Chapter Text
No matter under what circumstances you leave it, home does not cease to be home. No matter how you lived there - well or poorly. Joseph Brodsky
-
The Triskelion bellowed fire and smoke behind the Winter Soldier as he dragged the unconscious form of Captain America onto the bank of the Potomac. The mud clung to his boots, making his steps heavier and heavier as the wet earth caked on. His dislocated arm was held stiffly folded against his stomach. His metal hand unclutched the harness of the Captain’s suit when he was clear of the murky water. The Soldier paused to watch his target breathe.
He couldn’t remember if this was the first mission he had ever failed. But relief swelled in his chest as the Captain’s torso rose and fell with ragged shallow breaths.
He didn’t understand why he felt relief. Was it from his target refusing to fight back? Was it from what the Captain had said before the floor had tumbled away from beneath them?
‘To the end of the line,’ the Captain had said.
The meaning of the phrase nagged at the Soldier but he had no time to dwell right now. He could not stay. Hydra, even wounded, always hunted for its weapon after each mission if he failed to appear on his own. And something deep in his head was screaming at him to run and to run far.
Besides the Captain was hurt, it was best to lead Hydra away from the life the Soldier had just saved. He limped into the woods, leaving the Captain safer than if the Soldier had stayed.
Even with the lack of actual speed, he was running with a new mission in his head now.
And his destination?
Answers that Captain America could not solely give and that Hydra would eagerly keep hidden.
-
The people were restless and weary after the world watched the Insight helicarriers burn. The large cities were on high alert, preparing themselves for more chaos. And everyone was hungry to understand why the carriers had been put down.
The books on Captain America became very popular after his heroic deed was proclaimed on all the news channels. Searching the web was messy due to news stations spinning their accounts of what had happened and their opinions on the matter. That and cell videos of the ‘carriers falling into the water. Some sites recounted the Captain’s story. Even then, they preferred to focus on the present and the recent like the aliens in Manhattan.
However, the museum loudly reminded people about its exhibit on Captain America. That's where the Soldier started.
He walked in for simple recon on the super soldier. Only to pause in mid-step, when his eyes landed on a painted mural depicting Captain America and his Howling Commandos. His stare narrowed in on the face of the man in blue coat. The crowd around him almost melted away in that moment. It felt like his legs would give out beneath him.
When he felt like he could move again, he weaved through the crowd over to the placard before Bucky Barnes’ uniform. Somehow, in some way he knew what wearing that blue jacket felt like. He knew that the collar was usually kept down and not flipped up like it was currently displayed as. He knew what the fabric felt like when dirt had to be brushed off the sleeves.
Tearing his eyes away from the jacket, the Soldier read the placard.
This coat is a replica of James “Bucky” Barnes’ jacket. Barnes originally owned two of the same jacket. One is housed in a museum in Brooklyn, his hometown, after being donated by living relatives. The other was never recovered when Barnes died in 1945.
The Soldier shivered before he searched for more blurbs on Barnes though out the exhibit.
And here and there he found them. They came in many forms-
Film reels of the Captain and Barnes as soldiers. A new reel featuring the first integrated unit.
Photos of Barnes’ family. Three young sisters, a mother, a father, and a boy all dressed in their Sunday best.
Sketches of Barnes drawn in pencil by Captain Rogers. A profile shot of a young dark haired boy sitting on a fire escape enjoying the rare treat of an apple.
One of Barnes’ old rifles that had J.B.B. and the wing patch carved into the left side of the stock.
And each item so familiar, it ached.
A small flash of an image appeared in his mind’s eye as he lingered by the sniper rifle; he couldn’t hold on to the mirage. It was like sand in his hands. But he could faintly feel a pocket knife in his hand carving, his hands warmed by a small campfire as he worked.
The Soldier sought peace and rest in a dark corner of the exhibit. He easily tuned out the video of a brunette-haired woman with red, red lips speaking about Rogers. Only when the overwhelming feeling calmed did he stand again and continue to walk the last sections of the exhibit.
He didn’t make it past the display of the life and death of Bucky Barnes. While there had been bits and pieces before, here revealed more. A map of Barnes’ path during the war, comments on his childhood, being a POW in Italy, the tale of his death.
He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He had known Rogers, been best friends with him. And Hydra had burned out Rogers and everything else that had made him human.
He had to know more about his past, he thought as he watched the little reel of Barnes and Rogers laughing. He wanted to know things that could not simply be found in museums or books. Hydra could have some of those answers. And the Soldier would eagerly take them while he burned Hydra to ground.
-
It was after Kiev, that he discovered that he was being followed. The Soldier made a point to never linger long enough to figure out if it was Hydra or not. If Hydra was on his trail, they never seemed to learn which base he was going to strike next. That is until he had liberated files about his past and the bombs had detonated in his wake. But he made sure to keep three steps ahead and wield his freedom like a knife in Hydra’s back.
