Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Mnemosyne Project

‘ I’m on my back again

Dreaming of a time and place

Where you and I remain the best of friends

Even after all this ends

Can we pretend?’

— B. Eilish

✪ Prologue ✪

Muffled thuds combine with the jingle of rattling chains as Steve tears into his third punching bag of the night. 

The pattern of his strikes, the reverberation that travels from his fists up his arms, and the swift susurrus of his breathing all flow together to create an almost meditative state within a  choreography of contained violence.

Steve strikes, the chains clatter, the bag sways. He sinks into himself. Forgets, for just a little while, about the hollow ache that keeps permanent residence beneath his sternum. 

This gym—where he finds this sort of sanctuary more nights than not whenever he’s back in the city—is small, and has the near-miraculous ability to somehow hide in plain sight. 

It’s situated downtown, and the fact that it’s not hugely advertised keeps it a place highly coveted by its customers.

Steve had discovered it back when he’d first been thawed. Stumbled upon it—more like—late one evening when he couldn’t sleep for the restless demons that continually plagued him in the new world in which he’d awoken.

The owner, Marcus, had been standing on the stoop of his business, keys jingling as he closed up shop. One look at Steve’s haggard appearance had had him opening right back up, inviting Steve to come inside.  

“My grandfather was a soldier in the 107th,” he’d told Steve after proper introductions had been made and Steve had been informed about just what sort of establishment the place was. “I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d never had the chance to be a part of my life.”

Marcus had then proceeded to gift Steve a personal set of keys to the gym—You look like you could use something to punch—and Steve had gratefully accepted because when had he ever been the kind to turn down such an opportunity?

Steve prefers to come in after-hours, when the place is already locked up and perfect for privately beating the innards out of hapless punching bags. 

He regularly leaves a deposit for the privilege, even though Marcus had said Steve was welcome to the facility, free of charge. The deposits are also meant to go toward replacing the sheer number of punching bags Steve manages to tear through with such ease. 

That number is becoming increasingly higher, now more than ever before. 

Since Bucky left— Since Bucky—

Well. 

Suffice it to say, Steve’s destroyed quite a large number of punching bags these past months. 

The pang of loss, of missing Bucky, is damn-near a physical ache. The only thing that seems to quiet it—and only temporarily—is whaling into something.

“You planning to leave any of those bags intact for regular folks to use?” 

Steve heard the footsteps approaching, slow and even. He recognized the gait, and finds it humorlessly ironic that this man seems to have made a habit of approaching him in this place, specifically.

He doesn’t smile at the wryly teasing tone. Doesn’t even turn around. Steve is sorely lacking in both good humor and patience these days. 

“You need something.” 

It’s not so much a question as a statement, and Steve can practically see the raised eyebrow as Fury responds. 

“I’ve run into a bit of a...situation. Something I think might interest you to take a look at.”

Steve grunts with the force of a particularly vicious jab. 

“This a mission?”

“That’s up to you, Cap,” Fury quips. “I don’t sign your paychecks anymore. Though you do seem to be rather amenable to missions these days.”

Fury isn’t wrong.

Steve—along with Sam and whomever of the other Avengers find themselves available—has been systematically tracking down remnant Hydra cells and destroying them. 

Natasha, when she can, assists with combing through the vast amount of data that had been dumped onto the Internet, and Steve keeps an ever-growing list of the bases—both ones he’s destroyed and ones he’s planning to destroy—compiled in the notebook he’d once used for tips on reacquainting himself with a futuristic world. 

Fury had said, once, that a lot of rats hadn’t gone down with the ship. Well, he was right. There is still plenty of Hydra scum needing cleaned up. 

Even Tony had joined in for a time—working off some of his Hydra-directed rage at having his parents’ murdered—until Pepper and SI had called him back and he’d had to return to supporting his company and, Steve surmises, his girl.

Fury, though, has been noticeably absent throughout all of Steve’s razing Hydra to the ground. 

The former Director of SHIELD had gone dark after the fall of said intelligence agency. 

He’d moved on to spying, gathering intel, and carrying out whatever other kinds of covert ops struck his fancy. And though the occasional Fury-tinged intel makes its way to Hill, and thereby Tony, Steve hasn’t actually heard from the man personally since his disappearing act. 

Which means that whatever had caused Fury to seek him out now must be important.

Steve sighs quietly to himself. Decides to take a look. 

A change of pace might be nice, after all. And he can always hand it off to Clint, or even Natasha if it’s something that doesn’t warrant his specific attention.

Fury is gone when Steve turns around, but a file has been left for him, perched atop his gym bag. 

Steve picks it up, flips through it. 

He feels a growing sense of unease as he glances through the sparse contents, though if asked directly he wouldn’t be able to explain why. Still, it’s a good idea to trust his instincts. Doing so has often proved advantageous throughout the years.

“JARVIS,” he says, grabbing his gym bag and heading for the door.

“Yes, Captain,” the AI responds promptly, voice spilling from the speakers of Steve’s mobile phone. 

“Send a notice out to the other Avengers. We need to have a meeting.”

—

Chapter Text

✪ Ch. 1 ✪

“I think someone is trying to talk to the Winter Soldier.”

Steve glances over at Fury, who sits at the far end of the table, opposite Steve himself. 

Hours ago, after he’d called for a team meeting, Steve had stepped outside to find Fury leaning against the side of the building, suffused in shadow.

“You’ve decided, then?” the former SHIELD director had asked, and Steve nodded once, decisively. 

“I’ve called a team meeting,” he’d said. “You’re welcome to join. We could use whatever insight you might have on the situation.”

Now they sit, the Avengers along with Sam and Fury, all clustered around the large table, considering the sparse amount of information within the file Fury’d composed. 

Amidst the contents is a hard drive containing a sequence of randomly structured, encrypted code. A code that Fury’d been unable to decipher when he’d stumbled upon it. 

Based upon the circumstances within which he’d discovered the code, Fury’d been sure that it pertained to the Winter Soldier. Without being able to decipher it, though, there was no way to know what the code did. What it was for, specifically. And whether or not it should be considered actively dangerous. 

He’d made a copy, decided to share it with Steve whom, he’d anticipated, would take it to Tony for analysis. 

Now Tony sits with a holographic display of the code, hovering before him courtesy of JARVIS. He manipulates the segment with nimble fingers, turning it this way and that, pulling it apart to reveal that it has layers.

“It could be a few different things,” Tony finally says, “but…there are nuances within the code itself. Levels stacked upon sublevels. It’s sophisticated, but completely meaningless to me.”

The genius looks up from the holograph, glancing around the rest of the room. “Based on what we’ve discovered in Barnes’ files, and considering that Hydra went so far as to create a  Red Book of Doom—patent pending—my guess is it’s a subliminal message. Broadcast to trigger Hydra’s favorite toy soldier.” 

“Trigger him to do what?” Steve demands, unease beginning to churn in his stomach.

“His files host evidence of substantial Hydra-embedded behavioral conditioning,” Sam remarks. “Which means the code could potentially trigger any number of things. There’s no way to know for sure. Not without Barnes’ input.” 

“I can’t decipher it,” Tony says. “Not the way it is. It’s missing all the key elements that make it into something comprehensible. Areas where segments have been removed.” He pauses, tilting his head in thought. “Or, maybe that design is purposeful. A code built like a set of tumblers, leaving space for just the right key.” He glances up, eyes sweeping through the room unseeingly before his gaze settles back onto the projection.

“It’s likely that Barnes is unknowingly carrying around the pieces needed to make the code into something comprehensive. Also,” He adds, shifting the code to another angle. “This code seems pretty…ancient, for lack of a better word. This sort of programming—the way it’s been built—should be obsolete. We don’t build code like this anymore.”

“I’ve been seeing this code pop up all over in abandoned Hydra bases the last few weeks,” Fury supplies. “Doubtless it’s coming from Hydra itself. And it’s high up the food chain. Not just anybody would know this code to be able to broadcast it.” 

“So they know Bucky’s alive,” Steve says, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Not necessarily,” Sam says. “They may just be casting a wide net, hoping to catch him if they search long enough, assuming he’s out there.“

“If his programming is anything like mine was,” Natasha says, “He would have been conditioned to report to a Hydra base upon mission completion. Or in the event of any unforeseen complications that interfered with mission completion.  Dragging you from the river, followed by us bringing him in, may have derailed his initial drive to comply with that programming.”

“That’s probably why the Soldier hasn’t come into contact with any of the broadcasts yet,” Fury supplies. 

“Yet?” Steve says.

“If Hydra manages to build itself up again,” Fury responds, “gets a little bit stronger and more proficient, they may move on to broadcasting more obviously. Conceivably, they could embed this code within television programmes, commercials, Internet ads, music videos...whatever they want. If they have any hope whatsoever that he’s out there, I doubt they’ll give up on trying to bring him in. It’s probably only a matter of time.”

“We need to know what that code is trying to communicate,” Natasha says seriously. “It could be anything—a self destruct command, a call to report to base...even a directive to expose himself as the Winter Soldier; give the government something to focus on that takes the spotlight off of Hydra and its regeneration.”

“The only way to find out,” Tony says, slowly, “would be to show it to him.”

“Out of the question,” Steve responds, almost before Tony finishes the sentence. “There’s no way I’m going to hand-deliver a Hydra-shaped time-bomb to Bucky. I’d be doing Hydra’s dirty-work for them.”

“You don’t have to give it to him like this,” Tony protests. “I can modify it. Give him a diluted version with fewer layers. So it won't be the full message, so to speak, and he’ll be able to look it over without going all zombie-assassin on us—or you, I mean. I’m not gonna give it to him.”

“Bucky left for a reason,” Steve says, quietly. “He obviously wanted to get away from all of this, from Hydra, and what they did to him.” From me, he doesn’t add. “I don’t want to drag him back into what he’s worked so hard to escape.”

“If Hydra gets what they’re clearly aiming for, Steve,” Natasha says, ominously, “you won’t have to.”

-

Lara turns as the bell over the diner’s entrance cheerfully announces the arrival of a customer. 

She offers the young man standing there a warm smile, and he ducks his head shyly, eyes lowering as he quietly heads for the booth in the far corner, the same booth he chooses every time he visits. 

If asked, Lara would freely admit that she has a soft spot for this young man, that it stretches a mile wide. 

She’d first met him when he’d wandered in late one evening, or—technically—morning. The diner had been empty save for one older truck driver—a regular passing through on his usual route which, she’d realized later, was exactly what the young man had waited for.

He’d looked...tired, standing there. And he’d carried the air of someone who was lost—though not really in any physical way. 

He was, also, absolutely gorgeous underneath the heavy scruff that shadowed his features, the shapeless clothes that worked to hide him away. She remembers him standing uncertainly in the doorway that first night. Deep blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes, long enough to make any woman jealous—or swoon in adoration—stared out from the man’s face.

But those eyes were haunted.

The young man hadn’t looked a day over twenty-five—couldn’t be older than her own boy, Harrison, the youngest of her six children who’d just turned thirty-three—but his eyes were old.

They’d reminded her of her late grandfather, those eyes. Grandfather had gone to the war, and mother’d said he was never the same after he returned.

Lara thought that this young man, who had the bearings of a soldier, must have been a veteran same as Grandfather, considering the amount of sorrow that seemed to trail him like a ghost.

Over the course of the next few weeks, he’d started to come into her diner with more frequency, and she thought... There was something about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that hinted at familiarity.

Eventually the reason behind that niggling sensation became clear. Realization had hit her early one evening, just a few hours before she was to head into her shift. 

She’d been knitting on the sofa, watching the television. The news was on, and she’d got caught a snippet. It was a recap about Hydra, the Helicarrier disaster that had occurred months before, followed by an update revealing which government officials had most recently been discovered to have had ties to the horrific organization.

Having been around soldiers all her life—her father and all three of her brothers had been in the service—Lara could recognize the manner in which the Winter Soldier in the recycled video footage moved. It wasn’t difficult, after that, to match certain aspects of the Soldier’s movement with the lost young man who kept showing up in her diner. 

Coupled with the long dark hair, the thousand-yard stare he sometimes displayed, Lara was almost positive that it was the Winter Soldier who was visiting her diner in the empty hours of the mornings.

Her initial reaction to the discovery probably should have been fear. A more provident woman likely would have called the police immediately. 

But there was something about the Soldier that pulled at her heartstrings. Something small and terrified about the way he carried himself. He’d never done anything even remotely threatening. Wasn’t violent. If anything he was too polite. Wary; as if afraid of being hurt.

And so Lara had decided not to pass judgement too quickly.  

She knew, too, about the speculation that the Soldier had rescued Captain America from drowning just after the destruction of the Helicarriers. 

That speculation was later confirmed by the Captain himself. 

Following a small battle in the heart of Manhattan, a slew of reporters managed to corner the American hero, separate, at the time, from his fellow Avenger teammates. They were supposed to have been asking about the battle—what had occurred, how the Avengers had handled the situation—when some overeager reporter had mentioned Hydra, asked about the Soldier instead. 

Captain America had confirmed that neither he nor the rest of the Avengers knew the whereabouts of the Soldier, and that they were not, at the time, actively searching for him. 

“It sounds like you don’t think he’s a threat,” one reporter had stated, incredulously. “Shouldn’t the Avengers be hunting this man down? He’s an assassin—a criminal. And he’s out there somewhere, free to do whatever he wants. Shouldn’t we be worried?”

“I don’t think you need to be worried or afraid,” the Captain had stated calmly. “One of the few things that we do know about the Winter Soldier is that he was a Hydra POW. He never worked for them willingly.” 

“He still murdered dozens of people!” another reporter had near-shouted. “If he’s innocent, let a jury decide. Justice needs to be served. Surely we can all agree on that!”

A murmur of agreement rustled through the crowd, but the Captain’s cool blue eyes hardened. 

The Avengers’ leader set his jaw, and oh lord did she know that look. Lara’s seen it on her own bullheaded son often enough to know that once that look comes out, there isn’t a thing can be done to sway the man. Lara had known then and there that the conversation was over. 

“Justice does need to be served,” the Captain had all but growled. “But it’s Hydra you need to be looking to. Not that man. When the Helicarriers went down, the Winter Soldier saved my life. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for him.”

Questions exploded into the air. The reporters gone volatile in response to Captain America suddenly confirming a fact that, until that moment, had merely been speculation. But the Captain was clearly finished providing any more answers. 

“The only thing I have left to say is that that man has suffered enough,” the Captain said, voice carrying easily over the commotion. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame Hydra.”  He’d turned away after that, not offering anything more to the reporters still shouting after him.

Watching that interview, Lara was glad she’d given the Soldier the benefit of the doubt. After all, if Captain America was behind the man—and, clearly, he was—she could put a little faith in him too.

The stranger hasn’t ever done a thing to make her regret that decision. 

Lara’s never had cause for fear, she’s never worried, or been afraid because of him. 

It’s the Soldier who’s wary, always looking like he’s just waiting for something to go wrong, for someone to attack him, to be cruel.

The first time she’d spoken to him, he’d been skittish as a beaten horse. 

He’d completely avoided eye contact, kept his voice soft when he spoke at all. 

“What would you like, honey?” she’d asked, making her way over after the man seated himself.

Eyes downcast, the young man had stared intently at the menu on the table in front of him. After a long minute, he’d replied softly, “I don’t… I don’t know.” 

The words were carefully spoken, as if the man was afraid he’d given the wrong answer, and Lara had felt a sudden rush of protective, motherly instincts.

“That’s okay, dear,” she’d said, gently. “Why don’t you just tell me what you like to eat and I’ll help you pick out something good?”

There was another silence, this one even more drawn-out. 

Amidst the silence, the penny dropped, and Lara had suddenly realized that the young man had already answered her question. ‘I don’t know’, he’d said. He didn’t know what he liked.

And if that hadn’t made her heart ache for this lost soul she doesn’t know what would. 

“How about I just bring you something, then,” she’d said, keeping her voice light through a concentrated effort of will. “My husband’s been working on tweaking some of his recipes—you’d be doing us both a favor by taste-testing some of them out for us.”

After a moment, the man had nodded, still with his eyes lowered to the table. “Yes,” he’d said, very softly. “Thank you.”

Since then, Lara’s done her best to slowly coax the Soldier out of his shell—a damn near impossible feat.

She’s wiping down the countertop behind the register, giving her soldier-boy a few minutes to acclimate, as she always does after he comes in to her diner, when another new visitor walks through the front door.

The man who’s come in is tall, well-muscled, the t-shirt stretched tightly over his torso leaving little to the imagination concerning what looks like a perfect physique. His blond hair glints in the pale lighting of the diner. He looks confident. Cool, and put together. 

Except. 

When he turns her way, Lara sees another blue-eyed gaze filled with the same haunted look she’s been seeing in her soldier-boy’s for close to a month. 

The blond man’s eyes sweep cursorily through the near-empty diner before they come to rest on the Soldier—staring right back, an expression on his face, in his eyes, that Lara’s never seen before. 

All at once she realizes that the blond, that that man is Captain America. 

On the heels of that realization comes a sharp burst of anxiety. Has the Captain come to arrest the Soldier? 

She won’t have it, she decides, drawing herself up and preparing for a confrontation. That boy has been nothing but good. Shy, yes. And still always so wary. But polite, even helpful that one time when her husband Jim had needed a hand. The overconfident idiot had thrown out his back, attempting to do the heavy lifting when Carter, the employee they paid to do those things, had come down with a fever and called in sick. 

And there’d been the time when a few rough men had come passing through her diner. 

They’d probably been drunk, and were hell-bent on harassing Jenny, one of Lara’s younger waitresses who was reaching the end of her shift. Soon the girl would be off, and Lara seriously doubted that the men would allow her to leave peacefully. She’d seen this kind of thing happen too many times before. 

They’d follow her, most likely, and Lara had worried Jim would have to step in. Jim, who wasn’t as young as he used to be, and who, it was quickly becoming apparent, would have to confront three men by himself. The odds of things turning out well were minuscule. But she and her husband couldn’t just stand by and do nothing either.

That’s when the Soldier had acted. 

He’d stood from his solitary booth and had headed right for the group of rowdy men. 

Something about his demeanor had changed, Lara realized, watching him. His bearing shifted, suddenly, from it’s usual quiet, inconspicuous manner, into something that screamed dangerous.

He didn’t rush as he approached the men. He sauntered. Moved with such silent, liquid grace, that the other men didn’t even notice him until he was right next to their table. 

Lara couldn’t hear what he said—his voice was too quiet to carry—but she did see the reaction it garnered. 

The man who seemed to be the leader of the group grew suddenly red-faced and angry. “The fuck?” he’d snarled, loudly. “Who the hell do you think you are? This ain’t any business of yours. If I wanna have a talk with the girl, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’d better get moving before me’n my buddies decide to do something about you sticking your goddamned nose in where it ain’t fucking wanted.”

Jenny, whose wrist the thug had grabbed just before the Soldier had approached, let out a tiny gasp of pain as, presumably, the angry man’s grip went tighter in his fury. The sound seemed to be the final straw for the Soldier.

Lara’s quiet, well-mannered soldier boy very suddenly moved. 

He struck fast, catching the lead thug in the temple, laying him out cold on the linoleum floor beside the table. The rest of the group jumped to their feet, swearing loudly.

“You’ve fucking done it now, pretty boy!”

The first man charged at the Soldier, and—just as quickly as his leader—met with the floor. A sickening crack preceded the man’s fall along with a shout of pain, and then the man was gripping at his newly-broken wrist, eyes wide with shocked pain.

The second man went for the Soldier next, and was halted, mid-lunge by an unforgiving grip around his throat. The Soldier had snatched him from the air as easily as if he’d been catching a ball, left hand tight around his throat.

“Fuck,” the man with the broken wrist blubbered from the floor, tears of pain and terror streaming down his red face as his unlucky friend gurgled around strangled noises. “He’s fucking choking!”

The Soldier turned his flat gaze away from the man in his grip, down to the man sobbing on the floor.

“Let him go, man! We’re sorry, okay?” The kneeling man whimpered. “Just let us go. We won’t come back, I swear!”

The Soldier released his hold around the second man’s neck, and he dropped like a stone, coughing and dragging in strained breaths. 

“Get out,” the Soldier said quietly, almost too low for Lara to hear over the sounds of the second man struggling to regain his breathing.

Immediately the men scrambled to their feet, barely taking the time to grab their unconscious leader before dragging him out the door and disappearing into the dark.

There was a long, drawn-out silence as Lara, the Soldier, and Jenny, listened to the sound of the men scrambling into their car and screeching out of the parking lot, and then Jenny was thanking the Soldier in a shaky, grateful voice.

“Thank you!” The waitress's eyes were wide with adoration. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t stepped in.”

The Soldier hadn’t even seemed to notice the stars in Jenny’s eyes or the adoration in her voice as he’d stared down at his singularly gloved hand. 

Slowly he’d turned to face Lara, expression bleak. “Sorry,” he’d rasped, looking crushed. “I’m sorry. I— I caused a scene.”

“Don’t you go apologizing, young man,” Lara had told the Soldier, firmly. “I’m glad you kicked them out on their arses. They deserved what was coming to them, and I’m grateful you stepped in. My only worry now is if they decide to come back.”

The Soldier’s gaze had flickered up to meet hers for the first time since he’d stepped foot in her diner, weeks ago, and that in itself might have been the greatest surprise of the entire evening.

“They won’t come back,” he’d said levelly.

Looking into those eyes, remembering the terror in the men’s gazes before they’d run from the diner, she’d believed him.

Now she watches as Captain America moves over to the Soldier’s booth, eyes keen, steps carefully measured, and hopes he’s not come to take the Soldier in.

-

Chapter Text

★ Ch. 2 ✪

The Soldier watches the Captain slide into the booth opposite him, a wary unease settling in his gut.  

“Bucky—” he begins, and the Soldier shakes his head sharply, cutting off whatever the Captain had planned to say.

Something changes within the Captain’s expression, seems to flicker and die, and he drops his gaze to the tabletop, taking a moment to compose himself.

After a moment, the Captain tries again. “Not ‘Bucky’ then,” he says, quietly. “What...should I call you?”

The Soldier’s mind goes temporarily blank. 

He hasn’t the slightest clue what his designation should be. He thinks of himself as ‘the Soldier’, but the Captain had made it quite clear that he does not like that moniker.  

The Captain seems to pick up on the Soldier’s thoughts to some degree because he offers, “James, then, how about?”

Belatedly, the Soldier accepts with a nod. 

James is as good a name as any, and it will make the Captain feel better, using that as opposed to something randomly chosen. 

‘Bucky’ though. The Soldier cannot accept that name. 

For one thing, it would be cruel: he will never be that man. For another, the Soldier does not want the Captain to develop any of the expectations he has undoubtedly connected to the man with that name. 

Bucky was the Captain’s friend. His best friend. 

He’d been a person who’d had feelings, dreams, desires. Ostensibly, he’d loved Steve Rogers, had fought for him and died for him. 

Bucky was someone the Captain dropped his guard around. Someone he trusted, implicitly.

But the Soldier is not that person. Cannot ever be him, he thinks. Whoever Bucky was, he’s long since been burned out of the Soldier. What’s left is his body, the outer shell of a man who’s been dead for decades. 

It’s best that the Captain learn this sooner rather than later.

“I’m sorry,” the Captain says, “about tracking you down like this. We’ve— Fury came across a sort of...code, a few weeks ago while he was infiltrating abandoned Hydra bases. He brought a copy of it to me, and I shared it with Tony. Hydra’s been broadcasting it for weeks, apparently, and we think it could be…” 

The Captain hesitates, toying with a corner of one of the cheap vinyl placemats on the table. “We think it might be Hydra trying to send you a subliminal message,” he finally says. “To trigger you.”

-

Steve watches Bucky’s—James’ face carefully, but the former assassin’s expression doesn’t give away anything more than the careful wariness that he’s been displaying since Steve stepped into the diner. 

He’d known Steve was coming, undoubtedly. 

Steve doesn’t know how James had known, only that—while Steve had sat parked in his rental car waiting to see if James would visit the diner JARVIS had pinpointed as a potential location for the Soldier—James had walked around the corner of the building, approached the entrance, and had turned, one hand resting on the handle, to pin Steve with a penetrating gaze.  

Looking into those eyes, Steve had experienced a sharp spike of adrenaline, as if he’d discovered himself within a sniper’s cross-hairs. Even from halfway across the parking lot, with Steve sitting in a nondescript car, without any interior lighting, James had marked him, a testament to just how good the Winter Soldier was. 

After pinning Steve with that silvery-blue gaze, James had opened the door to the diner and had slipped inside, as if to say, ‘Come in or don’t, but we both know I’ve made you.’  And since James knew Steve was there, there was no point in stalling.

“Tony looked at the code,” Steve says now, “and he thinks it’s missing some critical components. Key elements that would help him to identify what, exactly, it is. What Hydra is seeking to accomplish. I came to find you because…” Steve falters. He’s loath to ask it of James, but neither he nor any of the other Avengers have been able to discern a way around getting the information they need without James’ help. 

According to both Tony and Fury, the code had been specifically formulated to interact with whatever conditioning the Winter Soldier’s handlers had instilled in him. 

And, while Steve might wish they could decode it without him, James’ sheer level of competency as the Winter Soldier makes it far too dangerous to risk hoping that he simply never comes into contact with it, never gets triggered. The safest thing to do—both for James and the rest of the world—is to expose the Soldier to the code in a controlled manner, to hopefully find out what its purpose is so as to take measures against it. 

In the meantime, if they can track down and eliminate as many sources of the code as quickly as possible, there will be fewer opportunities for Hydra to reach the Soldier. 

At present, Fury is working on locating other sources of the code. Steve, as he had flat-out refused to bring James back to the tower without it being absolutely necessary, had taken the job of tracking down and confronting the former Hydra operative.

