#late.fic

The Soldier should be gone, but Bucky can’t move a muscle. He stares at Zemo in horror, unable to do anything more.

“You’re probably wondering how in did this,” Zemo says, drifting slowly over. “But it wasn’t very hard. You’ve made such an effort to not be the Winter Soldier that it was easy to slip the drugs into your food and drink.

“The Red Room used to use something similar on their girls, not strong enough to have any effect on a super soldier’s metabolism, of course. But Nagel, he could make the serum. Provided with a sample and the right incentive it was easy for him to engineer something that would work, even on you.”

Zemo comes closer, hand running across Bucky’s shoulders before touching his chin, running a predatory finger across; a reminder of his movements back in Madripoor.

“You’re worth an awful lot,” he whispers. “Следовать.”

Bucky’s powerless to do anything but follow, trapped in the prison of his own body, as Zemo strides out of the apartment, down in the lift to a car below. Zemo sits him in the passenger seat, where he could easily lean across and grab the steering wheel, or attack Zemo. But he can’t move, so he just has to sit and watch.

A hair falls in front of his face, brushing against his nose. It tickles. He can’t even move it aside.

It’s worse than before as the Winter Soldier, because that wiped his mind. Here, he’s still in there, unable to move or fight back.

Who knows what Zemo’s going to do to him. Send him out to assassinate people? Just keep him around the house, as some sort of plaything, to show his power over and vent his frustrations?

After a while, Zemo orders him to close his eyes. They drive for seeming hours, until the car stops and a firm hand guides him out of the car, over uneven ground, and into a cold room. It’s not as cold as a cryofreeze tank, though, which is almost reassuring.

He’s left alone, until Zemo’s voice comes through a set of speakers.

“Солдат, открой глаза.”

Bucky obediently opens his eyes. It’s not quite a room, he’s in. There’s not even enough room to lie down properly. There’s a folded set of clothes in one corner that looks painfully familiar, a black mask and goggles resting on top.

“Одеться.”

Bucky’s always hated the Winter Soldier uniform. It’s effective at protecting him, he’ll give it that. And it fits him perfectly. But it’s hard and constricting, and difficult to change into.

Bucky winces internally as he puts on the mask. The last time he wore it, he tried to kill Nat and Sam and Steve. The goggles go on last, and then he stands at attention, waiting for the next order.

Zemo leaves him there for hours.

It would be boring, except all he can think of is the endless possibilities of what Zemo could be planning for him. His own personal puppet.

There’s a creaking noise outside, and then the room shudders into motion. Except it’s not a room, it’s a storage container. HYDRA used to transport him in these all the time.

And knowing Zemo, the plane will be untraceable. No one will be able to save him. No one will put a bullet in his head.

His stomach gurgles. It’s a reminder that he hasn’t eaten or drunk in hours, and hasn’t slept in even longer. Two days? Three? Every night, he sees himself kill someone different.

But the Winter Soldier was trained to last through this. So he stands there for hours, unmoving, helpless, as the plane takes him away.

The container door opens. Zemo stands there, flanked by two armed guards. He smiles.

“See? I told you. Completely under my control. Идем, солдат.”

Zemo takes him through a maze of corridors into a small cell, where a young man injects him with what’s probably some kind of nutrient supplement. It’s not enough to survive on, but it won’t kill him yet.

“Спать,” Zemo orders, leaving the room.

Bucky collapses to the floor, unconscious before he hits.

Bucky’s awoken by the young man kicking him in the ribs. He then proceeds to give several more injections (why they won’t let him take the mask off and eat and drink normally, Bucky has no clue).

And then Zemo comes in, and forces him out into a large hall.

There’s a party going on, of all things. It’s eerily similar to the one they attended in Madripoor.

Zemo guides him into one corner, where there’s a crowd of people huddled around a pit, shouting loudly.

Zemo pushes him in, and he lands easily on his feet. There’s six black-clothed men standing across from him.

“Спать,” Zemo orders, and what choice does he have but to comply?

His body moves fast; the men have quick death. Two broken necks, three broken spines, one smashed-in skull.

Zemo sends more men after him, and it’s worse than last time he had to fight, so much worse. At least he was in control then, and he could have pulled out at any moment (even if doing that would get them killed). And he wasn’t killing people. Now there’s a steadily growing pile of corpses in the pit. His hands – flesh and metal – are smeared with blood. There’s a bit of brain on his boot.

Zemo tosses a gun down to him. He kills the next lot of people with headshots before they even get to the bottom of the pit.

It continues like that for seeming forever. A new weapon is tossed down, and he demonstrates.

Just when he thought he was free from killing, he’s turned back into this machine of death.

Eventually it stops – maybe there’s no one else willing to die – and Zemo orders him to climb out. There’s not a scratch on him.

