Chapter Text
1 - 1960
The mission was simple. Infiltrate the upper levels of the building and eliminate the Unknown that lived there. The location was a coffee shop in the middle of Brooklyn - for some reason the location had him blinking twice. He recognized it. He didn’t know if he’d been here before, but he shouldn’t be able to recognize… Focus on the mission.
As far as infiltrations go, this one was relatively simple. He waited until dark, pulled himself through the open window that faced the alley and positioned himself silently just below the sill. The room was very dark and it looked mostly empty. An old steamer trunk was pushed to the far back corner, and old furniture was piled up. Only a small wireframe bed suggested that someone might have lived there. From intel and surveillance he knew that the Master bedroom faced the street and a small bathroom was either attached to it or was just opposite from the room he was currently in.
Quietly, and taking great care not to disturb anything, he moved out of the room and entered a narrow hallway. With no sign of a bathroom to hide in he had to be quick. He took a moment to bring himself under control again. The mission called for stealth and surprise. He couldn’t be seen by the subject unless his death was guaranteed. That was the primary directive - stay hidden, stay secret.
Breathing out once more he strained to hear any noises from the bedroom or the cafe beneath. Checking his watch he noted that the cafe would only be open for another ten minutes or so, meaning he had to be ready by the time the target came upstairs.
He checked the hall again. Empty and quiet. Taking care not to rush too much, he slid down the hallway. He was a ghost - but he had underestimated how familiar the target was with Dead Things.
He slid into the man’s room and took up a position in the shadow of a large wardrobe. The window was just beside him, which kept the moonlight from touching his boots. The standing lamp that was beside the door served to replace the overhead light, a missing lightbulb that had yet to be replaced. Standing draped in the shadows of the room, he waited.
The soldier had drifted into a trance as he waited, and the creak of the stairs had him alert. Quietly, he drew his knife and waited. He was at an angle that would make shooting his target inadvisable. Plus that would lead to unneeded attention and a difficult exit strategy. Holding the knife in such a way as to hide the blade and stop any reflections, he waited. He was a predator in the night, waiting for his prey.
The man who entered the room was short and skinny. His hair was cropped short in the sensible styles of the day and he had a knitted sweater that sort of swallowed his whole frame. He looked so familiar. A flash of blue eyes and a wide grin, only shadowed by heavy bruising around the chin. Blonde hair instead of brown. He tried to shake away the phantom of a memory - he shouldn’t be having such thoughts. He had no one, knew no one. He was a shadow. A ghost.
“You’re certainly not like any ghost I’ve ever met,” the target said. He was sitting on his bed, staring directly into the small corner where he had so carefully lay in wait. His handlers would not be pleased.
“No I imagine they won’t.” He felt the intensity of the green eyes that stared through him. He wasn’t used to stares like that. The target looked at him like he saw the man that was buried underneath everything.
“I see you, James Barnes. And you are not going to kill me.”
“You know me?”
“And it seems you do not know me. After all we went through, you and I.” The Soldier did not know what the target was talking about. He had only seen this man in pictures in briefings. He had no history with him, just as he had no future.
“I do not know you.” The Soldier didn’t know why he was hesitating. He had a mission. His hesitance would only be seen as defiance. He was already facing disciplinary action for being detected, delaying the inevitable would only make it worse.
“You know me James. Or would you respond better to Bucky?” The soldier felt himself go cold. And suddenly he felt like he was a passenger in his own body. Something - someone - else was in charge.
“Ha-ry…” his mouth choked out. His knees felt weak and he tried to use the side of the wardrobe as support but he fell to his knees anyway.
“Help me!” The body was trying to drop the knife, but the Soldier managed to hold on. He was fighting hard. The body should not be doing this. The target approached slowly, staying just outside of immediate striking distance. He met the Soldiers eyes and a sudden sharp pain in his head had him forcing the body to look away.
“Oh dear. This is a bit beyond my power. Two minds, stuffed into one… must be terribly crowded,” the target smiled sardonically but took another step forward.
“Harry… no…” The target made little shushing noises as he inched closer. Close enough to touch him. The body was trying to warn him. The Soldier could feel another consciousness pushing on his hand that held the knife. He couldn’t yield. He pushed back.
“It’s alright. I’ll do what I can for you.” The target brought his finger up to ghost along his temples. The pressure in his head became three-fold. Someone else was there in his head. The body was whimpering pleas and desperate “no’s” but the soldier was fighting in earnest now. A deep seated fight for his life was happening. Whoever this man was, he could enter their minds. Destroy them. Destroy him! For all the people he had killed, the lives he had ruined, he did not want to die. He feared it more than anything. And that was what turned the tide. His mind snapped back into place at the forefront of his mind. He stabbed hard and deep. He felt the shocked gasp of air across his face and he stabbed again. The target fell backwards, his hand coming up to grab at the most dangerous wounds. Gasping and in shock. He would be dead soon. The voice in the back of his mind was screaming, cursing, crying. The soldier left before he could confirm his target was dead.
Had he stayed… everything that came later might not have.
“I should have seen that coming,” Harry groaned. All in all, that wasn’t the worst of deaths he had ever experienced. But Death was currently on the floor (if the black void they inhabited between worlds had a floor) crying with laughter. Death didn’t get much in the way of entertainment, beyond what fucking with Harry provided him, so he had a rather warped sense of humour. Watching his master be stabbed to death by a dear friend seemed to tick all the boxes.
“Just send me back already! I don’t want to be late opening tomorrow.” Harry grumbled, brushing some imaginary lint off of his clothes.
“Must wait for the Master's body to heal again.” Death said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Right, right, right. Not like you have a schedule or anything that needs keeping.” To say theirs was a contentious relationship would be an understatement.
Harry felt his amusement drip from him as he considered his most recent death. James “Bucky” Barnes had stabbed him to death. He’d actually stabbed him to death with a goddamn knife and everything. The Bucky that preferred to work as a sniper because he thought fighting face to face made it too personal for him to do his bit. The Bucky that had spent a night in his arms trying to stop him from bleeding out from a stray bullet wound, who had cried over him. Something wasn’t right about the whole situation.
“What happened to him?”
“Your human friend?” Death asked, his customary hiss once again devoid of humour. “He has been touched by my reapers several times, but never could they take him. They recount tales of torture, my master. Of pain and anguish and humiliation so great that one man could not bear it all. Tales of a man remade in the image of a monster.” Harry could feel the savage glee in Death’s sibilant hisses. They may have come to an understanding, but Death couldn’t help but revel in the pain Harry felt.
“Send me back.” Harry turned away and refused to look at Death.
“Pouting is unbecoming of my master.”
“Well pettiness is unbecoming of Death. The supposed equalizer of all things. Send me back.” Death was silent. Waiting and watching to see what Harry would do. But Harry had resolved himself. Death would get the silent treatment if he continued on like this.
“This is as it must be Master. He is part of why I sent you to that world.” He paused for a moment, waiting. Harry didn’t say anything, but he knew Death had calmed slightly. The almost manic glee was blessedly absent from his voice. He had taken on a similar tone to how Snape used to speak. Deep and melodic, calming when quiet but terrifying when roused.
“James Barnes will be an instrument in the wars to come. He is a catalyst for great victory, but also to great loss. His choice will break the only weapon against the deaths to come, or will ensure them. As it stands he has two choices. I hope that you may offer a third.”
And without further ado, Death sent him hurtling back to earth with nothing but cryptic hints to go off of.
The morning after his Death. Harry opened the store as usual, completely unaware of the fury he caused a Certain Organization.