You weren’t expecting him to wait outside. But there he is—leaning against the clinic wall like he has nowhere else to be, all charm and leather and too-sharp eyes. He flirts. You shut it down. Mostly. Because it’s not just banter. It’s something else. Something quieter. And for the first time in a long time… you don’t feel invisible.
📝 Author’s Note: Okay so—yes, I know the sneak peek said “Chapter 7.” 😅 But during edits, I ended up adjusting the pacing a bit. That scene now lives in Chapter 8, which will be posted sometime later today. Thank you for being patient while I wrangle these Batboys and feelings into order. 🖤
🥀Return to Story Master List🌹
Clinic Conference Room– Wayne Foundation Meeting - Jason POV
The meeting is already dragging.
Bruce is mid-presentation, discussing community outreach data and quarterly budget reviews. The usual parade of Foundation staffers fill the conference room at Gotham Behavioral Health Center—well-meaning, over-caffeinated, mildly terrified of saying the wrong thing in front of a Wayne. Thankfully the Clinicians are a bit more authentic.
Jason sits in the back, arms folded, helmet balanced on one knee. He’s not technically supposed to be here. But Bruce had insisted, something about keeping appearances and “representing the family’s investment in trauma recovery infrastructure.”
Whatever that means.
He zones out for the first half hour—until a new voice cuts through the hum of policy talk.
Low. Calm. Confident.
From the front desk.
Your voice.
You don’t raise it. You don’t need to.
You’re organizing something over the intercom, politely correcting a scheduling error, keeping a full clinic running with nothing but a stack of clipboards and a ballpoint pen you probably stole from intake.
Jason turns just enough to catch a glimpse of you through the glass doors to the conference room.
And for some reason, his breath hitches.
There’s something about you. Something he can’t quite place. Not just the voice—but the way you move, like you’re used to putting out fires without ever looking like you’re burning.
He tries to focus again. On the slides. On the meeting. But something nags at him.
He’s seen you before.
Or someone like you.
Maybe during a case. Maybe just in passing. But it itches in the back of his brain like a song he used to know the words to.
He stays quiet the rest of the meeting.
But when it ends—the foundation group exits the building and files into their executive vehicles. Jason lingers outside.
⸻
Clinic Lobby – After the Wayne Foundation Meeting - your pov
You’re in the main lobby tidying up and prepping for closing as the foundation representatives file out.
Bruce exits first—phone to his ear, already striding toward the waiting car like the world won’t wait for him.
His line of employees follows, all brisk nods and pressed suits.
But the mysterious son lingers.
Of course he does.
You watch his broad shoulders flex under his leather jacket and fight off the swoon you feel coming. “Get it together girl….” You whisper to yourself.
You step outside for some air (or at least that’s what you tell yourself), cardigan wrapped tight against the breeze, tension still sitting in your shoulders. But the second you spot him leaning against the exterior’s stone pillar—arms crossed, helmet under one arm—you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.
He’s not watching you like a man waiting for his ride.
He’s watching like he’s been waiting on you.
You tilt your head, eyes playful. “You know we close in five, right? No loitering. I might have to call security.”
Jason smirks. “Bet you say that to all the emotionally unavailable sons of billionaires.”
You laugh—quiet but real. “Only the ones who flirt like they’re twelve.”
Jason chuckles—low, amused. He pushes off the pillar and falls into step beside you as you start walking toward the corner.
“So…” he says, tone light, testing the waters. “Do you go out for coffee with your charm victims, or just verbally slap them around and leave them wanting?”
You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Is that what this is? You trying to charm me?”
“Trying?” he echoes, hand to his chest in mock offense.
You stop. Turn to face him. Your voice lowers—still playful, but honest beneath the edges.
“Look. I appreciate the effort.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, softer now. “But I’ve got a kid at home. A little girl who thinks I hung the moon. I don’t have time for mysterious guys with smirks and commitment issues.”
His expression shifts—just a little. The grin eases into something more grounded. More real.
You shrug, not unkind.
“Last time I followed a grin like yours, I got more than I bargained for. She doesn’t need that in her life.”
You start back toward the door.
He doesn’t follow. But his voice lingers.
“For what it’s worth…” he says gently, “that kid? She’s lucky to have you.”
