""at the latest I'll be posting again in january"" snickers
17
The next week passes with minimal incident. If not for his relief, Bucky would probably feel disappointed. He knows Steve does; Barton has been sending Bucky oddly-angled videos of Steve moping around the Tower when he isn't visiting Bucky. Bucky discovers emojis on the second day and begins replying solely with the cute little faces and hand gestures. Barton finds it hilarious. Steve is of the opposite mindset at first, but Bucky soon wins him over with cat faces and judicious uses of the middle finger icon. Besides, stitching together actual messages with mere pictures is a nice exercise, calming. By Tuesday Steve is looking noticeably happier.
As the temperature continues to cool, Bucky experiments with his hot chocolate options. He finds a nice way to add alcohol to his drink that Natasha appreciates when she stops by halfway through the week.
"Is this rum?" she asks, taking another experimental sip.
"Rum, cinnamon, honey, brown sugar, and vanilla extract," Bucky lists. Then he considers the towering white puff on top of Natasha's mug. "And whipped cream."
Natasha's expression goes from bright curiosity to satisfied bliss within the next three sips. "Send me the recipe."
He does.
Stark calls on Thursday to ask about Steve's favorite foods, citing that he's trying to "bond with the guy leading the team I'm financing, you know." Bucky sends Stark a short list and gets a plethora of emojis in return. Stark probably thinks he's going to confuse Bucky; fortunately, Bucky's emoji literacy has skyrocketed and he replies in kind. Stark doesn't have a text-based response. Instead, Bucky gets a drone-delivered package a couple of hours later with a strange gel pad inside. Stark's note says it's a new shock-absorbent technology. For stress.
Bucky doesn't read too deeply into it and mounts the pad on the wall in his living room.
Barton swings by on Friday to try the hot chocolate Natasha has been advertising back at the Tower. His reaction is far more vocal than Natasha's but pleasing nonetheless. He also insists on being sent the recipe. Bucky then has the Gomez family over for lunch and tells them that they are welcome to bring Oreo. While they eat and chat, Oreo wanders under the table, trying to find whiffs of the apartment she used to know.
All of these easy interactions culminate in Bucky waking up on Saturday with the knowledge that today is a day he can afford to be unsettled. James is waiting for him at the breakfast table and watches in silence as Bucky prepares a quick omelet and bacon. He speaks only after Bucky finishes the last of his apple juice and sets the empty glass by his empty plate.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" James asks. He is not the teenager or the new soldier; his face is dusty, tired, wary. Even if Bucky is centered, James still reflects his hovering anxiety.
"I have to."
This isn't something he can do in the Tower. He can't do it with Steve around, either. This apartment is more than an escape from the Tower for Bucky; within it, he can freely talk with James and not worry about JARVIS or another Avenger picking up on his strange habit. Here, he can freely explore who he is with James. At the Tower, he had to snatch moments of true introspection from his rare periods of solitude.
"What are you, Batman?" James asks from across the table. Bucky tips his chair onto its back legs.
"Can I do it?"
James shifts uncomfortably. "Probably. It's risky. You know what could happen if you can't keep grounded."
Bucky lets his chair fall back onto four legs. "I won't let that happen."
James fixes him with a weary look. "Pal, we've thought that before."
Bucky stares right back. He has been living on his own for weeks now; in that time, he has gotten new clothes, learned new recipes, and made new friends. He has established a baseline for himself and knows that his apartment is a safe space. When he believed in his self-control before, he did not have these things. Now he does. The life he has built here is a cushion, a buffer between the here and now and the there and then.
So Bucky stands from the table, cleans his dishes, and goes into his living room. He sits cross-legged on the couch, closes his eyes, and focuses on the indistinct presence in the back of his mind.
"You're really doing it," James says from right next to Bucky. Bucky doesn't react. "Come on, pal, it's dangerous. Having Steve here—he could stop us if it goes wrong."
"It won't go wrong," Bucky says. "I won't let it."
"The issue is that the I is going to change," James says, but his voice is changing, gaining a slight burr to it as Bucky pokes at the thing sleeping in his head. "You won't be the same guy in two minutes. That guy might not have the same values as you, he could—" James stops with a strangled curse as the presence abruptly wakes and expands. In an instant the background noises of Bucky's apartment are filtered out of Bucky's conscious awareness and Bucky fights against the urge to stand. After five seconds of wrestling for control, Bucky opens his eyes.
The man standing across the coffee table is not James. Bucky's mind latches onto Bucky's momentary spike of fear and the man becomes a black hole to look at, sucking at Bucky's vision and darkening the air around him. The man is not wearing goggles but he does have his mask; the phantom sensations of that mask mirror themselves on Bucky's face, forcing him to reach up and touch his lips just to make sure that he can.
Bucky lowers his hand when he makes eye contact with the man. The world freezes, stutters, tilts, tries to realign itself but can't quite make the shift. Bucky blinks, swallows, and can't figure out precisely what has changed but knows he has to be careful. He doesn't know why, exactly, caution is needed, but he stays exactly where he is. That part is important: he has to stay on the couch. The couch is safe.
