dappered | (no subject)

(no subject)

[ He falls.

Not for the first or last time, but for once it is his choice to let go of the metal girder and drop, debris falling past him, the cold waters closing over his head like a nightmare. He pushes aside the things in his head that start screaming (not the water, not the cold, please no catch me stop me) and concentrates on his target, on his mission.

He pulls Rogers from the water. The man is still alive, somehow, even with the blood soaking his uniform (he knows that uniform) and he swallows hard when his hands spread automatically over the wet fabric, applying pressure (he has done this before, seen these colors underneath his fingers), and Rogers groans and curls towards him, like he knows. Like he trusts.

There is a protocol for situations like these (even though there are no situations like this, not for this target): he is to disappear, communicate his location and wait for extraction. His handlers will always come for him. He is not safe to leave at loose ends.

Hydra does not leave loose ends. Hydra does not take prisoners, though they might make an exception for a man such as this-- but his commander had asked for a confirmation of death. He has never failed to deliver one.

His left shoulder tenses and he hears the quiet screech of abused gears. He is malfunctioning. There are warm tracks of water running down his cheeks that are not from the Potomac and he can hear his own breathing, loud and wet and choked. He is crying, apparently. Or at least his body is crying, reacting to some stimuli he doesn't understand.

He closes his eyes and counts in Russian while Rogers breathes under his hands.

Twelve hours later they are in an old Hydra safehouse, a basement beneath an abandoned store front in a rough neighborhood where no one cares who walks down the street, still well stocked but hopefully overlooked in all the chaos. There are supplies enough there to treat bullet wounds and lacerations and dislocated shoulders. He is not a gifted field medic but he does not need to be, with his enhancements, and Rogers is apparently the same way, requiring only rest and time and a few IV bags to recover from injuries that would have killed an ordinary human.

He does not contact Hydra. News above ground indicates chaos and a broken chain of command, conflicting reports, and he is not at full capacity. He sits in a chair next to the only bed and works carefully on his damaged arm, patching it as best he can, listening for any change in Rogers' breathing. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You don't scar."

It should be flat or even slightly frustrated (of course he checked, but he hardly has the equipment here for anything except a visual scan) but is instead the slightest bit hesitant, even curious.

"No." Is it selfish, to wish sometimes that he did? "But I'm not chipped. I've checked." Or more specifically, he asked Stark to check. Tony has no reason to lie to him, not about that, and he doesn't think there's anyone alive who could hide anything technological from that man. He'd laid down on one of Stark's work tables as the man tut-tutted at him and asked him if this meant the boyscout was becoming disillusioned.

Steve had ignored the quip at the time, but he did thank Stark afterwards, and Tony's mouth had been an uncharacteristically straight line as he'd replied, you don't need to thank me, Captain.

"Did they tell you anything about me?"

He eyes Steve for a moment, gauging his sincerity (not that he needs to, something in him knows that if this man says something it is because he believes it whole-heartedly) before allowing his gaze to slide away, as good as a shrug in a person with actual expressions.

"Yes." Of course they had. Strengths, weaknesses, habits. "You were tagged as my primary obstacle."

Was it arrogance, he wonders? Did they want to see how their soldier measured up against him? Did they think, somehow, that Steve wouldn't recognize him, that he wouldn't fight for him?

His mouth thins into a frown. Hydra never has been very smart. And in this, they miscalculated.

"Your mission," he says, reaching up to make a small throw-away gesture near his temple. "I remember. But I mean more like... about the War." There is always only one War for men like him, and even in quiet narrative it always manages a capital letter. "My Commandos. Any of that."

He isn't quite sure what Rogers is asking him, and more importantly not sure why he's answering in the first place. He'd read and memorized all the files that had been provided to him, as any operative would.

"You have no personal connections to the people of this time period," he answers, eyes narrowed. "Save for one Carter, Margaret, retired operative. The Director of SHIELD provides you with missions and recurring comrades to encourage your loyalty, but intel from your Strike team indicates you remain voluntarily isolated. You are the most vulnerable member of the Avengers Initiative."

Edited 2014-04-14 00:16 (UTC)

He snorts faintly. It's not untrue, but it cuts him just the same. He can feel camaraderie for the Avengers (he hates that name) but they aren't his comrades. Everyone he could have called by that name once upon a time is dead and buried - he's been to their graves - save Peggy and Bucky.