You pause, just long enough for him to see the flicker in your eyes.
Then you glance back to the door, lips curling ever so slightly. “You’re not as smooth as you think, Todd.”
Jason laughs, hand raised in surrender. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that really hurt.”
You disappear through the door.
And behind you?
He’s still smiling.
Because some boundaries feel like rejection.
Others?
They feel like an invitation. And maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to be the right kind of guy.
⸻
Back at the Manor – Later that night - Jason POV
Bruce is in the study—jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loose in a way only billionaires and vigilantes ever manage to make look effortless.
Crime reports and patrol spreadsheets spread across the desk. Jason drops into one of the leather chairs and props his boots on the coffee table.
“So,” he says casually, “that receptionist at the Behavioral Health Center…”
Bruce doesn’t look up. “I know who you mean.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “You already know her name?”
“I know the staff,” Bruce replies evenly.
Jason leans forward. “She’s sharp. Gave me hell before I even said hello. I liked it.”
For a moment, Bruce finally looks at him—and there’s something flickering there. Not amusement. Not warning.
Something quieter. Something careful.
“She’s not someone you toy with.”
Jason blinks. Cocks his head slightly.
“Didn’t say I was going to. That mean you know her not just as Bruce but also as Bats?.”
Bruce doesn’t speak for a beat. Then, finally:
“She’s been through more than most. Works hard. Keeps her head down. We support her because she deserves it.”
“So that’s not a no?” Jason asks, tone neutral but eyes narrowing slightly. “She off-limits? ”
Bruce exhales through his nose.
“She’s not here for a game.”
Jason doesn’t smile this time.
“Neither am I.”
Another silence.
Two Waynes. One shared instinct—for damage, for danger, for people who don’t quite fit into neat little boxes.
Then Bruce gives a slight nod.
Jason stands.
⸻
Later That Night – Jason’s Room
You’re still on his mind.
He pulls a scrap of receipt paper from his jacket pocket. On the back, in his own messy handwriting:
“Senior Patient Services Rep.
Kid at home.
Don’t fuck it up.”
He stares at the words for a long time.
Then folds the paper and slides it into the drawer beside his bed.
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You ever just think about how SPN gave us shots of Dean gently taking care of Sam’s injuries time to time but like we never got to really see that for Dean, like someone gingerly cleaning his little face cuts or wiping the blood out of his hair or telling him it’s okay after a nightmare? Yeah, me neither…
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Her pulse thundered in her ears. No. Her father Marcus was a lot of things – an alcoholic, a gambler, a debtor – but he would never sell her… would he? His debts were under control, weren’t they?
She took a slow deep breath. It shuddered in her throat. “What do you want from me?” The way she whimpered made her sick to her stomach.
“To start? Compliance.” He stepped closer, his eyes lowering to her face. “You’ll live here, whether in this room or in the few parts of the estate I permit you to access. You will dress as I require. Appear where I require. Do as I require. In return, you will be comfortable – provided you behave.”
She couldn’t take it a second longer.
With a scream, Sera threw herself across the bed, the lamp slashing through the air. She needed to hurt him.
He caught her wrist mid-swing and twisted until pain lanced through her. She let out a shrill cry. Her fingers loosened, the lamp falling uselessly to the ground. She thrashed against him. He stared down at her, utterly unbothered, his body unmoving against hers.
“Are we quite done?”
She spat in his face.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t wipe off the spit. Simply watched her. “Three days with no contact. That’s what you just earned. I hope it was worth it.”
He released her abruptly enough to knock her back onto the bed. A handkerchief appeared in his hand; he used it to wipe her saliva from his sharp cheekbone. “Food will be delivered through the slot in the door. I suggest you reconsider your approach, Seraphina. This can be comfortable or unbearable. You decide.”
He strode out the door. The door clicked shut behind him. The lock clicked louder.
Soooo... First post, seeing what the fanfic community is like here. If you like stories about Sad, Dark, and Broody guys, I'm your girl. If you want to cry with occasional sides of comfort/romance, I'm here for you... I also write under the psud RowenVelvet on AO3 and Fanfic.net.
