Forgotten Memories and Golden Repair

The first breach in protocol happened the night he shot Fury. He had been watching through the window into Roger’s apartment, making mathematical calculations to wind and distance and location of bodies. He could hear their conversation crystal clear. He had no interest in the ‘wife’ story. Unimportant. Untrue. He was supposed to kill Fury and also kill Captain America.

Yet every time he heard the Captain’s voice, something deep in his chest ached and his gut twisted. He became confused. The voice. Familiar. Confirm. Query: Why was it familiar? The conversation continued on and he focused. If he took a shot right now, he would hit the Captain’s head.

So why did his trigger finger hesitate?

He had situated his sniper rifle and kept trying. It was like he was frozen, listening to the way the Captain’s voice reverberated with that soft rumble-growl of unhappiness. He was broken from the spell when he heard the squeak of the chair as Fury stood. He took a shot through the wall once, the next two times in rapid succession through the cloud of plaster and dust that puffed up.

He paused again. Why was he stopping? He put his sniper rifle back in it’s duffel bag and tucked it away to retrieve later. He still listened to Fury tell the Captain not to trust anyone. Sound advice. Confirm. He returned to the edge of the rooftop he was on. Query: Why? Why was he checking on the Captain? He was his mission. He should have tried to shoot him.

There was no ‘Confirm’ that followed and he cursed as he heard the radio static asking if they knew his location. Bolting, he had a head-start when he heard the sound of glass shattering twice as the Captain jumped buildings. He didn’t have to look down to know he was being followed on the floor below his feet.

What even.

This guy had no respect for property, it seemed. One-track mind. Catch him. Did he have much of a plan besides that? Probably not.

Reaching the end of the roof he was on, thumping and ringing vibrating the soles of his shoes, he easily vaulted to the next roof and was almost, so /close/ to the end of it when he heard the Captain break through glass a third time, grunt and then there was a /shwing/ through the air. Calculate.

Now.

Whipping around he caught the shield-mid air with his left hand, metal thrumming against metal. He bore deeply at Rogers, his arm whirled, and he reeled his arm back, tossing it back towards him.

In Roger’s distraction he ran, jumping off of the rooftop and didn’t run forward, instead darting back through an alleyway. Rogers’ shadow was cast on the sidewalk and all he could really think was for being such a genius he was an idiot. Confirm.

Making his way back to the duffle-bag, Rogers unawares the whole time, he retrieved it and returned to base. They were unhappy that he did not kill Rogers, but they /were/ happy he killed Fury. So. No punishment, just back to confinement. Acceptable.

He didn’t let them know the mission target had went from Captain America to Rogers and his voice was familiar. He recognized his face, but it was blurry. Confirm, they did not need to know. He did not want punishment.

~

The mission updated to two targets, but one he didn’t already know about. This guy was the one behind the schedule. Oh well. He discovered he had a lighter touch to his step than he usually did, a slight bounce, even. What was this? Zola. Dead. Well, he had been /dead/ for some time, but even his remnants were gone. That made him. Giddy. Zola had put a bad taste in his mouth. He always hated hearing it’s AI voice in his head. Now he didn’t have to encounter that ever again.

Who did he have to thank? Rogers, the man whom he was going to have to kill. It would be a good kill, a swift one, for his appreciation.

~

The fight on the bridge. Not much of one, considering he hit a whole lot of nothing except for scrap metal cars. It was a good fight, though. He didn’t speak much, but his voice had rumbled orders in Romanian while he continued to exhaust his weapon supply. Grenade launcher. Always enjoyable. Confirm.

Query: Rogers, why are you making things difficult? He wanted to make this quick and easy and neither him nor the redheaded woman wanted that. In fact, they wanted the opposite. Complicated, long and difficult.

Then the redhead…/Natalia/ his brain hissed at him...shot his goggles.

Natalia shot his goggles.

He was furious. The fight got /really/ interesting after that. Rogers could fucking /wait/.

Oooh, she was tricky. He loved that about her. The way they could be witty with each other on the battlefield helped him remember her in quick succession. It was easier to remember those he dealt with on a regular basis when he was off the ice.

Natalia did that thing with her thighs where she used him like a set of child’s play-bars and spun around and tried to choke him with wire. Then she used an EMP shock on his arm. The little shit. He hated having to kill her as his actual target this time. Before in any other situation she’d only been in the way so he tried to avoid her. He got a shot off on her, hit her shoulder and she ducked but didn’t end it.

Repeat Query: Why did they have to be so difficult?

As he snuck up on her, and /tried/ to finish it, Rogers came barreling from nowhere and they immediately engaged. Lots of gunfire. What the hell was with that spinning tornato-kick thing? Oh hey, hand to hand combat for once, shield or no shield.

He got to use his knives!

Seriously though. That spin-kick thing. Was that his second signature move besides tossing that Frisbee around?

Ugh. That kick to the chest hurt, pal.

Query: Pal? When did Rogers turn into pal?

Damn. He had pulled Rogers so close...close enough blue bore into blue and he just...he tossed him away from him. Why didn’t he end it right there? His jugular was right under his metal fingers…all he had to do was squeeze a little harder...

More hand to hand combat and more knife-use but he was no longer happy about the change of pace. He was confused. He didn’t like being confused.

WARNING.

DAMAGE TO METAL ARM.

PAIN.

CONFIRM.

The fight continued while his mind blanked out in order for his body and training to kick in.

His mask got ripped off.

Identity compromised.

He turned to stare at Rogers anyway, jaw set, eyes dark and glaring. They just...stared at each other for a solid minute.

“Bucky?”

He could hear his brain short-circuit. Or was that the wiring in his metal arm?

Query.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. He could feel his eyes wide from shock. He produced another gun from his tactical gear and then…

Flying black man kicked him right in the side of the face. Asshole.