Tony is confident—and Steve had demanded that he be absolutely sure—that his modifications to the code will allow James only limited exposure to Hydra’s embedded triggers. 

So here Steve is, halfway across the country, hoping to appeal to a man who’s given every indication that he just wants to be left alone. 

“I came to find you,” Steve repeats, “because we don’t know what the code is meant to accomplish, and we can’t keep you safe, keep anyone safe, if we don’t know what it is we’re fighting.”

“You want me to look at it,” James states quietly, getting straight to the point. “You want to know what it will trigger.” 

Steve considers hedging a bit more but, in the end, James is right, and beating around the bush is more like to simply annoy him rather than make the truth of the situation appear any less serious. So he nods in response. Explains, “When we realized we needed your help, Tony made a modified version of the code. Stripped away some of the layers so that it shouldn’t trigger you. We’re hoping you’ll just be able to relay the general message or any impressions that might arise when you see it.” 

“Are you…” James licks his lips, drops his gaze down to the table. “Are you going to take me in? Take me back...?” 

His voice is low, perhaps resigned, and Steve feels a sick lurch in his gut.

“No,” Steve says. “I’m not going to...You’re free, B—James. You decide what happens to you, where you go or don’t go. Whether you even want to help us figure out what Hydra is up to with this code. It’s not...it’s not up to me.”

From the look on his face, James maybe doesn't really understand what Steve is saying. Still, he nods. Says, after a moment, ”I’ll look at the code.”

-

Watching the interaction between Captain America and the Soldier, Lara feels some of her earlier worry begin to ebb away. 

From the way the Captain had spoken about the Soldier in that brief interview, it had seemed that—despite the part the Soldier had played as a Hydra assassin—the Captain harbored no ill-will toward the man. That ultimately, he blamed Hydra, and didn’t want the Soldier to take the fall for the terrorist organization’s activities. 

Now, though, as she watches the Captain watch the Soldier, she suspects there is more to the story. A part that has remained untold.  

There is a tension in the blond man’s frame that speaks more eloquently about the Captain’s feelings than any words he might choose to say, or not say. 

It’s in the way he leans slightly forward in the booth, hands toying with the placemat in front of him, eyes fixed intently on the Soldier seated across from him. All of it conveys a silent longing, an aching need. 

The Captain is the very picture of a man in love—who’s been denied the freedom to express it. His longing, plainly obvious to Lara, is viciously checked: The Captain’s hands never cross the invisible line separating his side of the table from the Soldier’s; his tone of voice remains measured; his face, composed. 

It’s his eyes that give him away—his feelings blaze from that blue gaze, bright as flame. 

Unbelievably, the Soldier seems to be completely unaware of the Captain’s feelings. His body-language remains wary, closed-off, almost defeated. 

Lara motions the other wait-staff to steer clear of the table where the odd couple sits, but their conversation turns out to be quite brief.

After a few minutes the Captain stands. Belatedly, so does the Soldier. Both head for the exit, the Soldier trailing behind. Just before the Soldier steps out into the dark, though, he glances back at Lara, and gives her the smallest nod. 

It could be a thank-you, or a reassurance that he’ll be fine. Lara feels it is both, and tucks the hope that her soldier-boy will be safe with the Captain, through whatever the future holds for him, close to her chest. 

- 

From the passenger seat of Steve’s rental car, James directs him to a cluster of shabby-looking apartments, not five minutes from the diner. 

They climb a set rickety staircases, tucked inside a building that has certainly seen better days. It’s the kind of place that could easily pass for deserted, where everyone knows not to ask too many questions. 

James doesn’t even use any keys to unlock the front door, just pushes his way inside and closes the flimsy door behind them, switching on yellowed lights which flicker ominously before staying lit. 

Inside, the living space is tiny. There is a bare mattress tucked into one corner of the room, a small cluster of water bottles next to it, and little else that speaks to the fact that an actual person is living here. 

There’s nowhere to cook, no kitchenette, or stove top, or even a microwave. Off to one side, a closed door presumably leads to what must be a ridiculously cramped bathroom. The single window is covered with newspapers, only a small corner left open for someone to peer through. 

It's the other side of the room, though, that really catches Steve’s attention. The wall on that side is covered with video screens. 

Most of the monitors display a continual surveillance feed covering numerous angles of both the inside and outside of the building. There is no way for anyone to approach the complex, pass through the entrances or exits, or use any of the stairways without James being aware of it. 

The rest of the monitors, Steve can tell from a glance, connect to a computer system that is both sophisticated and expensive. His eyes catch on one of the screens, currently displaying a blinking “Security Alert” in bright red lettering. Beneath the warning, a satellite image of New York is pulled up, a red dot marking the origin of the security breach. 

What this means is that James’ system had alerted him, well in advance, that he was being traced. He’d known for hours that someone was trying to find him. 

Steve turns from the screen to find James watching him. 

“Why did you stay,” Steve can’t help asking, “if you knew you were being tracked? Why didn’t you disappear?”

James looks away. Drops his gaze to peer at the flooring, shuffling a couple of steps forward, then to the right. 

“Stark’s computer contacted me,” he says. “It identified itself as the source of the security breach; told me that you were searching for me. Said you needed…’assistance’.”

So James had known that Steve was coming for him. 

Steve wonders at the fact that JARVIS had chosen the diner as the place for Steve to find James when the AI could have just as easily disclosed the location of James’ apartment. At how, by not doing so, JARVIS had allowed James plenty of opportunity to run. 

But James hadn’t run. He’d allowed himself to be found. And Steve feels something like relieved gratitude sweep through him at the realization. James is not so eager to be rid of Steve as to refuse him help. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; Bucky had always been generous. Always looking for ways to support the people he loved. He was gracious even to people he didn’t know. People who could stand to benefit from whatever small bits of kindness he could offer, while at the same time carrying the heavy burden of caring for Steve. He’d been the type of person who would leave out scraps for starving stray cats during the harsh winter months, even when those scraps had to be taken from his own plate.  

That the cruelties he’d withstood throughout decades of imprisonment and torture have not completely eradicated that inherent goodness, is a soothing balm on a terrible ache.

On the heels of Steve’s relief, however, comes a sense of trepidation.

Because despite how Steve may have tried to reassure James that the code he means to show him is “safe”, there’s no way to be completely sure.  

What if, by exposing James to the code, Steve unwittingly triggers the revival of the Winter Soldier? 

“I,” Steve starts, drawing James’ attention from his study of the floorboards. “I want you to know that Tony assured me that this code is safe to show you. And we really could use some clue as to what Hydra is up to. But,” he falters, glancing around the sad space James’ been living in, possibly for months. “I don’t want to— I’m still…worried about what could happen, when you see it.”

Steve would never forgive himself if, by showing the code to James, he unwittingly did Hydra’s work for them. James has been running, all this time, and Steve would hate it if he ended up being responsible for driving the demons James has been running from, right back into his life.  

But James only shrugs, enigmatic. “Show me,” he says, putting an abrupt end to Steve’s circling thoughts. Steve hesitates, and James fixes him with a flat gaze. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need my help,” he says, and he’s right. 

So Steve pulls the seemingly innocuous-looking thumb drive from his pocket, inserts it into one of the ports connecting to James’ computers. 

The computer accesses the drive automatically, code beginning to scroll over the computer screen almost immediately. After a final deliberating moment, Steve steps aside, allowing James to see the monitor. 

James stares at the screen for what seems like a long time, completely motionless, eyes roving back and forth over the glowing rows of numbers and symbols. 

After minutes of static silence, Steve says his name quietly and James blinks, glancing away from the screen and drawing in a stuttered breath. 

“It’s a location,” he says, finally. “The message is...broken. It has missing pieces. But I can make out that it’s got coordinates attached to it.”

Coordinates could lead to a number of things. They could be the location of a Hydra base. A place to find another message. Both. Or neither. 

Steve pulls out his phone. “What are the coordinates?”

James tells him, and Steve types them into the JARVIS equivalent of Google maps. “That doesn’t look to be too far from here,” Steve says, absently. “Maybe a day or two of driving. JARVIS, do these coordinates match with any of the Hydra bases we’ve uncovered so far?”

“No, Captain,” JARVIS answers, and Steve had suspected as much. “Public record and satellite imaging indicate that those coordinates lead to an empty field. Though my own satellite access  reveals what appears to be an abandoned structure existing in that location.”

So, almost certainly a Hydra base. 

“How long is the commute by car, specifically?” Steve asks, already mentally planning the trip. Admittedly, a Quinjet would be faster. In this situation, though, he places stealth as more prudent than speed. He can’t have Hydra knowing he’s coming, after all. 

“Sixteen hours,” JARVIS responds, promptly. “Thirty-four minutes. Shall I input the directions into your mobile device?”

“Yes,” Steve says, removing the thumb drive from James’ computer system and slipping it back into his pocket. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

He turns back to James, finds his brow furrowed, eyes staring intently into nothing. 

“James?” 

James crouches, placing his metal hand against the wooden floorboards and running his fingers along the seams. 

“I’m coming with you.”

Steve feels his heart leap—he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more fervently in his life—but cool logic quickly rises above emotional fervor. “I’m not sure that’s the best—”

James punches through the flooring, reaching through splintered shards of wood to drag up a dark-colored backpack. 

“That message was intended for me,” James says, gravely. “Knowing Hydra, there are other messages out there. Or there will be.” He shakes his head bitterly. “They’ll never stop...searching for me. And if the messages are what you think they are...I can’t just ignore the danger they pose.”

“Okay, but—” Steve tries, but James clenches his jaw, glancing up at Steve and meeting his gaze in the first display of obstinacy Steve’s witnessed since the Soldier rescued him from the Potomac. 

“You can’t decode them without me,” James states bluntly. “That’s why you’re here. I need— The messages have to be destroyed, and knowing Hydra, that’s something that will have be done at the source. But you can’t find the source unless you can follow the coordinates. And you can’t get those coordinates without my help.”

Steve knows James is right. The odds of coming across the source of the code, of finding just the right computer at just the right base, hidden amid thousands of Hydra bases is…about as likely as picking the right needle out of a stack of needles. 

Still, “It’s too dangerous B— James,” Steve protests. “We don’t know what the codes will trigger. What if they…? What if it’s a trap? I won’t let them take you back, James. I won’t.”

“This is my choice,” James says, undeterred. “I won’t sit around waiting for them to find me. This first message has a trail. I’m going to follow it. Find the source. Eliminate it.”

He stands, settling one strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Come with me or don’t,” he adds quietly, no longer meeting Steve’s gaze. “But this is...my mission, now.”

And what else can Steve say? As much as he’s afraid of what could happen, he won’t take James’ choice away from him, either. He’d be no better than Hydra. 

To Steve, there’s only one right response.

“I’m with you,” Steve states, firmly. “I’m always with you.” 

-

Chapter Text

★ Ch. 3 ✪

They settle into the Captain’s car. The coordinates input into the Captain’s mobile device inform them that they need to head west, and the Captain follows the direction, pulling out onto the main road. 

The drive goes by more or less silently. They don’t speak, though the Soldier occasionally feels the Captain’s gaze settle on him before he returns his focus to the road.

Dawn is just beginning to brighten the sky with pale streaks of rosy gold when the Captain suddenly pulls off the main road.

The Soldier mentally shakes himself into sharper vigilance, pulling himself from the quiet space in his mind he’s long since made a habit of slipping into when his handlers hadn’t needed him to be at full attention.  Warily he takes in his surroundings, searching for the reason behind the Captain altering course.

“I don’t know about you,” the Captain says, noting the Soldier’s watchful gaze, “but I’m starving.”

The Soldier relaxes, tension fading back to its standard low-level simmer.

He is hungry. He is always hungry. Though it is seldom that he attempts to assuage the feeling.

When his body does force him to feed it—as it always does, eventually—eating is rarely a rewarding experience.

More often than not, he has trouble with anything that isn’t a liquid meal, specifically formulated for sensitive constitutions. He doesn’t always bring his meals back up—he’s getting better at finding things that are easier on his temperamental stomach—but many times he gets nauseous, or experiences painful abdominal cramping. Or both.

The Captain pulls into the near-empty parking lot of a 24-hour diner and cuts off the engine. 

“C’mon,” he says, opening his door and stepping outside, and the Soldier finds himself helpless to do anything else. He pushes down the frustration that stems from the sudden and unwelcome realization that he is still unable to disobey a direct order from the Captain and silently follows the man into the diner. 

They settle into a corner booth; the Soldier positioning himself to have the best sight-lines to all exits, while the Captain immediately flips open a plastic-encased menu, scanning its contents. 

“What’re you gonna get?” he asks, and the Soldier gingerly opens his own menu, understanding innately that “nothing” is not an answer the Captain will accept.

There are so many choices. Too many. The Soldier feels tension begin to turn his stomach. After too short a time, a perky waitress approaches their table. She asks for their order, and the Soldier still hasn’t come up with an answer. 

The silence draws out.

The Soldier stares down at the menu. His throat feels tight, voice locked behind frozen vocal cords. Even if he knew what to say, the words wouldn't be able to pass. Finally, the Captain takes pity on him, asking for a duplicate of the meal he’d ordered for himself. 

The waitress bounces off with their orders, and the Soldier finds himself relaxing incrementally. The reaction unsettles him. Her presence shouldn't have affected him such. The chance of her posing a threat to the Soldier is minimal enough to be insignificant. 

The Captain fiddles idly with the salt shaker. After approximately ninety seconds, he clears his throat and says into the silence between them, “I don’t know how much you typically eat. Though I suppose the serum makes your metabolism similar to mine.” His gaze slides up to the Soldier. “If it’s not enough, what I ordered, we can get more, okay? I don’t care about the cost. Just let me know.”

There will be too much, not too little, the Soldier knows, and most, if not all of it, will likely make him sick. 

He says nothing.

Food issues aside, the Soldier finds unpleasant the idea of the Captain covering the bill for a meal he is perfectly capable of paying himself. 

He considers the fact that this mission is likely to last a number of weeks. Adds to that his conviction that the Captain is unlikely to be willing to manage resources with the same level of extremity that the Soldier would, were he on his own. The conclusion he reaches is obvious: traveling with the Captain is going to incur some increased expenses. 

Alone, the Soldier would be content to survive on whatever food he could carry, or sleeping in abandoned buildings. The Captain, though, clearly prefers eating in diners. Sleeping in hotel rooms. He’s accustomed to luxuries like hot water and comfortable bedding. 

For the Soldier, such things are unnecessary. 

Still, he decides, he will not deprive the Captain of them. Which means he will need to stock up on his resources. Cash, first and foremost, but weapons and armor are also likely to become imperative on this mission.

As soon as the meal is finished, he will inform the Captain about the need to acquire these necessary things.

The two of them wait in silence, daylight slowly filtering in through the diner’s windows, butter-yellow and growing brighter with each passing minute.

Eventually, their food arrives. Steaming platefuls of scrambled eggs and hash browns, toast with jelly, and thick slices of ham cover the table, filling the air with mouth-watering aromas.  

The Captain tucks in immediately. He eats quickly, his measured movements so neat that the speed at which the food disappears is almost unnoticeable. 

The Soldier sips at his water. Takes a small bite out of a piece of toast.

His stomach growls with hunger.

At the sound, the Captain glances up, blue eyes sweeping over the Soldier’s untouched plate, the dry piece of toast in his hand. He says nothing, but the Soldier feels the weight of that gaze. The pressure of expectation. The inevitability of questions soon to be voiced. 

He picks up his fork and shoves a bite of ham into his mouth, chewing steadily.

The weight of the Captain’s gaze lessens. 

He follows the ham with bites of egg, his stomach filling steadily, no longer cramping with hunger. But the relief of not being hungry is tainted with the anxiety of knowing that soon enough his stomach will revolt, the richness of the meal almost certainly meaning his body will bring the food right back up.

Not ten minutes later, his stomach begins to turn with nausea. The Captain is finishing the last remnants on his plate, fork scraping across the porcelain, and the Soldier swallows heavily, forcing another bite of egg down his throat. The scents wafting up from his own plate no longer smell inviting, and he can feel a light sweat beginning to bead along his temples—

“Did it just fucking puke on itself?”

“Fuck! It smells fucking awful.”

“Well, clean it up!”

“You clean it up! I’m not touching that thing with a ten-foot pole—

He breathes evenly, swallowing against the nausea and carefully placing his fork beside his still half-full plate. 

“Finished?” the Captain asks, and the Soldier nods shortly. 

He pushes to his feet, fighting against moving too quickly so as not to raise suspicion. 

“Bathroom,” he rasps, and turns on his heel, heading for the restrooms near the back of the diner.

Though he’s long since mastered the ability to vomit near-silently, the Soldier is still grateful that the restrooms are empty when he enters, hurrying for a stall and bolting the flimsy door behind himself.

When the gagging has stopped, his stomach through with emptying itself, the Soldier straightens shakily, flushing the toilet and heading for the sinks to rinse his mouth and wash his hands. 

He stands there afterward, stomach sore and hurting, fingers gripping the edge of the cracked, porcelain sink as he wills his tremoring body to calm itself. He always gets shaky after. An inconvenient, if not debilitating, side-effect. 

It’ll go away soon enough. He only has to wait it out. 

-

When James comes back to the table, Steve has just sent the waitress off with the money to cover the bill. 

“Just gotta wait for the receipt,” he explains as James slides back into the booth. “Then we can head back out.”

James says nothing, but a small furrow appears between his brows as he watches the waitress ring up the bill.

“Okay?” Steve asks, wondering at the expression of dissatisfaction.

James returns his gaze to the table. 

Slowly, he pushes his plate aside and then, after a moment, says in that low, quiet way of his, “I need...weaponry. Tactical gear. Resources.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. It’s not a bad idea. They’re heading for a Hydra-run site with little idea of what to expect when they get there. It’s only prudent planning to be as prepared as possible. “I’ll call Tony. Have him send over some—”

“No.” James shakes his head, a tiny, but decisive movement. “I can get the things myself. I know of multiple locations where they’ve been stored. It’s only a matter of getting there.”

“How can you be sure the resources are still there?” Steve queries.

James raises a shoulder, unconcerned. “There are hundreds of locations,” he says. “It’s unlikely Hydra’s been able to clear them all. They have bigger concerns right now.”

“And if they’re being guarded?” 

It’s a possibility, if Hydra is looking to bring in the Winter Soldier, that they’d be keeping an eye on their caches of resources. On the other hand, if there are as many locations as James believes there are, Hydra likely can’t spare the resources to monitor them all. 

“I doubt they have eyes on anything but the largest of caches,” James replies. “I’ve already been to several of the smaller ones, and they were deserted. But if they do...it’s not something I couldn’t handle, if it came to it.”

“It’s not something we couldn’t handle,” Steve stresses, leaning slightly across the table. “I’m with you, remember?”

James’ eyes flicker up to meet his for the barest of seconds before he glances away again, expression inscrutable.

“I remember.”

-

“You should drive,” the Captain says, as they leave the diner. He tosses the keys to the Soldier.

It makes sense that the Soldier should be the one to drive, considering the various locations of Hydra-stored resources embedded within his memory. 

He slides behind the wheel and gets them back onto the main road, heading west, still, but with a different location in mind. 

It should take them the better part of three hours to reach the base but, as luck would have it, it won’t take them too far from the course of their original destination. They should get back on track fairly quickly after the Soldier gets what he needs. The Captain sits quietly in the seat beside him, staring out the side window at the featureless expanse of flat land that rolls by, mile after mile. 

Sometime into the drive, after a drawn-out period of silence, the Captain sighs, running a hand down his face. 

“I’m tired,” he says, still staring out his window. 

“Sleep,” the Soldier replies. “We have a few hours.” 

“Okay,” the Captain agrees. “But eventually we’ll have to stop at a motel or something. I’ll need more sleep than just a few hours. I’ve already been awake for over twenty-four.” He peers over at the Soldier, studying him for a silent moment before he adds, “You need to sleep too.”

The Soldier says nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

The Captain is technically right—the Soldier’s body will eventually force him to sleep. It’s shut down on him before—in the beginning, when he’d lacked the experience to know the exact amount of time he could go before falling unconscious. 

He knows now, though, just how long he can stay awake—how long he’s been conditioned to stay awake—and while he can feel exhaustion creeping up, he still has hours before he reaches the point where he’ll have to sleep. 

The Captain lowers his seat a few inches back, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. His breathing evens out, body dropping into sleep within minutes, and the Soldier considers how much trust this man must have in him, to leave himself so exposed. 

That the thought makes something small and warm flicker in his chest leaves him uneasy, and he pushes the feeling down deep where he doesn’t have to think about it.

-

The Captain wakes when the engine turns off, the Soldier having parked on the outskirts of some nameless town in the middle of nowhere. 

It isn’t truly nameless—the town—but the Asset’s parameters hadn’t necessitated it knowing the names of the places near this safe house, and so the Soldier doesn’t know either. The Asset had known the location; it was firmly embedded in its memory, so that even if the town and its surroundings had been eviscerated, the Asset still would have known where to go to report in. 

“We there?” the Captain asks, blurrily.

“Close,” the Soldier replies, before opening his door and stepping outside. 

The Captain follows seconds later, shutting his door and raising his arms in a stretch. He yawns, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he glances about his surroundings. “Not much to look at,” he says absently, and the Soldier silently agrees.  

Hydra seems to have a penchant for putting bases in the middle of nowhere. 

It’s a good half-hour trek to get where they need to be, and the Soldier gives the Captain a few more seconds to fully wake before he moves, heading toward the border of the forest that can just be made out from the side of the road where he’d parked. 

They make good time. The Captain is physically superior to anyone the Soldier has ever worked with before, and can keep up with the Solder easily as they move through grassland and tree-covered terrain. 

Soon enough, they reach a sort of clearing where a shabby-looking two-story house sits, seemingly abandoned. There are no vehicles parked outside, but the Soldier approaches with caution nonetheless, keeping an ear out for any sounds not originating from the surrounding forest. 

There is nothing.

The Soldier ascends the creaky wooden stairs that make up the front porch and comes across the first sign that this house is not any ordinary run-of-the-mill residence: A keypad resting beside the door where a standard house might have a doorbell. 

The Soldier knows, without knowing how he knows, that the keypad controls the deadbolts on the other side of what the average person wouldn’t be able to identify as a heavily reinforced door. 

He could break through, if it was necessary, but that would undoubtedly raise alarms he could otherwise avoid by using the keypad. 

“Do you know the code?” the Captain asks quietly from behind him.

The Soldier doesn’t. Until he does. 

He raises his right hand and smoothly inputs the code, the lights beneath the keypad flashing green as soon as he presses the last digit. There is a muffled click as the deadbolt slides free, and the Soldier grasps the handle, pushing the door open on silent, well-oiled hinges.

The Captain follows as he steps inside, allowing the heavy door to sweep shut behind them in near-complete silence. 

The foyer is dimly lit, watery rays of sunlight filtering through the filmy curtains that cover nearly every window. To the right, an open doorway leads to a mid-sized kitchen. To the left, a living room, its doorway adjacent to the stairway that leads to the second floor. 

The Soldier blinks and sees himself—the Asset— standing just inside the doorway of the living room, body held in perfect parade-rest.  

“Come, Soldier.” The Asset's primary commander motions for the Asset to approach where he's seated on the couch, lounging beside the secondary commander.

The Asset obeys. It comes to a stop before the Commander. Watches silently as the light from the television makes shadows flicker across both commanders' faces, along the walls. 

“Sit,” the Commander orders. “I don’t want you hovering over me. ‘S creepy.”

The Asset slides smoothly to the floor, legs folded beneath itself.

“You did good today, Soldier,” the Commander says, reaching out as if to pat the Asset’s head before he seems to think better of it and redirects his aim to the bottle of beer on the coffee table instead. 

After taking a healthy swig, the Commander clunks the bottle back onto the table, then reaches into a pocket on his tactical vest. “I think you’ve earned a reward.”

“Brock,” the secondary commander says, a warning in his tone.

“Jack,” the Commander responds, pulling out a tiny rectangle of crinkling plastic. “Relax. 'S just candy. I wanna see what it does.”

The secondary commander sighs, shaking his head. “You know it’s not supposed to have anything other than what the techs give it.”

“It’ll be fine,” the Commander counters, watching the Asset’s eyes track the tiny package. “A little sugar never hurt anybody. Here,” he adds, holding out the red-colored rectangle, “try this.” 

The Asset takes the tiny rectangle between careful fingers, drawing it toward its face to study it. Closer inspection reveals the rectangle to be dark pink, rather than red, but that knowledge affords little clarity as to what the Asset is supposed to do with it.

“You eat it,” the Commander explains slowly, as if talking to a dull-witted child. “Put it in your mouth.” 

The Asset tugs on one side of the plastic, fishing out the small pink cube and placing it into its mouth as ordered. A burst of flavor spreads across its tongue—tart, and too sweet, and—

The Commander laughs at the expression on the Asset’s face, and even the secondary can’t seem to forestall the twist of amusement that curves his lips.

“Like that, don’t you?” the Commander grins, and the Asset stares dumbly, eyes wide as it dips its head in a tiny nod. “Knew you would,” the Commander declares, taking another swig of his beer. “You keep this between us, though, you got that? I ever find out you let anyone know about this, I’ll break your jaw.”

The Soldier blinks.

Turns his attention from the empty living room to focus on the hallway before him.

The corridor stretches past the living room and the kitchen, ending in a door that opens back out into the clearing. About halfway down, though, tucked beneath the stairway, is another door—heavily reinforced—with a keypad beside it. 

Again, the code comes easily to the Soldier, and he inputs in the numbers without hesitation.

As before, the lock slides open with a quiet click. The Soldier pushes it open, stares down into the darkened passageway from his position at the top of a set of stairs. 

Little can be seen past the first few steps, lit only by the ambient light from the hallway, but the Soldier knows what lies in the space below. 

He steps forward, down into the darkness, the Captain at his back.

