A/N: I initially had a different flashback at the beginning here, but I had a dream about this last night, so I decided to go with that instead :) I hope you enjoy it.
5. Will You Answer Me?
He was alone. His men had fallen. There was only one man left on the other side as well. He was a mountain, over seven feet tall and easily three hundred pounds. His age was unidentifiable. He lifted his grenade launcher and fired. Somehow, the great beast managed to evade the blast, resulting in minimal damage to his person. Then he charged. The soldier ducked and twisted, barely escaping the onslaught. He ran into the trees, which slowed the other man down somewhat.
It was fortunate that the target had already been eliminated. The house in the woods was burning to the ground. He could smell it. These men had come out of nowhere when they had tried to make their escape. It was rare that anyone was aware of his movements enough to catch up with him before he returned to base. It was troubling. His assignments were always to get in, do the job, and get out as quickly and as untraceable as possible. He supposed it may just be poor luck, but he suspected he was being tested. It was certainly a challenge.
The other man had almost single-handedly taken down five of his men before he could have intervened. Not that he would have. He reached up and caught on a branch, swinging himself up into the tree as his opponent barreled into it, the force shaking the whole trunk. He held on with his right hand and leveled his grenade launcher at him again. It didn't miss this time, but the man was not down for more than a moment. He swore bitterly, dropping from the tree and running back to where some of his men lay. Out of grenades. He dropped to his knees by the closest one and hastily rifled through his pockets, listening to the distinct sounds of the other man getting to his feet and heading in his direction. He swore again as he found a grenade at last. He assessed how close the giant was, then armed the grenade. He pressed it into the launcher and jumped to his feet.
The huge man was barely two yards away. He dropped the grenade launcher and jumped away quickly. The other laughed and picked up what he dropped. He lifted it to his shoulder, and then the grenade went off. The soldier held up his left arm to protect himself from the debris, then surveyed the wreckage, breathing heavily.
There is a hand on his shoulder; his right one. It's not sore anymore. He moves fast, rolling away and out of his bed, crouching near the window. He is ready to escape through it. He doesn't know what floor he's on; it doesn't matter.
"Easy, there, Barnes." Natasha, he remembers, forcing himself to calm down and hating that she is here, seeing him like this. It's probably worse than Steve being here. "You didn't look like you were enjoying your nap. I thought I'd help you out," she tells him.
He runs his flesh hand through his hair. "Thanks," he mumbles, not meeting her eye.
"Well, I was going to take care of some things outside, and I thought you might like to go on a mission with me. Give you something to do," she offers.
He looks down at himself. He is not dressed for a mission. He isn't really dressed at all. His jaw clenches. There are scars across his chest, his back, his remaining arm; many are faint, but they are still there. The worst ones are on his shoulder, where the metal arm connects. He knows it looks painful. He is glad to be wearing loose trousers, so she doesn't see the scars on his legs. Some are pretty nasty from the fall. He doesn't want to see any more pity on her face. He straightens, looking at her. "What kind of mission?"
"Tailing a low-level HYDRA agent to see if he'll lead us to some bigger fish," she says, leaning against the wall, arms folded. She is dressed for a mission, in close-fitting black with a utility belt and some kind of weapon on her wrists.
"Is … anyone else going?" he asks.
"No, just me. And you, if you like."
He frowns at her, perplexed that she is offering this. He thinks of what Sam said earlier, and wonders what she has heard about him. "Alright. Give me a minute," he says.
She nods. She might be smiling, but she ducks out of the room before he can be certain. He isn't sure what to wear. He has his own mission gear, of course, but doesn't know if he should risk wearing them, especially if he might be recognized by another agent. He chooses to wear the trousers, knee pads, boots, and gloves, but one of the shirts he selected earlier at the store. Black pants aren't particularly noticeable, and he wants to cover his metal arm. Who knows where tailing the agent might take them.
When he leaves his room, she is standing across from the door, leaning against the wall, as languid as a cat, and studying her fingernails. "Ready?" she asks, barely glancing up.
"Yes."
He follows her to the elevator. He listens to the soft ping as they pass floors. He is silent, and somewhat relieved that she is, too. He doesn't know how far he should trust her, even if she is Steve's friend. When they reach the basement, the doors open and she exits. He follows, cautiously. They are in a parking garage. There are a lot of vehicles there, some of which are rather impressive. He doesn't have time to inspect any, though, for she quickly walks to the least noticeable one and climbs in the driver's seat. He gets in next to her.