Jumping to his feet again, no time for anything else, he could feel his breathing increase, his eyes darting everywhere but Rogers, then he pulled his gun back up and took aim. Had to kill him. Had to be now.

DENY.

Just as his brain reared at that, there was the distinct /thromp/ of the grenade launcher. Coming from behind Rogers was the ball and he ducked.

~

The memories. Zola. Falling from the train, Rogers, though his face was still hazy his voice was clear. Shouting the name. Bucky. Who was this Bucky? It couldn’t be him. He was the Winter Soldier. A machine built and made by his handlers to take care of his dirty work.

So why. Why were there the images of the cliff-face and trees and shrubs flying by his memory, catching on a rock which practically tore apart his arm since he had fallen so hard and fast. Blood in the snow. Zola’s voice. Sounds of medical equipment, pain in his arm because Hydra didn’t believe in numbing him for any surgery. Waking up to a new metal arm. Choking the doctor to death.

“Put him on ice.”

His own face staring back at him as he put his hand to the metal door.

He hated the chair. There would be punishment for lashing out, for disobedience. They didn’t like what he had to say. The slap. He felt like just any ol’ bitch getting slapped around by their man. That’s what he was. Hydra had made him their slave and he /hated/ it. He /remembered/ if only just a /little/.

No. Not the bit. Not the flashing blue lights and the electricity.

Stay compliant. Let them wipe him...he didn’t want to forget, but he had to. He had to force Rogers from his mind as he screamed…

~

Rocket launcher. Just as fun as grenade launcher, maybe more so.

He had not been given a mask or goggles. Had they been ruined previously? He felt odd without them. Exposed. Confirm.

Somehow, some way, with lots of gunfire and things exploding, he made his way to the helicarrier and promptly bull-rushed Captain America off of it.

Wilson, Sam. He had been briefed on this target and he had been added to the list. He would just call him Flying Sam, a lot easier. Flying Sam tried to go dive after the Captain but he thwarted him. They had a good short fight, he even did a spin thing to avoid bullets and darted behind cover. Query: When did he learn how to do a spin-thing?

It didn’t take too much longer before he ripped off a wing of Flying Sam and sent him tumbling with a well-placed kick to the chest.

Now to protect the helicarrier from being taken control of.

~

Why did Captain America keep having to talk? With that stupid soft rumble of a voice that was so /soothing/.

He sounded so sad. Why did this Bucky-person make Rogers sad? When did he go from Captain to Rogers? He remembered having that particular thought before. He just kept staring him down while his mind whirled.

Then Rogers made the first move, time too dire for him to keep standing around having an inner war with himself. He still had his own mission. Protect the helicarrier and kill Rogers.

That shield was annoying. He shot around it, but only grazed Rogers. He was knocked back a lot, but he kept surging back at him. This particular game of cat and mouse wasn’t so fun. He remembered wanting to end it for him quickly out of mercy and being happy he got rid of Zola. Now he was fighting sluggishly. Still fast, for the two of them being super-soldiers, but he could see it in himself. He didn’t /really/ want to hurt him.

Mission failing. Mission to protect the helicarrier was failing because he couldn’t actually get a solid hit on Rogers.

MISSION IN DANGER OF FAILURE.

FAILURE EQUALS PUNISHMENT.

The chair. He didn’t want to go back to the chair.

With a bellow he tackled Rogers right over the railing, the chip sliding away.

Finally with the shield having been lost in the fall, he could actually punch Rogers.

Damn it, no! Stupid chip!

He was successful in knocking the chip away, but he was unable to gain purchase when Rogers flew him away from him.

Using the shield against Rogers was kind of gratifying. Too busy shooting at him again, however, to revel in him successfully going down.

He was glad for his metal arm whirring to stab Rogers finally in the fucking shoulder, but pain made Rogers more angry, and the resulting headbashing made him dizzy so he tossed him away so he wouldn’t have to deal with that bullcrap.

Quite a lot of swearing in one mental thought, there.

The chip! He snatched it up but then...
Choking was not on his list of things he enjoyed. Rogers was /furious/. He gasped when he was slammed down on the glass and was pinned, Rogers locked his body and tried to get the chip back from him. He tried to punch back, tried to reach him, and ignored the orders he gave to drop the chip.

PAIN.

PAIN.

FLESH SHOULDER DISLOCATED.

PAIN.

Yet he still held onto the chip.

Again. Choking was not enjoyable. He couldn’t let the mission fail. He tried pulling Roger’s hand away form him but no use.

The black ink of darkness crept at the corner of his eyes. No, this...choke hold wasn’t...meant to...kill. Rogers...would never...kill him…

As soon as he woke up he was pissed, and terrified.

MISSION FAILURE.

PUNISHMENT WILL BE RECEIVED.

CHAIR.

ELECTRIFIED.

Whipping his gun out he shot at Rogers. Missed his hand. This guy was a fucking monkey. His shoulder hurt, he was delirious and wobbled.

Successful hit to the gut.

Why was he not glad about that?

He had a lot of queries recently, he remembered. The queries kept sprouting like daises. It was making his head hurt.

Why did Rogers have to be so goddamn difficult?

Why couldn’t this be an easy mission?

Why did he make his brain turn to jelly?

Why couldn’t he just /stay down/?

Even a shot to the goddamn gut didn’t keep him down!

What the actual fuck, Rogers? Telling them to /fire/ with the two of them still on the helicarrier?

WHAT THE HELL?

CONFIRM QUERY.

SHIT.

He screamed as he was unable to dodge the falling piece of debris and was pinned by it. On his already injured arm. Wasn’t that just how it worked? He couldn’t even shove it off because of it.

TERROR.

CONFIRM.