He drums out a tattoo against his thigh (it's the peppy themesong they wrote for him during the war) and looks down at his hands as if he's not quite sure they were what he was expecting to see. "Vulnerable. I can see why Hydra would say that." He's not bulletproof like Banner or Thor, and he's not a genius in Stark's calibre. But he and Natasha and Barton represent something that the others don't, and there's no trace of ego in thinking it.

"I want to take you somewhere. I won't fight, you have my word. But I'd like to go to the Smithsonian, and show you something."

That seems like an odd change of subject and his face goes almost comically blank while he tries to decipher the request, running down motives and scenarios, and in the end he doesn't even have to reply, just knits his brows once more in clear confusion.

Does Bucky even know what the Smithsonian is? Steve watches the way his expressions twist and change, and his jaw tenses at all the things he's used to seeing.

"It's an exhibit. It details my team in the Second World War. I think you should see it." It bothers him, to think of the men he served with being relegated to a dusty exhibit. But there are precious few other ways to keep the memories alive. "Bucky-- please."

That name again. His shoulders tense up again tellingly under the tanktop, the mechanics in his arm whirring softly to compensate, and he puts his flesh hand to his temple sharply, rubbing at it, a very human and un-Winter Soldier gesture.

"You're a prisoner," he reminds Steve flatly, in case he'd forgotten their roles here. Prisoners don't ask to take their captors to museum exhibits.

On the other hand he should have told Rogers 'no' immediately, instead of hesitating and obviously thinking about it. The fact that it's been several days and he hasn't already conducted them both into HYDRA's custody is also telling.

"I'm your friend," he corrects tiredly. He hates having to prove it, feeling like the validity of it has been pulled under some microscope. "That's not going to change." There's a part of him that recognizes that, Steve's seen it. Hydra doesn't take prisoners, yet here they are. And he'd bet that none of Bucky's higher ups know they're here, either. Otherwise, they'd have finished what the strike team started. A shallow grave and a hollowpoint bullet at the base of his skull.

Unless the intention is to use Bucky to wear down his walls. Get information out of him.

He rubs a hand over his browbone. He's not going to think about the possibilities. Not when he has a chance to save his friend. "You could always go alone. Tie me up, knock me out. Heck, you could shoot me again if you needed the extra security." If Bucky wanted him dead, he's sure that either of those two bullets would have done the job. He always was a precise shot, their team's crack sniper. There was a part of him that didn't want to kill Steve, and wouldn't want to kill him now. He'll cling to that. If Bucky thought he'd be able to escape without being severely damaged, he'd take the beating. He's had worse.

Edited 2014-04-14 02:03 (UTC)

He stiffens at the suggestion, something rising in his throat (who asks someone to shoot them, jesus Steve) and his breath shortens, speeding up, white noise pouring in his ears along with adrenaline through his veins. He is... upset. He is angry. Something in that suggestion makes him angry, and abruptly his hand flickers to his belt and there is a knife in it and he is advancing on Rogers, pissed and confused and pissed.

"Stop it."

His head is pounding. He's used to the world as silence, unimportant and faded out around him, but every time he sees Steve Rogers he starts to hear whispers, question the blank spaces he's been told over and over again to not prod at.

He thinks that other people have backed away from this man when he comes at them like this. If they get the chance. Steve, however, loses the tension in his shoulders, the anger. He relaxes, to have Bucky so close, despite everything. This is a man he slept beside on the cold, hard ground. They propped themselves back-to-back when it rained. Made jokes about frostbite in the cold, when they couldn't have fires because they were too close or in some cases behind enemy lines.

He remembers Bucky dumping half his rations onto Steve's plate because of his amped up metabolism, because even after the serum, Bucky still looked out for him.

Steve knows with perfect serenity that Bucky won't try to kill him with the knife. There's a gash in his shoulder that backs up the claim his heart makes.

"Go to the exhibit. I'm asking you, as a friend."

Steve would be right about that. When the Winter Soldier destabilizes, people around him tend to end up in crumpled, bloody heaps. Half the time he doesn't remember doing it.

But Rogers doesn't back away or even flinch from him, watches him come with those wide blue eyes--

(come on, Steve, girls'll love those baby blues)

--and no tension in his frame, trusting. Vulnerable. Perfectly willing to stand there and let an enemy end his life.

The knife trembles in his hand. He is breathing like a winded racehorse, harsh and unprofessional, and he whirls from Rogers abruptly, stalking halfway across the room to close his eyes and count in breathless Russian, picturing the nerves in his body like switches to be flipped as he'd been taught. Turning off reactions until he is calm again and the knife steady in his grip, and he can face Rogers easily, his eyes dark and blank and empty.