This was my first dive into writing Bucky. It was inspired by the work Temperance and the Hanged Man by Infernalitae and that author's contemplation of what real world methods might have been used to implement the trigger words and Soldier persona. I ended up down a rabbit hole (and probably on a few watch lists) on the various experiments implemented in the CIA's MK Ultra program. Aside from the infamous LSD trials, several doctors and scientists also pursued unconventional methods of chemical and electroshock seizure treatment, subliminal audio conditioning for mind control, and attempted to induce Dissociative Identity Disorder(for the most part on unwilling and uninformed patients). all in all a very dark and shameful episode in the history of our society, and one that unfortunately fits well with the treatment of this fictional character.
That in mind, this is a work of fiction and (dark)fantasy, I am not a psychiatric professional, and this is not meant to be a holistic or accurate portrayal of these procedures and disorders, no offence is intended by inaccuracies or artistic license in the portrayal of such. It's not real.
Please enjoy the story and let me know what you think. (I know the punctuation is probably garbage, if google can't recognize it's wrong, I won't either. I've reached the Acceptance stage, and won't be worrying about it anymore, so pls ignore)
“Sargent Barnes?”
A young woman in braids paused just outside the doorway waiting for him to acknowledge her. Her posture was relaxed and she was surprisingly soft spoken.
“Just Bucky will be fine, what can I do for you?”
She nodded, smiling softly.
“This is more about what I can do for you… I'm told you have asked to be placed in stasis while we work to- disentangle you”
“That’s a kind way to put it"
“If you are willing, I would like to sit with you for a while before the procedure this afternoon… I think I may be better able to help you if I can get a understanding of your situation leading up to this point. Would that be alright?”
“Of course” he said gesturing to the chair across from him “I want to thank you again. Helping us like this when you are already dealing with such a terrible tragedy”
“There is a strange kind of peace that comes with helping someone harmed by the same evil that hurt me… my brother feels the same.”
“All the same, it means a lot… what do you need from me?”
“this may be quite difficult, but I would like to hear about your experiences after you fell from the train… your impressions, feelings, state of mind, anything at all might be relevant to designing your treatment.”
“That’s… a lot”
“You would of course be allowed to stop or take a break anytime you need”
“Its alright, I'll give it a shot. The least I can do is try”
She smiled warmly folding her hands in her lap
“From the fall…” He swallowed, then released a long breath as his brows drew together.
“Bucky stopped when I hit the ground.” He stated solemnly, staring down at the single hand that lay across his lap.
“There was so much pain… they dragged my broken body through the snow… cut off what was left of my mangled arm… and it only got worse… there were injections… they made my body convulse and filled me with mind numbing terror… and then came the chair.
That fucking chair.
Strapped down, thousands of volts arcing from electrode to electrode, searing my skin and spearing through my brain. Bone snapping muscle spasms and contractions, and all the while they kept repeating those words…I didn't even understand what they meant then… felt like it went on for hours, and honestly, without the serum, I don't think I would have lived through even half of that initial session…though wished I would die, at least then it would have stopped…
but I was never that lucky…
It was so much worse than the first time they captured me… in time I lost hope, gave up…
No one was coming to save me this time, no one even knew I was alive…
I stopped fighting… even when I knew they were going to hurt me again, I didn't fight, because I knew as bad as it would be, they could do so much worse…
I disappeared, hid myself down deep and gave them what they wanted. He could take it, the soldier did what they wanted, and they hurt us less when he did, so I let him take over, it was the only way to survive…
but I never stopped seeing it…
what we did.
It was like I was standing right behind him, like I was dragged from the darkness just to watch.
Sometimes I would try to stop it, to stop him, but it never did any good. I had become a ghost, I couldn't touch him, and most times he couldn't even hear me, certainly didn't listen to me.
Things became so strange and disjointed,
cold and then pain, those words. words that made me feel it all over again, and then horror watching him do what they crafted him to.
The world became more bizarre and unrecognizable with each passing cycle.
Every time I saw anything outside of the bunker, it was changed, even more unfamiliar.
I lost myself
Stopped believing I was real, forgot who I was or that i was at all, though I never fully disconnected.
Every time he killed, I saw it.