He was...he was definitely terrified right now. He kept struggling, trying to /wiggle/ his way free but that had no effect.

Then there’s Rogers, coming down and trying his best to move it even though he, too, had an injured shoulder, an injured thigh, and a gut wound. On top of the fact they were crashing into the S.H.I.E.L.D. building.

Rogers was superior to him. The original. He no doubt would have never won in a fight with him, anyway.

So why...why did his mission have to be to kill him? Did they hope he would die as well and they wouldn’t have to deal with reprogramming him every time?

He was free.

“You know me.” Rogers growled, heaving.

He couldn’t. He got to his feet and swung his metal arm, hitting Rogers right in that stupid face, all the while screaming, “NO I /DON’T/!”

It was a lie. He remembered, if only pieces. He remembered the train, the voice screaming the Bucky-person’s name.

He only denied it because he would be punished. He would go back to the chair. They didn’t like it that he had told them he knew him the other day. Had tried to reprogram him again, but throwing him back in the fray so soon after messed him up. He remembered the fight with Natalia, the minx. He remembered when he called Rogers ‘pal’ mentally.

They heaved at each other, and he didn’t know what sort of face he was making, just knew it was contorted in what must me emotional pain. He could feel his eyes sting with salt water.

“Bucky...”

Stop calling me Bucky!

“You’ve known me your whole life...”

I am not this Bucky-Person! I am the Asset! I am Soldat!

He punched him again.

“Your name...is James Buchanan Barnes.” Rogers said this more firmly.

Stop talking! No it isn’t!

“SHUT UP!” he physically yelled, his headspace too loud with flashes of images he didn’t want. He swung his body, fist connecting with the gunshot wound on Roger’s stomach, sending him sprawling, helmet falling off.

He heaved, and discovered a name for the face he made when Rogers returned to his feet. Pleading.

Please stay down. Please don’t get back up. Please stop talking.

That face Rogers was making.

“I’m not gunna fight you.”

The shield fell between the holes where the glass used to be.

Why did you discard your shield?

Why aren’t you going to fight back?

He should be relieved, but he didn’t know what to think anymore. Everything was /too loud/.

KILL. MISSION INCOMPLETE.

Affirmative. Perhaps if he killed the Captain then he wouldn’t be put in the chair even if he didn’t protect the helicarriers.

“You’re my friend.” Rogers said with so many emotions in his eyes and on his face that he couldn’t make them all out.

That was the trigger, though. He barreled forward and tackled him to the steel, “You’re my mission.” He growled at him before he started repeatedly bashing Steve’s face in.

“YOU’RE-” Punch.

“MY-” Punch.

“MISSION!” Punch.

He reached his arm up, paused, then went a little higher. Steve. Why did he think of his first name? When did he morph Rogers into Steve now?

“Then finish it...” Steve grunted through a mouth full of blood.

He stared at him. Why. Why couldn’t he punch him again, crack his skull open, finish it…

“…‘Cause I’m with ya...til the end of the line...”

RESET.

OVERRIDE MISSION TO KILL.

CODE ‘END OF THE LINE’ ACCEPTED.

He was flooded then with more mental images, in no particular order. Pieces of the war. Pieces of the Howlies. A wall of fire between the two of them and him screaming ‘not without you!’ across it. Of them as kids. Seeing Steve’s face above him on Zola’s operating table and whispering ‘Steve’ with such relief and happiness…

He remembered.

He was about to kill his best friend.

The horror crossed his face then just as he heard the steel above them snap with it’s own weight and he suddenly didn’t have Steve beneath him anymore, watching the unconscious man fall into the river below.

No.

No. No. No.

UNACCEPTABLE.

Mission reset would not allow this to happen. He let go of the metal bar and pistoned his body towards the water, breaking through with ease and he used his powerful legs to swim down...down…

Where are you, Steve?

Down...his lungs hurt...the water was polluted and it was hard to see…

STEVE.

He reached for him, grasping him by his uniform and he swam up. Barely. He was barely able to get out of the water before his own lungs exploded. He could stay under for two minutes but this was ridiculous. Adrenaline makes you do strange, impossible things.

He found the shoreline, hauling Steve there and plopped him down. There were sirens in the distance already, a search and rescue party. He had to leave. Holding his injured arm close to his body, he didn’t look back. He saved him. Steve would live, and so would he.

He wouldn’t go back to the snakes. He had more important things to do. They didn’t control him anymore.

()

/Three/ days later.

Dry clothes, re-located shoulder, and a hot shower later he was at the hospital he’d discovered Steve to be laid up. Flying Sam was there but so was a lot of security. Another plan of action was needed.

He /needed/ to know how Steve was doing. He wouldn’t be able to do that from inside. As banged up as he was, even he couldn’t get out of the hospital right away, in spite of the fact he healed quickly. He used that to his advantage. Eventually he found the perfect spot from across the way and used his sniper scope to see into Steve’s designated room. He had bugged Fkying Sam’s clothing while pretending to bump into him as a pedestrian and he put his earpiece in.

“Steve, for the love of all that’s holy, stay in the hospital until the doctors tell you it’s okay to leave!” Sam’s voice rang.

Steve was perpetually stubborn.

“He’s out there, Sam! I have to find him!”

“No you goddamn don’t! Not right this very second! You /just/ woke up this morning from more or less a coma and it’s not even three pm!”

A coma. That made his stomach twist. Fuck, their fight had been brutal.

He knew he had to do something. /Anything/ to get Steve to say in bed, short of making contact. Then a nurse named ‘Sarah’ came in and he watched Steve get choked up but he was very polite.

Sarah.

Sarah Rogers.

His mother.

A few more images fell into place, a little more drawn-out and vivid since Hydra had made sure to block Steve and the army days from his mind, not so much Sarah.

He knew what he had to do.

