YEAH OK SO IT'S BEEN TWO YEARS?! Sorry. Lots have happened including 3 roommates, lots of bullcrap with one of those, one new boyfriend I've now been dating almost 2 years and now live with, the moving out of droms/in with him, graduating college, etc. BUT I graduated college so more time to write.
But since lots of movies have come out…
IMPORTANT, this story is…
-Post First Class, Days of Futures Past and Apocalypse won't happen
-Civil War movie didn't happen (as much as I loved it, it doesn't fit, sorry…)
-I most likely won't be using Ant Man as I didn't see the movie because Hank Pym and Wasp are my boo andddddd they kinda wrecked that….
-Age of Ultron will probably show up later in my story, but changed to fit Bucky (and change some things I didn't like…)
Comments/Questions/Concerns/etc – please review!
Chapter 17
The Winter Soldier's metal arm hissed in the quiet of the night as he unclasped his hand and the body that was in it hit the floor, louder in his ears than he expected. His eyes flicked around the room and then landed on a shifting of shadows near the door.
With trained precision, he flicked a blade out and caught the shadow in the throat, a satisfactory collapse of human flesh his signal that he hit his mark. He continued out of the main room and towards the sprawling staircase in front of him. Moonlight streamed in from the large windows on the landing between the first and second levels, and he used it to avoid certain, visibly weaker parts of the wooden stairs.
"Who are you?" a voice demanded loudly as he reached the top step. The soldier froze, gaze locking on the tall, thin man standing just to his left. This was unusual, not just because he hadn't heard the man approaching, but because the Winter Soldier had never experienced his targets coming to him.
Without a reply, he launched forward, slipping a knife from its holster at his back, and lifted it above his head. As he brought it down towards the man's throat, barely registering the still calm look on the mission's face, his right arm was forcibly stopped inches away from its mark. No, he analyzed, the knife stopped.
Not skipping a beat, he swung his heavier metal arm at the man, who ducked, allowing his arm to crash through the thin plaster wall.
"Tell me what you're doing here," the man demanded, dodging another sloppy left-armed punch. "This is private property."
Keeping his vow of silence, the Soldier pulled out his gun and shot. The lights in the hallway flicked on just then, illuminating the bullet frozen in midair, inches from his target's face.
"What are you?" the Winter Soldier breathed, voice rough with disuse.
The man laughed, eyes flicking towards the soldier's left arm, still raised, frozen in the air. He couldn't move it at all—it was new, but could it be malfunctioning?
"Your arm is metal?" the man laughed.
"Eric!" a new voice snapped. "Who the hell have you pissed off now?"
Eric twisted his hand slowly, forcing the Soldier's arm to lower and slide up his back painfully. He could feel his feet begin to lift off the ground, his shoulder groaning in protest.
"Eric, let him go," the other man demanded, his fingertips gliding to his temples. In that instant, a voice unlike his own resonated in the Winter Soldier's mind. "Remain calm and we won't hurt you." The man paused, dark eyebrows pulling together in concern and sympathy, and his hand dropped back to his side. "Your mind is so damaged…"
"Charles, he's still trying to kill me," Eric muttered.
Ignoring his friend, Charles stepped up to the assassin and slowly raised his hands. "I can help you. You're confused, hurt—you barely know who you are."
"I've been ordered to kill him," the Winter Soldier grunted, still trying to release his metal arm.
"I can see that—retaliation for him blowing up a Hydra base." Charles's eyes flicked over his shoulder. "We'll get to that later. For now, I'm more concerned about the damage done to your head."
"Don't touch me," he hissed as Charles's hands got to close to his face, flashes of scientists coming to his mind's eye. Scientists strapping him into a chair and shocking him.
"I can help," Charles pleaded quietly. "Please, I won't hurt you, not like the scientists."
"How do you know about them?"
"I can read your mind," he explained, voice still calm and slow. "And if you'd let me, I'd like to undo some of the damage they've caused you."
"How can you do that?"
"Same way I can control your metal arm," Eric drawled, bored now. "We're mutants."
"And the others are awake, Eric, they heard the gun." Charles looked back at the Winter Soldier. "What is your name?" Before he could reply, Charles answered for him. "You don't know." Without permission, he dared to reach out and touch the captured man's face in his fingers.