Every time they put us in the chair, I felt it…
In more lucid times they would tell me I was changing the world, that it was a gift to kill stranger and foe…and friend…
and then they would punish us
Because remembering wasn’t allowed
Thought was not allowed.
Only compliance.
Compliance was rewarded... but only with slightly less pain than they were capable of inflicting.
I sunk down into that empty numbness, and I let it take me into the dark…
then he said my name.
My name.
It felt like I was at the bottom of the ocean screaming.
I was real, someone knew me.
And it hurt so much because if I was real, then all of it was real.
I screamed so loud the soldier heard me.
So loud they heard me.
They punished us...
They always punished us when I remembered.
That chair, burning bone cracking agony
felt like it was never going to end.
When it finally did, I was empty, and weak and so broken I was ready to sink back into the void…
but he remembered me.
We needed to kill him, but he remembered me
he saw me.
No fear or disgust or want, just a sad acceptance.
I was real.
For the first time since I hit the ground, I was real.
Everything was pain, but there was color and texture and sound...
too much sound...
and smoke burning my nose and eyes
...and I was real.
He knew me, and I remembered him,
...and when he fell, I jumped.
I thought if I let him die, I might never be real again.
I didn’t want to go back.
I finally stopped falling, and as terrifying and strange here was, I wanted to stay in it.
I wanted to stay real,
...Even when I didn't understand what that really meant.
I knew that if they found me again they would take it.
So I fled, and I hid, and slowly I figured out how to be real again.
It's hard to think of anything Hydra did to me as a kindness, it's honestly the bare minimum,
but for seventy years I never had to consider my basic needs
I was fed, clothed, bathed, and housed without question.
Once I was out, I was quickly reminded how little was guaranteed, and how little I knew about acquiring those things.
The chaos after the carriers fell from the sky gave some grace, I was able to move through the rubble and cordoned areas relatively unnoticed, gather supplies, food that wasn't rotting, clothing that would hide me. In some places the building was stable enough that the water still worked. I could get clean, maybe get a little sleep.
I was barely more than an animal at that point, my head was so messed up, Hydra's lost pet trying to survive on my own.
Once the cleanup started, I had to move further into the fringes. Every shadow was Hydra coming to get me, and as the winter came on my paranoia only got worse.
There was a spot I found, really just a recessed doorway in an alley, decommissioned steam tunnel access, I think. The door was welded shut, so no one coming in or out, and it was a little warmer there. Hidden, dark, quiet, felt a little less like my head was turning inside out when I was there, so I stayed…
I don't know why I'm going into such detail about a doorway, I doubt it's important, you don't care about a door…”
“If it is important enough for you to recall it, Bucky, then I do care about it. Please, go on, and do not worry that a detail might be too mundane, I assure you it is not”
sighing, he nodded his understanding and after a moment's thought, continued.
“There are so many lost people in that place,
the unseen...
and I was one of them.
I was having a really bad night, memories coming hard and fast, every sound made me jump, and it was so cold. A man, one of us, came down the alley with his cart. He wasn't unfamiliar in the context, but I was still wary. I think he understood because he stopped, he watched me for a moment while I fought down the very real instinct to attack him, then took a blanket out of his cart, set it on the ground, and left the way he came.
It was the first kind thing someone had given me since the fall, and I didn't know how to process it.
Was it a trap, something meant to lure me out into an ambush, was there a tracker or poison or any number of other offenses…
it was just a blanket.
The next time I saw him, I was in a better headspace, but he still didn't try to get close. He walked down the alley until he knew I could see him, announced to no one in particular that someone had left fruit and a big box of sandwiches in the park, then left. He didn't address me directly, but I was the only one there.
He started coming around more. Never got too close, but he would bring things he thought I needed. Water bottles and granola bars, the kind of mid level kindnesses normal people offer instead of money when approached by a panhandler. When an outreach group came around with bags of toiletries, he made sure I got one.
Eventually I got up the courage to ask him why he was doing it.
“Because I know what you are…”
god help me, I almost killed him right then, but he kept talking
“We're soldiers, you and me. We fought for them, but they forgot about us, so it's up to us to look after each other”
In hindsight, I realize that he recognized the symptoms of PTSD in my behavior, but at the time the idea that anyone would help me because of who I was, not in spite of it, was profound.
He was Pete
Just Pete.