He opens his mouth to tell Rogers 'no' once and for all--

"No. Not without you."

--and freezes, because that hadn't been his voice. His voice doesn't sound like that.

His mind goes utterly and perfectly blank, and on instinct he reaches out to curl his fingers around Bucky's wrist, to steady it. It's the support they've always given each other, and Bucky's skin is too warm beneath the pads of his fingers, too warm-- the serum, or whatever Zola injected into him to keep him alive.

Steve stares at the point of contact, and has no words.

The Winter Soldier stares back.

This is why they don't leave him in the world, he thinks vaguely. Things get confusing. Distracting. Too much static in his head. It's easier to turn it off and let the coldness come back, let the programming take over.

The target has a grip on his wrist, his weapon hand. The next step is simple.

He drops the knife, breaks the grip on his wrist and catches his weapon again in one smooth motion, and his metal hand plants itself in the middle of Rogers' chest as a warning.

"Easy, Buck," he murmurs. They both had nightmares, back in the war. Did things that meant they didn't sleep so well after. But Steve's voice is devoid of judgement or rancour, nor does he look particularly surprised or troubled by the hand against his chest.

"I'm not interested in fighting you. And I'm not going to hurt you."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowed and jaw set, because yes, that's absolutely true. Rogers isn't going to hurt him.

The knife is sheathed smoothly and he steps back. As far as he's concerned they're finished here.

"Tomorrow," he allows, rather than try and take back what he'd said earlier which would require acknowledging it. The word is curt and in Russian.

He nods, and swings his legs carefully back up onto the bed. He doesn't expect that he'll sleep any more than he anticipates Bucky will.

"Thank you," he says again. "You didn't have to save me."

He makes no response, turning on his heel and stalking from the room. Rogers won't see him for the rest of the day.

The next morning, though, he appears dressed like a civilian in jeans and a black hoodie, clean shaven and hair tied neatly back. Gloves hide his metal hand and the hoodie is shapeless enough to conceal just how much weaponry he's carrying, which is pretty much everything he could possibly salvage from the safehouse. A black backpack hangs from one shoulders, stuffed with everything of value he could think to take with him. Whether or not this is some kind of ploy by Rogers, they won't be coming back to this place.

He drops another backpack on the floor for Rogers, casual and indifferent like yesterday hadn't happened at all. Inside are boots, medical supplies, an electric razor, and various other supplies for maintaining a civilian cover. It's also, considerately, large enough to carry the shield, although it won't be easy to access.

The last item that he tosses on the bed is a pair of what looks like silver bracelets, wide enough to be reminiscent of cuffs, which is exactly what they are. Magnetized when he pushes a button on the controller he's carrying. The HYDRA symbol is etched lightly into the steel, not visible but tangible for someone running their fingers over the surface.

He says nothing at all, as if determined to make up for yesterday's lapse with extra silent line-faced professionalism.

He doesn't sleep. He stares at the ceiling and feels his skin knit back together, one hand over the wound just below his sternum. He should be planning an escape, or considering one. He should be working out a way to let Natasha and Sam know he's all right.

Steve has spent so long being careful not to let himself have the things he wants. The war came first. It always came first. But it's over now, and all the blood they spilt seems so long ago now. Lifetimes. He can wait one more night, and he does. He maps out constellations in the cracks and spiderwebs over his head, and he hears Bucky coming before the door opens, and thus is sitting up on the bed when he enters.

Even without the sleep, he feels stronger today, and he stands when Bucky begins unloading their supplies. It clicks, maybe before it should, that they aren't returning here, so he nods and heads into the bathroom with the bag. The cuffs he'll leave for last, he knows he'll leave this place wearing him. Anyone else, he would't give them the satisfaction, or the edge. Bucky-- he'd go to his knees for that man.

He strips, methodical. The dressings he carefully peels away from skin that's healed over and tender, and he folds them up and puts them in a trashcan before he steps into the shower. His skin feels grimy, several days of bedrest with no soap on hand will do that to a guy. It's nothing like what he endured near Bastogne, but one does get used to creature comforts, and their revocation always stings.

(He thinks about beds that are too soft, and clothes that fit too well, and frowns as he scrubs soap through his hair)

He shaves quickly, leaves the razor on the edge of the sink when he's done and gets dressed awkwardly, re-dressing his wounds in case they have to do anything strenuous, and then he hitches the pack over his shoulder, comes back out into the main room to retrieve his shield, which he fits awkwardly in against everything else. It isn't until he's zipped it up, and tied his boots that he turns his attention to the cuffs. And then, in Bucky's full view, he slides them onto his wrists. First one, then the other. "Electrified or explosive?" he asks, although he finds he doesn't care for the answer either way. Bucky won't use them. He'd take it on faith.

