Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, architect, and guardian of the trigger words buried deep in the Soldier's brain had never felt the bite of her own sting. The roll to her knees, the disoriented sway were followed by a nearly silent hiss of pain when she flexed the fractured hand. Flashes of recent events rolled through her memory. What stood out was the Soldier, their hands embraced together on the shield, fingers entwined on the stun prod as they drove it into his neck, the blinding white light when the shock rode through their bodies. A smile crept across her face; she rasped, "Glorious, Soldat." Her celebration was interrupted by Sharon.
"You poor thing, what a terrible disappointment, the way he turned on you, that shock must have hurt like H-E-double L." Her commentary didn't stop her struggle to escape the metal railing restraint she was in, courtesy of Bucky. A small bead of sweat formed at her temple, the only outward sign she allowed regarding the 18-story drop that nipped at her heels. "Although let's face it, that was karma with a cherry on top. Now, come on over here and help me get out of this mess."
Mother's look of post-shock confusion was short-lived. Her expression turned hard, her defense, quiet, even as she cradled her deformed hand, "He never meant to hurt me."
Sharon sighed while she pushed against the metal around her waist, "Oh, right, that was an oops. The crushed hand, while he shocked the shit out of you, was a mistake. We call that adding insult to injury. Not sure how you say that in Russian." A mumbled litany of swear words intensified when the rusted bolts holding the railing creaked in response to her movement. She paused to glance at the old Widow kneeling next to her, "Here, I'm not busy, no worries, let me help you up." Her extended hand was slapped aside. "Ok, fine, do it yourself."
Sokolov pulled in a long tight-lipped breath to launch a Russian expletive-filled rant that echoed through the bay as she staggered herself upright. A slow move to shove the displaced hair back from her face revealed her growing look of fierce determination as her gaze fell towards where she knew the Soldier would have gone. Deep into the bowels of the complex to find the Captain.
An echo of debris hitting the filth-infested bottom of the launch silo escalated Sharon's attempt to win over the Widow, "He's so ungrateful. You've protected him all these years, nurtured him and what thanks does he give you? Turns your righteous discipline into payback, stomps on your toy. Now he's running off to save his friend, boyfriend, no less, defying you. He's nothing but a wild-child masquerading in a man's body." She threw in a discretionary afterthought, "But he's your wild-child of course. How about some help here?"
Sokolov's gaze fell on Sharon. A hint of a smile crossed her face when her eyes locked on how she hung at the edge of the silo, trapped by the railing, "My Soldat did not want you to escape did he?" She kicked the broken stun prod over the edge, the rattle of its fall ended in a dull and distant thud. "There are always more weapons like these but only one Soldier. You are in no position to ridicule me or him, child. I suspect your former friends will be in here soon enough." She waved towards the blast doors. "A double agent Ms. Carter is a dangerous game, no loyalties, no grounding. You may have disdain for my methods, but my loyalty to the Soldier is unwavering. In the end, he will remain loyal to Mother. He always has, I trust he will prove himself loyal again." She turned towards the corridor that led below.
Sharon hissed as her wriggle down to escape took her breath, "Hey you know, your boy's losing it. I saw it myself. Self-dialogue, heartbreaking." Her push up freed her chest; she gasped "Scary to see such a specimen descend into madness. He nearly killed me, he blew it, needs you I guess. Gone soft. Probably those auditory hallucinations yammering on." An absent gesture towards her head, "You can see it in his eyes when he's listening to it." Her moves to slide free past the jagged edge of metal raked across her skin and tore at her clothes. A groaned, "He gets that damn spooky far-away look. Blathers on out loud." Her forced shudder ended in "Freaky."
The old Widow stared down the darkened corridor, "Ms. Carter, you still do not understand our connection. He needs me now more than ever. That Voice has been there for years; I put it there to control him, the trigger words, the conditioning, all my work. Only I can undo it. If I choose to. If he truly wants that. But I suspect, in the end, he will choose me." She stepped again to follow the Soldier.
A sudden explosion at the blast door hinge upped Sharon's urgency, "Wait, let's work together. I need your help; you need my help, your hand is broken, he's a mess. We can double-team him. I can help you control him. I've already planned our escape; there's a van in the woods, keys under the mat, tranquilizers, restraints. We've got this. I've even stowed away a nice new stun prod, state-of-the-art, black, packs a sincere wallop." She doubled her efforts to squeeze between the railing pieces and tried to ignore the grating noise coming from the loosening bolts at her feet.