-
Despite his carefulness, Hydra managed to capture him outside of Rexford, Montana. He had gone in thinking the building (it looked like some kind of private lodge to the public) was understaffed. It had been listed as a small R&D lab in the Hydra files.
It was like they had been waiting for him.
It had changed from being a small lab to an underground facility. More importantly, they now had equipment for handling and containing the Winter Soldier.
Despite his determination for escape, the Soldier found himself back in the chair with restraints locking him in place. He snarled his anger at his captors as they scurried around him. Guards kept their guns up with him in their sights. Their fingers rested on the triggers, ready at a second’s notice.
But the Soldier kept ahold of his confidence as he drank in his captors’ disorganization. Listened to the arguing that took place amongst themselves with interest. Their desperation could be used to his advantage, but it was a potential danger to be continuously evaluated. After all, predators didn’t do well with being cornered.
“We need a new way to control the Asset. We have to be sure that control of him is maintained this time,” the Soldier heard in the next room over. He could see a few people gathered from its open doorway.
“Just how do ya suppose we do that, huh? It’s freakin suicide to have him here!” another growled, “Did you not hear of his vengeance on Hydra since going rouge in DC?”
The voices dissolved into arguments before the first voice replied and thus quietening the others.
“What about the artifact A7R55V23, the experiments were troubling but they worked,” the first voice said.
“Messin’ with that thing is like playin with a freakin nuclear bomb,” the second exclaimed. Others murmured their agreement.
“The results were more thorough as I recall correctly. Lasting,” another voice had joined in. Calm, sinister.
“So fuckin desperate times call for fuckin desperate measures, is that it!? Forget the damned Asset, that thing will kill us all.”
“Heads are being cut faster than they can grow back. The risks are acknowledged but we cannot afford to play it safe any longer. Getting the Asset back under control is critical,” raved another. There were no protests this time.
“Then it is settled.”
The Soldier had begun shivering with fear. He had no idea about what they were speaking of. Whispers of twisted experiments conducted at this faculty had been what brought him here in the first place. He had figured after taking out this place, he’d leave the last remains of Hydra for the Captain and his new team to take out. He’d have no idea what he’d do after and now it looked like he wouldn’t get to decide.
-
It started out like they were going to wipe him, clasps all along his arms to keep him in place and a mouth guard forced between his teeth. He kept up his resistance until a lab-coat jabbed him with a needle.
The world got hazy and sluggish after that. Yet his will to fight was still strong even with his head feeling too heavy to hold up anymore.
When another lab-coat brought a box into the room, a sense of dread and unease washed over the room.
The Soldier was drenched in sweat and his arm became slick with bloody cuts from his constant thrashing. The mouth guard stifled his threats as the box was opened to reveal something like a pale green stone that had a sickly unnatural glow.
It was lifted from the box by a pair of bi-scripts and the sight of it sent shivers down his back. It called up similar flashes of unnatural blue light and the sounds of a factory echoed in his head.
He willed the restraints to snap. His flesh arm was bloody from his efforts. The world had lost some of its sluggishness now. Fear and adrenaline burning the effects of the drugs away.
“You will obey us, Soldier,” ordered the scientist holding the glowing stone.
“No!” he tried to shout through the mouth guard. It was muffled but comprehendible and overall ignored.
The Soldier glared at the stone; its aura was ominous, otherworldly. They would not win again. He wouldn’t allow them to wipe him. He had regained little but the idea of losing that bit hurt more than the old electricity of the chair.
He mentally grabbed onto the fragments of Bucky Barnes memories, the faded sense of self that he had just started to puzzle back together.
My birth name is James Buchanan Barnes.
I was a sergeant in the 107th during World War II.
I have been best friends since childhood with Steve Rogers.
He recited them over and over again like a dying man’s prayer.
The stone was like an ember against the top of his sternum. The feeling of fire spread from his chest to his head before it festered throughout the rest of his body.
His screams were barely muffled. Eyes tightly closed. Barely able to drag air into his lungs.
It left no cell untouched. His whole being was on fire. Even felt like his damaged soul was burning.
No! He was James Buchanan Barnes. He was Steve Rogers’s childhood friend. Rogers had called him Bucky. He had once had younger sisters. He had once had parents.
So much pain, a blinding light. He felt like he was being torn to pieces.
Remember Steve Rogers! Remember the scrawny kid who never backed down from a fight.
Remember Bucky Barnes of Brooklyn and his family.
Don’t let them win again. Steve is alive. Steve needs him? He must, he always has.
He must keep fighting. He must remember. He must protect.
Fight.
Remember.
Protect.
The burning stopped abruptly and the restraints were gone but it didn’t matter. He was barely conscious. His eyes too heavy to open.
He vaguely heard sounds of alarm, explosions, and fighting.
He couldn’t move to fight the hands that pulled him from the chair. He felt his limp body being eased onto someone’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Maybe it’s Steve, he faintly wondered. Maybe Rogers had found him like he had found him in Italy. He didn’t even get to process that he could still remember Rogers before passing out.