Fought in Vietnam, and struggled with the memories. Drank to forget…Sometimes I envied him that he could do that when the nights got too long and dark and cold, but the habit along with years on the street took their toll.
He was never really well when I knew him.
He could come off as gruff or downright mean if you didn't know him, but underneath that shell, he could be incredibly kind. I became his pet project- or his penance- depending on the mood he was when you asked him. He helped me start to reconnect with humanity, never seemed bothered by my strange questions and had a kind of sixth sense for just how far he could press me before I was on the edge of a breakdown.
“Go hole up, Sargent” he'd say “in the morning everything'll be ok”
He was exactly what I needed, and with his help I was slowly able to leave that safe place more and more.
One day he shows up with coffee ‘cause someone gave him a gift card, I remember the logo had these stylized Christmas lights wrapped around it. It smelled incredible, and the warmth felt so good on my hand. Such simple pleasures.
Over the highway near where I stayed, there was a billboard with a painting of his face on it. ‘Captain America’, it advertised. It was just visible between the buildings from my alley, and I would stare at it a lot.
Anyway, he catches me looking again and he says “you know you can go see that if you want. It's a bit of a hike, but it's free to get in. Good place to get warm, and with all the people right now, security won't hassle you as long as you don't stink or bother the guests” I didn't think I could handle a crowd and told him as much, but he said it wasn't that kind of crowd. “It's the kind of crowd you disappear in, so many people you become invisible, even the person right next to you doesn't know you're there”
“I dunno, Pete, how would I even get there?”
“oh, that’s easy, hop the Circulator”
“I don't have any money”
“Circulator’s a buck, Buck. I'll give it to you. Call it a Christmas present”
I think he knew I was ready to step out of my comfort zone, I just needed a push. He wouldn’t let it go, made sure I cleaned up, got me some relatively fresh warm clothes from the donation bin at the shelter. Called them a Christmas present too. It wasn't far from the truth.
I couldn't hack the shelters.
The rules usually made sense, but they were just too controlling and invasive for my paranoia. Going to one myself wasn't an option.
So he’d gone for me.
Wasn't long before I was standing at a bus stop in my ‘Sunday best’ as he called them, telling him that if I lost it in the museum, he’d probably hear about it in the news.
“Then I'll see you in the funny papers, Sarge, you're stalling. Suck it up and get on the bus”
laughed himself into a coughing fit over his own joke. but I did it.
I got on…
I almost did lose it.
Not because of the crowd, he was right about that.
It was seeing myself up there next to Steve, hearing them talk about my accomplishments, like I had been something more once.
It was difficult to reconcile
I could almost remember being him, but still had a hard time believing that we were the same person.
He wore my face, but instead of atrocities, he'd been a loyal friend, a soldier who fought against Hydra…who'd died a hero.
I was none of that.
On the surface I knew they couldn't punish me for remembering anymore, but it still took a long time to shake off that shackle, but after the initial shock wore off, it got easier to remember when I had been that person.
When I think about it now, though, I realize, that's when the guilt started to set in
The shame.
How could the person I was allow himself to be turned into this?
For a while I'd entertained an idea of trying to find Steve again once I got my head straight, but after that I couldn't.
I wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore, but I wasn't the man he knew either, and I couldn't stomach how he might look at me when he figured that out.
I wanted to leave, go where no one knew me. Maybe then I could figure myself out.
Pete died a few months later
Just went to sleep and didn't wake up
… and just like that, I was alone again.
Nothing left to hold me there, I hopped a freight train and ended up in Baltimore near the harbor. I'd been a dock worker before the war, knew that I could probably find some work under the table, maybe get passage on one of the shadier freighters. So I bided my time, did day labor for cash and kept my head down, eventually an opportunity presented itself.
A boat bound for the black sea, a crew that spoke seven different languages with little overlap, and a captain with few scruples. I made myself useful and he looked the other way when I couldn't produce any papers or passport.
I hadn't been on the open ocean since they shipped me to England, but it wasn't that bad. Social order on a boat like that goes captain, first mate, guy that can beat anyone else in a fight, guy that can drink everyone else under the table, and I was the latter two, so I wasn't badly positioned.
It was an unexpectedly good fit for me.