Sokolov held her step and gazed over her shoulder towards Sharon. "You've thought of everything my dear. Perhaps you're right. I should consider all options including keeping enemies close." She moved to search through a large tool chest.
"Yes, great. Let's get the hell out of here. Find a crowbar, something to pry this apart. So here's the plan. We lose the granny-1960's spy look and get you into the 21st Century; we'll get you a sleek Mohawk cut, throw some color in there, all black outfit, you'll outshine that turn-coat Widow Romanova. Hell, a new look, maybe your Soldier will develop a thing for older women." The grinding noise of the doors being breached pushed her fight to escape and her words into over-drive, "Speaking of secrets in his head. Now that you've got them all, how about we take advantage of that? We get the money; we use the names, places to our advantage. You, me and that asshole, I mean asset. Hey, maybe a threesome? Nope, nevermind, just a little stressed here. Forget I suggested it."
The echoing sound of gunfire and the ping of the vibranium shield wafted up from the depths of the corridor stopped both of their efforts. Sokolov squinted into the darkness, the flashes of light from the firefight pulsed brightly then faded slowly away to finally end. "Soldat?" She turned towards the fading sounds.
Sharon growled, "Dammit, Sokolov, help me get loose. Time for some in your face truth. It's too late for him. Barnes, the asset, the Soldier whatever you call him is a piece of ..." She caught the look of anger on Sokolov's face, "Okay, don't mind me, it's just displaced anger towards Rogers, nothing personal against your boy, it's just, you know, jilted lover, blah, blah, blah." She wriggled and shimmied, straining to pull free as the railing creaked and swayed. "Look, we both know Shostokov's gonna toss him around like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum with his stuffed teddy bear. Then he's gonna kill him and Rogers. It'll be over before you get there. Let's you and I get the hell out of here." She pulled one butt-cheek nearly free and rested on the edge of the railing as it wobbled precariously under her weight.
Sharon hissed when the old Widow continued to stare down the corridor, "Can you smell that disgusting odor wafting up the hallway, that's testosterone. The not-so-alluring stench of too much of it, the three of them, fighting it out over what? A lost love? Give me a fucking break. I'm gonna puke. Let's get out of here. We'll find you a new boy-crush, or girl-crush, whatever." Her eyes darted to the sound of pounding on the blast doors, "Speaking of testosterone overload here comes Fury, he's gonna be in here, and you'll finally get to see the Raft, up close and personal."
The rush of adrenalin as the doors slowly ground open assaulted Sharon's brain and took over her logic, she ramped up her tirade, "You can't think he cares about you? The way you've treated him. Stun prods, abuse, seventy years of control, all well and good in a consenting adult BDSM relationship sure, maybe great even," she threw in a shrug. "But this, what you have with him...sick just plain sick. Have you ever seen how that relic Rogers looks at him? The devotion is disgusting but undeniable. Nevermind how Barnes looks at Rogers, a complete jackass level of adoration, that, you-saved-my-soul kind of look. I don't even need to stick my finger down my throat on that one. Girlfriend, you are completely oblivious to how he looks at you. Pure disgust."
The jolt of pain that tore through her gut knocked the wind out of her words. She blinked the Widow into focus, first the cold glare, then the thin-line of a smile. Sharon's eyes fell next to the hand wrapped around the handle of a screwdriver. The one that was buried up to its hilt angled up into her gut.
"You bitch." A thin spittle of blood fell as she spoke.
Sokolov murmured, "You, Agent Carter, talk too much. A very unfortunate trait in our line of work."
It took Mother three full kicks to break the railing from its moorings. She remained impassive towards Sharon's desperate attempts to snag at her arms, and drag on her clothing. Her whisper, "And some enemies you kill my dear," was the last thing Sharon heard as her scream mingled with the grate of metal tearing away from concrete as she hurtled to the bottom of the silo.
Mother smiled as the inner blast doors that secured the lower reaches closed behind her, leaving Fury and his team scrambling through the launch bay. A well-placed screwdriver shorted out the controls. Her steps quickened as she descended into the darkness, "Hold on, my Soldat, Mother is on her way."