-

Steve follows James down the darkened stairway, automatic lights flickering on as they descend into the basement-like room. 

The space, Steve sees when they reach the bottom, is small—only about as wide as two rooms combined, and sparsely furnished. Several crates are stacked along one wall. What look like safety-deposit boxes line another.

Steve's shoulders relax, grateful that that’s all that’s in this room. 

These past months spent destroying Hydra bases had revealed much about the tortures the Winter Soldier had suffered at the hands of Hydra. And while Steve realizes it’s probably only a matter of time before they come across more nightmare-inducing material, he’s happy to avoid it for as long as possible. 

James heads left, toward the large crates. He places his right thumb against the bio-metric scanners one after another, lifting each lid as the locks click open, revealing an assortment of tactical gear, weaponry, and enough ammunition to level a small country. 

James bypasses most of it, grabbing a few handguns and dropping them and their corresponding ammunition into one of the sturdy duffel bags lying inside the crates. He  takes a substantial number of knives, strapping several of them about his person, and dropping the rest into the bag. 

He also takes tac gear: sturdy, reinforced combat pants; a cleaner-looking pair of boots; a couple of armored jackets. The gear that James grabs was clearly made, specifically, for him—the left arm removed from all of the upper layers. 

When he’s finished with the crates, James moves on to the safe-lined wall. These, too, have bio-metric scanners, and the Soldier unlocks a few of the cubicles revealing a large amount of cash, along with what look like passports, identification cards, drivers’ licenses and other credentials necessary for establishing a false identity.   

He takes all the cash—what must be at least twenty grand—stuffing it into a black drawstring bag and dropping it into his duffel. He takes slightly more time with the credentials, flipping through various passports and cards until he comes across a few he likes, crouching to stuff them into his bag as well. 

When he’s finished, James zips the bag closed and stands, taking the handles in his left hand. He glances around the room one last time, a quick sweep of his eyes, before his focus returns to Steve and he states, somewhat mechanically, “These supplies are provisionally sufficient.” 

Steve nods, more than ready to go. “Let’s get out of here.”

-

Chapter Text

★✪ Ch. 4★✪

“I think we should find somewhere to rest,” the Captain says from the driver’s seat, close to an hour later. “A motel, maybe. And something to eat too. It’s been a while since breakfast.” 

The Soldier considers this, blinking raw, sleep-blurry eyes. 

Rest is a good idea. With each passing hour, he’s getting closer to that threshold where his body will force him into unconsciousness.

He’ll pay with cash, the Soldier decides, and book the motel room himself. At present, the Captain is far too recognizable. 

They’re going to have to do something about that, sooner rather than later. Captain America’s fame is not something the Soldier wants trailing him throughout this mission. Hydra aside, there are undoubtedly, multiple government agencies who are just as eager to apprehend him, and the thought of being captured by one of them is— 

The metal arm recalibrates, a series of quiet, sibilant movements.

Food is another thing altogether. The Soldier’s stomach cramps hollowly. Has been cramping since the Soldier had been forced to empty it in that diner, hours ago. 

The sensation is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

He needs to eat something. A nutrient shake would be ideal. Or something else, non-greasy and easy on the stomach.

He’s been trying out different foods with varying degrees of success over the past few months. The owner of the diner he’d been frequenting, Lara—blue eyes and dark hair and a warmth about her that had made him feel almost... safe...compelled to step into her diner—had recognized quickly that he had trouble with certain foods. She’d made it something of a mission to discover what things he could stomach: toast with different flavors of jam, egg whites, rice, something called grits—“they’re delicious, honey, just try them”—sometimes salty, sometimes sweet… 

She’d compiled quite a list of safe foods. Would make them specially for him whenever he visited—always in small portions, because, somehow, she’d realized that he was obligated to finish everything on his plate, and too much of anything inevitably made him sick. 

His food-related anxieties quieted considerably whenever he visited Lara. 

When he wasn’t at the diner, he subsisted on protein shakes and the occasional chalky-flavored, overly bland ration bars he’d raided from an abandoned Hydra safehouse. 

Unfortunately, the Captain is likely planning to stop at another greasy diner—or perhaps a greasy drive-through—wherein acceptable food choices for the Soldier will be limited, at best. The Soldier resigns himself to the likelihood of becoming sick, again. 

The prospect is not ideal. 

Aside from the fact that inadequate nutrition causes the body to malfunction, the thought of the Captain discovering the Soldier’s...condition...is unappealing. 

Some distant, detached part of the Soldier thinks he shouldn’t care if the Captain learns of these sustenance-related malfunctions. If anything, the Captain’s awareness will make him more cognizant of what kinds of foods he’s subjecting the Soldier to.  

He wouldn’t use the knowledge against the Soldier, the Soldier is almost certain. 

Still, the Soldier can’t bring himself to say anything . No matter how it’s presented, the inability to consume certain foods is a liability, a weakness. It’s instinct to hide it away.

There was no tolerance for weakness in the Asset. 

It was not permitted to cry, beg, ask for mercy. It was to endure. Everything; always.  

Unfortunately, the Soldier knows it’s only a matter of time before the Captain discovers the truth.

-

With the assistance of his fancy phone, the Captain finds them a motel just off the highway. 

The Soldier secures a single room for the night, pays for it with money he’d purloined from the Hydra safehouse. 

The girl behind the front desk takes so little notice of him that he has no need to work at being forgettable. Already reimmersed into the show she’s watching on her mobile device, the girl has undoubtedly forgotten the fake name he gave her before he even steps back outside. 

The Soldier slides back into the passenger seat and directs the Captain to drive around the far side of the building where their room is located. 

They park in a near-empty lot, grab their duffel bags, and ascend one of the staircases to the second floor.

It’s habit to do a perimeter sweep once he’s inside, though the size of the room makes the task a simple one. There are two full-sized beds, a rickety table, a dresser.  A tiny bathroom to the right of the entrance; no window. Barely big enough for a toilet, shower, and sink. The only window in the whole place is the one beside the front door.

When the Soldier steps back into the main room, the Captain is flipping through the small stack of takeout menus piled on one corner of the dresser.

“Guess these are some of the nearby restaurants that deliver,” he says, raising the pamphlets for the Soldier to see. “Got any preferences?”

The Soldier shakes his head. “You choose.”  

He takes his duffel from where he’d left it at the door and drops it beside the bed situated nearest the entrance. He’ll be their first line of defense in the case of any unexpected visitors. 

Behind him, the Captain calls in an order for what sounds like an impossible amount of food. 

The Soldier ignores him, staring down at the mattress, debating. If he sits, the chances of him giving in to the encroaching exhaustion, of passing out right here, are...substantial. Better to take up a place near the window. Stay standing. It’s a good idea to keep an eye on the parking lot. Someone should be keeping watch.

He moves away from the bed. Goes first into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. Anything to drag him away from the precipice of unconsciousness. 

Time stutters forward, and suddenly the Captain is behind him, expression of worry reflected in the mirror above the sink. His hand is outstretched, reaching for the Soldier who stiffens at the sight, jerking to avoid the touch. 

He doesn’t quite manage, reflexes dulled by sleep-deprivation. 

“Easy,” the Captain intones, pulling back. “It’s okay, it’s just me. You’ve been standing here a long time, is all.” He peers more closely at the Soldier’s face, and the Soldier ducks his head, avoiding those too-perceptive eyes as much as he can with the Captain standing so close behind him, blocking the way out.  

“How long has it been since you slept?” the Captain asks. 

Days, the Soldier thinks. It has been. At least three. But he clenches his jaw, saying nothing.  

The Captain’s mouth goes tight and the Soldier tenses, waiting for the strike, the subsequent demand for the information. 

Mission report, now.   

A knock on the front door shatters the building tension and, finally, the Captain moves away. 

He checks the peephole before opening the door to accept the food and pay the delivery person, then brings the bags over to the rickety table in the middle of the room and begins pulling out carton after carton of—Chinese food, by the looks of it. 

“Let’s eat,” he says into the silence. 

The Soldier blinks. Moves from where he’d been hovering in the bathroom doorway. 

There are no plates, only utensils with which to eat, and the Captain hands the Soldier a carton of rice, telling him to “go ahead and take whatever you like. There’s plenty.” 

With no way around it, the Soldier eats. 

He tries to get away with eating only rice, but is neatly foiled when the Captain pushes a carton of sauce-covered meat toward him. “Try this. It’s really good.”

It’s an order, unthinkingly given, but its lack of intent makes little difference to the Soldier’s Hydra-ingrained conditioning. 

The Soldier grasps the carton in automatic obedience, scooping forkfuls of the orange-colored chicken into his mouth. 

It is good. Crispy, and sweet, and savory all at once. But the Soldier knows, even as he makes his way through the differently flavored meats and vegetables—pushed toward him by the Captain who is visibly pleased with the Soldier’s acceptance of each “suggestion”—that it is only a matter of time before his stomach revolts. 

When the food is gone, the Captain stacks the empty cartons together, dropping them back into the bags they came in.

“I’m gonna take these out to the dumpster,” he tells the Soldier. “Be right back.” 

The Soldier waits only as long as it takes for the door to click shut behind the Captain before he’s lurching from his chair, darting for the bathroom as fast as he can. 

The food comes back up easily.

At first, the Soldier is grateful—the Captain will only be gone for so long. 

Then he realizes, leaning shakily against the countertop afterward, that there’s no hiding the bitter scent of vomit, which lingers even after the evidence has been flushed away, and there are no windows in the bathroom to open for ventilation. 

Which means, when the Captain returns—much faster than even the Soldier had accounted for—there’s no way to conceal what’s just occurred. 

Especially considering the fact that the Soldier is still folded over when the Captain finds him, shivering miserably in the aftermath of purging everything in his stomach. 

-

“B-James?” Steve says, worriedly, “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

James looks awful—pale and trembling, bent over the sink in the bathroom. 

Then Steve catches the sour-bitter scent of vomit in the air and, all at once, realizes exactly “what happened”. His heart sinks. 

He’d been so relieved upon learning of James’ regular visits to “Jim n’ Lara’s Diner” during the time he’d been on his own. Had assumed, based upon that, that the Soldier’d gotten past his food sensitivities. He’d looked to be at a healthier weight, so James must have been managing his dietary needs with some degree of success. 

It was something Steve’d worried about a lot after James had left; whether he was able to sufficiently take care of himself. To see him sitting so comfortably in that warm diner, with a woman who was so obviously protective over him—if the worried looks she’d kept shooting James’ way that night were any indication—had been a huge weight off Steve’s shoulders. 

Now, though, as he watches James fight to pull himself together, he feels that familiar tug of worry rise again. 

“This morning,” Steve says slowly, “after we had breakfast. You headed straight for the bathroom then, too.”

Steve waits, and when James doesn’t respond asks, “Is it everything, that makes you sick? Is there anything you can eat that doesn’t come back up?”

James’ expression is shuttered, making it very plain that he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. 

But Steve can be stubborn too, and he refuses to let the subject drop. He waits, standing silently in the bathroom doorway and, finally, James relents.

“Some things,” he admits stiffly, “I can eat. Vegetables, grains, certain fruits.” 

He blinks a couple of times. Shakes his head as if to clear it, and Steve is reminded of how tired he looks, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Meat and fried foods are...problematic.”

“James,” Steve entreats, stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have...you didn’t have to eat, if you knew it would make you sick. You could have...” 

He trails off as James’ mouth works, expression dark, as if it pains him to drag out the words. “You told me. To eat,” he says finally, voice tight.

“But you should have—” Steve counters insistently, “You could have—”

“I can’t,” James confesses, sharply. “I can’t.”  

Steve’s mouth snaps shut. 

James looks...supremely unhappy. His lips are pressed tightly together, his brow furrowed, eyes averted as if he is ashamed. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. 

“It’s not your fault.”

“That’s not—” Steve stops. Releases a controlled breath. “That...doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have assumed. I knew you’d had some difficulties. I should have asked if they still bothered you.”

James says nothing to that, and Steve looks again at the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Recalls how James had refused to admit how long it’s been since he last slept. 

“I won’t do it again,” he tells James. “I know now, so. I’ll be more careful. I won’t make you eat again. I promise.”

He straightens in the doorway, and James shifts in wary response. 

“You should try to get some sleep,” Steve continues quietly, careful of both his tone and his choice of wording. He doesn’t want to make the mistake of giving James any more orders. “Only if you want,” he adds. “But you look like it might do you some good.”

James doesn’t answer, and Steve moves from blocking the doorway, back out into the main room. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can feel how tired he is himself. Exhaustion begins to creep up on him, and he sinks down onto one of the full-size beds, not even bothering to change out of his clothes. 

James moves around in the bathroom for another few minutes before he comes back out. 

Steve watches him stare blankly at the other bed.

He makes no move to lie down. Glances, instead, at the door, the window. 

After a moment, Steve connects the dots. 

“I’ll keep watch,” he says, pushing his own exhaustion aside. He can go longer, if that’s what it takes to get James to finally sleep. 

Miraculously, James nods. 

He must be nearing collapse, Steve thinks, for him to agree so easily.

He settles onto the bed, and Steve is reminded of the way the Soldier lay, locked away in the Hulk containment room—stiff and unsure, reluctant to close his eyes.

As before, it’s only a matter of time before fatigue drags the Soldier under, and when next Steve looks over, James’ eyes are shut, breaths steady and deep, finally asleep.

-

The Soldier wakes, a sharp gasp caught in his throat as he sits abruptly upright. 

A cold sweat dries along his hairline, between his collarbones, down his spine. 

He cannot remember what he dreamed, only that it has his heart pounding, a sharp staccato against his sternum. His gaze darts around the room—instinct driving him to check each shadowed space—before it stops on the Captain, who watches him with a careful expression, eyes slightly wide. 

“Okay?” 

The Captain’s voice is hushed from where he sits beside the window, chair angled so as to be able to see out into the parking lot.

The Soldier scrubs a hand across his eyes without responding. 

He glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. 23:30. He’s been asleep for close to seven hours. He’s still tired, if no longer exhausted, but he knows he will gain little more than nightmares if he attempts to sleep again. Better to let the Captain sleep instead.

He slides to his feet, tilting his head toward the window. “I’ll keep watch.”

The Captain studies the Soldier for an uncomfortable minute before he nods and heads for the untouched bed. 

“Wake me when you’re ready to go,” he says. The Soldier glances away, steps toward the window.

“Please,” the Captain adds, haltingly, catching himself. “It’s not a—It’s a request.”

“Sleep,” the Soldier says in response, lowering himself into the unoccupied chair. 

The Captain does. 

-

The Soldier allows the Captain eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, after which he begins moving around the motel room, making more noise than is strictly necessary to gather their things, brush his teeth, and generally cause enough of a commotion such that the Captain wakes on his own. 

It doesn’t take much, something the Soldier finds reassuring. The Captain not being a heavy sleeper means he will wake easily in the case of danger, just as the Soldier is trained to do. 

The Captain yawns, drawing his arms over his head in a stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of his toned stomach. 

The Soldier lowers his gaze. Bends to grab their duffel bags from the floor and then retrieves the keys from the table beside the door. 

“Wait,” the Captain calls, and the Soldier freezes in place, turns slowly to glance at the Captain from the corner of his eye.

“Let me— I need my toothbrush. And a change of clothes.”

He approaches the Soldier with easy strides, unzipping the duffle still gripped tight within the Soldier’s metal hand, and pulling out what he needs. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

-

Breakfast is a quick affair. With James’ disclosure that he’d eaten while Steve was asleep, Steve feels free to choose a random fast-food joint to drive through. He eats while he drives, crumpling the paper remains into a ball and stuffing it into the empty bag, dropping all of it into the back seat to be disposed of later. 

The rest of the drive to the Hydra base is—not uncomfortable, not exactly, but silent. James is so quiet . Not that Bucky had been loud. But the silences between Steve and Bucky had always been easy. Comfortable. Freely broken in favor of a comment, or a joke. 

If Steve were to tell a joke now, he doubts he’d get more than a blank stare from James.

The place where they eventually stop turns out to be an abandoned-looking warehouse on the outskirts of a small, undistinguished town. Outside lays a heavy fog, and Steve and James ghost through it to reach an unsurprisingly reinforced door. The adjacent keypad responds promptly to James’ thumbprint, its accommodating beep followed by the smooth clicks of disengaging locks.  

James glances over, and Steve nods, wishing he had more toward protection than just the solid weight of his shield resting against his arm. He hadn’t packed the suit when he’d gone to find James—hadn’t figured it’d be needed. 

At least James has the reinforced armor he’d appropriated from the last base they’d visited. Unfortunately, Steve’s currently out of luck on that front, unable even to borrow anything from James: the Winter Soldier’s armor, while expertly crafted, is tailored specifically for the Soldier’s frame, making it too small for Steve’s.   

James takes point, heading into the base, leaving Steve to bring up the rear. 

Inside, the warehouse is dim, only the barest amount of ambient light filtering in through the high, dusty windows. 

Like the storage base from before, there are a number of large crates stacked haphazardly throughout the space. Metal filing cabinets, battered cardboard boxes, and various dilapidated desks also adorn the room, along with piles of what appear to be broken-down radio components and ancient computers that have long been shut down. Papers lie strewn across the cement floor as if whoever had been here last had left in a hurry, not even bothering to grab whatever had fallen in their haste.

Steve and James move through the space on silent feet, James keeping his rifle raised in casual readiness as they check all the corners, clearing the entire room. Eventually James leads them to a stop in front of a large shelving rack, set against the back wall of the warehouse. 

The Soldier reaches out and shoves aside a box of dusty folders, revealing another keypad hidden behind it. 

It’s not a coincidence, Steve realizes, glancing sideways at James. The Soldier knew exactly where to find this hidden access point.

James goes still, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly as he registers Steve’s assessing gaze. 

“I didn’t know it was here,” he says, quiet. “Didn’t remember...until I did. The pieces only make sense when there are... Other pieces. To connect them to.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, voice equally soft, aiming for reassuring. “I’m with you, remember? Not going anywhere.”

James doesn’t answer, but his shoulders seem to release the barest amount of tension as he turns his attention back to the keypad. Steve waits, but James doesn’t input the code right away; he tilts his head. Listening. 

“There’s—we need to go down,” he says. “Do you hear it?”

Steve stills, listening for whatever it is James is hearing. After a moment he hears it too: an electrical hum. Somewhere below them, something is still receiving power. 

“What is it?” 

James shakes his head, a slow back and forth, brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know.”

“The source of the signal, maybe,” Steve offers. “Only one way to find out for sure.”

James raises a hand, inputs the passcode. The light blinks red, then green, and the shelving unit shifts, one side of it swinging slightly inward. 

The Soldier pushes it open the rest of the way, and leads the way into a tiny passage. It’s large enough only to hold a few people—about as many as could fit into the elevator directly before them. 

After a fraction of a pause, James presses the call button, and the doors slide open with the barest whisper of sound. James doesn’t move right away, glancing sidelong at Steve, but Steve doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside the elevator, waits for James to join him. 

The doors slide shut, the elevator smoothly descending what must be at least two floors below the warehouse. 

The room the elevator doors open upon is only slightly smaller than the warehouse above, and is full of computers. A couple of steps inside activate a series of automatic lights which blink on to reveal rows and rows of monitors all arranged to face the same direction—toward the front of the room, opposite the elevator. On the far wall hangs a set of massive screens, placed so as to allow everyone working at a personal computer to be able to view shared information.

Most of the computer screens are dark, either inactive or shutdown. 

Most. 

But not all.

Just before them, on a slightly raised dias, a main grouping of computers have been situated such that a few lead computer techs might be able to oversee the rest of the room. 

On the center screen sits a blinking cursor, green against a black background, looking for all the world, like it’s waiting .

“That must be it,” Steve says, as James steps forward, stopping just in front of the console. 

He swings his rifle onto his back, before raising a hand, shifting the mouse. 

The screen blinks on. 

PASSWORD.

James stares for a long moment. 

Eventually, he moves, inputting a short series of keystrokes. The computer blinks. 

PASSWORD ACCEPTED. 

The screen goes dark for an instant and then begins scrolling a complicated series of symbols and numbers that looks very similar to the code Fury’d obtained while sleuthing around that other Hydra base. 

This must be it, then, Steve thinks with unease. The place where the initial code meant to lead.

“Can you read it?” he asks, eventually, when the silence has drawn out.

James, motionless and staring at the computer screen, doesn’t respond.

“James?” Steve says, softly. Then, into the continued silence, “Bucky?”

Finally, James turns. 

There is something smoothly mechanical in the movement as he fixes his gaze on Steve, expression utterly blank.

“Идентифицируйте,” he says flatly, voice as empty as his eyes.

“Buck,” Steve says plaintively, dread creeping into his gut, “it’s me. It’s—Steve.”

James tilts his head coolly. “Identity incompatible with Mnemosyne Project,” he responds impassively. His metal arm recalibrates and he shifts, the small movement transforming his stance from passive to threatening. He takes a step toward Steve, all lethal grace, and it’s as far as Steve is willing to let the Soldier get.

“Sputnik,” Steve says, quiet but firm.

The Soldier stops, sudden and abrupt, face gone completely blank. His muscles go slack, eyes sliding shut as his legs give out, body dropping in a movement that is almost graceful. 

Steve darts forward. Catches him before he hits the floor.

-

Chapter Text

✪★ Ch. 5 ✪★

“It's a trigger phrase,” Natasha tells him. “I had to dig pretty deep to find it. They embedded it for emergency purposes; in case he ever tried to turn on them—which I’m finding out happened quite a bit. As much as they valued his skills and abilities, they still viewed him as a threat. The words ‘unstable’, and ‘erratic’ appear in his files more than a few times.”

“What does it do?” Steve asks, resigned. Nothing in the Winter Soldier files is ever good. 

“It neutralizes him,” Natasha answers. “Say ‘Sputnik', and he’ll lose consciousness within a matter of seconds.”

-

The Soldier’s eyes snap open. A burst of adrenaline shoots through his body and he launches into an upright position, gaze darting about his unfamiliar surroundings, instinctively searching for any sign of a threat.   

There's nothing. Only the same dim warehouse with it's scattered, broken equipment, and metal filing cabinets. He relaxes incrementally. Clearly, he'd been unconscious, but he can't have lost too much time if he's still in the warehouse. He's on the ground floor again, he notes, no longer in the computer room below which is the last place he can remember being, where a coded message had been scrolling across a dark computer screen.

His gaze settles on the still form across the room.

He hadn't registered the Captain as a threat during his initial sweep, but seeing the guarded expression on the man's face, he wonders if the Captain had been expecting him to.

“What—” The Soldier swallows around a dry throat. Tries again. “What happened.”

“You were triggered,” the Captain says, watching him. “Something in the code, on the computer screen. It triggered you. You became the Soldier again.”

The Soldier glances away, rubbing wearily at his eyes. It’s something he’d been afraid of; that the programming Hydra had put inside him is still close to the surface, only waiting to be activated. There's no denying, now, that it is. Which only makes this mission all the more dangerous.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to come back,” the Captain continues quietly, pulling the Soldier from his dark thoughts. 

He very carefully doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t allow what might be the barest tendrils of frustration to show. He’s never coming back. The person the Captain sees when he looks at the Soldier doesn’t exist.

He glances up—to say this, maybe—and finds himself caught off-guard by the anguish, clearly visible, on the Captain’s face. The Soldier falters, words drying up behind his teeth, mouth shutting on silence.

The frustration swells; a coiling tension behind his sternum in response to his own weakness. He’s a highly trained operative. A weapon. A killer. He's been conditioned to be unaffected by the emotions of others, by their pain. Yet the expression on the Captain’s face makes it suddenly impossible for the Soldier to get the words past his throat. The truth, that Bucky Barnes is dead, and the Soldier is what's left, sits heavy on his tongue.

But he can't say it.  

“The code,” he says instead, “on the computer, wasn't the source of whatever Hydra's been broadcasting. It didn't have any sort of message, just a location. A set of coordinates.”

The Captain draws a slow, even breath, visibly composing himself, wounded expression sliding from his features. “You want to follow it.”

The Soldier nods. 

There’s something about the codes. Some element within their key components that seems to...pull at him. Even this one, which had been little more than a set of coordinates, had engendered the response, and some deeply entrenched something inside him makes it difficult—maybe impossible—to ignore. From what the Captain's told him, Hydra is purposefully triggering deeply-embedded conditioning. Conditioning he'd been completely unaware of. He needs to know how strong their hold is. More than that, if he’s ever to be free of Hydra, he needs to discover the source of these "messages". Needs to completely destroy it. He won't be Hydra's puppet again.

“Okay,” the Captain says. “We’ll do it together.”

-

They pull up a map on the Captain’s fancy phone, and the AI embedded within the software tells them which way they’re headed—further west. 

The Captain drives. 

-

The Soldier stares out the window, thoughts turning over and around each other. The Captain must have considered, as the Soldier has, that they are heading into a trap. 

“I need,” the Soldier says, “a promise.”

The Captain glances toward him, ever attentive. 

“If they. If they take me—”

“They won’t,” the Captain asserts. “I’ll never let them have you again.”

“I need you to promise,” the Soldier maintains. “You’ll kill me.”

The car jerks violently.

The Captain pulls sharply to the side of the road, shutting off the engine after they’ve come to an abrupt stop. He raises a shaky hand to cover his pale, bloodless face. 

For a long time, he sits in silence. 

Eventually the Captain drops his hand, eyes staring vacantly through the front window.

“I can’t go back,” the Soldier says into the stillness. “I’d rather die than go back.”

Finally the Captain shifts, letting out a shuddering breath. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking on the word. “Okay, James. I promise.”

The Soldier feels a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying release from his shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

The Captain nods shallowly. Restarts the car. Pulls back onto the road. 

-

“Here.” 

The Captain places a bowl on the table before the Soldier. 

He peers inside; sees what looks to be broth covered rice, gently steaming, giving off a savory scent. 