I was strong enough to do the work and I never got sick or hurt so I never shirked my duties
I didn't have anyone alive to miss, so I never left the boat when we docked or took up valuable sat phone time at sea
Hell, I even knew how to sweet talk the ancient diesel engines when they wanted to break down, because they were only a little newer than the ones I'd dealt with during the war.
It was strange to be liked, but the crew did, and it felt good to be useful…
Even with Pete, I'd been a burden, but on board I pulled my own weight, made sure things weren't any harder than they had to be for everyone else. Felt like I was part of something
…made it hard to leave when it was time.
The voyage was ending, and I couldn't risk getting pulled in by customs and immigration when we docked, so I asked for my pay at the next to last port, then “fell overboard” one night as we approached Constantą…
Christ but the water was cold,
waves over my head,
I nearly regressed.
I could feel him
the soldier
breathing down my neck
itching to take over
but I managed to keep it together.
I got a rhythm going that helped me stay above the swells as I waited for the ship to pass. It was overcast, so there were no stars to navigate by, and we were still too far out at sea to be in view of the shore, but when my eyes adjusted, I was just able to pick out the hazy orange glow of city lights on the horizon. The swim to shore took hours, dawn was breaking when I finally crawled up on the sand.
It was late April, and the weather out of the water wasn't much warmer than it was in it.
Kinda glad though, it was pretty ritzy beach front property where I came ashore, but no one was around at that time of the season to notice me. As it was I was able to hike out, hitch rides, and hop trains until I wound up in the capital. That's where I ended up settling.
Found an apartment, went back to day labor.
It wasn't glamorous or easy, but it felt real, and there was peace in the mundanity.
The old women down the hall gifted me a box of tea and some shortbread when I moved in. She was a bit nosey, but she always gave her stale bread to the pigeons and fed the strays… maybe she thought I was just another stray. Sometimes I would help her bring her groceries up or fix some small thing the super was ignoring, and she would always insist on making me tea and sharing some sweet treat she made or bought.
It was all so painfully normal, and I loved it.
I think for a while, I was almost happy,
which made it all the more crushing when it all came crashing down.
One minute I'm just a guy in the market picking out fruit, wondering if I should bring her some, and the next thing I know, I'm a wanted man, a terrorist that bombed a country I haven't consciously been in since the war.
I’m not normal or invisible anymore
People are seeing me
and they’re afraid.
I knew I had to run
If I didn't, Hydra would find me.
They would take me, and I might never escape it again.
Finding Steve in my apartment made it so much worse.
I needed to leave, but I couldn't stand that he might think I’d done this.
I already had so much to answer for.
When the fighting started, they were shooting like no one else was in the building.
I couldn't go back, and I didn't want anyone else to get hurt, so I ran.
I did whatever I needed to do to get away
To lead them away.
I hadn't been that close to the soldier in years
it was terrifying
…felt like he was right behind me,
but I wouldn't go back.
When I was finally cornered, I tried to stay calm…
tried to tell myself it wasn't like last time, Steve was there, and the world knew I was alive now. It wouldn't be so easy for them to take me and hide me again.
If it meant I had to answer for what I had done under their control, even if that meant prison or execution, I didn't care, as long as I didn't go back to them.
The soldier paced behind me like a caged predator
demanded I struggle
demanded I break free
but I kept calm.
I knew who I was.
I controlled my actions
I would be ok…
then the stranger held up that book and the world stopped.
He started to read the words, those fucking words…”
…Желание…
It echoed in his mind and he flinched bodily.
“...The first word splashed down on me like liquid nitrogen. Simultaneously, I was back in that chamber, ice sliding off my skin, cracking in my hair…This wasn't real, it couldn't be real, I had been so careful.”
…Семнадцать…
“...With the next word, I realized should have struggled…ghosts of faceless men dragged me shivering to the chair…I was struggling now…”
…Ржавый…
He realized he was shaking. Gripping the arm of the chair tightly, he tried to control it.
“...I should have tried to break free... in that other place I felt the restraints clamp into place. The stranger's voice was gaining confidence, he picked up the pace”
…Рассвет…
It was too fresh, too raw, too soon.