Suddenly he couldn't move. A peaceful calm washed over him and he was standing in the middle of a white expanse. The man with the long, shaggy brown hair and stubble stood smiling in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm going to help you…"
Charles pulled away moments later and motioned for Eric to let him go. "Go send the others to bed," he mumbled. "I'll take care of this."
Eric nodded and brushed past them towards the students staring wide-eyed in the hall.
"Who are you?" The Soldier breathed, rubbing his shoulder where metal met flesh.
"My name is Charles Xavier, and you, my friend, are called Bucky."
"Bucky," he breathed, trying out the name on his tongue. Yes. That was his name, he suddenly remembered.
"You're more than this, my friend."
"I don't…"
"You're from Brooklyn, New York," Charles told him. "You were born around 1918. You certainly don't look your age. I'm not sure how you're here now—but it's 1964."
Charles watched a memory of a train, of army training, a young girl with brown hair, all of these fragmented memories play out in front of him. He didn't move to stop the man as his eyes grew wide, flicking up to meet his for a fraction of a second before the Winter Soldier—Bucky—turned and tore down the stairs, breaking the windows on the landing in his escape.
Clara jumped as Bucky's body jerked and she watched as he flipped off the other side of the bed and hit the floor with a loud crash. Her book fell to the floor as she struggled to get to her feet and to the other side of the bed.
"Oh, God, are you okay?"
He sat up slowly, head down, hand prodding at the bandages still wrapped around his head. Face twisted in pain, he let out a slow breath, trying to calm his pounding heart to, in turn, calm his blood pressure and hopefully relieve the pounding headache.
"I'm fine," he grunted, managing to stand up and sit on the side of the bed. "I just fell out of the bed."
"You weren't sleeping well, are you alright?" Clara asked, handing him a glass of water. "Steve came and got food for you from the cafeteria, but when we got up here you were out cold."
Bucky pressed his fingers into his temples. "I just…remembered something…"
"Not good, then?"
Bucky looked up at her and shook his head. "No."
She leaned back against the wall in front of him. "Want to talk about it?"
"How much do you know about—" He cut himself off as Steve entered the room, eyes curious and slightly worried. "Don't worry about it," he said quietly.
"You okay?" Steve asked from the doorway, thumbs jammed through his belt. "Heard you fall out of the bed from two doors down."
"I'm fine." He glanced down at his still-unmovable left arm. "Can we fix this?"
"I'll go get Tony."
"We don't want you walking around for a little while still, just in case you lose your balance," Clara explained as Steve left.
Bucky shifted onto the bed further, leaning back against the headboard and crossing one leg over the other. "In that file—did it mention anywhere towards the beginning about me going off the grid for a while?"
Clara frowned, but nodded. "They finally tracked you down. You were taking a bus to New York. That was your only mission here in the States that they mention. A private school up north."
He scratched his chin, the stubble getting thick, and nodded. "I met a man in 1964. He helped me." Bucky tapped his temple. "I don't know how, but…"
"Do you know his name?"
"Doesn't matter," he shrugged. "He could barely help me then. And I wasn't exactly friendly with his pal."
"You never know, he could be more help now. It's been fifty years."
Bucky just shook his head again. "Doesn't matter. I can do this without his help. I have been managing so far."
Clara pressed her lips together to keep from pushing him any further. She sat back into the chair in the corner and crossed her legs. "You hungry? Once Tony fixes your arm I'll—" Clara stopped short when her phone started ringing in her pocket.
"We'll talk later, then," he muttered, slightly thankful when Steve and Tony walked back in just as Clara left, murmuring into her phone, presumably to a patient in DC. Bucky pushed back this unfamiliar bitterness and focused on his visitors.
XXX
"Good to know you're not offended," Tony chirped, pulling the chair Clara had been sitting in closer to the bed so that he could work on Bucky's arm.
"Who said I'm not offended?" Bucky muttered, looking Tony dead in the eye, causing him to freeze for a beat before Steve let out half a laugh.
"Buck, was that a joke?"
"I understand the…need," Bucky clarified to Tony. He unbuttoned his shirt and, with a little difficulty, removed his metal arm from the sleeve so Tony could access the slots on the back of his shoulder.
