the soldier. (![]() ![]() @ 2014-07-06 15:50:00 |
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At first glance, there was no real rhyme or reason to the murders. Homicide was an everyday occurrence, a remarkably human phenomenon that those who were called in to clean up the mess were blase about more often than not: a banker whose brains had spattered the shattered glass of his BMW; an executive of a munitions company, throat crushed; the federal prison’s second-hand man, shot through the heart on his way home from work. Deaths of those of middling importance: enough to raise a brow, draw a question, but ultimately lost amidst the countless crimes committed on a daily basis.
The rhyme was in the selection of targets (HYDRA associates, and whether they were fully aware of the place they occupied in the scheme of things was irrelevant); the reason that of an attack dog that had turned against its master. And as HYDRA had many heads, the Soldier would work his way up to that central pulsing artery by stepping on all the collaterals he could find. And these low-level players were easy enough to locate, the patterns eventually obvious within the data-dump of SHIELD and what he could remember of names, places, faces. That he was being hunted (doubly: HYDRA, him) was obvious too, and while HYDRA had always provided the cloaking mechanism that kept the Winter Soldier shrouded from common knowledge, no doubt the very organisation he seethed against covered for him now as he, their priceless investment that could always be reset, picked out their lackeys. He was still careful, though. Cameras, avoided. Any sort of telecommunication, given a wide berth. The Soldier emptied the wallets of those he killed, leaving the plastic and taking the cash -- not because he needed to, but only because it was the logical thing to do. Buying a sandwich at the gas station garnered less attention than breaking into it to simply take what he needed to sate the very human hunger that occasionally drew his attention.
A 24-hour diner in the middle of the night provided the sort of anonymity he required -- doubly lucky that it was perched by a highway just a few miles off a HYDRA-operated warehouse he had been scouting for a few days now.
-- it was likewise lucky that Sharon Carter’s intel had been so thoroughly ironclad that Steve’s trek to confront his old friend had become now more of an eventuality than the wisp of a chance he’d known he had in the beginning. All the pieces were coming together -- from the Soldier’s habits, to his marks -- and it happened that the roar of Steve’s bike was drowned out by a passing 18-wheeler.
Steamed windows and all-nighters huddled from the rain were given a cursory glance until the all too familiar profile of his one-time best friend was caught in his periphery. Steve remembered the comfort of knowing even far afield that same countenance could sometimes be seen, and was always watching out for him. Now, the tables were upended and it was he who had to give chase and watch from not a scope but from the tracks he left behind.
Now, then. He sat, both hands flat upon the table top.
“You’re a hard man to catch.”
The disinterest with which the Soldier eyed what was on offer (preference didn’t factor into anything; sustenance was sustenance, something to fuel the cells, and a stale pie or sandwich would do the job until he could get his hands on something more calorific) became something else entirely as the nearby voice registered with a grating click of recognition. Irritation -- yes, that was it, the annoyance of realising that you were about to go off book because of an unplanned for factor.
Attention would only hinder him, and if Steve Rogers had found him, he’d already garnered too much of it. Food could be found elsewhere. The Soldier turned and walked out, back into the midnight murk.
“ … look,” he followed, lurching from the table to match the Winter Soldier stride for stride as the vehemently humid night enveloped them. “Stop and talk to me.” He took a breath.
Please? “I need to thank you.”
Words accompanied movement (they hadn’t before, there was only ever the need for execution of intent) -- “You’re in my way,” which came with a sweep of his arm, as if to push Steve away.
“Was that how it was, fishing me out of the river?” he asked, sidestepping the curb to edge the Soldier and pull him up with a preponderance of bulk. But there was no darkening of his brow, only a still-beating desperation that fluttered in the shallow breadth of his chest. “Just in your way.”
He paused. “I know what you’re doing. And I can help.”
A solitary movement freed him from Steve's grip, a simple jerk of his non-metallic arm, the jacket he'd stolen from a mark slippery with the rain and easing the friction. "You're in my way," he repeated. Why didn't this Steve Rogers understand this? That he was an obstacle in his path? That he'd broken programming by failing to complete his mission in pulling him from the water?