The Soldier’s stomach growls.

He looks at the Captain, and the Captain glances away, running a hand through his hair. 

It’s a nervous gesture, the movement, though the Soldier cannot fathom what the Captain could be nervous about. 

“It’s—” the Captain begins. “These are...some of the things you mentioned you can eat,” he says. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s gotta be better than the supplement bars you’ve been eating. And it’s healthier for you.” 

The Soldier had wondered, silently, why the Captain had requested the Soldier to reserve a room with cooking facilities when they’d eventually stopped to acquire lodgings. He hadn’t asked, only did as the Captain requested, and not long after they’d settled into their room, the Captain was busy preparing something on the tiny stove top—apparently he’d arranged to have some groceries delivered. 

The Soldier, seated at the only table in the place—small, wooden, and surprisingly stable—had busied himself with studying the paper map he’d swiped from the front desk in the motel lobby. 

Over the past few days, he’s come to the realization that there are other numbers in his head, series of them in fact, that he hasn’t yet told the Captain about. He wants to see if they correspond to coordinates. If they create some sort of pattern. If they actually are coordinates, or if they’re something else altogether. 

Now, the Soldier slowly folds and sets aside the map, pulls the bowl closer toward himself and picks up the spoon. 

In truth, he’s gotten tired of eating the meal-replacement bars he’s been subsisting on lately. 

It’s a novel sensation—having been independent long enough to have formed an opinion about what he eats. 

It’s also somewhat unsettling. 

The Winter Soldier, the Asset, was meant to survive on what the handlers gave it. It had neither opinions nor preferences, something which kept it performing optimally regardless of such insignificant details as the flavor or consistency of its “meals”. 

The Asset did not care that it was fed via tubes, or that it was sometimes made to swallow down a viscous, chalky, sludge-like “meal” before particularly rigorous missions. 

The Soldier should, likewise, be concerned only with consuming the necessary amount of calories to keep himself mission-ready. There is no room for preference when it hinders efficiency. And yet, it seems the Soldier has developed preferences nevertheless. 

He raises the spoon to his mouth taking a cautious sip and finds, to his surprise, that the simple fare is good. It’s much better than he expected, which makes him wonder at having had any expectations at all. 

Except...something about it, expecting the food to be only passively edible, seems almost familiar. Like it is part of some previous protocol, long ago overwritten. 

Something of his thoughts must show on his face because when he glances over he finds the Captain watching him, the supersoldier wearing a faintly wry expression. 

“I’ve been working on my cooking skills,” he says. “I’m not great, but I’m not so awful at it as I was before, either.”

Before. 

Before he became Captain America. Before he woke up in another century. The Soldier assumes this is what the Captain means. 

“It’s. Good,” the Soldier affirms haltingly. 

Something passes over the Captain’s face. An emotion the Soldier cannot identify. Unsurprising. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with emotions in general, the Captain’s even less so. 

“Thanks,” The Captain says after a slightly too-long pause. He turns away, goes back into the tiny kitchenette and starts cleaning up the leftover ingredients. “Feel free to have as much as you want.” 

-

“James,” Steve says, later that evening as James exits the bathroom, dark hair damp and curling from his shower. He'd taken up a position at the foot of his bed, waiting for James to finish. “I think…I’m worried that we might be heading into a trap.”

James tilts his head, silent, and Steve continues. “It’s just. That code from earlier was obviously meant to trigger you, like we’d suspected. There’s no telling what the trigger intended. I stopped you pretty quick—” he pauses, reconsiders. “Unless… Do you know what they wanted you to do? What the trigger would have had you do, if I hadn’t interrupted?” 

James shakes his head. “I don’t—” he begins. “Whatever it was supposed to be, it got derailed when I saw you. You are not one of my— Of the Soldier’s authorized handlers. And you didn’t provide any authorization codes. A handler would have known to do that, in order to keep me from classifying them as a threat.”

Steve feels a stab of guilt at that, remembering how he’d kept James from attacking him. 

“I’m sorry I made you sleep,” he says quietly, shame rising with the guilt. James has had his autonomy stolen from him so many times. Steve hates that he’s become one of the many to have taken a part in that.

James stares at Steve, expression blank, as if he doesn’t understand the words. “I would have tried to kill you,” he says, bluntly. “That trigger— Using the trigger was tactically sound.” 

“Maybe,” Steve allows. “But I still should have discussed it with you first. I should have at least told you that I knew the trigger, that it could be used against you. I’m sorry I didn’t.” 

He shifts, but stops himself from getting to his feet when James' frame tightens. It's almost imperceptible. Steve wouldn't see it if he weren't carefully looking for it. But it confirms the fact that James is still skittish, wary about keeping distance between them.

“I want you to be able to trust me,” Steve continues, leaning forward but staying seated. “I want— I need you to know that I’d never— I never want to hurt you. Not telling you that I knew the trigger was— The opposite of what I should have done. So I am sorry I didn’t tell you. And I’m sorry I used it against you.”

“You’ll probably have to use it again,” James says with a roll of his shoulders.

He's not meeting Steve’s gaze. The words carry little inflection. Reveal little about how James feels on the subject. But Steve doubts he’s as unaffected as his tone implies. 

James, he thinks, actually cares quite strongly about his control being taken from him. It’s apparent, for instance, in how consistent he is about keeping space between Steve and himself. 

However disinclined he might be to take advantage of it, from a purely physical standpoint, Steve is stronger than James. And James doesn’t really trust Steve. Not fully. Not yet. 

It makes since that James is keen about keeping his distance. 

Unfortunately, it also makes since that he reveals so little of his thoughts and feelings. 

Some of that may be conditioning, Steve acknowledges, remnants of his time as the Winter Soldier. But more of it, Steve thinks, is a mask James draws carefully around himself. Though, whether he does so because he expects his emotions to be used against him, or because he views them as an undesirable weakness is anyone’s guess.

“If the code activates my programming again,” James states, “utilizing your trigger phrase as an offensive measure is a reasonable counteraction.”  

“I don’t have to use it,” Steve says, trying not to grimace at James’ casual use of the word programming. “We can try to find another way.” 

James shakes his head, a single sharp movement. “Use the phrase,” he says. “It is. Effective.”

“But—” Steve starts, then cuts himself off as James’ mouth thins, expression shuttering. “Okay,” he concedes. “If that’s… If that’s what you want.”

James’ mouth twists, as if to say ‘How could any of this be what I want?’, but he nods and Steve drops the subject. 

After a moment, James picks up the initial thread of the conversation. “The code,” he says, carefully, “gave me more than just...coordinates. There were— It triggered…memories. Things I hadn’t yet recalled on my own.”

“What kind of memories?”

James’ expression goes distant, considering what he’s trying to say. 

Or, maybe, how much he wants to reveal. 

“Once I became a competent asset,” he explains, slowly, “Hydra began attempting to create...more. More soldiers. Experiments. Meant to be weapons.”

Steve frowns. It isn’t surprising, he thinks, grimly. Because of course they’d never be satisfied with just one supersoldier. They’d want as many as they could create. An army. 

“The others,” James continues, “received a version of the serum. A lot of the experiments were unsuccessful. Terminated early into the project. But, there were some that had...potential.” 

The way he says the last word makes it clear that he is borrowing the term. That it’d been uttered by someone else—Hydra scientist scum most likely.

“You want to find them. To...rescue them?” Steve says, understanding, finally, what it is that’s driving James so doggedly.

“If they’re out there, if they can be saved,” James concedes, “I can’t leave them there.”

The suspicion that this is a trap arises once again.

What are the odds that those memories resurfaced on their own? Steve can’t know for sure, and James might not know either—whether the memories surfaced naturally or whether they were induced. 

But. 

In the end, Steve realizes, it doesn’t really matter. He can’t ignore the possibility of freeing Hydra prisoners any more than it appears James can. 

Still, “It could be a trap,”  he reasserts. “What if it’s a trap?”

-

The Soldier doesn’t respond right away. He does not say that it is almost certainly a trap, that with Hydra, it would be foolish to expect anything else. 

The Captain must read the thought in his expression, in his silence, because he frowns. 

“Let me call in the team,” the Captain says. “They can help us. If this is a trap, they can be there to back us up.”

The Soldier holds his silence. The thought of allying with the Captain’s teammates, who so readily turned on the Soldier in the past, of having to always be on guard—against the possibility of Stark’s anger eventually getting the better of him, or Natalia deciding the Soldier is too much of a threat, that it’s better to just take him out—is harrowing. It’s precarious enough, working with the Captain. But throwing the rest of his teammates into the mix? 

No. 

If the Captain calls in his teammates, the Soldier decides, he will break whatever tentative alliance there is between the two of them. He will complete the mission on his own, and then he will disappear. He won’t let himself be found again.

The Soldier says none of this, but the answer must be easy enough to discern because the Captain’s expression goes from hopeful to resigned.

“Okay,” the Captain says, sighing heavily. He purses his lips, frowning down at his clasped hands for a few moments before he turns his attention back to the Soldier.  “I won’t call them in.

“I won’t ask you to work with them either,” the Captain adds. “I realize now that that’s asking too much. But…” he draws a small breath. “Is it okay if… Let me at least check in with them, every now and again. They won’t interfere, I’ll ask them not to. But it’s still a good idea for them to be aware of what’s going on with us. At least then, if we are walking into a trap, someone knows where to find us if things go south. Someone who can bail us out, if it comes to that.”

The Soldier considers this. From a tactical standpoint, the Captain’s logic is sound. Having someone on the outside who is powerful enough to be able to provide necessary backup is a good idea. And even though the Soldier’s skin crawls at the idea of having to work with the Captain’s team, he doesn’t believe they are Hydra—only that they see the Soldier as expendable. This way, though, the Soldier won’t have to deal with the team face to face. The Captain can handle any and all requisite interactions.

“Okay,” the Soldier says, and the Captain’s shoulders loosen, some of the tension going out of his features. 

“Thank you.” 

The Soldier nods. When the Captain says nothing further, he heads for the windows to begin a precautionary perimeter check. 

After a long moment, the Captain slips from the foot of his bed, “I’ll keep first watch,” he states, taking position near the window with the best sight-lines. 

The Soldier weighs his options. Decides, in the end, not to argue, heading for the unclaimed bed once he’s finished his cursory check.

He doesn’t know if he’ll sleep; he’d gotten more hours than usual the night before, and he hasn’t been awake even near as long as he would be, normally. He doesn’t even feel tired. 

At least, he isn’t experiencing the typical dizziness, muddled thoughts, and burning eyes that usually indicate the body’s need to shut down for the minimum three hours necessary to return to basic functionality. 

For lack of a better option, he lays down.

Sleep claims him, between one blink and the next.

-

The Captain shifts beside the Soldier, breaking his focus again—snagging his attention with frustrating ease.

They lay splayed atop a rooftop, only a few buildings over from a Municipal hospital—situated at the nexus of the coordinates extracted from the latest coded segment.

The Soldier has been surveilling the building for a number of hours; noting pedestrian traffic, the comings and goings of employees, the general milieu of the scene. Keeping an eye out for anything that might raise a Hydra-related red flag.

It should be a simple task. 

The Soldier’s had extensive training in reconnaissance. He is beyond skilled at its execution. Over five decades spent as Hydra’s most efficient killing-machine can attest to that fact. 

The Winter Soldier never missed the target. Never allowed himself to get distracted from the mission, even when the mission required maintaining a position with a stillness and duration that would have been impossible for a normal man to sustain with any level of success. 

And yet. 

The Captain shifts again and the Soldier grits his teeth, the servos in his metal arm recalibrating with a series of sibilant clicks. 

The sound draws the Captain’s attention, the weight of his gaze an almost physical sensation against the side of Soldier’s face. The Soldier refuses to return the look, keeping his own eyes fixed on the view through the lens of his scope. 

Despite his militant-level focus, the Soldier has yet to identify anything out of place. 

It could mean that there really is nothing for him to find. That Hydra has already packed up and abandoned this facility, the same as it had done with the last number of places. 

Or. 

It could be a trap. 

All of the bases the Soldier has been to thus far have been deserted. If he didn’t know any better, the Soldier could assume that the code is simply bouncing between networks, completely at random. That it actually isn’t leading anywhere. But the Soldier has had too much experience with Hydra for him to fall into the false sense of security that kind of assumption offers.  

Hydra doesn’t function ‘randomly’. The encoded messages tailored specifically for him are enough evidence that Hydra has hope that the Soldier is still alive.

And there is no doubt that the terrorist organization is working to rebuild itself. To do so under the notice of governments now actively working to eliminate them means Hydra has to be keeping their movements covert. 

Logically, then, it’s just a matter of time before the Soldier stumbles across a base where the remains of Hydra’s tentacles still linger. 

One of these locations is bound to be a trap. A carefully staged setup meant to drag the Soldier back into Hydra’s control. Looking at the activity surrounding the hospital, the clearly-identified location from that segment of code, the Soldier wonders if he isn’t about to put himself right where they want him.

-

Chapter Text

✪★ Ch. 6 ★✪

Dusk is approaching when James determines that nothing more can be gained from continued surveillance of the hospital. 

Silently, Steve is relieved. He’s never been particularly great at ‘hurry-up-and-wait’, and he suspects that his inability to sit with the same level of uncanny stillness that James has maintained for hours on end has managed to agitate the former assassin. 

After a final visual sweep, James puts away his scope and they abandon the rooftop, moving down to ground level and heading for the hospital entrance. 

Both Steve and James had agreed upon civilian clothing for this op, tactical gear being far too conspicuous for the public setting. For the same reason, the shield, too, had to be left behind. 

Low-drawn baseball caps help to conceal their features, the growing length of Steve's hair and beard providing him with an extra bit of coverage. That had been James’ suggestion, and Steve has to admit that the new, longer length—so different from the clean-cut style Captain America is known for—has done remarkable things for his ability to fly under the radar.

Shapeless, nondescript clothing completes their look, making Steve and James appear as close to average civilians as possible.

As they head inside the building, Steve instinctively adjusts his movement to match James’ deliberate, slightly expedient stride and tries not to be surprised at how easily it gets them through the lobby. 

It’s something Natasha has spent a good amount of time working to teach him. How to modify his body language, use it to manipulate others’ perceptions—the basics of Spy 101. ‘Most people,’ she’d told him, once, ‘-won’t attempt to stop a person if they walk purposefully enough, don’t allow for eye-contact, and generally appear to know what they’re doing and where they are going.’ 

James apparently follows this same line of reasoning. 

Steve will never be as good as Natasha, certainly not the Winter Soldier, but there’s no denying that Nat’s lessons are working in his favor, now.  

He and James head straight for the elevator on the far side of the lobby and nobody approaches them. Even the friendly-looking staff at the front desk don’t attempt to engage them. Steve’s shoulders ease just slightly, and he drops down to the next goal on his mental checklist: finding the encoded message located somewhere within the building. 

Hours of reconnaissance had made it apparent that whatever Hydra-related activities are—or were—carried out at this site, the place still houses a fully functioning hospital, complete with non-Hydra personnel and ordinary patients. 

Hydra seems to have an affinity for infiltrating established corporations; burying its enterprises beneath the cover of legitimate businesses. Since the fall of SHIELD, Steve and his team have come across a number of establishments that were completely unaware of Hydra’s infiltration—until confrontation forced the neo-Nazi organization to reveal itself. 

Whether that is the case with this hospital or not, Steve suspects anything Hydra-related is likely to be found below-ground, concealed from non-Hydra personnel. 

Sure enough, once they get inside the elevator, a hidden panel slides away at the press of James' thumb, revealing access to a sub-level within the building.

James spares a glance in Steve’s direction, ensuring that he is ready, before he pushes the button, triggering the elevator to begin a smooth descent.

The doors, once they reach the sub-level, open whisper-quiet to reveal a long, dimly lit corridor stretching out before them. The only light comes from the backup LEDs glowing murkily along the upper walls, and the bright interior lighting spilling from the elevator. At the end of the corridor, Steve's enhanced vision can just make out what appears to be a wide space, filled with some kind of equipment.

Just as he's beginning to wonder whether they should have brought flashlights, James steps from the elevator, activating what must be a motion sensor, triggering the bright lights in the ceiling to switch on one by one, down the corridor and into the room at the end. Steve fights a twinge of unease, the display dragging up the memory of stepping into Zola’s “brain”—the very nerve-center of Hydra’s organization, burrowed beneath SHIELD's foundation like a particularly bloodthirsty tick.

James follows the progression of the lighting, a quiet stalk down the corridor, drawing his gun from a hidden holster. Steve, drawing his own weapon, follows at his six. 

The room, when they reach the end, is larger than Steve had expected and looks to have been abandoned with some haste, it’s floor scattered with loose papers, doors and drawers of various refrigeration units, storage shelves, and metal racks left hanging askew. 

A good deal of shattered glass crunches underfoot as they move carefully through the room, ensuring that the vast space is as empty as the silence would suggest. 

Spaced evenly down the center of the room are what look like small surgical “stations”, each furnished with industrial-grade lighting angled over large, stainless-steel tables equipped with heavy-duty restraints. 

Wheeled, surgical stands are situated at each station, one of which still holds what looks like a bone saw; dull and rust-stained. Silent. Impotent.

Steve forces himself to look away from the tool, to suppress the nauseating horror that twists through his gut when he considers the implications of restraints being coupled with things like surgical equipment and bone saws. 

He turns, only to have his gaze fall upon the barred cells lining the walls down the right side of the room, each containing a bolted down cot with further adjoining restraints. 

Cots and restraints. Barred cells and man-sized steel tables. There is no way for Steve to fool himself. No way that he can deny what is right in front of his eyes. It’s quite clear: This place was designed for, and had functioned as, a site for human experimentation. 

Unhelpfully, the scene calls to mind the dozens of photographs Steve had found stored within the Winter Soldier’s file. Hydra had spent a great deal of time surveilling the effects of the numerous experiments they’d subjected upon their most valuable prisoner. One image, in particular, forces its way to the front of Steve’s eidetic memory: “the subject” crouched and naked, plaintively gripping the bars of his cell. Though his body language was pleading, it was visibly apparent that the man in that cell didn’t expect any help from his captors; his head had been angled downward; long, dark hair completely obscuring his features. 

Steve’s chest squeezes, fingers clutching numbly around the grip of his gun. It could have been here, he thinks. Bucky—James—could have been kept in any one of these cells. Could have been tortured and experimented upon in this very room. 

He swallows tightly, bile burning hot at the back of his throat as he jerks his gaze away from the cage-like compartments, dragging in a quiet, shuddering breath.

-  

The Soldier moves through the experimentation lab with the Captain at his back and tries not to wonder if Hydra’d ever held him in this specific location. He doesn’t remember, and all attempts to pull forth a memory only serve to remind him of the echoing blankness where memory should lie. 

There is nothing—specifically—about this particular place that is familiar. 

At the same time, everything about it digs claws into his fractured mind. 

His eyes catch on old IV bags—dried-out and limp, left hanging from various stands and crumpled atop stainless-steel workbenches—and the acid burn of experimental drugs being pumped into his bloodstream echoes through his veins; frozen fire that would begin with the bite of a needle, then spread, slowly, relentlessly, through his whole body.   

He steps around a number of scalpels scattered across the floor—left as they’d been dropped by people in too much of a hurry to retrieve them, gleaming dull beneath the bright light from above—and recalls, intimately, the searing bite of their blades. 

How, at first, there is no real pain. Not because he’d been given any anesthetics; because, when that sort of trauma is introduced, there is always a short, adrenaline-fueled moment where the brain scrambles to interpret what is happening; a quiet, dread-filled numbness extant even as the razor’s edge cuts deep through tissue and muscle. Only then, after, comes the bright agony of flesh splitting open; the animal-like terror of having one’s insides exposed to a room full of ruthless, hungry-eyed scientists; the nauseating sensation of blood spilling warm and wet over blanched-white skin. 

The muffled crack of his bones being broken, again and again, so that the doctors could record specific variances in his healing factor under a range of different circumstances—sleep-deprivation, starvation, exsanguination—is another not-distant memory, and the sight of a rust-stained bone-saw lying harmlessly on one of the surgical trays has his body breaking out in a cold sweat. 

The metal arm recalibrates—a mechanical manifestation of his distress—and he rolls his shoulders, forcing himself to loosen clenched muscles, mentally shoving the unwelcome echoes of his own panic-stricken terror into the darkest corner of his mind. 

Deliberately, he re-centers his focus. Goes to that quiet space inside his head where nothing touches him. Where the only important thing is completing the mission. 

Thoughts composed, emotions shut away, he ghosts through the remainder of the lab and feels nothing at all. 

At the far end of the room, an open doorway leads to another, smaller room, and as they approach, the Soldier can hear the faint mechanical whir of machinery coming from within. Stepping inside reveals rows of filing cabinets, shelves covered with dusty boxes, and a small accumulation of computers. 

This has to be where the signal is coming from.

The Soldier moves to tuck away his weapon when something draws him short. 

He stops, executing a slow pivot, glancing back the way he and the Captain had come, and hears it again: the low whir of the elevator descending. The soft, whisper-shush of its doors sliding open. 

Were he not enhanced, he’d never have picked up on the faint sounds. As it is, the quiet thuds of at least a dozen sets of booted feet filing from the elevator reaches his ears, even at a distance of more than two-hundred feet, even with walls between him and the source.

Judging by the way his body has gone taut, the Captain has caught the sounds too, his hand tightening around the grip of his weapon as his gaze darts to the Soldier’s. 

His brow is deeply furrowed, eyes dark and uncompromising, and the Soldier knows, with a sudden surety, that the Captain has no intention of shrinking back from what is almost certainly going to be a deadly confrontation. That he means to fight. 

Good. The Soldier means to fight as well. 

He dips his head, offering a shallow nod of acknowledgement, and moves to press himself against one side of the doorway, weapon raised and ready. The Captain, with a small nod of his own, mirrors the Soldier’s position on the opposite side. 

Silently, they wait. 

- 

As the sounds of booted feet travel from the elevator toward the lab, moving steadily closer, Steve counts footfalls, estimating somewhere around a dozen potential hostiles.  A surreptitious glance around the doorway confirms his guess as three, four-man units file through the doorway on the far side of the room. 

Even without the red insignia affixed to their tac gear, Steve doesn’t doubt that these operatives are Hydra. Armed with deadly assault rifles, they move through the lab with practiced proficiency, quickly sweeping the room. It won’t be long before he and James are discovered, positioned just inside the computer room. 

They need to engage. It’s now or never. 

James, evidently, has come to the same conclusion. In one fluid, lightening-quick movement, he leans around the corner, takes aim, and fires off three successive shots, ducking back behind cover immediately afterward.

Shouts of alarm precede the sound of three dead operatives hitting the floor, and a rapid scuffling follows as the remaining Hydra agents scramble for cover. There isn't much to be found, in that room. A factor which tilts the odds ever so slightly in Steve’s and James’ favor. 

Steve takes aim during the brief chaos and picks off another two of the operatives, keeping a mental tally of how many bullets are left between him and James. 

Theoretically, based solely upon the number of Hydra operatives still alive, there are more than enough rounds between the two of them to take down all of their enemy. 

Realistically, however, the Hydra agents are armed with weapons that are both substantially more powerful, and have considerably more ammunition. Against that sort of firepower, the wall behind which Steve and James are taking cover won’t hold for long. If they stay where they are, they’re little more than sitting ducks. 

The best way to even the odds—the only way he can think of, at the moment—is to force the agents to engage them in close combat. He and James are stronger than the operatives, Faster. Certain to prevail if guns are taken out of the equation. For that to work, though, they’ll need to jump right into the middle of things; avoid getting pinned down; and hopefully, not get shot in the process. 

They’ll need a distraction. 

Steve glances around—looking for something he can use, wishing, fervently, that he had his shield.  

A voice calls from the other room, the clipped, rapidly-spoken Russian incomprehensible to Steve. He glances to James for clarification, and sees a flash of something like guilt flare in silver-blue eyes, there and gone again in little more than an instant. 

“They want me to surrender,” James translates, voice low; inflectionless. “They say they’ll spare you, if I surrender. They’ll let you go.” 

Steve squares his jaw, face set in what he knows are stubborn lines. “Even if that were true,” he says, reaching to grab a chair from one of the computer stations. “I wouldn’t go.” 

He takes a precious moment to pause and meet James’ eyes. Holds on to that pale gaze. “Not without you.” 

Then he hurls the chair as hard as he can into the room where Hydra waits, aiming for where his near-perfect recall identifies as a strategic position for the operatives to have taken cover.

It’s the best diversion he can come up with on such short notice, and he uses the small advantage it offers, darting out into the lab as the agents instinctively aim at the thing hurtling toward them, going for whoever he can take out amid the distraction.

-

The Soldier follows the Captain into the lab without hesitation, charging into the room full of armed hostiles at the other man’s heels. Mentally, he curses the Captain’s recklessness even as he wonders at his own instinctive reflex to follow him right into the proverbial lion’s den. 

Still, rash as it was, using that chair as a distraction allows the Captain to take out another Hydra agent, dropping their numbers to a far more manageable six. 

The Captain darts into the middle of a small cluster of three, slashing at one with a sharp blade while simultaneously slamming his knee into the gut of another, yanking that agent’s gun from his loosened grip and using his momentum to bring the weapon crashing into the third operative’s temple.

A few feet away, the Soldier takes out another enemy, driving his metal fist into the combatant’s face and crushing his skull, effectively stopping him from depressing the trigger of the rifle he’d had aimed at the Captain.  

Another operative goes down with the Soldier’s ka-bar embedded in his throat, and then, just like that, there is only one agent left to take care of. 

The Soldier turns his attention to the remaining operative, the pale-faced man already backing away, hands raised and rifle abandoned in the face of what he clearly recognizes is his imminent demise. The Soldier stalks forward, ready to end this even as his tactical brain snags on the fact that Hydra had sent only a dozen agents to bring in the Winter Soldier. 