~

Sam held the white envelope in his hands with a deep frown. It hadn’t been sealed shut, and there was no powder so it wasn’t a form of a threat. Still. He didn’t know who the fuck ‘James’ was, and Sarah had told him a stranger gave it to her and just said to give it to Steve. She had done her best to say he wasn’t there, but he walked away. Why would a stranger do that?

He was sorely tempted to throw it away. Steve didn’t need /fans/ worrying about his health. Yet, maybe at the same time this was the sort of pick-me-up he needed. To know somebody out there besides his close friends cared. Well, that settled it.

Walking into Steve’s room, he jutted his arm out, “This is for you. Nurse Sarah gave it to me to give to you from a fan.” Easier explanation than a ‘stranger’. Steve stared at the envelope in disbelief before he snatched it away from him, yelling joyously. This guy...the pain meds may not /entirely/ work but they had /some/ effect and that effect was making Steve very emotional and maybe a little bit high. Then he said something Sam didn’t expect.

“This is /his/ handwriting. James! It’s Bucky!” Steve’s face lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, Sam thought, and he all but ripped the card out of the envelope.

/“Steven Grant Rogers.

Stay in the hospital.

Look. Know how much you hate it.

You. Sick all the time. Poked and prodded. Pretended it didn’t bother you. Liar. Very bad liar. Smell bothers you. Too clean. Too white. You like clean, but not /that/ clean. Not when everything smells like sanitizer. Also smells like death. Reminds you of when you thought you were dying from whatever stupid illness popped up that month. Would refuse to stay then, too, wanting to be home surrounded by love then on a deathbed that is worse to sleep on than the forest floor with all the sticks and rocks stabbing your back.

Sarah. Mother. Sick then died, too. Overall hate hospitals.

Understood. Still.

Not dying. Not today. Not anytime soon. Don’t have to be home to die because death is not imminent. Nurse Sarah looks nice. Helped me remember though involuntarily. Saw name badge. Let her make you comfortable. Hate hospital less for now.

Have things to do. Something...something I’m forgetting, but I do not remember yet. Have to take care of it, whatever it is.

Stay there. Go when doctors say.”/

Steve felt his eyes water as he read and re-read and re-read the note. He felt his hands shake and his tears slip down his cheeks. Bucky remembered something. He was still forgetting things, which was fine. Whatever he needed to take care of that was fine too. He knew that Bucky would do something to make him stay in the hospital, but he knew.

He knew that he'd find Bucky again. Because he was going to remember whatever it was he needed to remember. He was going to take care of it, and then he was probably going to do his own thing. It was a game of hide and seek now. Much less a game of chase.

He placed the letter by his bedside table and looked at Sam who was watching him. Steve knew that look. Sam was readying himself to either continue to fight Steve into the bed and force him to stay there. "I'm giving him a head start Sam." Steve said after a moment. "A nice long head-start. It should give him time to do whatever he needs to do. He'll make it fucking difficult, but...that's alright. I'm better at seeking than I was ever at hiding. So it's probably a good thing it's Bucky's turn."

Sam was watching him intently, but he was glad that Steve was going to stay put, no matter who was the one to convince him. “Alright. You heal up and you’ll be out of here by Fury’s fake funeral in no time. Natasha has a brief trial to go to, too, but she’s going to own it like she always does. I don’t know the guy like you do, so I’ll keep out of it until you’re better and we can have a /proper/ discussion without either of us raising our voices. Deal?”

"Deal. Thanks Sam." Steve leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes. Bucky was out there and Steve could only send a small prayer to a God he thought abandoned him that Bucky would remain safe.

That he'd find him soon.
~

“Tată...Tată I’m scared...Tată help me...TATĂ!”

James sat up with a gasp and sweat rolling down his face, soaking his shirt. He had found a dumpy little apartment complex that had been abandoned and was set for demolition. He didn’t plan on being in it very long, anyway, but it had been another week. Steve was out of the hospital, more memories had flooded back to him but only in snippets, never fully complete. Some ‘memories’ he questioned, having woken up to them as dreams that had his heart pumping. Fury’s funeral was today. Not that he believed he had really killed him. Of course not. He hadn’t successfully completed any of his missions, really. Which was a huge downer considering he was supposed to be the Best Assassin in the World next to Natalia. The Ghost Story. The Winter Soldier.

That wasn’t his life anymore, though. He had been able to complete basic human functions, like groceries and hygiene, since missions in the far past could last weeks doing surveillance on a target and he would have to take care of himself. He used the list of accounts he had memories to withdraw enough money to buy a nice little safe-house in every state in the country, and three different practical cars like a truck, a van, and a normal vehicle, and five motorcycles. A few days later, he started a brand new account with a bank that was also located in New York and dumped a good chunk of it in there, a portion in a savings account, and the rest he kept on his person. Didn’t want to be tracked by amount. He wouldn’t be without ever in his life, though he knew he would spend frugally like he was in the Great Depression.

While he could buy any bloody car he wanted, he hated traffic. Traffic lights could also spot him and wounds were still fresh and things were still too risky. At the same time, they didn’t pay much attention to pedestrians crossing the street especially if there was a crowd because they got lazy, looking at every single face every time. James hated crowds, but they were his saving grace. As was his hoodie. Dark, deep red with the ‘under armor’ symbol at his neck where the hood split off. He had also acquired a hat in case it was too warm for a hoodie.

James got up and went to get ready to go to the gym for a shower, discarding the shirt in a corner to wash later at the laundromat. He’d bought a pass because while he would probably break the equipment he could use the weights and pull-up bars and weighted push bars. They also had showers. He couldn’t use anything in the apartment complex he was in or risk being detected, but this was good.

Tată. Being called that. Who? Romanian for father. Was he a father? He would hate Hydra even more if that was so.