Bucky settled the shield on his forearm; the sudden white-hot light blinded him to the red leather freight train that was Shostokov as he crashed into his chest and drove him off his feet. Air rushed from his lungs when he landed draped over his shoulder.
Both Steve and the Voice shouted the unnecessary advice. "Use the shield!" He drove the edge hard into Alexei's lower back.
A shock of pain jarred through his body when Shostokov slammed him into the wall. Nausea rolled in as the follow-through cracked his head against the concrete. The warm wetness that spilled down his neck sent a rush of angry urgency through him that was sidetracked by the knee jammed into his groin.
"Soldat, get your shit together. Another hit like that, and you'll never have sex again."
The muffled groan was more for the Voice than it was for the hit.
"Do you remember me, Soldat?" The words snarled close to his face, the tone and lilt tore at his memory. The man's voice brought back the cold sickness that wrapped around Bucky when the memories of the Red Room came. Stuttering images flashed across his mind; the blood and sweat of the fighting pits, a kind touch, angry words, a warmth that flowed into a static cold, a formidable giant of a man that wanted him dead. He shook away the final image of Mother.
A spit attempt at an answer was cut short by a gloved hand that pressed tight around his neck. Bucky braced a foot on the wall and drove his metal fist hard into the red skin and sunken face. A guttural growl spilled out as he rammed the shield into Shostokov's hip. Flesh and ribs gave to the force of his metal hand as he pounded into his gut.
Shostokov caught his arm, the torque of equal strength brought them to an impasse. Bucky pulled in a stifled breath when the weight of Alexei's body pressed onto his chest.
"You don't remember me?" Shostokov found a mocking tone despite the fractured ribs, "Of course not, the memory suppression machine. You have, issues, with your memory." A gloved finger stroked across the burn on his throat. "But you remembered her name just now. Alena." He drew out the syllables as he fingered his neck. "I heard you say her name, Soldat."
The plates in the metal arm shifted, Bucky yanked down to break free of Alexei's grip and pounded into his kidney. "Fuck." The expletive spewed out when a knee drove into his groin again. The shield crashed against the red face, then down to his hip, back to his face. His lungs screamed for air as the hand around his throat tightened down. He stayed focused on Alexei's kidney. The arm sensors registered its progress; the internal bleeding sent a vague tingling sensation creeping into his brain as the flesh gave to his efforts. He knew the feeling from a recipient's point of view and pushed harder.
The crash of the IV pump as it hit the back of Shostokov's head startled them both. His groan and gasp for air gave Bucky the inch of space he needed to snag the shield edge on the point of Alexei's jaw and rake it across his face, taking a layer of thin red skin.
Bucky fell away and scrambled back to Steve, he spun towards Alexei, pressed his leg against Steve's thigh and panted his thanks, "Nice throw." The press of Steve's hand on his hip settled his pounding heart; his hand swung back to wrap around Steve's wrist. The sweat and screaming memories didn't relent to his head shake. He balanced the shield, his stance, and his curiosity. He muttered, "Shit. What the hell happened to you?"
Shostokov flexed his anger down into his fists, a menacing prowl arced near Bucky then away. He ignored the question and the bleeding flap of skin that hung from his cheek. He growled, "A lifetime of planning went into this moment. I don't care about the old woman's secrets. Hydra is dying. Their secrets can die in your head when I'm done with you." He waved a dismissive hand and mocked, "Look at you, a shivering, pathetic echo of the powerful weapon that Hydra made. I had hoped for more of a challenge at our final match, Soldat."
Bucky took a deep, steadying breath and addressed the heart of the matter quietly, "I never touched her."
Shostokov veered his arc closer. "Liar. You killed her."
"No. I live with the dead on my kill list; she's not one of them. Her death belongs to you."
An angry tremor shook his hand as Alexei pointed and spat, "Your doing, asset. You soiled her mind. Turned her against me."
"She was kind to me. That was her only mistake. Well, and trusting you. Do your soul some good, if you have one, and admit it. We'll be dead soon, so we won't tell. You killed her. Right?"
Shostokov paced, growled, clenched his fists, then stopped so close to Bucky he could see the blood beading along the gash on his face. He whispered, "My hand. Your indiscretion. It had to be done."
Steve breathed "Damn, that's cold."