Even without the Captain’s support, the Soldier’s training and enhancements make it highly unlikely that such a small team of operatives could bring him down. Not with him working at full capacity. Not without major injuries or a significant amount of drugs slowing him down. 

Maybe this paltry sum of operatives is all that Hydra’d had to work with. With Pierce dead, and so many of the world’s governments actively working to destroy what’s left of Hydra’s remains, it’s likely that their numbers are dwindling; bleeding out alongside whatever lingering power or authority they might have left. 

No wonder they are so keen to get the Soldier back. 

With their most valuable asset back under their control, Hydra wouldn't have to worry about scrambling for power. They could go underground. Rebuild their strength and bide their time. Wait for another, convenient opportunity to strike; a move big enough to put their players back on the board. Hydra thrived amid chaos, and the Winter Soldier was trained to create it. To cause havoc. Reap war. Change history. 

Shape the century.

All they had to do was get him back. And they would , the Soldier knew. They’d stop at nothing to force him back under their control. He’d broken for them once already. It would be so easy for them to do it again. Press along barely-healed fractures; shatter him back to pieces.

‘Wipe him and start over.’

No. The Soldier’s left arm whines, metal plates shifting and tightening in a rapid series of sharp movements. That isn’t going to happen. Because he’s never going back. He’ll die first. And if he can’t quite manage it himself, the Captain will. He promised. 

The Soldier doesn’t have to look to know that the Captain has finished neutralizing the three operatives on the other side of the room. He closes in on the last remaining enemy, set to eliminate whatever small threat he poses. 

The sound of the elevator descending makes him pause, gaze swiveling toward the doorway.. 

His eyes catch upon the single figure stepping from the lift. Male , his mind catalogs rapidly, automatically. Dark-haired, thickly bearded. Moving purposefully toward the room, but not hurrying. Outfitted in dark tac gear. Threat assessment—

He doesn’t recognize the man. He doesn’t, but… 

 —high.

A shiver of unease scrapes down the Soldier’s spine. 

There’s something about him. Something that has the Soldier’s brain shrieking in recognition, fighting to unearth long-buried memories.  

His attention is split between the final operative and the new arrival for only a second, but it’s enough of a window for the retreating Hydra agent to pull his sidearm, firing upon the Soldier while his gaze is turned elsewhere. 

The Captain’s shout of alarm resonates beneath the report of the gun as the Soldier jerks his chin to the left, barely managing to avoid the brunt of the bullet’s trajectory, the shot carving a searing line along his cheekbone. His gaze has left the other man, the newcomer, for the barest of moments.  

It’s all the opening the other man needs.

In an instant, the newcomer is slamming into the Soldier, sending him flying across the room from the force of a single, powerful kick. 

The Soldier crashes into a refrigeration unit, glass door shattering as he smashes bodily through the front of it. Knife-like shards dig deep into his back, slicing even deeper as he rolls quickly back to his feet. 

This man, the newcomer, is fast. Strong. As strong as the Soldier himself. 

Enhanced, the Soldier’s mind whispers, struggling to unearth the knowledge running just beneath the surface of his frozen, wasteland of a memory. Dangerous.

He’s one of Hydra’s. A soldier. A killer. Like the Winter Soldier but…different. There’s more, much more to it than that, but the Soldier can’t remember.   

He shakes his head, advancing toward the enhanced operative, metal arm whirring. It doesn’t matter, he concludes. The newcomer is just one more enemy. A threat—substantial as it may be — that the Soldier needs to take down. 

He reaches for a blade, brain catching on the disconcerting realization that the enhanced operative hasn’t pulled a weapon of his own, and then—

“Желание.” 

The Soldier stumbles. “Нет.”

The operative watches him, eyes cool. Intelligent. Calculating. “Ржавые.”

“Stop.” He raises a shaky hand to his temple. “Стой.”

The operative doesn’t stop. 

- 

Steve turns away from tying up the unconscious body of the agent who’d fired upon James— who’d jerked with the force of the shot, and Steve had thought. For a moment he’d been sure that James had been hit…and Steve had lost it, launching himself across the room, slamming his clenched fist into the wide-eyed agent’s jaw and dropping him like a ton of bricks… 

He’d heard glass shatter a moment later, and had known that the other operative—the bearded man who’d stepped from the elevator—was in play.  

Now he sees James stumble, face stricken, as the bearded man begins to utter a familiar set of Russian trigger phrases.  

James is pale, his voice shaky as he says,‘Stop’, in English. Again in Russian.

The bearded man pays no mind to the plea, the desperate quality of James’ voice. He goes down the list of trigger words with ruthless indifference, the fourth falling from his lips just as Steve barrels into him, knocking him to the ground. 

The operative flips back to his feet with a snarl, that cold, calculating gaze suddenly turned upon Steve, and the sudden shift in attention reminds Steve of fighting the Winter Soldier. 

On the Helicarrier, and that bridge in DC, the Winter Soldier’d had eyes only for his mission. He’d ignored everything outside of that, engaging others only when they came between him and his target. This operative shares a similar methodology, his attention fixed on Steve only now, when Steve’s put himself between James and him.

He draws his sidearm, but Steve moves faster, knocking the weapon from his grip before he can fully raise it. 

The operative pulls a knife next, swiping at Steve with vicious intent and Steve blocks the attack, driving a kick into the operative’s gut, knocking him back once more. The operative is strong, stronger than any normal man—but Steve is stronger. 

He’s got an advantage of experience—has fought plenty of enhanced individuals, including those with the single-minded ferocity of the Winter Soldier—and, for once, has zero hesitation about throwing everything he has into this fight. 

The helpless horror he’d felt during his first passage through this room, with its remnants of Hydra’s inhumane experiments on blatant display; his fury at discovering further evidence of James’ subjection to such sadistic treatment; his vehement determination to keep Hydra from ever getting their hands on James again—all of these add fuel to Steve’s blows, and he brings the operative down, quick and merciless, dragging him into an unforgiving chokehold. He doesn’t release the agent until the man goes completely still, lack of oxygen forcing him unconscious.  

Steve wants to kill him—this man who’d made James look so afraid—but he makes himself let go, removes his hands before he stops the operative’s breathing entirely. Killing this man, a possible supply of valuable intel, is tactically unsound, he tells himself. He should call in Tony and the others. Let them see what information they can get out of him about Hydra’s plans. 

The operative drops from Steve’s grasp, a dead weight, and Steve leaves him where he falls. Turns, instead, to crouch before James: sunk to one knee, unmoving. 

His expression is distant, haunted. Barely visible behind the dark tangle of his hair.

“James,” Steve says, soft. 

James doesn’t so much as twitch. 

His head stays angled downward and Steve aches to reach out and touch, to try to ground him, but doesn’t dare. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, offering platitudes in place of contact.“You’re okay, James. Come back, please. Come back to me.” 

A muffled scrape sounds from behind him, and Steve jolts, glancing over his shoulder to see the Hydra operative raising a gun. Stupid, stupid, he berates himself, even as he automatically angles his own body to cover James’. 

It’s been barely a minute. Far too soon for the operative to have awoken. But that’s no excuse. Steve should have never allowed himself to get so completely caught off guard. He should have tied the man up—made sure he was completely restrained—before getting so focused on James he’d all but forgotten the murderous threat behind him. 

Now it’s too late. The operative’s finger curls around the trigger and the only thing left for Steve to do is— 

The shot rings out, a sharp crack that cuts through the silence in the room. 

Steve—entire body braced for impact—feels nothing, only a jolt of shock as the perfect circle of a bullet wound blooms on the operative’s forehead, centered neatly between his eyes. Relief, bright and visceral, slices through him as he watches the operative’s body slump to the floor, blood pooling around his head like a gruesome, crimson halo. 

He turns back to find James lowering his gun, expression only marginally less empty than it had been moments ago, gaze fixed on the dead operative.

Steve draws a shaky breath. 

“James. You with me?”

James blinks in rapid succession, gaze sliding quick across Steve’s face. 

“Да.”

He doesn’t know if James realizes he’d spoken in Russian but this word, at least, Steve understands and the confirmation is enough. He briefly closes his eyes, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. 

“Okay.” 

Dragging a hand through his hair, he lets out a quiet breath. “Good. That’s— I’m gonna call Tony. Have him get a containment crew down here to deal with…” he waves a hand to indicate the unspoken ‘all of this.’

James says nothing. Doesn’t move. His eyes rove in slow, restless sweeps, stopping for short increments upon the doorway; the myriad of dead operatives; the pool of blood inching gradually closer to his left boot. 

Steve forces himself not to press. To stand and step away, pulling out his phone as he goes. 

The ensuing conversation is…frustrating. In the end, though, it accomplishes what Steve wants, which is Tony agreeing to send in people to handle the clean-up and retrieval of all useful intel.

As soon as he gets Tony’s confirmation, Steve hangs up. 

His gaze sweeps across the demolished room littered with bodies, crushed glass, and bullet-holes, and settles upon the doorway leading to the small computer room. The steady hum of the machines beyond reminds him that he and James have yet to check for another segment of code. 

He wonders if there’s even anything to find. Perhaps this altercation, this ambush, had been the only reason behind leading them here. Maybe this was the end goal; to capture the Winter Soldier. Kill him if that turned out to be impossible. Steve doesn’t know. Can’t know, without more information. 

Whatever the case, looking at James—back on his feet, expression shuttered and unreadable—Steve wants nothing more than to leave this hellhole; to put this mission on hold; to take a break, if only for James’ sake.

There’s no chance of that happening, Steve knows, but he can’t help the feeling of disappointment when James states flatly, “The code. We still need to access it.”  

With James, Steve is beginning to realize, the mission comes first. It is his singular focus, rarely impacted by variables like discomfort or unease. 

This realization is further cemented when James, after waiting for Steve’s nod, turns and heads decisively for the computer room exposing his back for the first time.

Steve, who’d started to follow, stumbles, drawing in a sharp breath. 

His back.

His back is—

“James.”

- 

Ingrained conditioning has the Soldier freezing mid-step in response to the Captain’s tone. 

The sound—the urgent quality of the Captain’s voice—raises his hackles, and he glances over his shoulder, instinct driving him to search for the threat. All he finds is the Captain, gaze fixed intently upon the Soldier’s back.

“Your back,” the Captain says. “Your back it’s— You’re bleeding.” 

He strides forward, hand outstretched as if to touch, and the Soldier tenses, twisting to angle his mangled flesh out of the Captain’s reach, backing away from his approach. 

The Captain freezes at the response, eyes darting up to meet the Soldier’s. His mouth is tight and unhappy, but he doesn’t try to move any closer.

“They are,” the Soldier reports, defensive, off-balanced, “predominantly superficial wounds. From falling through the glass. They are not mission-critical.”

The Captain’s brows draw together, the words having directly the opposite effect the Soldier had intended. “B— James. I don’t care about—” The Captain cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “Let me check them, please? Can I just—see for myself that they are not as bad as they look?”

There is no order hidden within the Captain’s words. The Soldier seizes upon the allowance, the small freedom to choose, and shakes his head. 

With his attention focused upon them, the wounds hurt —searing pain that spans from the tops of his shoulders all the way down to his hips. 

The hurt is bearable, if he focuses his thoughts elsewhere. Most pain is. 

But that doesn’t mean he wants the injuries laid out beneath the Captain’s scrutiny. Just the thought of that, of the Captain at his back, assessing gaze on his torn flesh, close enough to touch if he felt so inclined— 

The Soldier swallows, stomach twisting into a tight knot. He can’t think of something he’d like less.

Except then the Captain’s face falls, visibly disappointed by the Soldier’s refusal, and he finds himself assaulted by another, equally unpleasant sentiment. 

It’s unfair, the Soldier thinks, bitterly. 

With a single look, just the expression on his face, the Captain has managed to drag out of him emotions the Soldier can hardly identify, let alone combat. 

Not for the first time, the Soldier feels the unwelcome urge to give in. To surrender to the Captain’s request, without even understanding why. 

For a split second—a bare, frustrated moment—the Soldier almost wishes the Captain would order him. Then, at least, the Soldier could lose himself in blind obedience, allowing all of the confusing emotions to be buried beneath the ingrained compulsion to comply.

- 

James is very clear about not wanting Steve to get anywhere near his injuries. More than just refusing, he angles his entire body away from Steve, muscles gone tense, pale gaze wary and watchful, as if he expects Steve to ignore his refusal, to do what he wants regardless of James’ resistance. 

Steve keeps perfectly still. While the realization that James considers Steve capable of such a thing makes his stomach roil with nausea, Steve really doesn’t have to wonder why James might come to such a conclusion. The very room they’re standing in attests to the fact that James’ has had his agency taken from him far too many times. 

And… James doesn’t know him. 

It’s understandable that he’s wary of Steve, that Steve will have to give him time. Time to learn that he isn’t a threat. That James can trust him.  

For now, Steve decides to let the matter drop. There’s still the mission, and they should focus on handling it and getting out of here before Tony’s crew comes through. James definitely won’t want to be around when that happens. 

“Alright,” Steve relents, taking a small step back and changing the subject. “Let’s go see if there’s anything on the computers.” Giving James a wide berth, he heads toward the computer room, allowing James to follow, to keep Steve in his sight.

It turns out that there is something there to find on the computers after all. As soon as James activates it, another screen fills with unrecognizable, scrolling script. 

James’ reaction is much the same as it had been the last time he’d been exposed. 

This time, when Steve murmurs his own trigger phrase, he endeavors to catch James as gently as possible, careful about the glass embedded in his back, the bloody wounds still seeping crimson into his dark clothing.

- 

James heads for the bathroom almost as soon as Steve unlocks the tiny motel room he’d reserved for the night—delaying only as long as it takes to do his usual, careful sweep of the interior. 

Watching him go, Steve drops his duffel onto one of the two beds, unzips it, and pulls out the first-aid kit he keeps inside. He takes a moment to steel himself, certain that what he plans to do next will not be easy, and then approaches the bathroom, hovering just outside the doorway.

“James, can I… Would it be okay if I took a look at your back now?” 

He chooses his words carefully, avoiding anything that could sound like a command, but unable to quash his urgent need for James to, for once, just let him help. 

James glances Steve’s way, turning his gaze from where he’d been assessing the damage through the mirror and lifting one shoulder in an impassive shrug. Steve suppresses a wince. He can’t imagine that it doesn’t hurt—to move in that way—though James’ expression offers no indication of pain. 

“Unnecessary,” James says. “It will heal on its own. I’ve had worse. It always heals.”

Steve forces himself not to think about what ‘worse’ entails. It’s a horrific concept, and he doesn’t want to get sidetracked.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But it’ll heal much more quickly if we tend to it. There’s probably pieces of glass still in the wounds. They need to be cleaned out.”  

James motions to the tiny bathtub, as if in compromise. “I’ll shower.”

“That’s not—” Steve pushes down helpless frustration. “That isn’t good enough.” 

“I don’t need—” James begins, and Steve takes a quick step forward. Only one, but James still startles, backing into the counter behind him. 

“Please, B—” Steve swallows. Draws a shallow breath. “Please,” he repeats, voice quiet and even. “Let me do this. Please let me help.” 

Finally, James relents. 

Jaw clenched tight, he slowly turns to  face the mirror, mutely presenting his back to Steve. 

His whole frame is stiff with tension, and though Steve doesn’t glance up to look, he can feel the intensity of James’ gaze, tracking his every move through the mirror.

Steve ducks his head, avoiding that gaze as he steps forward, focusing instead on the task before him. 

The shirt is a lost cause. The dark fabric is ragged with tears, tacky with drying blood, and Steve feels no compunction about cutting it off with the medical-grade scissors in the first-aid kit. 

The material sticks, in places, to wounds where James has bled more extensively, but when Steve pauses, thinking to wet the cloth to make the separation less painful, James simply tears the shredded garment from his torso, dropping the fabric onto the floor and causing a number of the bloody slashes to reopen.

Steve frowns at the harsh treatment, but keeps his mouth shut. Despite the popular theory, he knows when to pick his battles, and getting a good look at Jame’s injuries—many of which are weeping anew—is where his focus is better aimed. 

He leans in a bit closer, looking but not touching, and sees that he was right about the glass. Dozens of tiny shards glitter across James’ back, buried in his wounds, glinting beneath the bathroom light. 

“These need to come out,” Steve says, briefly lifting his gaze to meet James’ through the mirror. “I’m going to get them out.” 

James doesn’t answer, and Steve hadn’t really expected him to; had only wanted to offer a fair warning before he grabs the tweezers and begins the thankless task of removing all the shards from James’ skin, dropping the fragments into the sink one by one.

James remains silent; keeping still; not even flinching when Steve has to dig into some of the wounds to get at pieces lodged more deeply. 

When he’s sure that all the glass is gone, Steve soaks a cloth in lukewarm water and gently, carefully, washes James’ skin, rinsing and repeating until all of the wounds are clean, dabbing up the excess water with a segment of gauze. He pauses, then, taking a moment to survey James’ back with a critical eye.

With most of the blood out of the way, Steve can see enough to be sure that he won’t need to do any stitching and he grabs the salve with a silent breath of relief, turning the small jar of soothing ointment in his hands as he sweeps his gaze from James’ shoulders to hips, and decides he might as well start from the top. 

Dipping his fingers into the salve, Steve smooths the balm gingerly across James’ tender skin, carefully addressing each wound. He keeps his touches light, moving as gently as possible, focused on minimizing any pain. 

For a long moment, his world narrows down to this task; making sure he doesn’t press too hard, touch too rough. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t realize, at first, that something’s changed. That, while his back stays just as rigid as it’s been since he’d turned, and he still hasn’t made a sound—James is…moving . 

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but once Steve starts paying attention it’s hard to miss the fact that James is listing forward, body arching away from Steve’s hands, trying to avoid, as much as possible, the way Steve is now touching him. His own hands, metal and flesh alike, have slid forward to curl around the lip of the sink, gripping tight to the porcelain edge as his body adopts a fine tremor, muscles shivering beneath Steve’s fingers.

Steve freezes. 

Slowly, carefully, he lifts salve-slick fingers away from James’ skin, raising them into the air where they hover; no longer touching. His gaze darts to the mirror, eyes searching James’ face for signs of distress, but beyond the dark curtain of his hair, James’ expression is almost completely blank. His eyes are open, but empty, staring vacantly into the middle-distance, the smallest of furrows etched between his brows. His jaw is tight, mouth pressed into a flat, inexpressive line. 

“James,” Steve says, voice low, almost a whisper. “Are you alright? Am I— Am I hurting you?”

Steve’s voice—or maybe it’s the fact that he’s removed his hands—seems to draw James back from wherever it is that he’d gone and he blinks, lashes fluttering as his eyes lose some of that unfocused haze. He swallows, tongue darting across red, chapped lips before he finally responds to Steve’s question. 

“Doesn’t—” He cuts off, dragging in a stuttering breath. “Doesn’t hurt.”

Steve’s eyes catch upon the unsteady rise and fall of James’ chest, the way his shoulders are rounded ever so slightly forward. “Should… Can I…?” His hands linger in the air above James’ back; still not touching.

James nods, a small jerky movement. His grip stays tight around the sink. 

Steve isn’t convinced. James clearly doesn’t want Steve touching him. But. His back still needs the attention, and Steve might as well finish what he’d started. 

When Steve puts his hands back on him, James shudders all over, sliding right back into that blank place he’d gone to before and Steve…

Steve hates it. It feels a little bit like heartbreak, watching James go away like that, knowing it’s because Steve is touching him. He swallows bitterly, attending to the rest of the lacerations as quickly as possible, wiping his hands clean on the washcloth beside the sink when he’s done.

It takes a moment, once Steve’s taken his hands completely away, but James finally blinks back from wherever he’d gone, glancing at Steve through the mirror to be sure he’s finished.

“All done,” Steve confirms, and James nods, unclenching his hands from the fragile porcelain of the sink and sliding away, distancing himself as much as he can in the small space. 

He watches silently as Steve packs away the medical supplies, zipping up the small bag and leaving it on the countertop.

“Go ahead and take a sponge bath tonight,” Steve says on his way out, turning back to face James once he’s stepped past the threshold. “So you don’t end up washing the salve off. You can take a real shower in the morning.”

James’ mouth thins, flattening into a grim line. Without a word, he reaches for the door, shutting it in Steve’s baffled face.

Minutes later, while changing into clothing more suitable for sleep, Steve realizes he’d ended up giving James orders after all.

-  

Steve takes position near the window, ready to take the first watch of the night, and thinks about asking. About the enhanced soldier—the operative James had shot dead in that Hydra base. 

His brain jumps from one question to the next, restless and inquisitive. Apart from James, Steve’s never seen another enhanced soldier so similar himself. He’d thought James was the only one, but after seeing the operative in the Hydra base... 

Is it possible…? Could there be more soldiers out there, like him? Like James? How many had Hydra created? 

And—a thought that makes his stomach clench with guilt—if there are others, how can he be sure that they are loyal to Hydra? What’s to say they’re not like Bucky—like James—had been; brainwashed operatives with no will of their own?

He wants to ask. Needs to know why James hadn’t seemed at all surprised at encountering another enhanced soldier. But when James comes back into the room he studiously avoids Steve’s gaze, expression tight and closed-off, and Steve bites his tongue, swallowing back the veritable barrage of questions. 

James looks—ragged. Exhausted. And no matter how good he is at hiding it, Steve knows he’s got to be hurting; back as torn up as it is. 

So Steve decides to let the questions lie, for now. 

Let James get some sleep, he thinks. Let him have a reprieve, even if it can only be—by necessity—a short one; they can only leave off the conversation for so long.

—

Chapter Text

★✪ Ch. 7 ★✪

It takes the Soldier a long time to fall asleep. 

His back aches—a steady, throbbing burn, harder to ignore now than when he’d been focused on the mission—and while the room around him is dark, the quiet ideal for lulling a person to sleep, his thoughts are anything but peaceful. 

He feels unsettled; shaken by what he and the Captain had encountered in the Hydra facility mere hours ago. 

Unpleasant as revisiting the place had been, it’s not the facility itself, the memories unearthed, that’s troubling him. Nor is it the fact that they’d obviously been led into a trap—that had more or less been expected. 

It’s the operative. 

The Hydra operative, enhanced to the point of being a match for the Soldier’s own strength, who’d been equipped with a very specific set of trigger words: ones designed to steal the Soldier’s autonomy. To rob him of mind and soul. 

Seeing him had felt…more than familiar. The Soldier knew him. That operative.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of the Soldier’s mind, a dissonant chord had been struck, and it resonates, still. An unceasing, echoing hum that ripples through his mind; stretching wide, meeting and rebounding off of other enshadowed memories. 

The Soldier can feel the weight of those memories; lingering just out of his reach, caught somewhere within the dark recesses of his mind. But trying to remember fosters apprehension rather than clarity, making his stomach churn with foreboding, even while he lacks the understanding as to why. 

He doesn’t want to close his eyes, doesn’t want to surrender himself to the vulnerability  of unconsciousness. The body, though, fights against this desire. It longs to drag him down into the dark depths of sleep, suspending the spiraling thoughts which flutter uselessly within the confines of his mind. 

Eventually he succumbs, however unwillingly, to the body’s demand. 

Dragged beneath the oppressive weight of exhaustion, he sleeps.

-

“Again.”

The technician inserts the end of the tool back into the Asset’s metal arm, pressing against something that makes lightning-like pain arc through synthetic nerve-endings. 

The Asset stiffens, arching helplessly against the back of the chair, gritting its teeth to keep the agonized screams from spilling into the air; screaming, it knows, will only result in more pain once the doctor has finished this latest series of tests.

Restraints keep all four of its limbs locked into place, and they—in combination with the heavy pins bolting the chair to the cement flooring—make it so that the Asset’s helpless thrashing is largely contained. There’s no way to twist or to turn. No way to escape the fiery agony caused by the technician’s prodding into the inner workings of the metal arm. There is only the pain. The waiting for the doctor to signal a cease to the agony, every moment a drawn-out eternity.

“Stop.”

The technician draws the tool away and the Asset slackens, sucking in short, harsh gasps. A fine tremor shivers through its restrained limbs.

“Lower now. Left of the median nerve.”

The Asset’s skin is slick with pain-induced sweat. Its hair sticks wetly to the sides of its face, the back of its neck. Blood drips from its chin, leaking from where it’s bitten through its cheek and the side of its tongue.

“Here?”

“Slightly lower. Yes, there. Right there.”

The Asset shuts its eyes. It longs for the solitude of its cell. The frozen nothingness of the tube. Something else. Anything else. 

A sharp crack echoes through the room, the subsequent burst of pain across its jaw forcing the Asset back to full attention. Its eyes snap open, the blank numbness that had begun to creep over its mind ripped harshly away.

“Your thoughts stay here, Soldat,” the doctor commands, voice clipped. “Do not attempt to slip away again. I will not have your cowardice compromising the purity of my data.” 

The Asset blinks. Tears, or sweat, or blood, pool along the edge of its jawline, falling in lukewarm droplets against the bare skin of its collarbones.

“Commence with the next cluster of synthetic nerves,” the doctor instructs and the technician re-inserts the tool. 

Searing pain follows, and the Asset fights back a howl of agony. A strangled sob slips free despite its efforts and the technician twitches, attention drawn by the sound. Blond hair glints beneath artificial lighting as the tec turns his head, blue eyes sweeping over the Asset’s tormented expression. The technician frowns, a small crease forming between his brows. He opens his mouth—

“James.”

The Asset thrashes. Pain arcs across its back, sharp and burning. “Wake up,” the technician says, and it’s the Captain’s voice, and the Asset doesn’t know— Can’t understand— “Wake up, James—” 

The Soldier opens his eyes.

- 

The Captain is too close. 

In the dark of the room his large form is shadowed, looming over the Soldier, close enough to touch, and the Soldier looks up from the flat of his back, heart rabbiting on a burst of adrenaline, mind screaming threat. 