He tightened his grip on the sides of the seat as the vehicle skidded on two wheels, tilting dangerously. He threw his weight automatically to maintain balance, and they thudded back level. The tires squealed as they accelerated. He continued to hold on with his left arm, using his right to aim his rifle.
She drives out of the garage. He knew, at some point, where they were, but does not recognize the streets now. He finds himself unable to access the map he had memorized before finding the Tower. That is somewhat concerning, and he frowns deeply.
"You still with me, Barnes?" she asks.
He pulls himself back to the present with difficulty. "Yeah," he replies shortly.
"Good. I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me recognize some people," she says, her eyes fixed on the road.
He shrugs. "I'll do what I can," he says, noncommittally.
"Great," she says with a smile. He glances at her briefly, then looks back outside, trying to assess where they are going. He does not doubt that he can find his way back if he needs to, but is encountering an unfamiliar feeling for the beginning of a mission. Nervousness. He wonders if Bucky ever was nervous. The Winter Soldier wasn't. He wonders which of those he is more of, at this point. Maybe neither.
He had a team with him. It was snowing heavily. The men were taking cover where they could, hunkering down under canvas. He could barely see his hand in front of his face, but his goggles helped him stare into the blank whiteness. Finally, he could see lights ahead. He moved forward, not knowing or caring if the men came with him.
The car stops. He looks around, hiding his surprise. Natasha climbs out and he follows. They are in a large parking lot, for the City, and numerous tall buildings surround them. He doesn't mind the sky being shut out as much as it is, which is not expected. Many of his missions were in the wilderness; he can remember there being a lot of sky. This is more comfortable. They enter one of the buildings, and he follows her down a broad tile corridor. She stops at an elevator and they wait. She glances at him, then away. He shifts uncomfortably. He usually has more information before a mission. He doesn't know what to ask, though.
The elevator lets them off at the floor she selected. She leans out, looking around, before exiting and motioning for him to follow. The halls are silent and he wonders what sort of place this is. There are doors at regular intervals, each containing a frosted glass panel about two feet by two feet in the wood. Some are labeled with people's names and titles made up of random letters, as far as he can tell. All of the doors are closed, which is somewhat odd, since it is the middle of the day. The building does not show any obvious signs of abandonment.
The paint was peeling from the walls, what little of it remains, and mold had formed in many of the corners of the room. He stepped out of the chamber, knees buckling.
Natasha stops at one of the doors and leans against it, listening. She smiles at him, reassuringly, but the expression does not reach her eyes. He waits patiently while she picks the lock. She uses a different method from the one he usually uses, but she has some small metal tools, and he usually just has a knife. Sometimes not even a small knife. He only has one knife still in his possession; it is in his boot right now. It is comforting to have it. He does not feel prepared for a mission with only it, though.
His team was surrounding a door, speaking in whispers. He ignored them and strode forward, shifting his weight to kick it down when he reached it.
They enter the office, as it clearly is. There are filing cabinets lining the room. He stands in the middle of the room, watching her go around from drawer to drawer, removing files and piling them on the desk next to him. When there are seventeen files on the desk, she stops, apparently satisfied. He shifts his weight impatiently.
"Don't worry, Barnes, we're just getting started. Take a look at these, will you? See if anyone rings any bells," she says, dropping into the desk chair and putting her feet on the desk.
He picks up one of the files and rests it on his metal arm while he flips through it. Most of the information contained within it is text, but there are a few photos. He stares at these intently, then shakes his head. One by one, he leafs through them, searching for anything, or anyone, familiar. On the eighth one, he stops, brow furrowing as he looks at a brown-haired man in glasses and shirtsleeves, wearing a bowtie.
"Recognize him?" Natasha asks, leaning forward, interrupting his thoughts.
"Yeah," he says slowly.
She takes the file from him, gently, as though he might resist, and reads it. "He's a technician," she says, meeting his eye. "Very good with cybernetics, apparently."
"He worked on my arm," he tells her.
She nods. "Any more?" she asks, gesturing back to the pile.
He looks back at the files, and continues to go through them. Three others are familiar, but much more vaguely. He can remember the bowtie man working on him, once he saw him again. The others are just ghosts. Natasha looks through them and seems particularly interested in one man, five ten, sandy hair, one hundred ninety pounds, late twenties to early thirties.
"Okay, let's go find him," she says with a smile that reaches her eyes.