Zemo takes him into a bathroom. Not to wipe away the blood, but to remove the goggles and paint on black eye-paint.

“I’m rather enjoying this,” Zemo says. The brush tickles, but there’s nothing Bucky can do. “You’ll set me up nicely. I managed to keep a lot of my assets, of course, but you’d be surprised how much people will pay for their own personal assassin. The perfect weapon, with no free will.”

Zemo puts the brush down on the vanity, rising up onto his toes to blow onto the paint.

“I’ll retrieve you later, of course, in case I need someone killed,” he continues casually.

HYDRA used to lend him out occasionally to other organisations, or particularly generous sponsors, but they didn’t bring him to the sale. Just transported him there and back.

Bucky’s apparently not the only thing on sale tonight. The auctioneer runs through several weapons before Bucky’s brought up, apparently as the main item.

“The Winter Soldier,” the auctioneer announces. He doesn’t even get to read out the details like he did with the others before people are shouting figures at him.

It just keeps going up and up. Apparently people are willing to pay a lot of money to own him. They’re naming frankly ludicrous amounts, ones even Tony Stark would hesitate before paying, if he were still alive.

Until a hooded man at the back names a figure three times the previous.

There’s a moment of silence, but no one seems to be willing to top that.

“Sold!” the auctioneer announces, and then Zemo drags him off to the side. He watches Zemo talk to the man – his new owner, now, he supposes – and the money exchanged. Zemo hands over a book – black covered with a red star – and then his owner – the man – comes over to Bucky.

“Следуй за мной, солдат,” the man orders, the Russian sliding easily off his tongue. He’s more familiar with it than Zemo.

The man has a dark purple van outside, but instead of being stuffed in the back, Bucky gets to sit in the passenger seat again.

It’s a tense ride; he keeps expecting the man to do something to him, but they just sit in silence until they end up at what’s probably a safehouse.

Bucky stands at attention in the kitchen while the man makes several trips carrying the bags in. He hasn’t been ordered to help, so he can’t.

When he’s finished, the man stops in front of him, and Bucky prepares himself for a blow.

“Okay,” the man says. “I’m guessing you’re still in there, based on the way Zemo was talking to you in the bathroom.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “You might remember me from the airport. I’m Clint Barton.”

The man pulls back his hood to reveal a familiar face – it is indeed Clint Barton. An Avenger. He should be alright, then.

“I don’t know how to fix you,” Barton continues. “Sorry. But um, I have a cure for the normal thing. And we’ll stay here until I’ve sorted it out, if that’s okay with you.”

He looks to Bucky like he’s expecting an answer. Bucky keeps staring at him.

Barton opens the book and runs down the list of words with a finger. “That’s good,” he comments, and if Bucky could move, he’d raise a sarcastic eyebrow. “It’s just plain Russian. I can work with that.”

Maybe it’s worse than Bucky thought. If Barton can speak fluent Russian, there’s nothing stopping him from ordering Bucky to do anything he wants.

Who’s to say he doesn’t hold a grudge from Germany?

“Okay, so, let’s start with the basics,” Barton says. “У вас есть свободная воля, чтобы делать все, что вы хотите.”

“You hungry?” he asks, and Bucky nods. Barton pulls a frozen pizza out of the freezer and sticks it in the oven. “I only caught wind of your sale yesterday,” he says, then winces. “Sorry. I’m just not prepared, is all.”

The programming’s looser, almost, allowing him a little leeway. He can speak almost freely, move of his own accord, although anything Barton says to him will overrule all else.

Barton slumps down on the lounge, gesturing for Bucky to come sit.

“Sir,” Bucky says, because while he’s almost got control, the Winter Soldier programming still has the real control. “Zemo’s going to try and retrieve me again, sir.”

Barton sighs. “That’s annoying of him.” He opens a black duffle bag, and pulls out a dark leather case. Inside, there’s a dozen thin silver tubes.

Barton pulls the end off one, revealing the bright red liquid inside, and a sharp needle on the end.

“I’m not a scientist,” Barton warns, “So if I fuck something up, I promise to take you to Shuri so she can fix you up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bucky’s hated needles ever since HYDRA, so he looks away as Barton injects him in the elbow with dose after dose.

“Anything?” Barton asks, packing the tubes away.

“No, sir.”

“Вставай,” Barton says, still hopeful, but Bucky obediently stands. “Aww, mind control, no,” Barton moans. “Don’t do this. Okay. Last resort. Не двигаться.”

Barton moves behind him, opening a bag.

There’s a sharp, sudden pain to Bucky’s head, and he crumples to the floor.

Bucky wakes up magcuffed to a metal bar on the floor.

“Seriously?” he complains, tugging at it. It’s only then he realises – he can move freely. And the Winter Soldier would never talk like that.