He reacts on instinct. 

Quick as thought, the metal hand darts out, closing around the Captain’s throat and jerking him forward. The Soldier rolls with the movement, dragging the Captain beneath him, pinning him there with his own weight and the threat of the razored edge of his blade, pressed flush against the vulnerable flesh beneath the Captain’s jaw. 

He holds there, breath coming sharp between clenched teeth, body shaking and shaking shaking— And he can’t make it stop. 

He waits. For movement. For aggression. For some clue of what to do next as the realization that the Captain isn’t fighting him slowly coalesces into awareness.

Beneath him, the Captain stays very still. His heavy, muscled frame is carefully lax where he lies pressed to the Soldier from sternum to knee, and his breath comes steadily, chest expanding against the Soldier’s with easy regularity because—for all that he’s got the Captain pinned in place—the Soldier hasn’t actually tightened the grip around his throat. 

“Hey,” the Captain says, voice hushed; a soft murmur in the dark. “Hey, B—James.”

The Soldier says nothing. 

Fighting for each breath, muscles tense and juddering, he presses even more firmly against the Captain, fingers going tighter around the grip of his knife. 

Speech is slippery and far away. He has no words.

“You’re okay,” the Captain tells him, voice still soft, almost crooning. “It’s just me. I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re okay.” 

-

James shudders, body tense and trembling against Steve’s, wide eyes darting blindly from Steve’s face, to the blade beneath his chin, and back up again, mind still obviously entangled in whatever nightmare Steve had dragged him out of. 

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, and James’ eyes drop to his mouth, something in him responding to Steve’s voice, recognition slowly beginning to return to that silvery-blue gaze.

As quickly as he’d dragged Steve beneath him, James is suddenly gone; on his feet and halfway across the room in an instant.

Steve stays where he is. 

For a brief, fleeting moment, he lies, quietly missing the weighted warmth of a body he’d once known better than his own. Then he shoves those miserable feelings aside. Returns his focus to the here and now. 

Slowly, aware of James tracking every movement, he rises, carefully levering his legs over the side of the bed and setting his feet firmly onto the floor.

Then he sits. Waits. Watches as some of the wild begins to drain from James’ expression. 

Eventually, when James’ shaking has subsided and full awareness has returned to his eyes, Steve asks:

“What do you dream about?”

James goes still, motionless as an animal caught in a predator’s gaze, and any meager hope Steve might have had of James disclosing what haunts him—of him sharing even this small part of his burden—fades away.  

Those blue eyes are shuttered, expression closed off and defensive, and Steve can't help the sharp burst of frustration that cuts through him at how immediately James’ response is to shut him out. He surges to his feet, James’ startled flinch only adding fuel to his ire even as he limits his incensed pacing to the area just beside the bed. 

James follows his progress, wary eyes tracking Steve back and forth and over again, and gradually Steve’s anger burns out, smothered beneath the apprehension he can practically feel pouring off of James even from where he stands on the other side of the room. 

Steve isn’t— He’s not angry with James. How could he be? But every time James reacts to him with wary caution—with fear—Steve’s certainty that he hasn’t spent nearly enough time tearing Hydra apart with his bare hands solidifies that much further. The urge to continue on the warpath is ever-growing. Not banked in the least by the knowledge that he’s already dealt significant damage to Hydra in the months since the Helicarrier. 

Damage isn’t enough. Steve wants to destroy them. All of them. Every single person who’d ever hurt James. Every “doctor”, scientist, and handler who’d tortured and exploited his best friend and left behind so many broken pieces it’s a miracle he’s managed to scrape together as much of himself as he has. 

Steve rolls his shoulders, drawing in slow, steady breaths. He forces his clenched fists to loosen, tucking his arms close against his sides.  

James is healing, he reminds himself. Despite Hydra’s best efforts to rid James of any scrap of identity, he’s managed—is still managing—to recover parts of himself. 

James is always so careful to reveal as little as possible. But every once in a while, amid the many fragments Steve hasn’t yet learned to recognize, a little piece of the Bucky Steve knew shines through. 

It’s Bucky, who colors James’ expressions. He’s there, in the careful way James deals with Steve even as he clearly doesn’t trust him. Buried beneath fear and suffering and wary uncertainty, the person he was, the Bucky Steve loved, isn’t gone. 

Steve focuses on this. Uses it to pull himself out of his dark thoughts. 

Get it together, he tells himself, inner voice sounding very much like Natasha. Now is not the time for dramatic emotional outbursts. It’s not helping, and you’re freaking him out.

At length, he sighs. Sits back down. Notes how doing so triggers the slightest release of tension from James’ shoulders. 

“I wanted to ask,” Steve says, after a lengthy period of still silence wherein James hasn’t moved. Has stayed right where he is: as far from Steve as the room allows. “I guess now’s as good a time as any.” 

He’d clasped his hands together when he’d sat, head angled down, staring at his own laced fingers. Now he glances up; finds James’ opaque gaze across the room. “That operative, the one who was enhanced. Who was he?” 

James hesitates, a combination of reluctance and uncertainty flickering over his face. Eventually, though, he speaks, brows knit as he carefully pieces the words together.

“He was…a soldier. One of Hydra’s. Enhanced like me, but. Different.” He licks his lips, adding, after a slight pause, “I think… I think he was…unstable. The handlers couldn't control him as well as—”

‘Me,’ Steve hears, though James doesn’t say it. As if he’s ashamed to admit it. 

For a moment, his lips press tight, head tilting in a practiced movement that has his dark hair sliding forward to cover his expression as he actively avoids Steve’s gaze. Then he adds, voice pitched low:

“I think there were others.”

-

The Soldier struggles to dredge up memories steeped in apprehension and dread, but they continue to hover beyond his reach, keeping the Soldier from being able to provide the Captain with any concrete details.  

Except:

“The words he used.”

“Trigger phrases,” the Captain supplies, and the Soldier dips his head in acknowledgement.

“There was— The book you found. The red one.” 

The Soldier would give anything to have that book destroyed. 

That book—with its clinically recorded data and its directives and its words—is all anyone would ever need to force him under their control. To pull him apart at the seams. Erase what little self he has managed to scrape together and turn him back into a mindless weapon. 

“It contains the programming. My programming.” 

The Soviets had been staunch advocates of the book, utilizing it almost religiously. After the Asset’s transfer to the Americans, though, the book had been set aside. Viewed as inessential, it had been filed away; never used. 

His American handlers adhered to the ideology that order through pain was the optimal way to achieve desired results. Under their command, pain, in its every shade, became the Asset’s constant companion. 

“We do not speak Russian here,” the American states, shutting the Soldier’s programming manual with a decisive snap. His voice is soft, almost melodic, but there is nothing soft about his tone, nor in his gaze. He glances at the men and women surrounding him in a loose circle—guards, doctors, scientists; the Soldier’s new handlers. “It is not for us to be dependent upon a series of foreign phrases to gain compliance. 

“This,” he motions to the Soldier, a casual flick of his arm, “is an asset. A weapon. It will comply because its masters command it. Because that is its singular purpose. Because we,” he spreads his arms, his perfectly tailored suit shifting with the movement, “we, my friends, are not the sort who are too afraid to get our hands dirty.” 

He tosses the red book onto a side table and turns, eyes meeting the Soldier’s for the first time. 

The Soldier gazes back, spine straight, body held in perfect parade-rest. He is silent; attentive. Ready to comply. 

Displeasure flickers across the American’s face. 

It’s the only warning the Soldier gets, the only indication that he’s done something terribly wrong, before the handler snatches up his sidearm, smashing the heavy barrel across the Soldier’s face with vicious brutality. 

The Soldier swallows an instinctive cry, curling in on himself and gasping through the throbbing agony of what is almost certainly a fractured maxilla. His fingers clutch uselessly at the place, thoughts mired in wounded misery even as his brain scrambles to assess the situation: He has made his handler angry. He is being punished for his error. His error was— His thoughts stutter and falter. He is being punished and he deserves the punishment because— Because—

What had he done wrong? Panic sets in, because if he doesn't know what he’s done wrong he’s likely to do it again. And then he will be punished. Again. 

His breathing shallows, body beginning to tighten in anticipation of another blow, but his new handler is merciful. Gracious enough to provide an explanation even though the Soldier has erred so extensively as to need punishment so soon into his introduction to the Americans.   

“First lesson, Asset,” the American says. “You are never to look me in the eyes as if we are equals. I am your superior. You are beneath me.” 

The arrogance personified in the American handlers—the foolish certainty that they knew better than the Soviets who’d created and programmed the Winter Soldier—ultimately, led to their downfall. 

It was the Soviet scientists who’d created and programmed the Soldier; they knew what kept him functioning within the correct parameters. The chair wiped his memories, but the trigger phrases stole his mind, keeping it locked within the iron shackles of the programming. Decades had been spent perfecting that programming, developing seamless protocols for the Soldier’s utilization and maintenance. Valuable details which had been neatly recorded in the book. 

But the Americans opposed the idea of fostering ‘dependence’ on Soviet intelligence. They’d viewed it as a crutch. An implication that they weren’t strong enough to control the Soldier themselves. And, without the trigger phrases designed to keep the Asset mindless, torture, fear, and the chair had only been so effective. 

Eventually the Asset had gained a foothold, tiny as it may have been. But one foothold had led to others, to the Asset eventually being able to pull itself out of the black void that had been its state of existence for so long. 

That the American branch of Hydra had never bothered to learn any of the Soldier’s trigger phrases means that they wouldn’t be able to use them against him now. And since the Soviets had been paranoid about maintaining complete control of the Winter Soldier, the only copy of those embedded triggers is in the Red Book currently in the possession of the Captain’s team.

Which means whoever is broadcasting the en coded messages—interwoven with small hints of the Soldier’s original programming as they are—must already know the triggers, and well enough to be able to weave them into the code. They must be intimately familiar with his programming; all of its intricacies and nuances. 

Clearly, they are also aware of the other soldiers. Because there are others, the Soldier remembers now, finally able to dig up memories that have been so frustratingly out of reach. 

I have a mission for you.

Five more soldiers, selected for their success as Hydra’s most elite death squad. Injected with a version of the supersoldier serum, one manufactured by Howard Stark. 

Sanction and extract. 

The Soldier had stolen it himself, right from the trunk of Stark’s wrecked car. 

No witnesses. 

Then he’d gone back to beat Stark to death.

‘Howard!’ 

To clamp merciless fingers about Stark’s wife’s throat until she stopped crying; stopped gasping; stopped breathing altogether.  

Well done, Soldier.

The serum had worked—to a degree. The operatives survived; their strength, speed, and stamina enhanced to a degree that surpassed even the Soldier’s. Hydra had been pleased, at first. Until the soldiers went volatile. Too violent, too uncontrollable. They’d turned on their masters, vicious to the point that they’d been deemed unstable, too difficult to work with.

Hydra’d ended up decommissioning those soldiers. Suspending them in cryofreeze; leaving them deep in the bowels of an abandoned Soviet bunker—a failed project, no longer worth pursuing. 

The Soldier had forgotten them. Presumably, the Americans had never even known about them. Time passed and they fell into disremembered history.

Except. Someone had remembered. Remembered, or discovered, or stumbled upon the other soldiers, and whoever they are—whoever it is seeking to retrieve the Asset—they’ve woken those soldiers. And they can apparently control them even without the book. 

The idea that there is someone out there with so much knowledge—about the decommissioned soldiers, about the Winter Soldier’s fundamental programming, about the trigger phrases—someone who could ostensibly force the Soldier under their control, take away his will and all sense of self… 

The Soldier shudders. Stomach clenching into a hard, tight knot.

He needs to find them. He needs to take them out before they take him.

Neutralizing this enemy, whoever they are, lowers the chances of the Soldier being forced under someone’s control again by a significant degree. 

There weren’t many among the Soviets who knew the intricacies of the Soldier’s codes—and less than a handful of individuals would have known how to implement them correctly. The Soviets had jealously guarded that knowledge. 

By now, time and circumstance will have rendered most of those people dead. 

Some, though, could still be alive. 

The Soldier relays these things to the Captain, painstakingly drawing the information from the recesses of his broken mind. At length, the Captain comes to the same conclusion as the Soldier:

“We need to find those people. Whoever is left, wherever they might be. We need to take them out.”

-

Steve reaches out to Natasha, the sun just beginning to crest the horizon when she picks up the other end of the call. 

“This better be good Rogers,” Nat says. “Don’t you know what time it is?” 

Despite the words of complaint, Natasha sounds as wide awake as Steve feels, nothing in her voice suggesting she’d been asleep before she’d picked up the phone.

She listens quietly as Steve explains what James had revealed to him about the trigger phrases, the small number of individuals who would have known them, who might be behind the subliminal messages attempting to gain control of James now. 

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Natasha says, when Steve has gone quiet. “Though there may not be much to find. Intel as valuable as how to program and trigger the Winter Soldier would have been kept top secret. As James said, there wouldn’t have been many who would have had access to that information.”

“Makes sense,” Tony’s voice pipes through the line, and Steve twitches, unaware he’d been listening in. He can’t find it in himself to be surprised: Tony keeps strange hours and seven o’clock in New York isn’t really even that early. Natasha’s probably hanging out in the kitchen, waiting to take advantage of Tony’s coffee-brewing habit that typically manifests around this time every morning. “Knowing Hydra, only the head honchos would have had that info.” 

“Also factor in time,” Natasha adds. “A lot of those men would be dead by now, meaning the number of people who you could possibly be looking for is extremely small. That offers its own pros and cons as far as being able to find them.”

“If they’re out there,” Steve says, undeterred, “we can’t ignore the threat they pose.”

“Of course not,” Nat agrees.

“It would be much easier on our end, though, if your BFF could cough up more details,” Tony says, conversationally. 

Steve glances at the closed bathroom door. James is still behind it, having retreated as soon as Steve had mentioned wanting to contact his team. “We’re working on it.” 

“We’ll let you know as soon as we find something,” Natasha promises. 

“Thank you, Nat.”

“Be careful, Steve,” Natasha says, voice gone serious. “You still don’t know what kind of resources you’re up against. And we may only be a phone call away, but that depends upon you making that call. I know you’ve decided to do this on your own, but. If something happens… Just. Call us. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

“I won’t,” Steve says softly, touched at the rare display of care. “Of course I’ll call, Nat.”

“You’d better.”

Steve chuckles, lighthearted as he can remember feeling in a long time. “Love you too.”

“Whatever, Rogers,” Natasha says, gruffly, hanging up on Steve’s laugh.

-

They decide—the Soldier, together with the Captain—that the best course of action to pursue in the course of waiting upon whatever intel the Captain’s team might uncover, is to continue as they’ve been, following the trail of virtual breadcrumbs hidden within the segments of coding the Soldier’s been able to decrypt.

The latest set of coordinates leads to California, they discover, after the Captain inputs the numbers into his mobile device. The Captain pulls a paper map from his duffel, the same one the Soldier had used days ago, and spreads it across the top of one of the beds. “Easier for me to plan, this way,” he explains, tracing the route with a fingertip. 

His tone is almost apologetic, as if the Soldier cares one way or another what form his planning takes. 

He doesn’t. But he does think he might understand what the Captain means by ‘easier’. 

There’s something about being able to see everything laid out this way. It’s not very unlike looking at a blueprint, or a set of schematics; locating the entry and exit points, planning the least visible, most efficient path to ghost his way to the target. 

Mission success. Target eliminated.

He blinks, brain calling up the memory of the video footage he’d encountered during his one, and only, visit to the Smithsonian: Bucky Barnes and the Captain, heads bent close as they lean over the hood of a military vehicle, allegedly planning some aspect of an upcoming mission. 

“Here,” the Captain says, running a gloved fingertip along the map. “We’ll take this route to the next base. Should be about twenty miles northeast.” 

Maybe, in this small way, the Captain is falling back on something he is comfortable with. The Soldier is not wholly unacquainted with the desire. Even if the only things he has to fall back on are ice, and pain, and death.

-

Something is wrong with James. 

The realization comes to Steve gradually, not long after he finishes his conversation with Nat.

They’ve gathered up their things, changed into fresh clothes, are preparing to head out for the long drive ahead of them, when Steve notices James swipe a hand discreetly across his brow.

Like he’s hot. Except. It isn’t hot. It’s quite cool, in fact, both in the motel room and outside. 

Steve slows his packing, surreptitiously taking a closer look, and notes the thin sheen of sweat spread over James’ features. Baby-fine strands of hair cling to his damp skin, dark against his forehead, the sides of his face, his jawline. He looks pallid and exhausted. 

Steve stops him before they head out the door, a raised hand all that is necessary to halt James in his tracks. 

“James is something— Are you feeling okay? You look... You don’t look so good.” 

James blinks. Eyes Steve’s outstretched hand and the place where Steve stands between him and the exit. His weight shifts ever so slightly backward. He says, “I am. Good.”

Steve fights not to frown. “Maybe we should wait. Let you get some more rest.”

The response is an immediate, definitive shake of James’ head. His expression is, unsurprisingly, closed. Flat. 

Still, eyes trailing over the dark smudges beneath James’ eyes, the pallor of his skin, Steve can’t keep from asking, “You sure?” 

“Yes.” James’ fingers tighten around the straps of his bag. “Sure.”

Steve gives in with a sigh. James is clearly uncomfortable with talking about whatever is wrong with him. Tense and unhappy and not too far past dealing with the nightmare-induced panic from earlier, the last thing he probably wants right now is more attention. 

And Steve knows what it’s like to not want to be coddled. If James gets worse, they’ll deal with it. But he has the right to decide what he wants, now.

“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

-

In the car, hours later, James slumps suddenly sideways, a graceless sprawl against the passenger door. 

Steve glances sharply over, eyes roving over James’ slack form. He looks almost like he could be asleep. Like perhaps he’d just nodded off, sudden and awkward. 

Except. James doesn’t sleep in the car. Not ever. 

He barely sleeps in the motels, though he’ll go through the motions, spend hours lying upon the bed, eyes closed, breathing artificially even. Steve isn't sure whether James knows Steve is aware of how seldom he actually sleeps. Neither of them has ever brought it up. 

“James,” Steve says now, a sliver of unease slipping down his spine.

James doesn’t respond; doesn’t even twitch. His eyes stay closed, lashes lying dark against flushed cheeks. 

Steve pulls to the side of the road. 

He’s out of the car and circled around to the other side in less than a blink, tugging open the passenger door, mindful of James’ weight against it. 

The seatbelt across James’ slumped form helps to keep him from tumbling out onto the pavement as the door opens, and Steve kneels, reaching out a hand to touch James’ shoulder. 

James doesn’t stir at the gentle contact. He doesn’t respond to Steve again calling his name, and finally Steve reaches out to brush careful fingers across one flushed cheek. 

A hiss of alarm escapes from between his teeth as he registers the heat coming off of James’ skin, and the sliver of unease bursts into full-blown alarm.

He’s— James is hot. Too hot. He’s burning up.

One hand goes to the join between James’ neck and jaw, the other brushing damp strands from James’ face as Steve angles his slumped form upright, shaking him gently. 

“Wake up, James. Wake up. C’mon pal.”

Finally, James’ eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, sliding across Steve’s face with something like detached confusion. 

“Talk to me,” Steve directs, and James opens his mouth.

“Я готов ответить.” 

Steve’s heart sinks, crashing somewhere onto the pavement beneath his feet. This isn’t good. If James won’t—can’t—tell him what’s wrong...

He keeps James’ face cradled between his palms; uses his eyes to scan James’ form, looking for things James won’t say out loud, things that can clue Steve in on where he’s at, mentally.  

Like how, even with Steve keeping his face angled upward, James avoids eye contact, purposefully keeping his gaze averted. Like how he doesn’t pull away from Steve’s hold on him, but stays perfectly still; pliant in a way that is painfully at odds with how diligent he always is about avoiding touch. 

He’s submissive, docile, ready to comply even as his pulse sky-rockets, rabbiting against Steve’s fingers where they’re still pressed against his jawline. 

It hits Steve suddenly, the realization that this isn’t James. What he’s seeing now, this behavior, is a bitter reminder of his dealings with the Soldier, with Winter, in that Hydra base months ago. 

It’s so easy to see Winter before him, now. The memory of him—held fast by Steve's tight grip around the strap of his armor; pulse hammering rapidly beneath the fist pressed flush against his sternum… That memory flashes bright through Steve’s mind. In that moment, Winter had kept perfectly still. Waiting for Steve to do whatever it is he’d wanted to do to him. He’d been afraid; terrified, and still so goddamn compliant.

Steve releases a shaky breath. Straightening his shoulders, firming his resolve, he comes to a decision. 

“Спать,” he tells the Soldier, pulling from the small pool of Russian Natasha has managed to teach him. Sleep. 

Fever-bright eyes slip obediently closed. 

-

Steve slides back into the driver’s seat and pulls onto the road. Tries not to let himself get overwhelmed with worry because—there’s no denying it now—James is sick. 

His hands tighten around the steering wheel—and shouldn’t the serum mean they don’t get sick?—as he starts checking roadside signs for a nearby motel. Hotel. B and B. Anything with a bed and half-way decent accommodations because he absolutely refuses to make James ride this out in the passenger seat. 

Steve gets lucky. The first place he pulls into turns out to be nicer than anywhere they’ve stayed so far, complete with a tiny bathroom and even a tiny little kitchen. As soon as he’s paid and parked, he’s got the passenger door open and his arms around James, listless and disoriented and needing to be half-carried inside. He’s shivering, Steve notices as he kicks the door shut behind them, which means his fever is getting worse. 

Steve helps him out of his boots, hesitates, then decides jeans are too awful to wear when sick, and tugs those off as well, leaving James in t-shirt and undershorts. 

James is unsurprisingly reticent about lying back on the mattress, but Steve manages to coax him down, folding the majority of the covers down at the foot of the bed and draping only the sheet over James’ shivering form. He’s too hot for blankets, shouldn’t have even the sheet covering him, but Steve remembers how miserable it feels being left completely uncovered while in the throes of a fever, and can’t bring himself to do that to James.  

James doesn’t complain about the lack of blankets the way Steve would have, and had so many times during his pre-serumed life—Steve doesn’t doubt he’s been conditioned to not complain about anything—but he clutches at the sheet Steve’s allowed him like it’s a lifeline, fevered gaze darting about the room, across Steve’s form, anxious and uneasy. 

“You’re safe, James,” Steve tells him, with no way of knowing whether the words even get through. 

Confused blue eyes turn in his direction, and Steve says it again. “You’re safe. I’m watching over you. Get some rest.”

James blinks heavily, but his eyes don’t stay closed until Steve adds, “Спать.” 

Sleep, Steve says, and, this time, James obeys.

-

Steve replaces the damp cloth across James’ forehead, touching the backs of his fingers against one cheek to see if his skin feels any cooler. It doesn’t.

He swallows,a burst of frustrated helplessness blooming in his chest. 

He feels so useless. No idea what to do, how to help. It’s not like James is normal, physiologically. Steve can’t just go down to the corner store and pick up some medicine, even if he knew what medicine to get. James shouldn’t even be— They don’t get sick. The serum… But what does Steve really know about James’ serum? He only knows about his own. Its strengths, its limitations. 

Whatever form his serum takes, though, James is still enhanced. Which means that whatever is making James sick has to be strong. Resilient. There isn’t much out there that Steve knows about that’s strong enough to withstand the serum. Nothing that isn’t man-made; manufactured in some lab somewhere.

He thinks about the Hydra base hidden beneath that hospital. Sees, again, the scattered remnants of their experiments: scalpels and syringes and shattered glass. And the small refrigeration unit James had crashed through when the Hydra operative had thrown him across the room. 

He thinks about contaminants; about the fact that James could have landed in any one of the Hydra-fabricated chemical cocktails left behind in that cooler. And with his back cut up the way it had been, any of those toxins could have gotten absorbed into his system. 

With James’ healing factor, the lacerations should be healed by now. But. What if they’d gotten infected? What if that’s what’s making James so sick, that he’d been poisoned?

Steve settles onto the edge of James’ bed, and reaches for his shoulder. Ocean eyes open the instant Steve makes contact, but they remain hazy and unfocused and James offers no resistance when Steve pushes him gently onto his side, catching the hem of his t-shirt and raising it to peer at his back. 

The cuts are still there. 

Angry red borders each laceration, a clear indication that infection has set in. 

The wounds are healing, Steve notes as he takes a closer look, but far more slowly than they should be, given the fact that James is enhanced. This—coupled with the fact that James’ fever still rages, that he can hardly focus or keep himself awake for more than a few minutes at a time—has fear settling like stone in Steve’s stomach. 

Bruce, Steve decides, thoughts racing. Bruce might know what to do. He’s seen James’ files. Knows more than Steve about whatever version of the serum James has. And though he’s always quick to protest that he’s not that kind of doctor, he’s got experience in the medical field and a genius-level intelligence to go along with it. 

Hope sprouts, a small and fragile thing. 

He can’t call a random doctor, but he can call Bruce.

—

Chapter Text

✪★ Ch. 8 ★✪

When Steve calls Bruce, he gets Tony instead. It’s the second time in as many calls that Tony’s inserted himself between Steve and the person he’d been trying to reach, which has Steve wondering if Tony’s been screening for him. If, in his own stunted way, this is Tony trying to show that he cares. 

Steve knows Tony still feels guilty about the first and only time he’d come face to face with James—even if Tony would go on a coffee strike before admitting to it. And while Steve still doesn’t know exactly what was said, Tony’s genuine attempts to make up for it means it must have been pretty bad. 

“Brucie bear is sciencing at the moment, mon Capitaine,” Tony says. “But your favorite billionaire genius is happy to be of service in the meantime. What can I do you for?”

Steve explains the situation as succinctly as he can manage. 