No face went with the voice, but there had been a lot of white in the dream, flash of freckles and the mouth shape shouting. That was it.

The trek to the gym was short-lived as he wasn’t even paying attention, too busy thinking hard while he ate a granola bar. Tată. That voice. For the last week and a half he’d felt like he was /missing/ something, but those two things helped him feel like he was closer to solving the puzzle.

The trip was short-lived because he was bumped into. In his legs. By a tiny human.

With blond hair in pigtails and bright blue eyes that were crying.

His heart melted. She was clinging to his leg and sniffling and he knelt down, “What’s wrong, little angel?” he asked, voice rough and gravelly, but bless children. They were never afraid of him. That phrase. Deja vu had been translated into he had a memory he didn’t quite recall.

“I lost my momma! I can’t find ‘er,” she sniffled again.

“Where did you last see her?” He asked, brushing his flesh fingers over soft cheeks, wiping away her tears, “Can you show me?” At her nod, he allowed her to lead him by her little hand squeezing his finger tightly and didn’t care he was bending nearly in half. A subway. He picked her up and carried her on his hip while going down the stairs. She pointed at the train. Ah, she’d gotten lost while being jostled by the people. Her mother must’ve gotten on the train without her. “We’ll have to wait for the next train. Are you okay with that?” he asked soothingly.

“Okay. If you’re with me.”

So they sat at a bench and waited.

While they did, he thought. Little Angel. Blond girl with blue eyes that was maybe seven?

“Why did you pick me? You could have asked anybody here.”  James had to ask.

“No one looked safe. You looked safe, like a dad. Do you have a kid?” She blinked up at him with those big innocent eyes.

He paused. He’d been wondering that himself. “I...do...” he said slowly, the words not feeling wrong. “A daughter. I don’t know where she is. I lost her, too. I’m trying to find her.” His words came out faster as he spoke what was on his mind. He felt sick. Hydra had his daughter.

Anzhelina.

“I hope you find her. Oh, here comes the train!” the girl chirped, shooting to her feet with a little hop.

James made sure the little girl was reunited with her mother, blushing so hard he felt his ears and neck heat up, and quickly left.

He had shit to do. Leaving another note with Nurse Sarah to give to Steve, that simply read ‘Figured out what I forgot. Keep watch. Keep safe. If you don’t stay safe the length of time it takes for me to contact you will be extended.’

There. Steve could take a punch, would relish in the punch, actually, but not being able to contact his Bucky-Person would drive him up the wall and that satisfied /him/.

Now, to go to England.

()

There were arguments on what they should do since the Winter Solider defected and the S.H.I.E.L.D base that they were relying on heavily was finally destroyed by Captain America. There were debates on whether or not the Companion should be let out to bring the Solider back. Some said that it was a great idea. She could probably find him faster than they could and she would know how to bring him back. Others denied it, saying that it was dangerous to rely on an animal. Since the father went rouge, she was probably next to go.

So then what were they going to do with someone like her? They kept her locked away in a prison cell, somewhere deep without light and with the walls closing in. An iron door with only a food slot was her company as well as the voices that rang through her mind.

She didn’t speak to them. Didn’t bat an eye when they hit her, just laughed like she was trained to. She scratched the walls, scratched her skin and just grinned wildly when they tried to walk into the door to see if they could get her to obey. More bodies to clean up. More punishments to deal. They were seriously thinking of putting her in a real cage with electric wire.

It would've been a smart move really.

They didn’t have the Solider therefore there was no reason to obey anymore. They knew that she knew that and that’s why they were trying to figure out what to do. She wasn’t useful anymore. They did their experimentation, their playing and now they wanted a new toy. She wasn’t going to give birth. Too sick and weak. She might have super healing powers, but the mind could only take so much damage before there was no way to reverse it.

She was only /half/ of a solider anyway. Not that she liked the term all that much. She wasn’t cold and heartless and severe. She wasn’t like the snakes. Her Tată was only forced to be like that. She hummed softly to herself as she watched the shadows walk past her door.

“Can you listen?”

“He’s not coming back.”

“He’s coming back with revenge.”

“Blood’s on the walls, the writing’s clear.”

“Shh.”

“Shhh.”

“Do you listen?’

“Can you hear?”

“Not coming back.”

“Is coming back.”

“Are you dead yet?”

She growled lowly as she gripped her hands to her head. She didn’t understand it when the voices got like that. Disembodied and trying to get her to answer riddles she didn’t even know the riddle too. Let alone the answer. Then she heard gunshots.

Gunshots.

She lowered her hands down.

“Flowers are blooming again.”

“Spring’s come again.”

“Shh.”

“Shhh.”

“Dead, dead. All of them dead.”

“Do you know you’re dead too?”

“Isn’t it funny?”

“Strange?”

“Aren’t you unique?”

“A whore.”

“He’s come back. With revenge.”

“Traitor.”

“Is that how it works?”

She walked over to the door, the shadows making her jump and paranoid. She didn’t understand. She touched the door. It felt cold to her. Was it real or was it fake? She could punch it, but that would lead to more questions rather than answers.

Silence.

Were the gunshots in her head?

The door clicked and she backed away. The door swung open and a man stood there. A man with a scuff and tired eyes. He was staring at her and she was staring at him. He drank her in like it was the first time in many years he was seeing her. Which wasn’t wrong.

“Tată?” Was he real? Had to be real. The light was too bright for it to be fake. The light was florescent and hurt her head. She could feel her nose drip with blood and her nails scratching at her arms. She waited on baited breath.

Was it her father?

Was it the Solider?

Did it honestly matter who walked in here?

What was real?

What was fake?

“Murderer.”

“Monster.”

“Assassin.”

“Ghost.”

“Story.”

“Fantasy?”

"It's time for you to go sweet thing. Take his hand and run."