Another warning -- "Move away."
“I know,” he said again, though he offered half a step of space to the Soldier and raised his hands, palms out. No time to stop and think. Sorry, Sam. Sorry, 13. “Yes, I am.” The rain - infuriatingly - kept him blinking, so that it was halfway to impossible to keep a steady gaze on Bucky.
“You saved me. You’ve saved me a lot.”
A different sort of spacial awareness -- one where, unlike Steve in this moment, the Soldier wanted to keep his target at a lateral angle rather than in the dead-centre of his sight -- meant he found the rain less obstructive. While his style of attack had always been brutally direct, it worked best when it came from the shadows; the rain, here, was welcome in a sense. It blurred things. It blurred him, when Steve Rogers so desperately wanted to bring him into focus.
“I saved you once. He saved you a lot.” An important distinction.
“ -- do you remember him?” Steve couldn’t keep the miniscule crack out of his voice as he pitched forward, reclaiming the space he had ceded to the Soldier. “Really. Do you remember …?” Because those two sentences -- 9 words, only in the space of half a breath -- put him square on the edge of a precipice.
And he felt himself dangle upon its edge, just as Bucky had once dangled.
“Why’d you do it?”
Because he’d been the asset and this man (his mark) had given him a name. And it shouldn’t have mattered to a thing that understood only single directives… but in that shuddering moment after the violence, the Soldier had been named and it had been so perplexing to watch the emotion (not fear, nor acceptance of it being the end) play out across Rogers’ face. He hadn’t understood. He still didn’t.
“Where’s your bike?”
Steve could read the answer -- he knew it existed behind the pitiless stare the Soldier afforded him -- even if he didn’t possess the words. He knew it existed, he told himself that it would come eventually. If he kept on trying.
A motion toward the edge of the parking lot with his chin. “At the end.”
Without a further word, he moved around Steve, striding with even steps to the indicated bike. A beat -- then his hand curled into a fist and was thrust into the engine, metal shrieking as it met metal. Then, without pause, he moved to the bike beside Steve's, disabling it with an identical strike.
The message was clear: stay away.
Whatever. Until the end of the line. Steve gave him a smirk -- and if there was an air of muted bullishness about it, so be it.
“I’d have given you the keys.”
A single sideward glance -- that wasn't the point -- as he moved forward, approaching the nearest vehicle. "You can't help, Steve Rogers. Stay out of my way." This was something he needed to do by himself -- if there was something to reclaim (and he wasn't sure yet that there was, wasn't sure if he wanted more than the faded images of this man's face, his smile, the bright blue and red of his suit in sharp contrast to the snow of Austria--) he would do it alone.
I left you to the snow, once. Why would I leave you again? But here Steve’s face hardened,
arms loose as he shook his head slowly. Let the Soldier’s ire wash over him; it took the length of their years for water to break rock. And he didn’t feel altogether unmade just yet.
Steve’s smirk softened to a crooked smile. “No.”
Turning his back on him was akin to a shrug; the Soldier ripped the handle off the car's front door. Rogers' appearance meant that the HYDRA target was now no longer on the books, for Steve was a far more conspicuous figure and not even the Winter Soldier was oblivious to the ongoing manhunt for all people whose past was coloured by SHIELD. The warehouse -- and the weapons it held -- would have to wait.
Irritating.
And yet... "Why?"
“They’re hunting you. “ That response seemed simple enough. For any thoughts regarding his own bullish inability to allow the Soldier to be altogether cloaked, he pressed his lips into a faint line. “And I meant what I said --” the end of the line. And the closer HYDRA got to either of them, the closer they made it to the end of the line.
And in spite of any stupid train imagery that pervaded their life (Steve had thought about it often, had sketched it out on the back of napkins and re-mapped it in his mind so that every time he saw this face he would not die inside), he meant it.
“You remember?”
