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The new cell looks exactly like the one he’s already broken out of, which makes Bucky’s heart sink as he’s marched in. Sharon is behind him, flanked by half a dozen agents with loaded semi-automatics. Bucky doubts those would matter either if it came down to it.
She steps aside and gestures wordlessly to the chair with the open restraints. He takes his seat, slots his arms and legs where they’re meant to go, and leans his head back, looking out at nothing. He doesn’t even flinch as they lock into place.
“You had a chance, you know,” she says softly, not angry but not sympathetic either, “Before this.”
Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that so he just looks down at his lap. He wants to offer an apology for hurting her, because he can see the dark bruise growing down the left side of her face from her temple to her jaw, but he can’t find adequate words. I’m sorry would never cut it, not in a thousand years, and it’s not like she owes him forgiveness anyway.
An older man in a dark suit clears his throat from the entrance to the little room. Sharon and her squad turn to leave but Bucky hears an officer say softly: “Sir, you shouldn’t be alone with him.”
The agents hesitate as the suit considers this.
“Half of you stay,” he says after a beat, “The other half, keep an eye on Rogers and Wilson. Two eyes. Close ones.”
Three of the agents nod and leave. Sharon turns to follow them, but the suit grabs her arm to stop her and he says, “Not you.”
“Sir?” She’s the face of professionalism, but she steps out of his grip with pointed dislike.
“You stay away from Rogers. I want that doctor found by end-of-day.”
“Yes sir,” she says coolly and leaves without a second glance. Bucky probably shouldn’t be listening, probably isn’t supposed to be able to listen through the glass: the mics are off but the voices, soft as they are, are barely muffled. He listens anyway, without intent. They’re already underestimating him again.
The three armed agents, all men, arrange themselves to cover the exit: one left, one right, one dead center in the entranceway. Bucky doesn’t look up but he can’t help the habit of tracking them in his peripheral vision. He watches the suit stride over to him and fumble with something in his pocket. Small, rectangular. About the size of a deck of cards. Other than that, he doesn’t seem armed.
He taps at his lapel where there’s a small microphone affixed. Feedback echoes through the small cell and Bucky blinks in response. He was trained better than to react any more than that.
“I’m not afraid of you, you know,” the suit says into the mic, and wow isn’t that a convincing opener, “This show of . . . meekness isn’t convincing anyone. What, you’re just going to keep your head down, not speak ‘til spoken to, until you get another chance to bust out?”
Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have anything to say. He’ll answer questions, but he doesn’t engage with assholes unless he has to.
“Do you know how many people you killed?”
He asks himself that question every damned day. It’s probably in the hundreds somewhere, weighing on him heavier than these chains they’ve got him in. The more he remembers, the more the kill count goes up, the heavier it gets. Bucky’s half-surprised the ground hasn’t swallowed him up; the evil of the world clearly isn’t through with him yet.
“Three are dead,” the suit hisses, standing right up against the glass door, “You put four more in critical care. And that’s just today.”
What does he want him to say? Sorry? It’s laughably inadequate for the blood on his hands.
In a sudden change in demeanor, the suit straightens up and sticks his hands in his pants pockets. He has a plastic smile stuck to his face, “I guess I haven’t introduced myself properly. My name is Agent Ross, and I’m in charge of your internment here now.”
He pulls the mystery object out of his pocket and shows it to Bucky. It’s a remote start, like in a set of car keys, but larger.
“Low amps, high voltage,” Ross says, “Stark’s idea. Shouldn’t mess with your heart too much, wouldn’t want such a nice guy like you going to into cardiac arrest.”
He hits the only button. Bucky jolts as his left fingers spasm and the whole arm goes slack. Now that it’s dead he can barely feel anything - mostly just fuzz in his shoulders, pins and needles as if his whole arm had just gone to sleep.
Maybe they hadn’t underestimated him. Good. They’d used the hours he’d spent in the holding cell wisely. There must be contact points in the restraints on the left side, because no one had gotten close enough to put anything directly on him. That was smart. Stark was sharper than Bucky’d given him credit for.
“I’ll take it from here, Agent Ross.” Natalia’s voice had him sitting up before he knew he was reacting to it. Ross noticed, because as much as he was a bastard, his eyes were sharp and he was clearly a senior agent for a reason.
She’s taking in the cage of glass and metal, the hastily modified restraints. Maybe she, like him, sees how little has really changed even in light of his escape.