“My people came across some pretty nasty stuff when they were doing cleanup,” Tony says, once Steve’s finished. “Bruce and I have been analyzing the samples so we know most of the compounds in that lab were still in the experimental stages but... The stuff they were cooking up, Steve, was— Well, it was biohazardous for sure but also: the way they were designed to interact with the human body? It’s inhumane, Cap. Cruel. If your boy was exposed to any of that…”

“He got knocked through one of the refrigeration units,” Steve says, limbs going shaky with dread. “His back was all cut up from the glass. Based on what he’s going through now, I’m pretty sure he was exposed to whatever toxins were stored in there.”

“Shit.” Tony blows out a breath. “Well shit. Let me see if I can find out which stuff he fell into. Call you back.”

Tony hangs up and Steve spends the subsequent wait pacing the room, stomach churning unpleasantly. Thankfully, the wait isn’t very long, Steve’s phone buzzing in his hand less than ten minutes later. 

Turns out Tony’s clean-up crew had gathered samples of all the substances Hydra had left behind, thoroughly sanitizing the place of any and all remaining evidence once they were done. The substances within the crushed refrigeration unit where James’ blood had been found and collected had been inventoried along with everything else.

“We think Barnes was exposed to a variant of super-virus,” Tony tells Steve, getting straight to the point. “This one apparently acts as a carrier for different types of pathogens, while initially presenting itself as something relatively harmless. So, like, a person might get diagnosed with an ordinary cold, right? No big deal, not really a cause for alarm. So that person goes home, unsuspecting and then, bam. Suddenly the virus releases what it’s really been carrying, something far deadlier than any cold, and no one saw it coming because it was hidden inside the ‘harmless’ cold virus.”

Steve sinks onto the edge of the bed across from James, gazing at his flushed face, his shivering form.

“What does this mean for B—for. For James,” he asks, lowly. 

“It’s dangerous,” Tony says. “Scratch that, highly dangerous for a normal human. No surprise: Hydra scientists are evil assholes. But for someone with the serum, someone like you and Barnes, we’re thinking it’s probably not as big a deal. The only reason he even contracted it is because it was directly introduced to his bloodstream.”    

Relief, almost painful in its intensity, washes over Steve, and he slumps forward, bringing up a hand to cradle his forehead as he exhales a long, steady breath. There’s a faint sound of shuffling over the phone followed by an indignant squawk from Tony, and then Bruce is on the line. His voice is calmly reassuring as he informs Steve that James’ fever likely means the serum’s already fighting the virus in his system, that it shouldn’t be too long before he comes out on the other side.

“It’s horrible,” Bruce states, “But I’m pretty sure Hydra used Barnes as a guinea pig for these viruses. There were some notations about an enhanced test subject in the files Tony’s team recovered. And it makes sense that they’d use him. With someone enhanced, Hydra would have had a better chance of testing their deadly pathogens on a subject they wouldn’t have to worry about dying on them.”

Of course. Steve grinds his teeth. Of course they’d used James as their test subject. Just when Steve thinks he’s learned everything Hydra put the Soldier through, some new, horrific gem of information pops up. 

“There’s a silver lining in all of this, Steve,” Bruce says. “Barnes survived. Which means he will again.”

Steve slowly unclenches his jaw, anxiety beginning to recede even as the bitter sorrow of learning yet another cruelty James had been subject to rises in its place. 

Still, James is okay. He’ll be okay, Steve reminds himself. That’s what matters. He’s strong. He’s made it through countless tortures; he’ll make it through this virus just the same. He’ll make it through, and Steve won’t lose him, again, so soon after he’s gotten him back.

“You’re right,” he manages. “Thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce tells Steve about the plan to reach out to Cho and Strange, and any other medical professionals they can be sure aren’t Hydra, with the goal of formulating cures for the biohazardous horrors Hydra’d cooked up in that lab. About how familiarizing themselves with Hydra virology has made top priority. 

“If these viruses somehow got released, they could wreak havoc on the human population,” Bruce says, and Steve feels a wash of pride, of gratitude that there are people like Bruce, Cho, and Strange—counterparts to the evil of Hydra, willing to help rather than hurt. 

“You should work on keeping Barnes hydrated, and have him rest as much as possible,” Bruce says before they end the call. “Typically, fever in adults is okay so long as it doesn’t go above 103 degrees, but keep an eye on him just in case. If he seems like he’s getting worse, let us know right away. I’ll be near the phone. So will Tony.”

-

The Asset shivers convulsively, teeth chattering as the body is pummeled by a powerful current of freezing, pressurized water. 

‘Hurry up with that, the chair’s waiting.’

Fire spills across its back. 

‘Отказ требует дисциплины, Солдат.’ 

The Asset lies prone on scorching desert sand, waiting for its target, the scope of its rifle hot against its face. Heat beats down on the body, steady and unrelenting. The lips are cracked, tongue swollen. It’s going on hour four and the target has yet to appear. Grit has snuck into the Asset’s tac gear, coarse and unforgiving, rubbing deeper into raw skin with every minuscule movement. 

Every breath hurts, whistling hot and dry through its parched throat. The rapid flutter of its heart tattoos against its sternum, each beat accommodated by a pounding rhythm of agony within its head; nausea in its belly. The view across the dunes wavers dizzyingly, bright, bright sun constant, piercing, neverending—

Something ice-cold touches his forehead and the Soldier rolls, landing in a crouch on carpeted floor, limbs shaky and alarmingly weak. 

There is a sound above him, a voice speaking nonsense syllables and the Soldier recoils, pitching backward to press himself into the cramped corner where bed frame and wall meet, making himself as small a target as possible. 

Fire explodes across his back as his body meets the wall and a raw, grating sound slips from between his lips before the Soldier clenches his jaw tight, muffling any further expression of pain. The Soldier— The Asset— It is not allowed—

“James.”

The Soldier jerks, startled from his spiraling thoughts. His breath hisses sharply through his teeth—too fast, too loud— 

He tilts his chin, a tiny movement just enough to part the strands of hair falling over his face. A man—tall, blond hair—stands beside the bed the Soldier must have been lying on before— 

Before this. 

The Soldier darts a surreptitious glance around the room and recognizes nothing. He doesn’t know where he is. 

He must be— Had he been on mission? His back spasms in renewed pain and, no. Pain like this indicates disciplinary correction. Punishment. Had he passed out in the middle of it? That’s happened before. 

The man—handler?—watches him, eyes calculating, and the Soldier keeps perfectly still, anxiety ratcheting higher with every silent heartbeat that passes. 

“Don’t be afraid,” the man tells him. “Please. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The Soldier stares. Pain is inevitable. The only unknown variables are how soon and how much. His back throbs, underscoring the point. The Soldier is already hurt. Why would the man bother with such an obvious lie? 

Unless the man's words are meant to convey that he won't hurt the Soldier any more.  

Sometimes, rarely, pain and punishments can be mitigated by compliance. 

The Soldier forces tense muscles to relax, working to appear unafraid, as directed, and parts dry lips to relay the expected response: “Я-Я готов ответить.” 

Perhaps, the Soldier dares, his compliance will be enough. Perhaps the body will not be subjected to further pain at this time.

But the man’s expression falls, clearly disappointed, and the Soldier realizes with dismay that he’s somehow managed to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. Dread coils sour in his belly.

He waits—prey caught in a hunter’s snare—for the man to act. 

The man doesn’t move toward him, as expected. He doesn’t move at all. But his expression is still unhappy as he says, “James it’s—it’s me. Don’t you know me?”

The Soldier swallows, dry throat clicking in tandem with the loud pounding of his heart. It’s clear what the blond man wants him to say, and the Soldier could lie. He could. But if he gets caught in the lie… 

There is no right answer to the question, and the Soldier is bitterly, painfully aware of this as he opens his mouth. Rasps, “I—please. I’m. Sorry. S-sorry—” 

‘Shut your fucking mouth, Soldier. Weapons don’t beg. And I’ll cut out that tongue again if that’s what it takes to teach you.’

The Soldier’s jaw snaps closed so fast his teeth clip his tongue, blood filling his mouth as his too-fast breathing goes shallow, the rapid beat of his heart growing even louder in his ears. His fists are clenched and—clenched fists are a sign of aggression. He forces his fingers to uncurl, clutching tightly at his raised knees instead.

The blond man lifts a hand and the Soldier flinches, barely registering the words spilling quickly from the other’s mouth,

“It’s fine James, it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

-

It’s Winter all over again. Locked inside the containment room in the tower, spiraling into a panic attack brought on by Steve’s mere presence. 

Except this time there is no glass window for Steve to retreat behind, and no way he’s going to leave James alone in his current state; weak and afraid and—Steve fears—likely to bolt given half the opportunity. 

He lowers himself to the floor, slowly. Puts himself at eye level so that he’s no longer looming over James, trying to curtail, as much as he can, the threat of simply being. Luminous eyes track him from behind dark hair, James’ breathing coming quick and erratic.

Steve wants so very badly to move closer. To touch and soothe away this terror the way he could have, and had, seventy-some years ago in the wake of Zola-fueled nightmares. But this isn’t Bucky. Not in the same way. James has been broken much more thoroughly than Bucky’d ever been. The knowledge of that, the helplessness it engenders, makes Steve violently angry.

Watching James, knowing that Hydra had done this to him, to Bucky, purposely—that they’d broken him down piece by piece, made him like this, seen him like this, lost and terrified and defenseless, and had hurt him anyway—stokes the fury burning deep in the pit of Steve’s stomach. 

He forces himself to swallow it down, to bury it deeper because, right now, he absolutely cannot let that anger rise to the surface. Right now, James’ needs take precedence. 

So Steve checks himself. Says, voice steady, expression open and hands to himself, “Hey.” 

James, attention unwavering, says nothing, but his breathing is still too fast, and so Steve decides to start there.

“Hey, buddy I need you to breathe with me, okay? Nice and slow, in and out. Like this, see?”

Steve slows his breathing, making it deep and even, and James, ever obedient, matches him breath for breath. 

Gradually his breathing begins to ease, and Steve offers a small, encouraging smile counting it as a win, a single step in the right direction. “That’s great, pal. Really well done.” 

James watches him, all guarded focus and carefully bridled fear, and Steve knows the next step out of the dark pit James had woken up in is to help James ground himself before this fragile moment of calm has a chance to break apart. 

He sifts through his memories, thinks back with bittersweet emotion on the sort of practice he’s had in this area. 

After Azzano, Bucky’d been plagued by nightmares to such a degree that it wasn’t all that rare to find him mumbling his name, rank, and serial number, blank-eyed and shell-shocked and unable to slough it off as easily as he did during the daylight hours. 

Back then, physical touch tended to be the best way to bring Bucky around. How that touch was delivered, though, was entirely dependent upon Bucky. 

When he was in a calmer frame of mind, Bucky’d allow Steve to touch him. Simple touches—a hand combing through his hair, arms around him in a loose hug, gentle fingers down his back. These went a long way toward soothing Bucky when he was fresh out of a nightmare. 

More often, Bucky preferred to control the touching. He’d pull Steve close, run his hands over Steve’s frame, press his face into the join between neck and shoulder and breathe him in until the shakes subsided and the remnants of his nightmares cleared from his eyes. Times like that, Steve kept his hands to himself, allowing Bucky to take comfort where he would, not touching until Bucky let him know it was okay.

With James, Steve has no doubt that touch is completely off the table. He won’t seek it out, and Steve doesn’t even consider taking the initiative himself.

But, Steve remembers, there had been once or twice where it was the same with Bucky.  During those times, when Bucky would cower away, lost and confused and not seeing Steve at all, touch was out of the question. 

It had come down to talking, then. Or more accurately, Steve talking, while Bucky—curled up and wild-eyed and looking much the same as James does now—listened. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve begins, same as he always had. “You were born March tenth, nineteen seventeen, to George and Winifred Barnes. Today is Tuesday. It’s 0100 hours. You’re in a motel, and besides us, there is no one else in the room.” 

James is watching him avidly now, and Steve continues, relaying as much information as he can, filling in blanks which have doubtlessly played part in provoking James’ anxiety. 

“We’ve been tracking down coded messages, but you were injured yesterday and exposed to a toxin. That’s why you’re not feeling well. Your body needs rest so that you can heal. I— I’m Steve. I’m not your handler, and I’m not— I won’t hurt you. Not ever.” 

As he speaks, something shifts in those blue eyes, and when he’s finished Steve thinks he can tell that he’s talking to James again, rather than Winter, or the Soldier. “You know me?”

James dips his head in a tiny movement, still wary but at least no longer panicking, and Steve offers another small encouraging smile. “Good, that’s—” Steve releases a short breath, a huff of relief. “That’s good to hear, pal.”

He gets to his feet, putting space between them, not wanting James to feel crowded against the wall. It’s reflex to offer James a hand, something he’s done for Bucky throughout their entire lives.  

James studies the hand with the tiniest of frowns—as if Steve has presented some sort of test, something with terrible repercussions should he make the wrong decision—and Steve feels a tangled mix of sorrow, anger, and stupidity, even though offering had been done on autopilot, unthinkingly. 

He’s about to pull back, to stuff his hand in his pocket and apologize, when James cautiously extends his own hand, the left one, smooth metal digits sliding across Steve’s palm. 

Steve’s heart misses a beat. 

It picks up again as he tugs James to his feet, a hard-hitting, rhythmic thud against his sternum. 

James, unaware of Steve’s emotional state, sways where he stands, and Steve reluctantly releases his hand, feeling a little like he’s tearing himself away as he forces himself to retreat, to turn to the tangled sheets on James’ bed.

James has managed to show a bit of trust, and Steve is grateful for it. But, Steve reminds himself, that certainly doesn’t mean he’s in any kind of state to give more. And it doesn’t change the fact that he still doesn’t truly know Steve. Now, when he’s sick and vulnerable, is not the time for Steve to weigh him down with intemperate pining.

Steve takes a moment to pull himself together, straightening the bed as he does so, pulling the top sheet out of the way to make it easy for James to settle back onto the mattress. James does, too weak to do much of anything else. He sits shivering and miserable at the head of the bed. 

“Here,” Steve says, proffering the sheet, and James takes it, tugging it over himself and gripping it tight. 

Steve goes to the kitchen next, returning with a glass of water which James drinks avidly. His eyes are already drooping by the time the glass is empty, and Steve takes it before it can slip from shaky fingers. 

He steps purposefully back from the bed after that, turning around and and moving away. He’s halfway to the kitchen when he hears the rustle of cloth, the sound of James lying down, and knows he’d read the situation right; James is more willing to lie down when Steve isn’t hovering over him. 

He takes his time refilling the glass. Putters about the kitchen. Allows James whatever time he needs to fall back asleep.

-

Chapter Text

✪ Ch. 9 ★

James never lets on about how much he remembers. That he remembers anything at all. 

It’s something Steve is learning to live with, though he doesn’t think he can ever manage to be happy about it. 

Just thinking about how much they’ve lost—how much is missing between them—makes grief squeeze painfully in his chest, and it’s all Steve can do sometimes just to keep it together, keep all that heartache locked behind polite passivity.

He does, though, manage to find a small measure of solace in the rationalization that James must retain some memory of his life before Hydra, if only because he’d pulled Steve from the Potomac—an act that had been in direct conflict with his Hydra-assigned mission. 

Why, if he hadn’t remembered anything, would the Soldier have done something so completely contrary to decades of Hydra-ingrained conditioning?

On top of that, is the way Winter had so carefully taken care of Steve in that base. The way he’d tried to protect him as best he could. And, too, the unconscious way James sometimes responds to Steve. 

There are times when James seems to know what Steve is thinking. Times when he will look at Steve—react to him—with more subtle perception than he should have, than he would have, if he weren’t at least familiar with Steve; if they’d truly met for the first time on that dark rooftop in the middle of DC. 

These things, in conjunction with one another, cannot be meaningless. 

James never lets on about how much he remembers, but he must.

He must remember something. 

-

Artificial light filters through the small separations of the motel room blinds, spills yellow-orange over the foot of each bed, across the carpeted floor. The night is quiet, only the faintest sound of freeway traffic keeping silence from reigning complete.

Steve sits on the bed adjacent to James’, propped against the headboard, head tilted to rest against the wall behind. His eyes are shut, breaths steady in a shallow, half-doze. 

A low, choked noise breaks into the quiet of the room and Steve’s eyes snap open, full awareness returning quickly as he straightens from his slouch, automatically turning his attention to the room’s only other occupant.

James brow is pinched, mouth downturned as he twists beneath the sheet, obviously caught within the throes of another nightmare, and Steve’s heart sinks. He swings his legs over the side of his bed, eyes catching on the red display of the nightstand’s digital clock as he moves and— It’s been less than three hours since the last nightmare-induced anxiety attack and Steve’s already exhausted at the prospect of going through it again.

It’s a selfish thought, and Steve exiles it as soon as it rears its ugly head. James deals with these nightmares on a near-constant basis. He lived them for decades. The least Steve can do is be there to help him through it, tired or not.

He gets to James’ bedside just as another wounded sound escapes James’ throat; is already reaching out to touch before he stops himself. Thinks better of it.

“James,” he says instead, keeping his voice even but firm. 

It’s enough. James’ eyes slide open, glassy and unfocused as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. 

His gaze shifts, head tilting in Steve’s direction and then—

Silence. 

James stares at Steve, lips parted, eyes wide, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and right away Steve can tell that something about him is different.

The realization in no way prepares him for what comes out of James’ mouth.

“Stevie?” 

James breathes the word, as if he’s afraid to say it too loud, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath. 

His heart stutters and trips, ears filling with the thundering rush of his pulse as a burst of lightning-like adrenaline jolts through him because— This isn’t James. 

It’s Bucky. 

Bucky—god it’s Bucky—staring up at him, wide eyed and almost fearful and it’s been so long. So long since he’s had Bucky’s staring back at him. Heard that nickname from his mouth and seen awareness and recognition in his gaze.

“Steve, they—” Bucky says urgently, expression filling with anguish. “They want me to kill her. I don’t— I don’t want—” He cuts himself off, swallowing thickly, shaking his head. “She’s only a child, Steve.” His voice has dropped, a low, desperate rasp. “Just a little girl.”

“Shh, Buck. ‘S okay.” Steve says, reaching out to stroke a shaking hand across Bucky’s too-hot forehead, every deeply-buried instinct roaring to the surface, and there’s no way he can keep his hands to himself. No way he’s not going to offer comfort. “They’re gone, Bucky. I swear it. Those people’re gone, and you don’t have to listen to them ever again.”

Bucky leans into Steve’s touch, eyes fluttering shut on a quiet breath, and Steve uses the opportunity to card through dark hair, to cradle Bucky’s jaw, brush gentle, reverent fingers across cheek and mouth. He feels like a blind man, using touch to relearn a face he’d once known better than his own. 

Silence passes. Bucky’s frantic anxiety slowly drains away. Then—

Bucky’s hand, his left hand, moves to encircle Steve’s wrist, holding there with gentle pressure as his eyes flicker back open, sharp blue gaze pinning Steve with sudden, unerring focus. 

“I love you, Stevie.”

Damp heat wells behind Steve’s eyes, threatening to spill over as Steve draws a shaking breath. He wants to crawl onto the bed, to wrap his arms tight around Bucky and never let him go. He wants to beg Bucky to talk to him, to tell him that he remembers them. Remembers everything. 

He twists his wrist, maneuvering within Bucky’s grasp to twine their fingers together. 

“I love you too, Buck.” He holds Bucky’s gaze, doesn’t look away for even a second, even as he fights to keep the words steady, his voice from breaking apart. “I love you always.”

“Don’t forget,” Bucky murmurs. His eyes are going cloudy again, gaze losing that sudden focus, and Steve grips tighter to his hand, vowing fervently, “I won’t. I’ll never forget it, Buck.”

Bucky stares at him, gaze roving across Steve’s face, brows drawing close together as fevered confusion rises anew. “What’s wrong, Stevie?” 

The words are thick and slurred and just like that Steve’s iron control shatters, grief spilling warm and wet down his cheeks as Bucky’s moment of clarity slips further and further away. 

“You look...sad. You always...” Bucky trails off, eyes dropping to take in Steve’s form as if he’s just now noticing it. “You’re so much bigger now…” he says, faintly.

“I joined the Army.” Steve answers the only way he knows how, a pained smile stretching across his face, but Bucky’s eyes have already gone vacant, gaze turned inward, focused on some unseen turmoil. 

Steve can’t find it in himself to move away. 

He stays where he is, a sleepless, vigilant guardian, until the fever finally burns out of James’ system. 

-

The Soldier wakes all at once, opening sleep-heavy eyes to blink at an unfamiliar ceiling. The ceiling is not the only unfamiliar thing, and the Soldier glances around, eyes taking quick stock as he drags himself upright, body feeling strangely...weak. Insubstantial. 

There is movement to his left, and the Soldier turns toward it. Sees the Captain stepping into the room, a small smile crossing his features when he catches sight of the Soldier awake. “Welcome back.” 

There’s a glass of water in his hand—the sight of it affording the Soldier with the realization that he is very thirsty, as the Captain moves further into the room. The Soldier tracks his approach, silently cataloguing the number of small details that have changed since he was last awake. Like how tired the Captain looks, dark smudges sitting like bruises beneath his blue eyes. And how there’s something… Something about him that’s suddenly closed off. 

Sometime between getting on the road and the Soldier waking up here, the Captain had locked part of himself away, and no matter how open his smile, the Soldier can see that the Captain’s eyes are tightly shuttered.

The Soldier drops his gaze. In his lap, his fingers have instinctively curled into fists. He makes a concentrated effort to relax them.

“Where—?” 

He swallows, throat parched, and the Captain, now close enough, pushes the glass into his hands. 

The water is cool, soothing in his mouth, and the Soldier quickly finishes it off. 

“Hotel,” the Captain answers the half-formed question. “Somewhere near Lawrence. The refrigeration unit you fell through at the last Hydra base was full of biohazardous toxins. The cuts on your back got infected. You’ve been…pretty out of it.”

“How long?” 

“Not very,” the Captain supplies. “Less than twenty-four hours.”

Not long. But long enough for the Captain to look run-down, dead on his feet. 

The Soldier slides from under the bedclothes to rise on disconcertingly unsteady legs. A vague recollection coalesces at the sensation: him swaying precariously on his feet, the Captain at his elbow, ready to catch him if he stumbled. 

“You could,” the Captain begins with something approaching hesitance, “shower. Have something to eat. I made some broth earlier.”

Now that he’s said it, the Soldier can detect the faintest scent of it in the air. He feels his stomach clench, a sudden painful reminder of how hollow it currently is.

“Just,” the Captain continues, “I just. Need to sleep.” He glances away, brows drawn in a faint frown. Runs a hand through the golden strands of his hair. “Just for a few hours. Then we can go.” 

The Soldier stares. The Captain sounds...apologetic. 

Why? Because he’s human? Needing rest? He looks like he hadn’t slept the entire time the Soldier was out of commission. And, thinking about it now, the Soldier realizes: the last time they stopped overnight, the Captain hadn’t slept then either. 

The Soldier suppresses a frown. It’s disquieting that he’s only noticing it now. If only because the Soldier makes a habit of noticing everything. He hadn’t noticed, though. Already subject to the effects of whatever toxins he’d been exposed to, his mind had been in no place to keep track of anything. 

Now, though. A quick calculation makes it apparent that it’s been something close to thirty hours since the Captain last slept, and the Soldier experiences the strangest urge to swear, the Captain’s hesitant words still hanging bitter in the air.

They’re already keeping irregular hours. Logic dictates the Captain should be taking advantage of whatever downtime they have to catch up on rest. Enhancement in and of itself is no excuse for him to forgo an opportunity to keep himself in optimum condition. It’s the reason they’ve been stopping so often in the first place, isn’t it? Because the Captain isn’t like the Soldier: conditioned to go without sleep for one hundred-twenty hours, one hundred-thirty. Even longer, if necessary. 

Has the Captain always been this senseless?

“Sleep,” the Soldier asserts, trying not to scowl, to grit his teeth, to show any of the displeasure he is certainly feeling, despite the fact that he isn’t sure he should be feeling anything at all. 

Something must show on his face—or else the Captain is doing that thing where he somehow manages to read the Soldier with disturbing accuracy—because the Captain shoots him a wry smile before obediently making for the unused bed, exhaustion evident in the way he doesn’t even take the time to change out of his t-shirt and jeans, just drops down on top of the covers, breath deepening into sleep almost immediately. 

-

The Soldier steps into the bathroom, peeling himself out of clothing that feels grungy against his skin and piling it in a messy heap on the cool, tiled floor. 

He heats the shower to just shy of scalding before stepping beneath the spray, legs not nearly as steady as he’d like them to be. He feels...weakened. 

There’s a distant, hazy quality to the edges of his thoughts. A lingering side-effect to having been drugged. It is a familiar sensation, if not a comfortable one; the Soldier’s had considerable experience being drugged. 

A hand brushes against his cheek; grips at his jaw. Don’t worry, Asset. You won’t remember a thing—

His disquiet dissipates by degrees, washed away beneath the steady flow of gratifyingly hot water. 

All lingering effects will clear soon enough, he knows. The serum is, after all, highly efficient. 

-

The Captain rolls over, opening his eyes on a wide yawn that cracks his jaw. He’s been asleep for approximately four hours. 

It’s not nearly enough to meet his deficiency, but it’s apparently all he’s willing to take because he sits up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning again. 

“Hey, B— James,” he says. The Soldier notes the slip-up, as he always does, and doesn’t react. “Did you eat?” 

The Soldier considers how to answer. Settles on, “Some.” His stomach doesn’t function optimally on a good day. Being drugged has left it even more temperamental than usual. 

The Captain hums, sliding from the bed and going to dig through his duffel bag. “I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can head out.”

“Quick” turns out to be satisfyingly accurate, the Captain exiting the bathroom barely fifteen minutes past when he’d gone in. 