He doesn't respond to the question, although he gives Steve a knowing little look, glancing up from under his lashes, that ought to be answer enough. Both, and magnetized, and outfitted with trackers. They click shut smoothly as soon as Steve gets them on, tightening enough that they won't be slipping off easily.

With his hood flipped up the Winter Soldier looks a little bit more like a civilian, although not particularly ordinary for the blank smoothness of his expression and the dark circles under his eyes and the way his gaze doesn't ever stop scanning. He ushers Steve out in front of him with a hand firmly at the small of his back and once they're out in the open air, flips open a smartphone to scan for, well, who knows. But he scans for something and then pockets the phone with an air of satisfaction, and presses a small wooden carving on the edge of the door frame as they head out to the street.

There's a muffled WHUMP from the basement, and soon enough smoke starts to seep up from the cracks in the walls and broken windows. The building itself is surrounded by empty lots and other deserted wrecks, so there's not much chance of the fire spreading to a populated area. Just another accident started by junkies or hobos, by the time the fire department shows up.

It's. Maybe not the most tactical action to take at this point, but it is a Statement in some direction.

Steve is silent, watching the smoke. It means more than just this, a smouldering building, a ruin. It's a letter, signed and sealed, from Bucky to Hydra. He can pass his hand over it, touch the sloping letters, but he doesn't yet know enough of this strange new language to decipher the sentiment.

He hopes he can guess at the meaning. And he hopes he's right, but he says nothing, merely adjusts his glasses and pulls his ballcap down. Walk, not run. Natasha told him that one, maybe it's a lesson Bucky hasn't learned yet.

"They'll be here in a matter of minutes," he says quietly. It was nine the last time. For their prodigal son? Less.

Yes, they will.

It's as audible as if he'd said it aloud, and he glances down at the black utilitarian watch on his wrist, watching the seconds run. But he ducks casually beneath a broken board in the nearest fence with the lifelong grace of a street punk who had grown up in the dingy back alleys of Brooklyn, the kind who looked at a narrow street clogged with trash and chain fences and broken bricks and saw an easy clear path.

How long has he followed Bucky? They lead each other, most of the time. Bucky dragged him out for a night on the town, Steve was the one who got them into fights (at least some of the time) and wherever they walked, it was shoulder to shoulder. Even in the war.

He grips the straps of his bag and follows, holding his breath. Something falls away from Bucky's posture, and Steve watches it happen. The utility of the soldier is replaced by the deftly adroit posture of the child he used to be, and for a moment he can't breathe with the weight and the pain of all their memories. It's bad enough he slips a hand beneath his shirt to check on the dressings, just in case he's twisted the wrong way and split open the healing skin.

No such luck. This feeling, for whatever it's worth, is all mental.

But he jogs a few steps to catch up with Bucky regardless, ducking his head low, hiking the pack higher on his shoulders. Old times.

The Winter Soldier doesn't glance back, apparently trusting Steve to keep up with him as he easily (eagerly, alert and focused without the flat utility of his kill missions) scales the debris of what had once been a warehouse. He compensates easily for the pack as if used to dealing with extra weight, and maybe isn't quite as light on his feet as Steve might remember from their childhood. Structures that seem incapable of supporting his weight are avoided instead of risked, even ones that hold up to Steve's not inconsiderable mass, like he's already spent enough time falling through floors, and he thoughtlessly stabilizes himself with the fingers of metal arm jammed directly into brick walls to create a hold when he needs it.

The route takes them quickly away from the safehouse and across the entire block, and when the distant squeal of tires and the sound of sirens reach them on the wind he glances down automatically to check the response time.

Nineteen minutes.

There are emergency vehicles on the streets when they finally hit a slightly more civilized end of the neighborhood and come to the end of an alley, and he automatically goes down on one knee with one fist raised to halt Steve behind him, staying in the shadows. He eyes the nearest cop car and the uniformed men standing around it with a calculating sort of look.

There's another way out of the alley, up the fire escape if one of them could pull it down (and they could, with two people, wouldn't be the first time Bucky had catapulted Steve's ninety-five pound ass up over a chainlink fence or the first time Captain America launched Sergeant Barnes across a fuckton of barbed wire), but the Winter Soldier only glances briefly at the fire escape before returning to the cops, free hand edging towards one of his knives.