A/N: Thanks for the feedback :) Please read and review! Fair warning, this one's pretty distressing.

11. I am Human Debris

Time passes slowly. The sun sets. He doesn't move. He is aware that he was somewhere else for a while, but he's back now. The memory that came was not an unpleasant one. He was taking care of Steve. He waits. He wonders what Steve thought when he noticed him missing. He wonders if he saw what he'd done to the Wall of Valor. He considers whether he was justified in crossing out the name. Bucky was a hero. It's not Bucky's fault his body was used for such evil after he died.

He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his knees. His neck relaxes for the first time in hours, and it is a relief. He folds his arms more tightly so no light reaches his closed eyelids. The metal of his arm is cold against his cheek. It's always cold. It needs to be. He sighs slowly, watching in the dim light as his breath briefly causes the shiny surface of his arm to fog up. He leans his head back against the bed frame again, staring out the window. The last rays of sunshine disappear behind the horizon, and the room becomes soft blue and violet.

There is a knock at the door suddenly, causing him to jump to his feet in a defensive stance facing the source of the sound. He forces his jaw to unclench and his muscles to relax, though his breathing is still labored. He walks to the door and opens it. He is surprised to find Sam standing there.

"Hey, I got a text from Steve. You okay, man?" he asks.

"Yes."

Sam can tell he is lying. He wishes his body was not betraying him by being so alarmed by the interruption. Sam smiles at him, and he expects the pitying look to come, but it doesn't. The smile is genuine. He shifts his weight from foot to foot in discomfort. "You hungry? I can whip up something," Sam offers.

He considers. If he wants to eat, he will no doubt have to endure questions from Sam. And then Steve, whenever he gets back. He wishes for an excuse to avoid that, and longs to be asleep again. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. "No," he says and starts to close the door.

"Hang on a sec, James," Sam says, and the soldier stops. "Can I tell Steve you're here?" He hesitates, cocking his head. "He's pretty worried about you."

"Fine," he replies, and closes the door before Sam can interject again.

"Let me know if you change your mind!" Sam calls through the door and he resists the urge to punch something.

Forcing himself to stay calm, he goes back to where he had been sitting. He finds it is impossible to get comfortable again. Sighing, he climbs onto the bed and leans against the wall, still dressed from the mission. He doesn't want to sleep. He isn't going to sleep. Things will come back if he goes to sleep, so he won't. He will just wait. He will not close his eyes. He isn't that tired. He can stay awake.

He was marching through the snow, his team arrayed behind him. There was a light up ahead, presumably the home of his target. They moved stealthily forward, pausing behind trees as they went. It was unwise to have such thick woods so close to the house. There was a clearing that stretched about fifteen feet from the building. When they reached it, he motioned for the others to stop, and they took cover. He didn't. He stood at the edge of the treeline, unconcerned, and assessed the task ahead.

Yellow light spilled out of two of the upstairs windows, probably bedrooms, and one long window on the ground floor, presumably a living room of some kind. He was motionless as he stared into the windows. None had shades drawn to hide their contents. There was a man, roughly six foot, two hundred pounds, late thirties, in the room on the ground floor, his attention on a flickering screen. He seemed to be alone, though the window did not afford an adequate perspective for him to be sure. In the upstairs rooms, there was a woman (five foot six, one hundred fifty pounds, early thirties) and child (roughly three feet in height, forty pounds, under ten) in one, and another child (four foot six, eighty pounds, about ten) in the other. The woman was seated on the edge of the bed, which contained the child. The other child was looking out the window.

He didn't move, waiting to see if the child would notice their presence. He didn't expect her to, but did not want to allow the family time to escape. He had his orders. He watched patiently until the child turned from the window and went to bed, turning the light off. He strode forward, across the clearing and around to a door on the other side of the house from the occupied living room. Getting the door open was no difficulty; he had been briefed and knew there wouldn't be any kind of alarm. Still, he kept silent so he could take care of what he needed to how it needed to be done.