"They're hunting me," he repeated, the recognition of this undeniable truth evident in the flatness of his tone. "I'm overdue the wipe and a new protocol. But I need time..." Time to decide if he wanted to remember, to be more than just -- asset. To be whatever Steve wanted him to be again. Whoever Bucky was.
"You're drawing attention to me."
“I’m not drawing any more attention than those kills you’re making,” he said flatly and side-stepped the Soldier to reach into the dash and unlock the other door. “And what’s more, once they catch up, I can be there to help you get out.”
He ripped out the box which hid the wires beneath the steering column and pulled out two which he used to spark the engine to life.
“Let me help you get the time you need. If you come talk to me once you decide, I’ll keep back. But I’m not going to stay all the way back.”
Still in that monotone of a voice -- “Stay the hell away,” as he leveled his metal hand across Steve’s shoulders, the digits clamping down on the rope of muscle beneath. Help was not something he was familiar with; there had been HYDRA footsoldiers for support, yes, but they were there to follow tactical orders, then bring him back in. Help wasn’t something he recognised as necessary. “I don’t need you.”
“You don’t --” that metal fist wrung into the back of his neck bearing down on the sinew beneath and despite the pain that bloomed in white lights across the backs of his eyes, he pushed into the Winter Soldier and disengaged with a well placed elbow into the rib cage.
“You don’t yet.” Already breathless. Damn that arm. “But you will.” Something (or someone) small within him curled a fist around his windpipe and he could see it. He could see suspender straps in Bucky’s hand and his own voice echoing off the alley walls.
“I did. I needed you. I still do.”
“Your fault,” was tersely accusative, the catch in his voice the brief betrayal of physical discomfort of enough degree to break across deadened nerves. They were well matched -- perfectly matched, even, what he’d read and what he’d been briefed on about this man compared to what he understood to be his own capabilities (enhanced to serve, to execute functions, to deliver) leaving little doubt that Steve could give as good as he got from him. An exponentially more difficult target to take out.
(But Bucky didn’t want to take him out. Steve wasn’t Bucky’s target.)
“You need Bucky.” It was important to emphasise these distinctions, otherwise he’d lose sight of them. “I’m not him. Move.”
“Those helicarriers came down, but you’re the one who chose to go on the road. It’s your fault too, and if we share it --” but Steve heard the desperation in his delivery, felt his core shake with it. And before he could speak again, he stepped aside to allow Bucky into the vehicle.
You are Bucky. But more importantly, he’s you. And Steve didn’t know if he’d ever get his friend back in the way he used to be (none of them were the same, though) but it didn’t matter. He’d take his brother in whatever iteration presented itself. “I want to know you. I need to.”
It should have been readily apparent that the Soldier was not used to thinking of himself as a named creature possessing of personhood (was not even used to thinking of himself at all) -- he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, nor Bucky Barnes. He was the asset. A brutally sharp tool. The concept of knowing, of being known in the way Steve meant, was alien to him.
Even more disturbing was the reaction he sustained after hearing those words, a combination of simple curiosity and longing -- why is he looking at me like that? why does he want to know? why? why why why The Soldier felt himself swallow, throat dry, even as he dropped himself neatly into the driver’s seat.
Mechanically, eyes sliding away as if to take full measure of the road ahead -- “My work shaped the century.”
“It did. And it is.” Steve paused, leveling his gaze at the Soldier. Visibly wounded and vulnerable, the depth of his gaze spoke of the leagues between them. Between what it meant to be a blunt instrument of a shadowy organization and what it meant to be just a man, with the only string uncut the depth of love and affection that existed once upon a time in a place not so far away.
“But now you call the shots, Buck.”
Steve’s words were chased by the rumbling of the motor and the sudden glare from the headlights, the Captain’s shadow cast momentary and dark over the wet gravel. He wasn’t so sure if he did call the shots, for there was always the grip HYDRA had in his mind, the starkness of the mission all but imprinted into the back of his eyes, his skull, in his mouth (kill Steve Rogers), held back only by the streak of recognition he’d had and the fact that once, a man named Bucky Barnes existed and had been loved by the Soldier’s target. The only reason (the only reason he recognised) he kept calling the shots was because he wasn’t sure if he was ready to go back to the chair yet.