“…Lightning arced across my mind, ghost pains, scorching agony. I think I screamed”
…Печь…
“The restraints groaned, twisted, then snapped.”
…Девять…
“…I fell forward”
…Добросердечный…
“...Not again! I felt my fist smash against the door”
…Возвращение на родину…
“...it smashed down again and again, fractures spread out from the impact like spiderwebs, the soldier was leaning in over my shoulder now, but I kept fighting”
…Один…
“hinges creaked, the door moved a little. I hadn't wanted to kill anyone in a very long time, but given the opportunity, I would have killed that man in a heartbeat”
…Товарный вагон.
“... the last word echoed in my head. The soldier crowed his victory. The door gave, but it was too late. He stepped up as I was snapped backwards, swallowed up by the void…”
“...Bucky?” she said softly.
His eyes snapped up to meet hers, there was concern there, though no fear. She was braver than most.
He realized he was tensed, breathing heavily, and had been silent for some time.
“Would you like to take a break?”
He considered it for a moment then shook his head, forcing his shoulders to relax.
Even without his arm he was still dangerous, but at least the worst was out of the way. He didn't really care to test what kind of protective measures the Wakandans had in place, that their princess felt safe sitting knee to knee with a known killer.
“I'm ok I think, it's all just really fresh.”
She nodded understandingly, sitting back as she waited for him to continue. He drew a deep breath and tried to recenter.
“I didn't think I would ever wake up again.
It wasn't like the times before…
I blacked out…
When I finally did wake up I wasn't sure if it was real, if I was real.
I was in some sort of abandoned structure, my hand was trapped in a machine and a strange man was just standing there, quietly watching me.
My head hurt, and my body felt like it had been run through a wringer.
I didn’t know how much time had passed or what to make of it all, but as soon as I moved, he walked away, called out to someone.
Something was buzzing loudly overhead, and combined with the awful ringing in my ears my head felt like it might split in two.
Then Steve was there…
I was so relieved I laughed…
he knew what I was, but he still didn't hate me.
He risked everything to warn me, to fight for me
he wouldn't accept letting them kill me, even when I had accepted it myself.
And when the worst happened, somehow he got me back.
Even when he asked which Me he was talking to, the way he said it openly acknowledged that I was separate from the soldier.
I didn’t have to hide that I knew him, that I remembered him, there was no need to fear his opinion or protect myself anymore.
The way he laughed with me when I reminded him of something only we would know about,
in spite of his friends' skepticism
...It gave me hope
But then the reality set in…
The soldier had returned.
For how long? I had no idea, but the likelihood that we had done something terrible was overwhelming…
That Steve remained kindly vague only reinforced my fears.
Two years progress destroyed in the space of a moment…
They wanted to know why someone would go to such lengths to get to me.
I didn’t have the first clue
but they wanted my help, so I dug in, started to examine memories I'd been actively avoiding.
Memories not mine, those of the soldier…
The last thing the stranger mentioned before pulling out that cursed book, was that he wanted to know about Siberia…
referred to it as my real home… made my skin crawl.
When I examined the memories of that time, there was only one thing that fit…
I was the prototype…
an unwilling and often unpredictable model prone to violent outbursts and instability.
When the opportunity to try again had arisen, they'd chosen what they considered more appropriate subjects...
I don't know why Steve trusted me
maybe he shouldn't have
it ended up costing him so much.
His friends risked their freedom on the word of a deeply damaged runaway assassin
and all for nothing…
I don't blame Stark for wanting to kill me
I didn't try hard enough to stop the soldier, and that failure cost him his family.
He has every right to hate me and wish me dead,
he's one of a long line that hold that unfortunate distinction,
but I wasn't going to let him hurt Steve because of it
and Steve wouldn’t stop fighting for me, it's not his nature to back down from something like that.
I didn't deserve his protection and I still don't
I ran when I should have faced what I was, and even though I wasn't directly responsible, that decision cost good people like your father their lives.
So when your brother offered to try and help me, I knew I had to take it,
even when going under again scares the shit out of me.
I owe it to everyone to stop running, and face that I’m an unnecessary liability, a hazard every second I stay like this…
I don't hate the soldier
he served a purpose
kept me alive
...but I can't ever let him take control again. The world deserves that from me...”