"Don't start getting a sense of humor," Tony joked as he worked. "That role is taken. The sarcasm role has been filled, too."
"Pity," Bucky grunted as something sparked and a flick of pain shot up into his chest from him arm.
"Woops." Tony adjusted the position of his tools and with a louder click Bucky's arm flickered to life. "There we go." He finished and closed the slats on the back of his shoulder.
"Thanks," Bucky breathed, doing a mental check of the functionality, flexing his fingers.
Tony stood and pocketed his tools. "I'll be preoccupied for the rest of the day," Tony drawled, already heading for the door. "If you need anything else, ask…Banner."
Steve and Bucky watched as Tony left, before sharing a glance. Bucky was suddenly overly aware of the room and how small it suddenly felt. He wished he could leave the room, or push the chair away from the bed at the very least. He suddenly didn't want to be so close…so alone with Steve.
"How are you feeling?" Steve asked, pulling the chair away from the bed to put a little more distance between Bucky and himself before sitting down.
"You mean overall or the head?" Bucky asked.
Steve shrugged. "Either one."
Bucky thought about that for a minute. How was he? He, who barely knew what was going on, who he was. Well, he was Bucky. He was born in the 1900s, fell in love with a girl, was forced into the army, turned into a weapon, and spent the last half a century killing people. But now? Now he was Bucky. He was no longer being controlled. By the government. By Hydra. No one. He could walk out of the building right now and do whatever he wanted.
"I'm managing," he said simply, summing up all his thoughts into two words.
"I know Clara has probably already told you this, but I'm here for you, too, Buck," Steve started, head dropping down to look at his hands in his lap. "When we were growing up, you were there for me even when I didn't know I needed you—when I didn't want to admit I needed anyone. Even the times you don't remember." He paused and looked back up at Bucky. "I was never able to be there for you. Not once."
"Thank you, Steve, but I can get by on my own."
"The thing is—you don't have to," Steve pressed quietly.
"My sister…"
"Rebecca?" Steve's brows pulled together at the random thought. "I tried looking for her a couple years ago…"
"She's gone," Bucky said bluntly. "I saw her grave."
"I'm sorry, Buck."
"Connie looked after her for me."
"How do you know?" Steve asked slowly.
"Clara gave me some of Connie's diaries." Bucky notices the realization cross Steve's face.
"She told me she had them. Were they helpful?"
"Insightful, yes," Bucky said. "I remembered a few things. I didn't read all of them yet." He wasn't sure if he wanted to voice his next thoughts or not to Steve, unsure if he should feel that…ready yet. But a little voice in the back of his head said Bucky would, and suddenly the words were pouring out of his mouth. "The oldest entries were dated from the time we met until my funeral. The second diary…I just couldn't. She started that one a couple years after when she met…"
"She moved on," Steve supplied quietly.
"I'm not…"
"Take your time. You don't need to experience everything right now. You have time," Steve told him. "It was hard at first, trying to catch up on everything I'd missed. It was overwhelming. Eventually I just started making a list. As soon as people knew I wasn't really….acclimated to this time period, they start listing off things I need to experience." Steve laughed.
"I don't want to," Bucky argued. "I want…"
"I know what you want," Steve said so quietly it was almost inaudible. "But we can't. We can't go back to before…We can only live here and now and do what we can."
Bucky looked away from Steve finally, a different picture of Steve coming to his mind. Happy, but sad. Excited, but crushed. Without living through the whole memory he knew what this was. When Steve found out about his draft.
"You were happy about me getting drafted."
Steve pressed his lips into a line. "Not like that though, and you know it. That was all I wanted, but I knew it was the last thing you wanted."
"Yeah, well," Bucky grunted bitterly, adjusting his position on the bed. "Sorry I don't remember more."
"It's just going to take time, Buck. You'll be you no matter what you remember."
"I don't know what you expect from me. I might not be your Bucky," he said a little more harshly than he intended.
Steve smiled sadly. "I'm just looking for my best friend."
Bucky glanced over at Steve, then down at his lap where his hands, one flesh one metal, laid limp on his sweatpants. "I'm looking for him, too," he whispered brokenly, almost embarrassed by how much he was revealing to this man. But he knew him…