The door he opened was not a main entrance. It opened onto a laundry room, which led him to the kitchen. He moved quietly down the hallway and through the kitchen, pausing at the doorway leading to the living room. He pressed himself against the wall and listened. There were voices, but they came from the television the man was watching. The man himself was silent, and didn't appear to be moving. He crouched low to reduce his profile and moved silently behind the couch on which the man sat. Then he stood and reached down with his left hand to cover the man's mouth and pull him backwards.

The man struggled, unsurprisingly. He tried to scream, but he tightened his grip on his face until he whimpered in pain. He pulled the target onto his feet behind the couch, then pulled him up the stairs. The man was focused on trying to escape his grasp; he didn't take the opportunity to try to warn his family by making a lot of noise. Not that it would have mattered.

He stopped them in front of the first bedroom, the one containing only the child. Using his right arm, he pulled out a silenced pistol and shot her. It was quick and clean; she wouldn't have felt it. The target in his grasp was strongly affected, though, and it took some effort to maintain his grip. He pulled roughly in the direction of the other room. The target seemed more concerned about warning his family now, and was making a lot of noise.

The door was locked when he reached it, sounds indicating that it was being barricaded. He shifted his weight and kicked it hard, near the handle, and watched it splinter. There were screams inside. He kicked again, and whatever they had been pushing in front of the door was moved sufficiently to let him in. He pulled the target in front of him, shifting his grip to be around the neck, and pushed him through first. The woman was standing in front of her child, pointing a gun at him. Her hands were trembling and he did not expect her aim to be any threat.

He lifted his pistol and killed the child behind her in one shot. She turned around and grabbed at the lifeless body, shrieking. The target strained at his grip, crying out as best he could with the limited air supply.

"HYDRA is disappointed, doctor," he said quietly. They both fell silent, staring at him in surprise. Then they both started talking, frantically, at once. He ignored them, surveying the room for what he needed. There was only one chair. He swung the man into it and bound him there with the rope from his belt. The woman ran forward and beat on him with her fists as he worked. When he was finished, he dragged her to the floor behind the chair, and bound her to the other side. They begged and screamed at him, rocking the chair. It wasn't very sturdy; it wouldn't hold for long. He stepped back, surveying them. He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly feeling unease.

Footsteps could be heard behind him. One of his team came up behind him. "We need to go, sir," he said urgently. He glanced between the soldier and the two targets on the floor. "Finish it."

He took out a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it in their midst. Then he turned and walked away, the explosion warming his back. The other man had hurried away when he'd pulled out the grenade. He followed him out of the building, aware that it was catching fire. He hoped the targets were already dead, and not waiting to burn alive. This wasn't like his usual missions, he thought vaguely.

His team surrounded him as they walked back to their vehicle. He allowed himself to be loaded into it, a growing confusion filling him as they drove. He became agitated. The members of the team who were in the vehicle with him moved further away. He clenched and unclenched his fists, grabbing the bench underneath him. His metal fingers dented it deeply. One of the men got on his radio, speaking in English, distress apparent in his voice.

They arrived back at base. The men climbed quickly out of the truck. He didn't move. At some point, someone joined him. The man in the suit. He recognized him vaguely. "Mission report," he ordered.

"Targets destroyed," he replied impassively.

"How?"

He closed his eyes. "Two children each killed with one slug in the head. Woman and man killed by grenade."

"Are you sure?"

He opened his eyes, staring at the other man, brow furrowed. "Yes."

The man sat back, regarding him. "Did you deliver the message?" He nodded silently, looking away. "I see. Would you rather not get that close to your targets?" He shrugged. "Or was it because they were children?"

"I… I'd rather make it fast," he said hesitantly.

The man clapped him on the shoulder. "That's just fine. We'll make sure it is next time. Now, come inside." He followed obediently.