Okay, so this one at the beginning is a part where Frankie sees Bucky after a long time. She didn't know he survived the fall till now. This is based loosely on a comic called 'Prisoners of War' (Captain America). I suggest you check it out, it's amazing!
And, after that, it's just a very Bucky-centric chapter... tell me what you think? [:
-Nothing belongs to me. Just Frankie!-
-K
Gulag, Russia. 1964
"Fight, fight, fight, fight!"
The chants of the prisoners filled Frankie's ears. This place was where the dirtiest men go, the ones who've done the worst. Maybe that's why she chose to be transferred here. So much more exciting than Yugoslavia.
"Ur-sa! Ur-sa! Ur-sa!"
The growls and roars of the gigantic bear echoed in the pit. A new prisoner must be getting his initiation. She walked to the edge, people making way for her. They continued chanting, hearing thuds and cracks from the fight. She put her hand on the railing, looking down spitefully. She hated this, the whole idea of some person having to fight for their life to even begin living here. She remembered when she came, and she had to do the same. Not with a bear, of course. Just some grisly man who thought he had her in his clutches and could wrap her around his finger.
She snapped his neck in two.
But whoever had to fight the bear, he must've been hated. She saw a flash of silver, and the mark of a red star.
It wasn't uncommon for prisoners to have prosthetics. One of the top fighters had a metal arm as well. She had no idea.
The fight was brutal. Ursa picked up the man like he was nothing and threw him into the snow. But, he fought back like a tiger. Punches, kicks, head-locks, you name it. Something reminded her of that fighting style. Military. KGB.
It was over when Ursa took a major blow to the face. That shattered his jaw, probably fractured his skull, too. He was done. For now.
The man was kneeled over, panting in the snow. She could see sweat coated on his back, his head hanging low, dark brown hair in his face. One of the people came out as three men dragged Ursa away, and pulled him up, raising his arm. The sounds of booes and cheers were scattered, but to Frankie there was silence when she recognized the face. She felt a stabbing pain in her heart, a dozen memories coming back.
How the fuck is Bucky Barnes alive?
"Who will lay claim to the victor?" the man shouts in Russia. Whenever the person wins, a certain gang takes them in and teaches them everything they know. One, a pack of Germans looked hungry for him, but Frankie raised her head. She didn't have a gang, but she got along just fine without one.
"I will." she replies, raising her hand and silence swept over the crowd like a plague. All eyes turned to her, even the man's tired eyes went to hers. She didn't look at anyone but him, and he only looked at her.
"You have no one, salope!" someone cried in French. She looked to the man who she knew had spoken to her.
"Quiet, Remy, you bâtard. I know where you sleep and I will gut you like a pig and display your innards to your children when I am done." she spat, and he glared at her but remained silent. She looked back in the arena and nodded to the man, walking inside.
He sat inside a cell waiting for her. Normally, the person would get another beating from the gang to toughen them up, but to Frankie, that wasn't the case. She pulled up a chair, sitting infront of him. He wore a tattered prison jacket, his clothes nearly soaked from the snow. His head was low, and he was looking at his hands.
"What is your name?" she inquired in Russia.
"The Winter Soldier." he replied numbly. She leaned over, grabbing his chin and yanking his face up to hers. She looked into his eyes, the eyes she had known to love and cherish and longed to look at for 20 years. But now, they were empty, lifeless, cold.
"I said, a name." she said, her green eyes peircing through his. He looked at her, and she knew. He didn't even know his own name. But she knew it was him. She knew it in her gut.
"Fine, soldat." she hissed, letting go of him a little more gently than she should have.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
But then again, what wasn't real lately?
Bucky was plagued with nightmares every time his eyes shut. He couldn't sleep, and he tossed and he turned on Frances' couch. His mind was tired, but his body was in working order. He stood up, looking around. He walked to a bathroom, feeling for the light switch and turned it on. He looked at himself, in the mirror, at his reflection. He didn't know what to expect, or what to do. He just stared. His eyes looked so empty, so tired, so afraid. He definitely needed a shave, that was for sure. He took off his hoodie, then the thin shirt he wore under it. He had snagged it from a small clothing store to make up for his black suit he ditched after getting out of the river. He smelled, and was sweaty, and just felt dirty. He took a washcloth and ran the water, scrubbing at his skin, wanting to wash away all the memories and pain. But, of course, that wouldn't happen.
He did feel better, though, after that. Smelled better, too. He would take care of his face later, not really caring for the scruff. He looked around in the medicine cabinet, accidentally knocking a few things over before finding a comb. He put the things that had dropped back inside gingerly, then shut the door. He looked at his reflection, then began to comb it out. It was a hell of a job, and it made him look for scissors several times, but found none. He finally got it to something suitable, and could brush it back freely. He put the comb back where he found it, careful not to knock anything over this time. He pulled back on his shirt, his eyes tearing away from the reflection. He walked out, and realized there were no sounds or signs of human life in the apartment. Frances had left.
He suddenly felt a pain in his stomach. Hunger.
He walked out, and was surprised to see little pieces of paper on certain things. He walked to a large rectangular box.
'This is the TV. This button turns it on. Do NOT break it' it read, an arrow pointing to a black button in the corner. He rolls his eyes, walking into the kitchen and saw more notes. One on a cabinet labeled 'DO NOT OPEN' and he did anyway, seeing rows of bottles of alcohol. He shuts it, moving on. He saw another box in the corner, reading the note on that one.
'This is the microwave. Put food in it to be warm and press 1. Do NOT put forks/spoons in'.
That could be useful. He took out a piece of bread, and saw something actually familiar. He walked over to the toaster, thanking Frankie for having a device he actually knew how to use. He put it inside, pressing down the lever and waited a few moments before it popped up with a ding. He rifled around her fridge and found some butter, putting it on. He ate it gratefully, but it wasn't enough.
He raided the fridge and took anything that was edible out and piled it all into one sandwich. He did find out one thing, he did NOT like pickles. They were vile.
He drank a whole carton of milk, and tossed everything into a trash bin. Frankie was probably gonna kill him for eating almost everything.
He eventually found a note explaining her absence. 'I'm going out for a bit. Please don't burn the apartment down, love. Thanks. xx -Frankie' He was going to crumble it up, but then realized how something so small could mean something to him. He folded it, sticking it in his pocket, feeling the words burn through it.
He walked into the living room, walking to the bookcase. There were no pictures, but so many books. He went over encyclopedias, dictionaries from different languages, atlases, and other books. He saw one, one that had obviously been read many many times. He pulled out the battered copy, holding it gingerly in his hands, afraid it was going to fall apart.
'The Philosophers Stone' it read, with a boy with black mangly hair, glasses, and a lightning scar on his forehead. He didn't even read what it was about before sitting and opening the book, delving into the world of Harry Potter.