hums in consideration before shrugging and looking at me, "And how are you feeling?"
"I'm just fine, Wanda," I reply, shaking my head. "Dusha… Dusha is doing alright, and I'm fine."
Wanda gives me a skeptical look and crosses her arms. "Pretend I believe that. What about the burns on your fingers?"
"Almost healed." I wave my hand at her, letting her see the burns from almost touching the glowing blue fucker from the scepter. "It'll be fine." Pietro stops next to Wanda and both of them give me unconvinced looks and I frown. "What?"
"You may have been putting on a show for the Avengers," Pietro starts, "But we already learnt how to see through it. Don't try to pretend."
I pause for a second before nodding with a long sigh and moving to sit on the couch. "Fine. I'm fucking tired. Exhausted."
"You didn't say that you remembered."
"How am I supposed to say that, Wanda? 'Hey, side note, thanks to some magic telepathy, I remember everything from my childhood and I feel split between two people who both want control of my body.' I don't… I don't know if I'm ready for that."
Wanda hums in thought. "Captain Rogers is upset. He misses you, Theo. It doesn't matter who you are, he misses you."
I shake my head, not looking at her and not saying anything. I don't know what to say to that. I don't… I don't know if I know enough of myself to say I miss him too.
Pietro yawns, "It's late and we've gotten little rest, so good night."
Then he speeds off and is gone, disappearing into one of the bedrooms. Wanda raised a brow at her brother before shaking her head.
"He's right," she says. She gives me a nod before following Pietro's lead. "Good night, Theo."
I return her nod, "Night, Wanda."
"Get some sleep," she calls, just before shutting the door to the second bedroom.
I can't help but roll my eyes at that. What is it with her and worrying over me? I'm not a young kid, I can take care of myself. I don't feel like sleep yet though.
A long sigh passes my lips. "Reb, can you pull up something from Before. I don't care what, I just…"
"Need something to think about," Rebecca finishes.
I nod just as the hologram covers the room. The furniture seems to disappear, the walls moving closer to form the living room of a small apartment. The colours shift from cool greys and neutral blues to warm browns and cozy ambers. The modernness of the room turns into the past of the 1930s, and then it's like I'm looking into this life, not like a recreation but a real window through time.
"Theodore Joseph Rogers!"
The voice is barely there, the volume so quiet that only my enhanced hearing allows me to hear it, and even then, it's a faint whisper. An echo of a past that feels like it's barely there, but it's him.
Bucky Barnes strides into the room, looking around with narrowed eyes. A shimmer of tech and then Steve Rogers, small and without the super-soldier serum, is sitting on the couch, busy drawing in his sketchbook.
"Where is he?" Bucky demands, looking around and pointedly not staring at the wiggling lump of blanket next to Rogers.
"Where's who?" Rogers asks, not even looking up.
"Your little punk of a son who stole my favourite tie, again."
The lump next to Rogers giggles wildly and a slow smirk spreads on Bucky's lips. Quietly, he walks closer to the couch, standing behind it. Rogers looks up, a fond smile on his lips as he watches Bucky raise his hands, preparing to grab the giggling blanket. As his hands shoot down and yank away the blanket, there's a surprised squeal and then it stops.
It all freezes. The end of a video, or turning the page of a book to find the next pages all blank. Bucky is left grinning, Rogers watching with a wide smile and the blanket frozen over a small body, still hiding their face. The end of the memory I've recreated.
Something in my chest seizes. It's not the first time I've watched a memory like this, but something about this time hits harder. I've seen Rogers now and something about seeing him smile so easily… It's different. Now, I've seen him blank and analyzing and panicking and silent and to see such easy relaxation on his face, even if it is from my own memory of the past…
I'm already in the elevator before I can think. I don't need to say anything before I can feel it moving up. It's not a long ride before it stops but the doors stay closed. The elevator needs to be answered like a door. It doesn't take long.
Rogers is standing a few feet in front of the elevator when the doors open. His arms are crossed, face carefully a mask of professionalism. The floor behind him is laid out the same as the guest floor I'm staying in with Pietro and Wanda. The kitchen has more personal touches, and the furniture is moved around a bit, but the floor plan is the same. It doesn't smell like empty air either. I don't know what it smells like, but it makes the memory from before all the more vivid.
"Did you need something?" Rogers asks. His voice isn't cold, but it's not exactly friendly either. It's someone trying not to show how much they care. "Tony's the one you should be going to if that's the case. It's his tower."
I shake my head slowly, trying to gather myself. This was a bad idea. It wasn't really an idea at all, just acting on impulse. Fuck, this was a bad move.
Rogers seems to sense my hesitation. He steps back and turns towards the kitchen, a silent gesture to come in. He moved around the kitchen, preparing tea by the looks of it. I end up sitting at the breakfast bar, elbows on the counter and head resting on my hands.