"Run."

"<Anzhelina. Little Angel. Going to get you out of here>," he promised in Romanian. He walked towards her slowly, and handed her a Bowie knife, clasping metal and flesh hands around her tiny little one. She looked like hell and he tried very hard not to look around the room. This cell. She wouldn't be locked up anymore. He kept her by his side as they stormed out of it, "<Kill everyone you see.>" He knew he didn't have to worry about himself. She knew his mental pattern, recognized his arm.

Anzhelina looked at the knife, looked back up at Bucky and a smile curled on her face. She laughed and when a shot rang out, she turned around swiftly and threw the knife easily getting it embedded into the shooters head. She left her father's side to grab the knife back and stab the man in the neck just so he wouldn't have a chance to breathe.

Kill everyone you see.

She laughed like it was a new game. She didn't have to hold back. She knew he wouldn't hold back. She couldn't really remember the details of this new game. She knew it lasted hours. She knew that she went up and down and all over the place in the facility. She could recall the warm feeling of blood. Of innards strewn across. She could remember faces and faces.

She couldn't recall how many of them died violently or with just a snap of the neck. She couldn't remember how many of them she just shoved off the railing and laughed when they went splat on the ground, or how many piled up.

But sometimes she accidentally would get too close to her father's range of motion. Sometimes she killed his targets and felt bad. They were his targets and they weren't supposed to be messed with.

"Assassin."

"Murderer"

"Monster."

But the game grew cold when an explosion hit the building. Someone decided that they had enough of the fun. The walls came tumbling down and she let out a horrified scream when she saw that her father couldn't get away from the walls.

She ran over to him, bloody knife in hand. The game was over. They needed to go. She helped him get the rocks off of him, she looked around, waiting on baited breath to see if anyone was going to come after them but she had a feeling that no one was going to directly come after them anymore.

Another bomb was going to go off and she wasn't sure if they'd make out alive. She got him out and they shoved each other out of the building as the next explosion hit.

Someone wasn't very happy that everyone was dying on their watch.

Or maybe it was a fail safe that somehow, some way got triggered. That was more likely. Angelina was pretty certain that they were dead.

As dead as they could be.

"What is dead?"

"What is life?"

"Shh."

"Take his hand sweet thing.

It's time to run."

They ran and ran until they couldn't anymore. She wasn't sure of the distance, she knew the blood was caked and brown and rusted on her. She knew she looked like a horror show and her father not much better. She looked up at him, and she placed a careful hand on his metal arm.

He looked at her tired, exhausted, afraid.

She smiled brightly. "I knew you wouldn't leave me behind. Where to go now?" She paused. "Safe house. Somewhere."

James let out a bark of a laugh. It startled her but it grew louder and louder until it echoed in the Forrest surrounding them. He fell to his knees and wrapped her up in his tight grip, "<We're safe, baby girl. Now we go to a safe house, and I get you your information. Then...we go to New York and you get to meet Uncle Steve.>"

He was hugging her. Anzhelina's eyes widened as he forced her to fall with him when he hugged her tightly. She reached up and hugged him, at first with hesitance because he was hugging her. He never did that before, the programming wouldn't allow it. She couldn't remember a time where he did. She buried her face into his shoulder and squeezed, trying to hold back tears.

They were free.

He was hugging her.

They were free.

And for a blissful moment, all Anzhelina could hear and feel was complete joy. It was a feeling she never heard or felt in such a long time.

She was so glad that her tată allowed her hug to continue. She wasn't sure if she was ready to stop.

To break this bliss.

"<I missed you.>" Anzhelina felt her voice crack, felt tears on her cheeks. "<I love you.  I missed you a lot. I'm glad you came back for me. I missed you so much dad. You don't know. You don't know.>"

"<We will be okay. Come on, we shouldn't stay in one spot. Once in New York, the place we stay will be permanent until I contact Uncle Steve.>" James stood up, grasping her hand in his and they began moving again, "I am not Soldat anymore, fetiță. I am James Barnes," he informed her, switching to English.

"Tată." Anzhelina understood the message though. Hydra was never getting the Winter Solider. He had a claimed identity now. One he said with confidence. A last name she could share. She curled her hand around his, squeezing it as she murmured her own name, along with an attached last name for once. "Anzhelina Barnes. Is that okay?"

"That is more than okay. Its beautiful." James looked like he was on cloud nine, "Once at the safe house I will get your birth certificate and we will get your name legally changed. I taught you how to manage money, so once in New York I will get you a bank account and also a savings account. We are going to do things right from now on. Would you like an apartment or a house?"

A house would be a backyard but it would mean being far away from people. She thought about all the places that they ever been in and decided. "I want to go with you." She squeezed his hand. "A house is big, but we're just two people. Houses and apartments both have history. We should get an apartment. Not a small one. A decent size one. Uncle Steve might want to come over sometimes so we gotta make room for him. He's really board shouldered. Small apartment will be a doll house compared to him." She thought about it. "We do things right." She repeated. "What does that...mean?" She felt a little confused by that.

"No more fake IDs, or fake passports or credit cards," James listed, "I have a bank account as it is. Stolen money from the snakes, but that's just it. Hydra is the exception. No more killing. Non-lethal punishments if we come across any crime. Always stay undercover. No displaying our strength unless we can get away with it. That hasn't changed. No targets, no mission, except /one/. Uncle Steve. Mission override - end of the line. Mission: protect."

A protection mission. Angelina blinked. Uncle Steve knew how to override the Soldier's commands to give him identity. She nodded after a moment. "Okay." She looked down at the knife that she was holding. She was dangerous with it. She knew that giving it up meant trouble, but her father wanted a new start. She quietly walked over to a nearby tree and placed it by the trunk. She patted the tree and walked back. "The trees know what to do." Was all she could come up with. "Let's go. I'm tired."