Steve would get one final warning before his foot hit the pedal.
“Move.”
“You --” No. Steve stood, knowing that drawing out the Soldier’s ire would only provide him with more pain to withstand. And knowing that - knowing that this pain would translate to something visceral within that familiar form, something that could not be shaken by a thousand HYDRA agents - he held his ground.
“ -- you aren’t getting rid of me that easy. I’m coming too.”
Move.
There was a flicker of emotion in the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Rogers was calling his bluff (but it was never a bluff; the Soldier never exacted ifs or buts, only certainties) -- and he, frustrated in his plans, would answer in the only way he thought he knew how.
His foot hit the acceleration, heavy. Leaden.
It was odd, watching all the familiar tells flicker across this face. He knew, as soon as he called his bluff, that the Soldier would answer. And he knew he could leap out of the way of the vehicle. But what he needed -- and what that single flicker of emotion did to him, that simple twitch -- was to stand his ground and be mown down.
The frame of the vehicle wanted to crumple round him. It wanted to buckle and confirm to his shoulders as his knees swept out from beneath him. But he was propelled backward against the brick wall. And there, stunned (and not stunned, not stunned but stupid), he sat.
And as the Winter Soldier - or Bucky, or who the fuck knew - drove out of sight, he pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket and hit the green button.
“Sharon.”***
It had taken the better part of three hours, but the phone call -- the voice on the other end -- was all she’d needed to roll out of bed and hit the road, pedal to the metal style. That, and a can of Red Bull, which she consumed as the city lights melted into the hard line of the highway illuminated in the darkness. She drove on.
Steve Rogers had done exactly what she feared he would. Running after the killer who wore his best friend’s face, alone and unarmed and not prepared. She hadn’t even known how close Steve had gotten to the Winter Soldier until his shaking voice pulled her from the grips of sleep. Stay where you are, I’m coming to you -- and off she went, getting a read of his location via GPS as she dumped herself, all sleepy limbs and an oversized hoodie, into the car.
And then, jumping out of it once she pulled hurriedly into the ramshackle parking lot, the last hours of darkness beginning to give way to the first hints of dawn.
“What did you do?”
Staying in that exact spot -- with its crumbling brick, dented in the perfect silhouette of his shoulders -- invited trouble. Trouble that both he and Bucky wanted to avoid until the ground was even, so he moved aside and drifted into a straggling copse of woods beyond the diner. The concussion of the vehicle hadn’t been as painful as the Winter Soldier himself. But -- but --
By the time Sharon arrived, he walked out and gave a low whistle to get her attention.
“What’s it look like?” There had been enough time to reclaim some ramshackle vestige of everything the Soldier stole during their encounters. He stood by the wreckage of his bike, shrugged, offered a half smile. “I found him.”
"You sure did." Smileless and openly concerned, Sharon spared a moment to look over the damage -- the wall, the tire treads and the ditches left by limbs thrown through the dirt, the line of wrecked bikes -- before focusing on Steve. He looked... worse for wear, and not because of the scrapes he'd sustained
"Let me guess." Rather than continue to stare openly, she turned back to Steve's bike, letting out a low whistle when she grasped the full extent of the damage. "He wasn't happy to see you."
“Hell no he wasn’t happy to see me,” Steve said, and kicked the scrap of metal. It collided against the side of a trash bin before he heaved it up and into the depths with a scrape of metal and a well-timed snort of disgust.
“I wouldn’t get out of his way.”
"You haven't really paid attention to his M.O., have you?" Rather than wince at the grating sounds his little show of frustrated violence produced, Sharon straightened back up from her crouch and stepped right up to him, as if to cut through whatever warpath he was set upon treading.
No point in asking how he was. "Are you coming back with me? Can I drop you off somewhere? The nearest car rental garage, maybe?"