Bucky rolled his metal shoulder while the confession settled in his memory. He let a near snarl cross his face, "I remember you now. I beat the shit out of you on more than one occasion for the education and entertainment of the Red Room which I'm guessing is the real reason for this revenge journey of yours."
Shostokov spun away to prowl again; seconds passed, "I must make a crude but relevant observation, Soldat. You have balls. Metaphorically speaking. You spoke her name today after all these years, yet shed not one tear for her death?"
Steve's hand gripped Bucky's hip tighter. He whispered, "Ignore him. He's just trying to get under your skin."
Bucky's shaking fingers tightened around Steve's wrist. "Yup, done this before. Got it."
Shostokov's laugh started quietly but grew to a crescendo. Its echo underscored his words, "Although, the entertaining video of your past that the Captain has been watching provides undeniable evidence that you have anatomical balls as well. At least at the time when the film was created."
Bucky's murmured "Shit," made it clear the words hit their mark as his gaze shifted away from Shostokov only to dart back. The whispered, "Steve?" brought another round of snarling laughter. His grip on Steve's wrist loosened.
"Buck, he's a lying piece of crap." Steve wrapped his hand in the back of his vest and shook him. "We've got this, hang in with me." The cold sweat and tremors rolled over him with the effort to pull his fractured leg from the footrest. He pushed to lift himself using the IV pole but fell back to the chair with each attempt.
Bucky shook his head and swatted at Steve, "Sit still. I'm ok. I got this. Just don't fall and break the other leg."
This fight was inevitable. He dug deep into his psyche to find the Soldier, hoping he'd settle the tremors, quiet the self-doubt, and abandon the shame he felt creeping in with Shostokov's words. The Voice employed its usual disappearing act.
Bucky and Shostokov fell with comfort into the old routine. Watching for the tics and tells of an opponent, they let the moment hang silently between them before they both charged.
The clang of the shield reverberated in the small concrete room as it careened off the wall and plowed into Shostokov's back pushing a grunted breath and a staggered step that didn't stop his forward motion.
Bucky threw everything he had into the fight. The metal fist landed high and low, driving deep into the flesh; the sound of ribs and facial bones cracking, specks of blood filling the hand joints; it all brought on a strangely comforting feeling. The unrelenting rhythmic coordination that came from years of being the Soldier all fell into place. His anxiety-filled mind fell away as his focus narrowed down to the reassuring thuds, groans and expelled air that filled his hearing during a brawl.
The familiarity of a fight nearly threw off his guard. He caught sight of the knife just before it sliced across his throat, the head jerk away avoided the death-cut but not the cut that blinds. A rush of blood cascaded down his face as the blade sliced across his temple, blinding him to the fist that crashed into his face and laid him flat on the floor.
Bucky panted desperate breaths as Shostokov dug his fist into his hair and dragged him across the room. His panic rose full-force as he kicked and slid in his own blood. He grabbed the hand in his hair, struggled to get from his knees to his feet. His gut ached clear through to his back as Alexei pounded his fist into the soft flesh of his abdomen. He threw his hands up trying to avert the looming wall, but a hard shake knocked him off his feet, he fell forward, Alexei finished the move, slamming his head into the concrete. A rainbow of sparkling, cascading light filled his vision; a unicorn seemed to dance through his mind as his body crumpled to the floor and his vision turned to darkness.
Shostokov stood over Bucky's limp body, his effort to breath hampered by the aftereffects of a brawl and the distinctive damage inflicted by a metal fist. Thick rivulets of sweat mingled with blood crisscrossed his face and neck. He drove a foot into Bucky's gut and leaned over him, "I will admit, you were tougher than I gave you credit for but in the end. I win the..." His words were cut short by the stab of pain that ripped through his back. His spin around to face his attacker, dragged the IV pole turned spear from Steve's hands and left it firmed planted in his back. "Captain. You can't save him. Or yourself for that matter." He pulled the offending pole from his back and stalked forward.
Steve hopped on one foot, "Maybe not. If we only die once, I'm gonna die with him." He braced for the impending hit but added, "Fighting your sorry ass."
Bucky thought he was dreaming. In it, he heard someone yelling at him to wake up. Maybe it was his Ma or Steve's Ma. Either way, he ignored it. The dark sleep was too good, too comforting. He fought against the insistent urging, but it kept waffling in and out of his mind. It sounded a little like Steve. "What the hell is he yelling about?" Even the Voice seemed to be agitated and returned to narrate the scene.