~*~

It was a long haul, but after another month the two of them were settled in a huge two bedroom apartment. When you walked into it you came face to face with a wall, but then you turned right into a giant and long living room area. Turning left you'd see the coat closet and then turning right would lead you into the open and spacious kitchen. They were still missing furniture to make it look truly lived in, but for now they just had a three-person dark blue colored couch in front of the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony, but of course with plenty of room to walk behind it. It was /just/ long enough for James to stretch out on it and that had been the seller.

The coffee table was what they used to place their plates while they ate, not giving two shits about a dining table when they hadn't met anyone to invite as guests. They had bought a queen size for Angelina and then a king size bed for James, making sure they weren't too soft like a cloud but not so firm it felt like a rock. They'd must've laid on half a dozen beds in the store each and no doubt annoyed the shop keepers since they would lay on them for fifteen minutes each unless it was a really bad bed. Then the dressers. Angie liked light wood while he enjoyed dark wood, which he thought was interesting and assured her it was more than alright.

Clothes shopping to fill said dressers and the walk-in closet they shared. That had been a nightmare. They got a /few/ things from the mall like durable shoes and decent jackets, but for pants and shirts they'd gone to the nearest Goodwill. Two bathrooms. It was...definitely a luxury. They both slept in the master bedroom which had a bathroom attached so they had more or less divided it, compromising on colors that didn't look too bad together, while the spare bathroom was left with just a white hand-towel and plain soap. They really didn't see a use in it, but it was there.

The first time they met their neighbor across the hall they had been hauling groceries upstairs for their kitchen and the girl with sandy brown-blond hair with brown roots and amber brown eyes had held the door open for them. It had been near midnight and she was...in an interesting outfit.

"Thanks..." Angelina smiled at her though curiously looked at her. She wore bubblegum pink hair that was in slight waves, a beaded bikini top that was rainbow lepoards, and she had beaded bracelets that went all the way up to her elbow. The only normal thing that she was wearing was blue shorts. "Where are you going?"

"To a rave." The girl smiled brightly. "You must be the new neighbors that we were hearing about. I'm Zan. I live in 341."

"Two doors down," James noted, "339. Thank you for holding the door. I am sorry if we have been making a lot of noise moving in." He paused, "What is a rave?" He wasn't the one to ask questions like that, not really, but he could not comprehend why she would wear such a...revealing outfit. A part of him wanted to throw off his jacket and put it around her.

"It's a type of underground club that you go to." Zan explained. "It's a place where just for a night you can be someone else and you can get lost in the base. A club is alright, but...you can't find good D.J's there. Raves you can find /real/ good music. And I'm glad I was able to help out. You're actually disturbingly quiet for neighbors, but hey, I'm not complaining. If you need anything, you knock on my door. Though if you knock and it's early in the morning /please/ make tea or coffee. We'll love you forever."

"We?" James furrowed his brows, "Who's we?"

"I live with my twin brother." Zan rolled her eyes. "Only he doesn't rave. I call him boring but he's more into Cons than anything. So. At least I can get him out of the house /somehow/."

"What time?" Angelina asked tilting her head. "So we don't wake you up too early?"

"Eleven? Tenish?" Zan did a sea-saw motion. "Both Dylan and I can sleep for days especially since I'm raving tonight. I'm gonna be out like a light by the time I get back. But also I'm usually not here during the mornings. I work down by the cafe. It's only a ten minute walk if you head east."

"I remember walking by a few times. Yellow and black uniform?" James asked.

"The ones that make everyone look like bumble bees rather than sunflowers yeah." Zan winced.

James smiled just a tiny bit, a quirk at the lips, and nodded, "Well, okay. Maybe we'll drop by now we know someone who works there. Thank you again, you should get to your rave and we should get groceries inside before cold items melt."

"Don't want that." Zan grinned as she walked away, the door shutting behind her. Angelina watched her leave for a moment before following her dad up the stairs a few at a time.

"I like her." She said slowly.

"Do you?" James tilted his head at her, getting his keys off his belt-loops and unlocking their apartment door, "Did she have a good mind, fetiță?"

"She's really looking forward to dancing with bright lights." Angelina grinned as she walked into the apartment and shutting it with her foot since she was the last person in. "People dress in less than what she wore."

James swallowed. Practically /naked/ people? Ugh. He couldn't do something like that, even to go check it out he'd probably stay for 5 seconds. He didn't like going to /strip/ clubs let alone somewhere with head-pounding music. "If you would like..." he said after a long moment, pulling open the freezer and piling stuff in there the most efficient way possible, "You may go talk to her twin in the morning. It's not too far away."

Angelina covered her eyes. "It wasn't like that! I mean kind of??? But not that! No Stop thinking! You're making it worse! Daaaaddddd!!!!!"

James was blushing as red as his shirt now, "You /started/ it! If you make good friends with our neighbors and go to any rave you will not wear less than you would at the pool!" he told her. Bikini, tankini, whatever. What Zan wore was nudging at his boundaries, even, but bikinis these days were awful for covering anything up anyway. "At least August is still a warm month or she would be freezing."

Angelina burst into laughter and shook her head, hip checking her dad on the process of putting away bread in the drawer. "I don't think I'd ever do something like that." She shuddered. "She's braver than me. For that anyway. I can talk to her twin in tomorrow. Maybe. Probably. I think I'd want to see if she comes home okay. Dangerous to leave this late."

"Okay. Just know you have my permission," James ruffled her hair, "We are doing good. I think tomorrow I will go for a run, follow Uncle Steve around Prospect Park again without him knowing."

"We're not contacting him?" Angelina's eyebrows furrowed.

"Not quite yet...if you want to, you can, but try not to tell him your last name. I want to," James murmured, "But I am not ready to answer his questions yet. He will have a lot."