The Soldier’s got the paper map spread out across a bed, calculating potential routes and travel time. There are roughly two-thousand miles between their current location and California. If they were to drive straight there at an average of sixty-five miles per hour, travel time would approximate twenty-six hours. Which doesn’t take into account stopping for basic necessities, eating, sleeping. 

The Soldier could do it—if he were alone. He has before. 

With the Captain, though, the trip will take at least two more days. Maybe three. He considers this as the Captain approaches, settling down on the other side of the bed, an apple in one hand and a small paring knife in the other.

“What’re you thinking?” the Captain asks, gesturing at the map.

“Two-to-three days until we reach our destination,” the Soldier reports, neutrally. It’s not, technically, as fast as the Soldier would like. But then, they aren’t technically working toward a deadline.

The Captain’s eyes flicker over the Soldier’s face before they drop back down to the map.

“Hmm.” 

He chews on a slice of apple. Offers a piece to the Soldier without ever removing his eyes from the page, seemingly absorbed in tracing their prospective route. 

The Soldier’s gaze flickers to the fruit, held innocuously between the Captain's fingers. 

The Captain doesn’t move. Stays just as he is, eyes poring over the map, apple on offer, and the Soldier finds himself struggling to understand what, exactly, he’s looking to accomplish. 

The Captain has been over this route before. Has already carefully mapped it out. On top of that, the Captain has a photographic memory. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be studying the Soldier’s paper map with such focus. It's redundant. Unnecessary. Unless...

‘Did you eat?’

The Soldier’s eyes return to the slice of fruit.

If this ruse is actually an attempt to prompt the Soldier into eating, the Captain isn’t being particularly subtle about it. And pretending to study a map he can probably freehand down to the finest detail is not the most brilliant pretense he could have chosen as his reason for keeping his focus off of the Soldier. 

Still, the Soldier can't deny that his doing so makes the idea of accepting the piece of apple feel less...consequential. 

It occurs to the Soldier that the Captain has done this deliberately. With the weight of the Captain’s gaze turned elsewhere, the pressure of expectation falls away. The Captain isn’t making a demand. The Soldier is free to accept, or refuse. 

Perhaps, because of this, the Soldier decides to accept. After a deliberate pause, he takes the apple between careful, metal fingers. 

The fruit is crisp, its green flesh both sweet and tart in his mouth, and the Soldier’s finished it off before he fully registers that he’d meant to. A glance up from empty fingers reveals the Captain already presenting him with another slice. 

Apples—green, with just the barest blush of pink across the skin—might be the Soldier’s favorite thing to eat; if ever he were to admit to having a favorite. They are the first thing he can remember choosing for himself. The best thing he’d ever tasted. 

He wonders if the Captain knows, somehow, that the Soldier has this preference. Wonders if it’s even his at all. It’s entirely possible that it isn’t. That it’s only a remnant from his former life. From the person the Captain calls Bucky.

There’s no way to know. Not without asking directly. But not knowing resonates with the Soldier, stirring up an emotion he doesn’t have a name for. 

-

When they get down to the car, the Soldier heads directly for the driver’s seat. 

The Captain takes a breath, mouth opening in preparation to object when the Soldier turns to look at him, expression flat. Mouth closing around silence, the Captain relents, inclining his head before sliding into the passenger seat without a word.

Good, the Soldier thinks. The Captain hasn’t had nearly as much sleep as he should. With the Soldier driving, he’s free to make up some of those lost hours.  

Whether the Captain agrees with this assessment is anyone’s guess, but it’s not long before he nods off, slack and unguarded where he rests against the passenger-side door.

-

Chapter Text

✪★ Ch. 10 ★✪

They don’t talk about what happened while James was drugged. 

The content of his hallucinations is enough to let Steve know that the Soldier does have some memory—however slight—of their shared past. But the mind is a strange and complicated thing. 

The Soldier, James, is so far removed from Bucky—the Bucky of before. 

Steve had believed him gone forever. But then... 

I love you, Stevie. 

Don’t forget.  

Steve had looked into James’ eyes and had found Bucky, and he doesn’t know— Can’t know— Why.

How is it even possible?

He wonders—turning it round and around in his mind, prodding at it like a child with a loose tooth—if it hadn’t actually been Bucky at all. If what had really happened was James getting locked into an elaborate hallucination, the fever and the drugs running rampant through his system somehow allowing a remnant of the past Bucky, Steve’s Bucky to shine through.

I love you, Bucky had said. But it’s entirely possible that he’d been stuck in the tail end of a memory, the expression a vestige of bygone emotion, and not something real. Something Bucky was actually telling Steve, in that moment. 

Or, hope supplies, impossible to extinguish, maybe the drugs had somehow managed to wake what was usually too deeply buried by the Soldier’s programming and trauma to surface. Maybe the drugs had prised open the Soldier’s walls, where Bucky’s been inside all along.  

There’s no way to know. No certainty to be found. 

But. 

Every so often, there are...glimpses. Small mannerisms. Expressions. Responses. Tiny flashes of Bucky that peak through James’ taciturn demeanor in rare, precious moments. 

Steve hordes every one of those moments. 

Keeps them close to his heart, and allows himself the smallest hope: That Bucky is still there, buried deep, but there. 

That hope springs eternal. And it leaves Steve in the familiar predicament of wondering just how much James truly remembers.

-

The Captain doesn’t talk about what happened during the hours the Soldier was incapacitated by Hydra’s poison. 

The Soldier doesn’t ask. 

He doesn’t want to know more than what he can already deduce for himself—that something significant had happened. That it had rattled the Captain enough to leave him quiet and thoughtful. Tense sometimes. And shooting looks at the Soldier that he has little chance of deciphering. 

So. The Soldier doesn’t know what happened, beyond small indistinct flashes that sometimes float through his memory. 

But, something had happened. Something had changed. Things feel different between them now; as if the whole world had subtly shifted within the space of those hours, and while everything is still there, nothing is quite as it was before. 

-

Per unspoken agreement, the Captain and the Soldier trade off driving every four to six hours. Between the two of them, they end up making pretty good time. 

A few hours out from the location of the next set of coordinates, the Captain begins to pay closer attention to the signs along the freeway. 

The Soldier doesn’t have to wonder what the plan is; they’ve more or less been sticking to the same pattern since this journey began. They’ll find somewhere to eat—the Soldier’s stomach has gotten moderately better about what foods it will tolerate—then a hotel to grab a few hours of sleep, possibly wash up a bit, depending on how long they plan to stay. 

As expected, the Captain pulls into the parking lot of a diner situated not three hours from their final destination. The sign out front advertises “24 hour breakfast!”, and the Soldier feels the subtle weight of anxious tension evaporate from between his shoulder blades.

Breakfast foods, he’s discovered, are generally easier on his stomach than those typically designated for lunch and dinner. Things like pancakes, toast, and oatmeal, are all relatively easy to digest, and most show up on breakfast menus across the country. 

The Captain seems to have noticed—in that quiet way he seems to notice everything—because they haven’t been anywhere without a breakfast option in a while. 

Inside, they grab the booth with the best sightlines. Scan the list of available entrees on the menus they grab from the cheap plastic holder on the side of the table.  

When the waitress comes by, the Soldier chooses the pancakes with the side of “seasonal fruit”.

He doesn’t know what “seasonal” entails, but when the food arrives he ends up with a bowl of sliced bananas, oranges, strawberries. 

He eats the pancakes plain, avoiding the cloying sweetness of the syrup and the rich fattiness of the butter, both of which tend to cause stomach complications. Leaving them bare also means he can eat them with his fingers, which he likes, for some unknown reason.

He turns to the fruit next, cautiously tasting a slice of orange, then a strawberry, both of which turn out to be satisfyingly sweet. He eyes the banana slices, wondering what they might taste like. He can’t remember ever eating banana. He grips one slippery piece between his fingers; lifts it from the bowl; raises it toward his mouth and—

“Don’t eat that, Buck. You’re not gonna like it.”

The Soldier freezes, pale slice of fruit dropping back into the bowl, sliding down between two segments of orange. His eyes flicker to the Captain as he holds perfectly still, hand frozen above the bowl, and he doesn’t know what his face is showing but the Captain looks stricken.

“Sorry,” the Captain instantly apologizes. “God. I’m so sorry James, I didn’t mean— You can— Of course you can— Shit.

The Soldier forces his limbs to move, lowers his hand from it’s awkward hover over the fruit bowl. He leans back from the table, gaze affixed on the Captain. 

“How,” he begins, wetting his lips. “How do you…know. I won’t like it.”

Though he’s asked, he finds himself bracing for the answer, unsure that he actually wants it. 

The truth is. The truth is that it’s alarming—how well the Captain seems to know him. His prior friendship with Barnes could account for some of that, maybe, but… 

But there are times when the Captain seems to know; what the Soldier is thinking. What he’s feeling. Too often, the Captain is able to perceive these things, respond to them, before even the Soldier manages to do so, and he shouldn’t be able to.

The Soldier has spent decades forcing himself to perfect a facade of detached impassivity. Hydra’s conditioning, in this regard, was very effective. Though it lived in a near-constant state of fear, the Asset was not permitted to acknowledge it; pain, too, was not acknowledged unless an injury was in danger of compromising the mission. Hesitance meant punishment. Emotional “outbursts” meant punishment. To mute his feelings—ignore all things unrelated to the mission—became second nature. 

I’m not sleeping with that thing on watch. Fucking dead-eyed freak. Can never tell what it’s thinking. Hell, it could be planning to slaughter us all in our sleep and we’d never even know it.

And yet, the Captain still manages to see him. Too often, he manages to see. Past all the Soldier’s barriers, picking up on his feelings and desires like the Soldier’s got them on clear display. 

The Soldier’s never brought it up. 

He’s purposely avoided asking, because he doesn’t really want to know. The thought of how deep that knowledge goes, how very thoroughly the Captain can read him when the Soldier can barely read himself is more than a little unnerving.

It’s becoming quite clear, though, that knowing isn’t something he can avoid forever. 

The Soldier has his suspicions, how could he not? The way the Captain looks at him sometimes—

There’s whole paragraphs written in those blue eyes even when the Captain says nothing at all.

But. Even if the Soldier’s suspicions are correct. Even if there had been something…more…between the Captain and Barnes, even if they had been—

It doesn’t change anything. 

Because the Soldier isn’t Bucky Barnes. He never will be. Whoever Bucky had been to the Captain, that man is dead. Gone. The Soldier is what’s left; a poor substitute of a person, barely clinging to humanity on a good day. He can’t— He’ll never be what the Captain wants.  

Knowing, or not knowing, what Barnes and the Captain were to each other won’t change that. 

“I— don’t,” the Captain tells him. “I don’t really know, James, that you won’t like it. I’m sorry, I never should have said anything. You should...give it a try. You might like it.” 

The Captain avoids the Soldier’s gaze as he speaks. Stares down at the table. Uses his fork to pick at what scraps remain on his plate. 

The Soldier feels a sharp stab of agitation.  

“You’re lying.”  

The Captain flinches. It’s small, barely perceptible. Except the Soldier is looking. 

“You gave me,” he presses, “some apple. Green. You knew I'd eat it. How?”

It feels…dangerous. To speak to the Captain thus. To push for answers. The Soldier holds himself still. Waiting. Ready. Effrontery is not Asset-approved behavior.

Wipe him and start over.

But the Captain doesn’t retaliate. Doesn’t even get angry. 

Instead he sighs, dropping his fork and leaning back on his own side of the booth. He doesn’t meet the Soldier’s gaze, but stares off into the middle distance, as if he’s watching some invisible scene play out before him. 

“Everybody these days seems to think apple pie is my favorite,” he begins, and the Soldier feels something akin to shock that he’s getting an answer at all. “Maybe the historians got it wrong, or maybe they just didn’t care. It fits with the all-American persona, so why not keep the fabrication going? The truth is,” here he pauses, mouth pursed, a faint frown across his brow. “The truth is: apple was always your favorite.”

The Soldier doesn’t correct the Captain. Doesn’t say I'm not him, even as the thought rings loud in his mind. 

“I preferred oranges, but you loved apples, especially green ones, and every year your ma would make you an apple pie for your birthday. Thing is, we usually couldn’t get the apples ‘till the summertime when they were actually in season.”

His accent starts to change as he gets deeper into the story, Brooklyn drawl stretching out the vowels like warm taffy. 

“When your ma’d finally get the chance to make it for you, it was always closer to my birthday than yours, so you always made sure to bring some ‘round to share. Said it could be a gift for both ‘a us.” The Captain smiles, the expression tilting one corner of his mouth. “I always felt bad about that. Used ta piss an’ moan. Always gave in though. Couldn’a never said no ta y—” 

The Captain cuts himself off abruptly, glancing up as if he’s suddenly remembered where he is and who with. His eyes, when they meet the Soldier’s, are shadowed with something like guilt and he clears his throat, dropping his gaze to where he’s begun fiddling with his napkin. 

“As for the bananas,” he continues, Brooklyn drawl conspicuously absent, “they taste different now. You never really liked them before, but—” he grimaces. “Well, they’re pretty awful now. I guess I just…assumed you wouldn’t like them.”

Silence settles between them as the Soldier processes the Captain’s words. Eventually, he forces himself to ask, “Why did you lie?”

The Captain doesn’t answer right away. 

After a moment, he says slowly, as if choosing his words with care, “I don’t know how much you remember.”  

The Soldier draws back, the plates in the metal arm shifting as his hands clench beneath the table. The sound of recalibration is quiet, but not enough: The Captain’s eyes flicker to the arm, across the Soldier’s face, and back down to the table, expression grim.

“You don’t seem to want to talk about it,” he continues. “About...the past, and I didn't want to— It seems unfair. To bring it up when you... If you don't remember.” 

The Captain’s eyes come up again, blue gaze capturing the Soldier’s before he can look away. The Soldier’s stomach flips, the sense that he’s pinned beneath that intense gaze making something twist in his gut. He forces himself not to fidget, to remain still beneath that piercing regard as the Captain inevitably asks:

“Do you remember?” 

The Soldier doesn’t flinch. Only drops his gaze, eyes going to his half-eaten pancakes. He doesn’t remember, and he shakes his head. 

The Captain watches, something soft and sad in his gaze. In his voice. “I’m sorry.”

The Soldier says nothing, wondering at the sentiment. The lack of memories, in itself, does not cause pain. The fact that they are missing has nothing to do with the Captain. Why should he be sorry?

“I’m sorry that I brought it up,” the Captain answers the unspoken question. 

“You’ve been through...so much, James. It's not—I think. It isn’t fair to you, to bring up things that— That you don’t want to talk about.”

To bring up things about Bucky, he means. To keep hoping his best friend will rise from the ashes of the Winter Soldier. To wish for a man, long dead, to reclaim a mind and body the Soldier’s fought so hard to make his own.

The Captain is right; it isn’t fair. And for the first time, the Soldier realizes something the Captain’s probably known for a while. That the Captain’s wistful nostalgia bothers him. 

-

Later, when the Captain has headed to the restroom, the Soldier slips a piece of the banana into his mouth. 

Both the taste and texture are unappealing, too soft and somewhat slimy, and the Soldier doesn’t spit it out only because such visceral responses have been trained out of him. He swallows the tiny mouthful without a grimace, but he can’t quite quash the desire to push the bowl of offending fruit away from himself, even if only by a few inches. 

The Captain had been right. He doesn’t like banana. 

And no matter how he had tried to backpedal in the face of the Soldier’s scrutiny, the Soldier thinks the Captain never had any doubt that his assertion was correct.

-

The car glides smoothly down the long, California road. Warm air wafts through the open windows, the breeze carrying the fragrant scents of orange blossoms and sunshine. Thick groves of citrus trees line the side of the road, stretching on for mile after mile.

In the passenger seat, the Soldier watches the trees rush by, eyes half-lidded. The radio is on, but the sounds coming from it are low, creating a non-invasive stimulus. It’s piano, mostly. Intermingled with jazz, the occasional classical composition. 

It’s…soothing, maybe. Somnolent. 

The song changes, the first strands of brass instruments beginning to flow through the speakers, and the Soldier feels himself sinking. Slipping deep. Going quiet and still.  

This song. It’s...Tchaikovsky, his mind whispers. Concerto. Op. 35 ll. 

The Soldier knows this song. Why does he know this song? How?

He frowns without frowning, expression blank, unchanging, even as his mind scrabbles for understanding—unease growing thick, and slow, but steady in his gut. Unignorable. 

He reaches: deep into the dark recesses of his mind. But there is nothing for him to grasp. No clarity. No understanding. 

The music swells and 

                                     then.

Then 

                                                                                 there is 

                                 nothing 

                                                                                             at 

                            all... 

-

“The advancements made to this subject’s healing factor are a modern miracle,” the doctor says. “Let us commence recording specifics. You there. Play for me Schumann. I feel a yearning for my homeland this morning. ”  

There is the sound of clattering wheels—a table being rolled over—and the metallic clamor of surgical tools being arranged across its hard surface. 

Strains of soft, classical music begin to float through the room, grainy and staticky. As if the record has been played hundreds of times, its surface scratched and pitted with age.

The subject’s heart rate climbs, a steady ascension. Acid-sharp adrenaline skitters down his spine, making his body shiver, curdling in his intestines.

“No, no; give me the scapula. We shall start small. And no anesthetics, they cloud the data. Yes, that’s perfect. Begin the recording.”

-

The subject gasps; short, sharp breaths. Sweat rolls down his face. Painful stabs of residual electricity spike through his brain. His throat is raw from screaming. 

The doctor standing over him stares; focus unwavering.  

“What is your designation?” 

The words are thick, heavily accented. 

The subject shudders. He knows, with a baseless certainty, that his answer will bring pain. He knows, too, that failing to answer will achieve a similar, even more painful result. 

“S-Sergeant. Three two five fiv—“

“Increase the voltage.”

Fire arcs through the subject’s brain. 

He screams. 

-

“Shoot him.”

He hesitates. 

“Shoot him now.”

His arm trembles , the gun heavy in his hand. 

Fear sits tight in his throat. He doesn’t want to— He doesn’t—  

The subject— ‘ Who am I?’.

The…

He. 

He knows he will be punished. He can’t bring himself to pull the trigger.

The commander snatches the gun; shoots the kneeling figure in the head. Brings the barrel hard across the subject’s face. Something breaks. Blood drips thick and warm down the subject’s temple as he weaves, dark spots filling his vision, nausea climbing up his throat.

“A soldier that won’t kill is worth nothing,” the commander says, voice calm, eyes furious. 

He motions to the guards. “Put him back in the hole.”

In the hole, there is darkness. Thirst; hunger; cold. Nothing to see because there is no light. No sound because before they put him in they puncture his eardrums. Down there, in the darkness, in the cold and silence, time has no meaning. 

Eventually, he will begin to beg; to weep. Every time. Inevitably. 

He will call for them until his throat goes raw, until the cold and the hunger and the thirst make it impossible for him to scream, to cry, to function at all.

-

“What is your designation?”

The subject stares at the man in the white coat, lips parted around silence, mind completely blank. He cannot answer. He doesn’t know the answer.  

Panic rises, clawing at his chest. 

“Who. Are. You.”

His breathing is loud, harsh and sawing as he fights to remember the answer. To remember anything.

Who is he?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know—

-

“Shoot her.” 

The woman looks at him, at the gun in his hand. Her eyes are red from crying. Cheeks tear-streaked and smudged with dark makeup. She is trembling; terrified.

She looks at him and opens her mouth, voice shaking and desperate. “Please—”  

The Soldier squeezes the trigger. 

The shot echoes through the room. 

The woman doesn’t look at him anymore.

-

James jerks in the passenger seat, a sharp, sudden movement that has Steve glancing over in alarm. There’s something in James’ expression, something so severe—animal-like, horrified—that it has Steve immediately pulling to the side of the road. 

It’s a good thing Steve reacts quickly because James doesn’t wait. Almost before the car has come to a complete stop, he’s out the door, shooting through the neatly spaced rows of citrus trees, disappearing from view. 

Steve shuts off the engine. Sits in the car for a moment before finally moving to follow at a more sedate pace. 

There’s nothing he can do, he’s learned, because James never permits him to help. Never even seems to want him anywhere nearby. 

Steve can’t quite manage to stay away, but he can, at least, allow James time. Time to get through whatever it is that’s haunting him. Time to shove it all back inside, bury it deep as he always does, keeping to himself, relying only upon himself.

Long minutes pass before he reaches James, knelt amid the rows of trees, metal fingers dug into the rich soil. 

“Okay?” he asks James’ back, stopping a few feet behind. 

James nods shortly, but doesn’t otherwise move. 

Steve waits. 

Tilting back his head, he closes his eyes against warm rays of sunlight, breathing in the sweet orange-blossom scent hanging thick in the air. The day is unusually warm for the season—or maybe not, for California. A balmy breeze rustles softly through dark green leaves.  

Eventually, James stands, heading back toward the car without a word. He’s sitting in the passenger seat when Steve emerges from the trees, quiet, composed—as if he’d never jumped from the car in a desperate panic. 

Steve slides back behind the wheel. 

Starts the car. 

Drives on. 

-

There’s an orange on his pillow when he steps from the bathroom that night, freshly showered and ready for bed. 

James is already in his own bed. Facing away, curled on his side. Asleep, or faking it well enough. 

Steve crosses the room to pick up the orange, turning it over in his hands. 

“Heya Stevie. Brought you somethin’,”

Steve looks up from where he’s sat on the couch—attempting and mostly failing at mending the holes that have appeared in a number of his and Bucky’s shirts. Bucky's just got in, hair wind-swept and cheeks pinked from the cold, and he tosses his winter coat onto the other end of the couch before moving to crouch in front of Steve, one hand hidden behind his back.

Steve lowers the shirt he’s been squinting at onto his lap, raising his brow s in curiosity.  

“What’ve you got there, Buck?”

Bucky’s mouth tilts in to a teasing grin. 

“Aren’t ya gonna ask me nicely, Stevie?”

Steve swallows a huff, lips flattening in annoyance. He’s got half a mind to tell Bucky where he can shove his secrets. Except Bucky looks so pleased with himself, so excited about whatever he’s brought, that Steve doesn’t want to ruin it with his bad temper. It’s not Bucky’s fault Steve was let go from another job today, the second one this month. Not his fault either that the cold weather is making Steve’s joints particularly achy, his knees and back stiff and uncomfortable. 

‘Suck it up Rogers. No need to be an ass.’

“Bucky,” he says, tone sickeningly sweet —and, okay, maybe he can’t completely avoid being an ass. “W on’t you please show me what you’ve brought?”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, aware of Steve’s snark but amused nonetheless, and his good humor pulls Steve that much more out of his funk. 

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

He pulls his hand from behind his back and there, cupped with in the circle of his fingers, sits an orange—brightly colored and perfect.

Steve feels his eyes widen, mouth falling open despite himself. 

“How on earth did you manage to get one of those, James Buchanan Barnes?” he asks, tightening his hands around the cloth in his lap, forcing himself not to snatch the fruit right out of Bucky’s hand. 

“Ma’s sister is visiting from the country,” Bucky says, shrugging a shoulder. “She brought a whole basket-full with her.”

He wiggles the orange, raising it closer toward Steve. 

“You gonna take it or what?”

Steve carefully releases his grip on the shirt, reaching gingerly for the fruit, hesitant and eager all at once. “Let me cut it,” he offers, turning the orange in his hands. “We’ll share it.”

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head , full lips still curved in a smile . “I’ve already had three. This one's for you.”

The orange had been perfectly balanced between sweet and tart, juicy and ripe, and Steve had savored every segment. 

Only when he’d been nearly finished had he been able to finally convince Bucky to have a piece, and Bucky’d leaned close, taking the sliver right from Steve’s fingers, gripping it between strong, white teeth. 

He’d closed his eyes, savoring the taste, and it was just as well because Steve had needed a moment to compose himself, to work on banishing the warm flush crawling up his neck, across his cheeks.

He’d stuffed the last piece into his mouth and was licking his fingers clean, not wanting to waste a single taste, when Bucky’s eyes slid back open, deep blue gaze sharpening as he noticed just what Steve was doing. 

Steve remembers the heady thrill that had run through his stomach as he’d finished licking his fingers clean under the weight of that stare, Bucky’s eyes straying to his mouth, shrewd and full of something Steve could maybe pretend was want. 

Bucky swallowed, looking suddenly away and down, hiding his expression behind the thick sweep of his lashes. There was a charged silence, and then he was shaking his head, grinning and shoving at Steve’s shoulder. ‘What a mess you are, Rogers. Can’t take you anywhere, I swear! No wonder you can’t get a dame.’ 

The moment passed—bitter with Steve’s longing, sweetened by the lingering flavor of the orange. Warm, too, with the pleasure that arose from being gifted something so precious in a time of so much shortage.  

He’d asked Becca, later, about how she’d enjoyed her aunt’s visit. Whether she’d had any of the oranges. Becca had looked at him with a bewildered frown and asked what the heck he was talking about. 

“What aunt?”

Steve had backtracked quickly, flushed with embarrassment, confused and annoyed with Bucky for tricking him, “Must’ve been mistaken,” he’d apologized.

He’d turned for home, ready to give Bucky a piece of his mind, already planning what he would say. 

And then, half a block away, it struck him, what Bucky had really done, and he’d slowed to a stop, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the flimsy coat wrapped around his shoulders. 

The orange had been a gift. But not one Bucky had given him out of his surplus. 

Oranges were as expensive as they were rare, and every spare coin they had went into paying for their shitty little apartment, paying for Steve’s meds, scraping together enough food for meals. Fresh fruit was a luxury in itself, but Steve had resigned himself to the likelihood that if things went on as they were, he’d never taste another orange again.

And yet, somehow, Bucky had gotten Steve one, despite his lack.   

Now, as the taste of this orange bursts sweet and tart over his tongue, Steve savors the flavor and the memory that blooms with it. 

-