"Soldat, you better get your ass in gear."
The longer he drifted, the louder the sounds became until it turned into a scream of pain that tore apart the darkness. It sounded a lot like Steve. Hearing him scream was such a god-damned foreign concept that his mind told him it was just another nightmare. He fought to stay floating above the chaos, reveling in the darkness.
"Soldat! You piece of shit. Get up! He's killing Steve!"
His eyes flew open.
Every fiber of his being ached as he staggered to his feet, dug at the small blade under his vest and tore across the room to land on Shostokov's back. His arms and legs wrapped around him, tightening down the torque of his metal arm, riding out the staggering pace, screaming until his voice turned to shreds.
He drove the knife towards Alexei's neck, their hands locked together on the handle.
Shostokov staggered and groaned, twisting to shake Bucky's grip. The knife bounced and jittered along his skin, droplets of blood forming with every nick and cut as they spun and danced in their struggle. A crash into the wall, a spin to wipe Bucky's body across the chair, then a final desperate move, he threw himself back towards the floor.
Bucky let go as they hurtled downward. He landed next to Shostokov, his metal arm taking the full weight of Alexei's fall. The move saved him a whole lot of hurt but still took his wind. A split-second to mutter "Fuck" was all Shostokov needed to drag and jerk him to his hands and knees. The spinning and flashing lights settled down to the blurry image of a blond man that looked a lot like Steve lying near him. He blinked through the blood and throbbing to bring the unmoving body and face into focus. He strained to see his chest move, desperate to know if he was still breathing.
"All that pain and work and here we are. You die, he dies." Shostokov panted in his ear. Bucky struggled against the arm around his neck and the leg that wrapped around his metal arm. He spit "Fuck you," and tried to rise from his knees. Shostokov's arm tightened, lifting his weight to dangle by his neck; he jerked his body.
"You always had such a foul mouth. Soldat. Mother would be so displeased."
Shostokov knelt behind him, his arms and leg holding him tight to his body, his hand slid through the wetness that covered his face, his fingers toyed with his hair, scraped along the knife wound and pulled the blood onto his hand. A muted laugh close to Bucky's ear as he licked the sticky residue, "To the victor goes the spoils. Yes?"
A sob rose in Bucky's chest, the last thing he wanted during his final breath on this earth. He dove into a gut-wrenching scream that emptied his soul. Flesh fingers twitched at the feel of a knife handle, his hand shot up and found it's mark, to bury the blade deep in Shostokov's eye. The rush of blood and fluid washed over his fingers making his hand slide to crash into the destroyed flesh.
Shostokov's scream filled his hearing but the arm tightened around his throat, dragging him back, cutting off his air. A hand grabbed his forehead, he fought against the twist and torque as Shostokov worked to snap his neck.
"So damned tired Soldat, just let him end it all. This is what you've wanted for so long. To rest. Finally to sleep without dreaming. Let him do it."
"Valid point, Barnes." His own thoughts weighed in on the situation, "Maybe it's time to check out. Let go. Finally get some damn sleep. Let him do it. Steve will be ok. He's dead, just like you. Maybe on the other side, you'll meet up. Oh, wait. You'll be in hell. He won't. Nevermind."
Bucky's vision faded, his lungs burned for air, he heard his own gasping struggle and Shostokov's grunting efforts, and in the background of what was left of his senses he heard Steve say "Fight him, you jerk, or I'll kill you myself." Bucky would have laughed if he had any air left. His hand swung up, slapping and fumbling until he found the handle; he twisted the blade until his wrist burned with the spasm of pain. Shostokov's body twitched; his arm went limp, his weight fell heavy against Bucky's back. The tight grip of his leg around the metal arm dropped away as his body toppled to one side, a long agonal breath grew quiet.
The hungry gasps for air didn't keep Bucky from scrambling towards Steve. The shaky head-to-toe exam ended with him sprawled across his body, curled around him, his head riding the in and out of his breathing, listening to his heartbeat. "I thought you were dead."
"Nope. Not yet, anyway." Steve pulled him as tight to himself as he could. His eyes followed the small figure as she sat cross-legged a few feet away, a bloody screwdriver in her hand. He sighed and mouthed, "Thank you."