Angelina wondered how that was going to work. Would Steve think that she was a fan and would brush her off? Or would he see her as something else? She wondered about that. She walked over to her dad and hugged him. "Okay."

~*~

Knocking. He was brushing his teeth when he heard the first knock and he peeked his head around the corner of the bathroom at the door. Who the /hell/? Zan was unconscious in her room so it wasn't her. There was another knock, this time with the most /adorable/ shout of a girl saying "I have coffee!" and he just...he was brought out of his shock when his tongue started to tingle from the toothpaste sitting too long so he quickly finished up and headed for the door, "I'm coming!" he called, voice raspy from gargling water. He opened the door just as the thought crossed his mind he should have brushed his hair, as it was standing up every direction possible.

"Here." Angelina said when he opened the door. His thoughts were innocent and sincere. His hair was the first concern and the second was the coffee and that it was her own dish rather than a Styrofoam cup, which meant she brewed it. He was curious about her, clearly trying to place her in his memory. "I met Zan last night. She held the door for us. We're two doors away from you." She pointed over at her apartment. "I'm Angelina."

Blinking. Slowly. "Whut?" he said stupidly. Before she could repeat he looked down the hall in time to see the tall dark and brooding guy who'd he'd seen in passing hauling furniture with a towel around his neck and unlocking the door, decked out in running gear. "Is that your dad?" he asked secondly. Well, at least that was a lot more coherent sentence. "Angelina? Zan said to come meet me?"

Angelina pushed the coffee towards Dylan to force him to take it. "That's my dad." She felt fear click into her heart and she started realizing that she was talking to a stranger. She looked over at her dad and he gave her an raised eyebrow. His facial expression and thoughts were very firm. There was /no/ way she was getting back into that apartment without a five minute or ten minute conversation with this man.

She was screwed.

"Coffee. Black." She said after a moment. "That's my dad. We're weird." She pursed her lips together. "Zan left late last night. I was worried. She's home though, so I'm glad." She nodded a few times. "She said she had a twin."

"I...like weird people," Dylan nodded respectfully to the man and that seemed to be all he needed, going into the apartment and shutting the door, and he could hear the lock click from there. Welp. "Did Zan tell you to bring coffee?" he smiled kindly, taking the cup and stepped aside, allowing her into his apartment.

Their apartment was colored the same way, but they had a lot more furniture and clutter. There was a /bunch/ of framed fan art and a few framed family pictures that were on the walls or on the coffee table or on the lamp tables. The dining table was only big enough to sit four and the kitchen had more dishes in the sink than necessary.

She walked over towards one of the pictures. It was of a woman and a man with cherry blossoms. There was another one that was of Captain America holding onto a Bucky Bear (signed by Steve himself. She was going to guess it was Dylan's but...). There was also some that had a lot of weird people in weird costumes and hair colors carrying swords, or dressed with a symbol on the their forehead, or had animals on their shoulders or arms.

"I like the art." Angelina complimented. She knew better than to be rude. Her dad would have her hide. "Who got Un-Steve with the Bucky Bear?"

"It was one of the very rare days that Steve brought his big sketchbook to the shop and drew it up the entire shift Zan was working, and then signed it and gave it to her just after she clocked off and was heading out the door," Dylan grinned widely, "She'd just finished a history paper on Bucky Barnes and interviewed him and I guess Steve got sentimental or something. He was still pretty banged up from his fight, too, so it was definitely a treat she wasn't expecting."

Oh no. Angelina wondered if Zan knew that she ran into him last night or if she just shrugged it off because the clean cut military picture wouldn't look /anything/ like the man that was in the apartment. "Steve must like her." Angelina mused.

"He treats her like a little sister or something, it's pretty cute. Calls her doll and she calls him sugar. It's their little inside joke," Dylan sipped the coffee and nearly choked, "It's black!"

"I told you I didn't put anything in it." Angelina chided.

"I totally missed that. Oh my god." Dylan was horrified. He immediately headed for the kitchen and set the cup down, then opened the fridge and produced a gigantic bottle of french vanilla creamer, pouring a little bit into the cup and then grabbed the sugar jar from the cupboard, putting a few scoops in, stirred, tried it, and nodded in relief, "That's so much better."

Angelina just stared at him and shrugged. "Luxury." Was all she had to explain that.

"You. No. Come here and /try/ this and then look me in the eye and tell me you don't need creamer in your life," Dylan pointed at the floor in front of him, demanding.

Angelina walked over and took the cup from him. She blew on it before taking a drink. She wasn't certain what she thought about it. It made the coffee go down easier and there was much less of a metallic aftertaste too. "Oh." She murmured as she carefully handed the cup back to him. "That is different."

Dylan practically /sparkled/ at her with his grin, "There are a lot of flavors of creamer. I love hazelnut the best but sometimes I switch it up for french vanilla, which is what that is. Do you guys not have sugar over there for cooking, even?"

Did they have sugar? She couldn't remember if that was on the grocery list. They bought perishables. They bought canned food. They bought meat and frozen vegetables and a bunch of cookbooks. Sugar was probably in there, but Angelina kind of doubted it. Food was a necessary. Sweets was kind of on the back burner. "I don't think we do..."

"BLASPHEMER!" Dylan bellowed, and he had the twinge of fear about waking his sister for about half a second, "You. Me. Grocery shopping. Yes? I need some things, too, so it's not like it's out of my way and I will show you the /light/!"

You can't!" Angelina looked panicked. "It's expensive and what we'll we do with it besides coffee?!"

"Magical things, my dear Angie," Dylan grinned wickedly at her, "Money's not a problem, I swear."

Her father was going to flip his shit and it wasn't even ironic that Angelina had that fleeting thought.

~*~