The man does not speak and Bucky knows why. "There is no handler," Bucky says. The man does not move and Bucky knows why. "There is no mission."
In the blink of an eye the man is in front of Bucky, the coffee table kicked aside. He holds a knife to Bucky's throat, one knee pinning Bucky in place as the man puts his face within inches of Bucky's.
He speaks in Russian that makes Bucky's insides twist. "/There is always a mission./"
Bucky keeps himself very, very still. His metal arm twitches, the plates shifting. The man's eyes dart between Bucky's face and his arm. Bucky fights to breathe evenly and manages to say, "Do you know where you are?"
The man focuses on Bucky's eyes. For a second, he says nothing, the muscles around his eyes tightening minutely in incomprehension. "/New York./"
"Do you know why you're here?"
It's not a question the man expects. The knife that has previously been digging slightly into Bucky's neck lifts enough for Bucky to talk without making the blade bite deeper. "/A mission./"
Bucky drags up confidence from memories of hot chocolate and appreciative smiles. "I said there's no mission."
The man growls. "/How do you know? Who are you?/"
"Who are you?" Bucky retorts. The man's eyebrows fall low over his eyes and Bucky presses his advantage. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was born in Brooklyn on March tenth, 1917." All rote facts. Bucky gropes for something deeper, sensing his confidence slipping under the man's icy gaze. "I'm Steve's friend. Natasha's friend." He leans forward and lets the cold blade bite into his neck. The man pulls the blade back immediately. "I know who I am. Who are you?"
The man retreats completely, standing straight over Bucky before taking a step back. The knife disappears from his hand into one of many sheaths but he does not take his gaze away from Bucky's. "/I—/"
"Do you know?" Bucky challenges, standing as well and ignoring the flare of warning his mind throws up in response. "What did they tell you? Who did they say you were?"
The declaration comes calm, quiet, and determined.
"/I am the Winter Soldier./"
Bucky's voice leaves him. Weeks—months—of recovery and he still—
He's still—
"You can't be that!" he explodes. "I can't be that! I can't—it's not—fucking months of thinking my way out of that fucking box and you just—how has none of this reached you?"
The Soldier grabs Bucky by the front of his pajama shirt and drags him off-balance so that Bucky nearly stumbles. "/None of what? Your parties and foods and drawings?/" The Soldier releases Bucky and Bucky falls back onto the couch. He scrambles back to his feet and follows the Soldier as he strides into Bucky's room and pulls out the notebook. Bucky freezes upon seeing the worn pages held in the Soldier's metal grip. "/This is your greatest fear. Me, holding your life in my hands./" The Soldier tears out a page and something in Bucky tears as well. "/Piece by piece. Stripping it away./"
"Stop," Bucky whispers.
"/You said there is no handler. No mission. If you want me to stop, give me the order./"
Another page. Ice leaks into Bucky's veins. "I'm not your handler."
"/Then what purpose do you serve?/" The Soldier tears out three pages at once and reads from the first, contorting the words into a different language. "/'There was a projector. A screen. The newspaper. They showed me the news of Steve's death. I broke beneath white lights.'/" The Soldier lets the pages flutter to the floor. "/You broke. I remained./"
"I had no choice," Bucky says. "They tortured me."
"/You believe that./" The Soldier tears out and reads another page. "/'Training. Weapons. I recognized Steve's shield in video clips. They wiped me.'/"
"It was torture," Bucky says. He knows this.
The Soldier hesitates before closing the notebook and tossing it onto the bed. He quotes it from memory: "/'Sometimes I think it was easier to forget. Pain aside, waking up empty, wiped—there was nothing to hurt me if there was nothing for me to remember.'/"
The ice freezes Bucky in place and he can't look away from the Soldier's face. The Soldier keeps going. "/'Memory interfered in some missions. One at a train station, an assassination. I couldn't do it. I would've begged them to wipe me if I'd known how.'/"
Bucky shakes. The ice in his veins creeps higher, crystallizing his thoughts. He stops shaking. "What are you trying to say?"
The Soldier walks forward until he and Bucky are less than a foot apart.
"/You needed me then. You need me now./"
"What do you—I don't. I—" Bucky can't find the words. The Soldier shows no triumph, no superiority, no emotion at all besides cold calculation.
"/You walked the edges of insanity. The torture would have killed you. It almost did./"
Bucky wants to step back, to breathe, to scream, but his body is frozen solid. The Soldier steps back for him.