Attempted escape, Bucky reminds himself, as he’s still here with an electrical pulse ringing in his deadened arm. But that’s not exactly right either. Everything’s changed, in a way.
Because he knows her. Recognizes her, knows her by name. Knows of her as well, a prized Soviet operative who defected to S.H.I.E.L.D. in the 1990s. She is proof that he had a past, a history after dying as Bucky Barnes in a frozen ravine in 1945 and awakening as the Winter Soldier in a burning helicarrier in 2014. There’s something important there, in that missing time. Natalia is the only proof he has.
She looks right at Bucky and then away. Her eyes seem to linger on him for a moment, but he thinks that a soft warmth in his chest is to blame for that. This must be what hope feels like. What he’s hoping for however, he doesn’t know.
Ross is the one to shatter the silence. He covers his microphone with his hand and shuts it off, but Bucky can still clearly hear him say, “I can’t leave you alone with him, Ms. Romanoff. You have no clearance.”
“The Accords were never signed, Agent Ross,” Natalia smiles, but it’s a little predatorial, “I’m here on my authority as a part of the Avengers.”
“You can’t possibly be recruiting him,” Ross almost shrieks, “He killed three of my agents-”
Her expression goes cold and sharp then, and she drops the pretense, “The code words that the doctor used to give him orders, are in Russian. The Winter Soldier was a Soviet operative before he was used by H.Y.D.R.A. Do you speak Russian, Agent Ross?”
“I heard him with the doctor, he can speak English just fine.”
“Then I’m just your translator. In case you need me.” she holds up her hands. To all appearances she was conceding but Bucky has picked up on her game.
“Fine,” Ross grits out, and with a glance to his armed agents turns the mic back on, “Soldier.”
Bucky raises his head, looks up at Ross like that’s the word that snaps him back to reality. Like he hasn’t been listening in. The suddenly eye contact seems to mildly startle the agent; Bucky glances over to Natalia instead.
He takes a moment to consider what to say. How he wants to play this out. How can he bury the real conversation in an interrogation that will probably be transcripted and analysed the world over. He says in perfect Russian, “[I want to talk to her.]”
“He wants to talk to me,” Natalia says, not waiting to be asked.
A charged silence falls over the three of them. Ross makes a motion - go on.
She steps closer to the cage. Bucky can’t sit up any straighter, so he tilts his head to the side and watches her eyes.
“[I know you,]” Bucky says slowly, “[I could've killed you.]”
Natalia’s watching him too, and he reads the recognition there, the extra layer of communication that needs no words and suddenly he knows that he’s had this with her before. They don’t need to speak to understand one another.
“He says he knows me,” she tells Ross, gaze sliding away from Bucky, “We’ve fought each before. He’s probably talking about D.C.”
“Who do you work for?” Demands Ross.
“[You're hiding, Black Widow,]” Bucky murmurs, and he knows it’s the truth from the way Natalia’s shoulders tense, “[Behind him. You didn't expect me to remember.]”
“[You don't remember.]” She says, loudly enough that it’s believable he picked her voice up through the mic.
“[But I know. I know enough].”
Ross is getting frustrated with the exchange, “Who is it? What’s he saying?”
Natalia ignores him and pins Bucky with her glare, “[Answer his question.]”
The game is over then. Her face is inscrutable now: a part of Bucky considers that he imagined the connection earlier, that it was only a spider’s web. Whatever information she wanted she must’ve gotten from him somehow, though Bucky can’t imagine what he’s given away that she doesn’t already know.
“I don’t work for anyone,” Bucky says, directly to Ross, dropping the facade. He glares at him, “I got out.”
“People like you never get out.” Natalia steps away from the glass.
Ross throws up his hands, “Oh, so we’re back to English?”
“They taught me about two dozen languages,” Bucky spits out, “I get confused.”
Ross barks out a bitter laugh.
Bucky’s watching Natalia again as she abruptly turns on her heel and stalks towards the hallway.
“And where are you going?!” shouts Ross, taking an aborted step in her direction.
“To track down the other Soldiers,” she says over her shoulder, “You look like you’ve got a handle on him.”
She's running and hiding, maybe. The other Soldiers are a real threat, one that should taken seriously, but Bucky knows it's him she's turning her back on. As he watches Ross gape at her, Bucky is strangely proud to know that he was not the only man in the room being played.