Neither of us say anything as the water boils. When it does, Rogers pours two mugs of tea, placing one in front of me and keeping the other for himself. Placing the mug to cool on the counter beside him, Rogers leans against the counter along the wall, arms crossed and waiting for me to speak. He says nothing, just gives me a silent, urging stare.
"I don't… Something came up and I just ended up here," I mumble, hands around the mug to warm them, despite the fact I can't really feel the warmth through the metal one.
I avoid his eyes, feeling strangely small under his gaze. With the other Avengers, it's different but alone with Rogers…. With my father… it's different.
My metal hand whirs quietly as I poke at the counter top. "How's Dusha?" I ask, trying to buy myself time to think, and also learn how he's doing. "Factory reset shouldn't take long, he should come out of it within half an hour."
"He should be out," Rogers replies. His voice is guarded, protective in a way that feels so familiar. I've never had that voice turned against me before. "He went to bed a while ago."
He's not specific at all. Should be. A while ago. I understand why, and it's kind of settling, knowing he'll protect Dusha too. I don't remember anyone who was willing to protect him the way I was.
"Before," Rogers starts, drawing my attention. "You said they wanted to take me."
A sneer automatically crosses my lips. "They did. I will never regret that they took me instead. If you're wondering if I hate you for that, I don't. Better me than you."
"You were a kid." Rogers' voice is suddenly brittle, rage and hate and sadness all warring in his eyes. "You didn't deserve anything those bastards did—"
"And you think you did?" I cut him off sharply. "They have records, Rogers." His face crumples the slightest bit at the name, but I don't stop. "They have records of everything they did to you. The experimenting when they captured you and your unit. The torture. It's all there. You want to talk about deserving, you didn't deserve that."
His face is pale now, eyes wide at the reminder. My own hate is burning. Whether it comes from Theodore Rogers or the Black Infiltrator, I can't be sure, but it's burning and I'm going to use it to wipe out all of HYDRA.
"Steve?"
Both of us turn at the voice. Dusha appears from the hallway, one hand against the wall to steady himself and the other pinching at the bridge of his nose. He's wearing a loose grey t-shirt along with comfortable sweatpants and his hair is in a loose bun as the base of his skull. It's the most casual I've ever seen him look, and something about it makes a strange warmth bloom in my chest.
Rogers' gaze is soft as he looks at Dusha. Soft in a way that shows ease and comfort and family, and damn, I want him to look at me like that. I want him to care for me again, to let himself be open with me, to love me. Part of me desperately wants that, while the other part wants nothing to do with any of it.
I take a sip of tea, the warmth of it distracting me from getting into that argument with myself.
"How're you feeling, Buck?" Rogers asks, casting me a wary glance before refocusing on Dusha.
"Like my head's a mess," he mumbles in reply, slowly moving towards the breakfast bar. "But I remember a lot more. Pretty sure I got everything that happened earlier too."
"You should," I add in quietly.
Dusha looks up, almost as if just realizing that I'm here. "Serdtse."
The name seems to have passed his lips without warning, if the wide-eyed look he gets afterwards is anything to go by.
That doesn't stop the small smile from crossing my lips as I reply, "Dusha."
He seems to relax at that, giving me a small nod. Rogers listens to the exchange silently, pouring another mug of tea for Dusha. I take another sip from my mug, the taste different yet… good.
"I don't remember ever having tea," I murmur before I can stop myself.
The smallest of smiles appears on Rogers lips. He doesn't say anything, but I know it relaxes him the slightest bit.
Dusha tilts his head before quietly asking, "Is there any way to remember all of it?"
"No."
The word passes my lips too quickly. Not an apologetic 'there's no way to get those memories back,' but a sharp 'I won't do it for you.' Both Dusha and Rogers give me strange looks and it doesn't take any prompting for me to continue. It all just comes out.
"I remember everything," I start, my eyes wide and almost panicked. "I remember everything and I am constantly falling apart because of it. You don't want that. You may think you do, but you don't. You don't want to remember like this. Let the Soldier's numbness fade away slowly, because once Bucky Barnes starts screaming, it never stops. Two people are warring inside you and it never fucking stops. You have years of Bucky Barnes to collide with the Winter Soldier, Dusha. Just five years of Theodore Rogers is torture."
The choked sob passes my lips without permission. It's a strangled sound, a whimper and a cry and a plea all wrapped together and followed by another sob.
"Dad…"
His arms are around me almost instantly. No hesitation or attempt at professionalism. Just Dad holding me tightly against his chest, gently murmuring sweet nothings in my ear and lowering us to the floor. Dusha kneels next to us, his hands a comfort just as familiar as Dad's.
It's old and yet new at the same time. I can remember something like this, decades ago in a little apartment in Brooklyn. It was just like this, Dad's arms around me and Dusha right there with him. It's familiar and warm and new and old all the same time.
It feels like home.