“I didn’t know what the effects of cognitive recalibration would be,” Barton says, leaning down and unlocking the cuffs.

“Cognitive recalibration?”

“I hit you really hard on the head,” Barton explains, like Bucky hadn’t worked that out. “If it worked for an Infinity Stone, I figured it might work for you. And I think the antidote weakened it.”

“You were brainwashed too,” Bucky states. He thinks Steve mentioned it at one point.

Barton nods grimly. “It sucks.”

“Yep.”

Barton extends an arm, and Bucky grabs it, letting Barton haul him to his feet. “Ready to go on the run from a terrifyingly powerful Sokovian baron?”

“Can’t think of anything better,” Bucky says. “I’m kind of a pro at hiding from powerful people.”

The supersoldier advances on him, ready to finish him off, and Bucky can’t have that. He can hear in his comm that they’re bringing in a helicopter, so he barrels into the supersoldier, sending him flying several metres.

“Get out of my way,” he snarls, launching himself at Bucky. Bucky grabs his arm, twisting it until it pops. It’s all good to have the serum, but you need training to make it be of any use (Steve!). What was this kid’s name again? Larry? Harry? Farry?

Flynn. That’s it.

Flynn manages to pull out of his grip, stumbling back in attempt to regain some balance. He looks like he’s about to cry. Over a dislocated shoulder. There’s no way Bucky’s letting this guy be the one that offs Captain America (or any guy, but this one particularly).

Flynn lunges at Bucky’s midsection; Bucky grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him away.

“Give up, kid,” he says. “It’s easier.”

“Fuck you,” Flynn growls, running at him again.

Bucky flips him over his shoulder.

Flynn ends up unconscious, which means Bucky can turn to Sam.

…Who is no longer lying on the ground, but up and fighting, blood all over him, like the selfless idiot he is.

The helicopter lands and Bucky hustles him away, as fast as he can with Sam injured and under attack from two more supersoldiers (maybe these ones are Larry and Harry? Or is it Marie? They all look the same), which, unsurprisingly, is quite slow.

The great thing about having backup is that Bucky can go in the helicopter with Sam, even if they won’t let him in the operating theatre, and he’s forced to pace up and down the waiting room while nurses send worried looks at him.

One of them asked for his autograph. Him. He probably has one of the highest kill-counts in the world. Especially if you count only killers who killed with their own two (one?) hands.

The nurses let him in to see Sam eventually. He’s asleep, which Bucky’s informed is a good thing.

So he sits and stares at Sam, like he can will him to get better with the power of his magical eyeballs.

~

“No,” Sam whispers, so quietly only Bucky’s supersoldier hearing could pick it up. “No no, Riley.”

He’s having a nightmare.

“Sam,” Bucky says. You’re not supposed to touch people having nightmares, are you? “Sam, wake up.”

“Riley,” Sam mumbles. “I’ll catch you, I promise.”

There’s a glass of water on the bedside table. Bucky dumps it on Sam’s head.

Sam wakes up, spluttering.

“Riley!” he exclaims. He’s looking at Bucky.

The nurses had mentioned he was on a lot of medication.

“Bucky,” Bucky corrects.

Sam giggles and looks at something behind Bucky that isn’t there. “I can see it, Riley, you don’t have to hide it.”

“I’m not Riley,” Bucky says gently.

Sam’s smile fades. “Not Riley?” He stares at Bucky. “You’re Bucky.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Bucky says.

“Not disappointing,” Sam says through a yawn, already going back to sleep.

~

“What was I like?” Sam asks a day or so later, when they’ve mostly weaned him off the meds. He looks embarrassed.

“No worse than usual,” Bucky jokes. He hesitates. “You did mention a Riley.”

Sam’s face shutters. “He was my wingman.”

Was. “Ah.”

“He fell,” Sam says, looking intently at the door. “It was an RPG. I couldn’t save him.”

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky says. “He knew what he signed up for. He knew the risks. And you weren’t the one that fired the RPG.”

“I was a pararescue,” Sam says. “My literal job was to rescue people, and I couldn’t even save Riley. How can I be Captain America if I can’t save my best friend?”

“Steve was,” Bucky says quietly. “But you can’t keep comparing yourself to him. You’re better than he could ever be.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would.”

Sam doesn’t have an answer for that.

“I never blamed Steve for not catching me,” Bucky says. “I know it’s me, and the situation’s different, but I don’t think Riley would blame you, either.”

“I suppose you’d know best,” Sam says bitterly.

“You kept fighting,” Bucky says. “You kept saving people. You saved what, fifty, sixty, people today. Seems you’re doing a pretty good job to me.”

Sam smiles. “Thanks, Bucky. Turns out you can be useful occasionally.”