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. ]

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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.

Steve reaches out to stop him, fingers curling against his wrist as he skirts in front of Bucky as if to shield the officers. "Hey. They aren't our enemies. They're just people doing a job. We have another way, Bucky."

Something that might be the ghost of irritation flits over his face when Steve gets in his way, but he doesn't bother getting into an argument ten feet away from armed opposition. He glances up at the fire escape again and rises smoothly, forgetting for a moment to jerk his arm away, busy calculating logistics.

Steve holds onto him a moment longer, mostly because Bucky hasn't shaken him off yet, but he does let go when it becomes clear what he's planning. It's doubtful that Bucky would leave him here on the ground, within shouting distance of a civilian police force, so...

"Here," he says quietly, gesturing upwards. "Boost me up. I'll lower the ladder."

And this is again the part where a normal human being would narrow his eyes and go 'how am I supposed to trust your word.' The Winter Soldier does the first and skips the second and then dismisses the concern. Any option aside from cooperation, which means Steve not using this opportunity to escape, involves a bodycount, and he's gotten enough of Captain America's measure to know the lengths he'll go to in order to avoid that.

He moves into position beneath the fire escape but doesn't ready himself at all, no helpful stirrup or bent knees for Steve to use as a platform. The fingers of his left arm flex once though, the serpentine rippling of the metal plates visible briefly under his sleeve.

Steve cocks his head, and then as if he's throwing caution to the winds (he is, a little) he just takes a few steps and a running leap in Bucky's general direction, expecting their natural synergy to take over, and for Bucky to boost him upwards.

Bucky would have cupped his hands for Steve, the way they'd done as kids. Sgt. Barnes would have-- not done this at all, probably, having a brain, and would've insisted on the being the one boosted.

The Winter Soldier waits until Steve is close enough, and instead of boosting him like an ordinary human being grabs ahold of his belt (thankfully HYDRA issue) with the metal hand and tosses him upwards like a sack of potatoes. Like Steve barely weighs anything at all aside from being an unwieldy mass.

It doesn't elicit a startled noise - maybe someone else it would have - but Steve is too well used to adapting on the fly, and he just lands only a little inelegantly on the catwalk, crouched down to minimize the amount of noise.

He. Is going to have to teach Bucky a thing or two. But it's still progress, and he stands, straightens his shoulders and lowers the lever on the fire escape, easing it down with his bare hands rather than letting it fall.

And up over the rooftops they go. Fortune is in their favor, the day is coming on a little overcast and drizzly and no one is looking upwards to get a face full of rain.

But rooftop jumping is still conspicuous in its own right, so after a few buildings they find one with the stairwell door that isn't locked and go down to street level like normal people to try and blend into the crowd. Or maybe 'blend' is the wrong word. Despite the way he hunches his shoulders to seem smaller and to avoid ramming the metal one into anyone that might kick up a fuss, the Winter Soldier has a thousand yard stare and a smooth menace to his movement that makes people part around him like a shark cutting through a school of fish. People look at him and then very quickly look away, clutching their purses or their briefcases a little tighter, and he doesn't look at anything at all.

And if there's surveillance on these streets, people (correction: Hydra. Or SHIELD) will be looking for anything that stands out. Steve steps up next to him - on his left - and bumps his shoulder gently. "Relax," he says, an undertone not meant for the hearing of a normal person. But he knows Bucky will hear it. It's an odd feeling, to no longer be one of a kind. Odd, but welcome.

"Just walk like me, okay?"

He glances at Rogers out of the corner of his eye, maybe a little startled although it's hard to tell from the blank expression on his face. The question 'what does that even mean' doesn't need to even be said aloud.