"/I know my purpose. I know my origins. I know that you and I are the same person./" The Soldier pauses and tilts his head in a gesture so human it snaps Bucky back into his body. "/What I don't know is why you keep me caged the same way they did./"
Bucky blinks and the Soldier disappears. For a split second, Bucky cannot process himself. Then the world shifts one final time and Bucky staggers over to his bed, collapsing onto it and feebly reaching for the notebook so he can see the damage. His hands meet nothing but empty sheets; fear fuels Bucky enough for him to sit up and open the drawer where he keeps the notebook. The familiar leather-bound pages greet his eyes and he nearly falls to his knees when relief steals the strength from his limbs. Just to be sure, he picks it up and flips through the pages. The intact, fully attached pages.
For ten long minutes Bucky sits on his floor, leans against his bed, and breathes. James isn't around to tell him to get up but Bucky finds the strength eventually and makes his way back to the couch. He sits down and stares at his coffee table, which is exactly in the place where it has been since Bucky moved in.
Bucky rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he mutters. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
He stands with sudden anger and stalks over to the stress pad mounted on the wall. His metal hand slams into the gel-like substance hard enough to put a hole in the wall but the gel absorbs the blow. The wall is undamaged and Bucky is wholly unsatisfied. He punches again and again, jabs and crosses and straights and hammers until his body is drenched in sweat and he can hear himself shouting. As soon as he hears his own voice Bucky stops, one fist still resting on the pad, the other hanging useless at his side.
James would tell him to call Steve. James would tell him to make hot chocolate. James would tell him to sit on the couch and read.
James isn't here.
Bucky gets into the shower after ripping his clothes off and lets the water burn away the last of the ice clinging to his body. After fifteen minutes of standing under the water Bucky lets himself rest his forehead against the cool tile.
What had he been expecting?
What in God's name had he been expecting?
He knows the answer, of course. A silent figure he could reason with. Explain his situation to. Make disappear, maybe not today, but certainly with enough talks.
Not a man just as broken as he is, uncomprehending of his fate with more questions than answers and a need to understand why the hell the both of them ended up where they are now.
Bucky gets out of the shower, towels himself off, and gets dressed. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself a post-breakfast salad that requires him to chop up vegetables into tiny pieces. The precision work centers him and he eats his food in contemplative silence, his shower having burned out his frustration alongside the ice.
He then does all of the things James would have recommended: the salad was the first step, so Bucky then makes himself hot chocolate, sits on the couch, and rereads his favorite book in a process that eats six hours in one shot. When Bucky finishes the last page and sets down the book he can close his eyes and remember the Soldier's words.
"/What I don't know is why you keep me caged the same way they did./"
Even with hours between that moment and now, Bucky cannot stop his heart from picking up speed.
The Winter Soldier, caged? The whole point of Bucky being Bucky is that he is the Winter Soldier, freed. But he's only part of himself; James isn't Bucky but is Bucky at the same time, and the Soldier—the Soldier must be the same way, and Bucky never talks to the Soldier the way he talks to James. The Soldier is memories of things Bucky wants to leave forgotten and knowledge Bucky wants to leave untouched. The Soldier is killing silently without being caught and slipping away undetected. The Soldier is knowing exits without looking and recognizing weak points without asking. The Soldier is following orders without asking questions and training without knowing exactly why. The Soldier is—
The Soldier—
Bucky holds his warm mug between one hand that feels the heat and one that registers it.
The Soldier is a soldier. Trained to kill the same way as James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. Trained to eliminate threats for a side he cannot go back to. Trained to follow orders that no longer exist.
Bucky can't agree with him. He can't condone what he's done. But he can recognize the man behind the mask.
After a moment, Bucky pulls out his cell phone and calls Steve. He doesn't know if he's going to mention what just happened, but he's pretty sure the call is necessary. Steve picks up on the third ring.
"Buck?"
The single syllable lets Bucky relax into the couch. "Hey, Steve. Figured I'd check in since you didn't come over today or yesterday. In case you were worried, I'm still alive."
There's static on the other end of the line before Steve speaks. "I'm glad to hear that, pal. I, uh—now's not a good time. Can I call you tomorrow?"
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no, I'm just in the middle of—ugh—helping Tony with something, and I—no, Tony, it's not a booty call, stop. Do you want me holding this up or not?" There's a second's silence. "Sorry, Buck. I'm back. I can talk in a few hours if you'd prefer that."
Bucky's tension fades when he hears that Steve is fine. "It's no problem, Steve, you can call me tomorrow. Actually—can you come over tomorrow? Eleven? There're a few things I need to talk to you about."
"Of course. I'll see you then."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Bucky hangs up first and sets his phone down very carefully on the coffee table. He then gets up and goes to the kitchen to make a little more hot chocolate. By the time he has a new cupful, he is almost back to baseline.
"James is going to hate me," Bucky tells his hot chocolate, which only continues to steam.
A/N So I've had a lot goin' on in my life lately. College, family shit, personal shit, the whole nine yards. I'm workin' through it all but in the meantime fanfiction has taken a backseat for me, and it's likely going to stay that way. Chapters are going to be few and far between, folks. The only reason I got this one out is because I got a super nice review that motivated me to get my shit together. So, you know, no promises.
Please review.