“I figure you let me have your car, then call Sam. He’ll come get you. That way I can keep on going, since he couldn’t be that far ahead --” Steve didn’t know how to stop, and couldn’t contend with leaving Bucky to himself, even if he required it of him. A breath to steady his reeling mind, as his hands lit upon the edge of the bin.
“Otherwise I’m on foot.”
“You figured that, huh?” In the grand scheme of things, his plan wasn’t necessarily the stupidest -- but it was pretty stupid in and of itself. Sharon drew near, pulling her hands from her pockets to place them upon the backs of Steve’s, thumbs light, if firm, over his pulse points.
“You should’ve called Sam first, sir. I’m not letting you high-tail after the Winter Soldier. He’s already ditched whatever he’s stolen, you know. You’re going to have to backtrack on this and work out where he’s going to go next. Nowhere obvious.”
She was right, of course. And though the bridling brought him a full measure of rancor, he let himself quiet for a moment beneath her touch to remember another time he took off after Bucky in a war zone. Now, it was war all the time and he couldn’t manage more than a swallow before his eyes cut to her.
“You know what he said? He’s overdue a wipe and a new protocol. What if they catch him, wipe him and send him out to kill somebody else? Better yet, what if they scrap him? All while I’m sitting on my laurels. What then?”
“They won’t. Scrap him, I mean.” Her words would not go down particularly well, but Sharon had never really shied away from delivering hard truths -- someone had to, after all. “He’s too expensive. Think about it. Wiping’s more cost effective -- anyway, he doesn’t seem like he wants to get caught. Play this out with him, Steve.”
And the expense of him curdled Steve’s blood. Often he’d wondered if such words were bandied about where he was concerned (he’d seen the notes, seen the SHIELD directives to leave him on ice and those dissenting voices).
“ -- is that what you would do, Sharon?” he asked her, eyes narrow. “Spy business aside. If the tables were turned, and he didn’t want to be found while an entire shadow organization that put us both in the ground in the first place was after him …” His hands slid from the lip of the bin to cross over his chest.
“You’d play it out.”
“I don’t know what I’d do. That’s not my friend out there.” She was careful not to slip into the mistake of mirroring the defensive posture. “But I think I wouldn’t go tearing off after him when he clearly doesn’t want it, and I wouldn’t call some person you don’t trust over your other, somewhat more trusted friends. I’m not giving you my car. Sam can come get you.”
It was stupid. He’d gambled on some latent memory, and he’d lost.
“Then go --” stepping forward, he took the phone out of his breast pocket and dropped it in her palm. “Get out of here.”
And she, in turn, balanced the rejected handpiece on the edge of the bin. “You’re going to need that, either for roadside assistance or Sam.”
After a beat -- “Come on, Rogers. He just mowed a car into you, by the looks of it. At least let me buy you a coffee.”
That rankled, harrassed and angry cant to his lips managed to dissipate ever so slightly when she correctly guessed what transpired. His shoulders loosened, pursed lips pulling to one side -- “Yeah, okay, Cambridge. I’ll do coffee.”
“Yeah you will.” Victories were to be taken when they emerged, no matter how little (and this particular victory was certainly not an insignificant one). A coffee and, hell, a generous slice of pie. Leaving the phone where it was, Sharon gestured at her jeep. “Not here. There’s an actual town some fifty miles back. We can talk, or not. You can choose to ditch me there, or not.”
But Steve swiped it off the lip of the bin, and dropped it back into his pocket. Then, he nodded. It wasn’t meek -- but accepting, perhaps. Or he’d resigned himself to it. “All right.” Besides, Sharon Carter was of interest. And if he managed to get her talking about her, maybe he’d know more.
Maybe the twinge in the back of his chest every time he saw her could be explained. Or maybe not. Either way, there was coffee. He hooked his arm around her neck, and whether it was for the breadth of non-violent human interaction he’d missed or Natasha had finally showed him what under cover meant, and started toward the jeep.
“Come on.”