Chapter Text
Snow drifted upon the ground from an unfamiliar sky that was beyond foreign; in fact, he knew it was alien. He was walking through the desolate landscape; the horizon was a shade of purple he'd never seen on Earth, with an eclipsed sun providing the only light. The shrouded star's pink hue glinted across water pools and rippled dunes. He stood before a towering mountain too straight to have occurred naturally. He climbed as drifts of snow ruffled at his hair, but it didn't melt on touching his skin, nor was it cold. The planet was eerily quiet; he appeared to be the only person here. At the top of the mountain, he thought he saw something or someone. He squinted against the unnatural light as he walked towards the shape. Yes, it was a person, a woman dressed all in black, a long plait running down her back, a red braid the end tipped blonde. But it couldn't be her; it was impossible. The figure turned, and even at that distance, he saw hope and recognition flicker across her features.
"James?" his whispered name upon her lips.
"Natalia!" Bucky sat up on the floor of his apartment, wrestling himself out of the blanket. His hand instinctively went for the dog tags about his chest. The dream again, the nightmare. The planet Barton had told him of where Natasha had sacrificed herself to undo what had been done- Vormir. So vivid and real as though he'd been there rather than Barton, but he hadn't, and now Barton's memory was his recurring nightmare.
He pulled himself from the floor and walked over to the full-length windows overlooking Brooklyn. The skyline had changed significantly from when he and Steve had lived here; it had been the natural city to return to despite no family or friends. The pale blue light was barely perceptible over the high-rise shimmering towers; dawn was breaking. Bucky was a terrible sleeper since Hydra, although he no longer drank vodka by the bottle nightly to aid in what sleep he got. However, his use of sleeping apparatus hadn't changed; he rarely used his bedroom or bed when resting. Feeling his usual sense of agitation and unease following the nightmare, Bucky decided to go about his morning routine.
Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred, he lowered himself off the bar with an almost silent pad of his bare feet onto the wooden floor. Sitting, he began his sit-ups, watching the sunrise hues through the doorway: pink, orange, yellow and white. One, two, three. Next would be the press-ups, one-handed like the pull-ups, right arm only. When you were a super-soldier with a bionic left arm, using both arms or just the left felt like cheating.
Bucky stood in his boxers in his kitchen after his workout, sipping at a steaming cup of black coffee; his hair, still damp from the shower, was combed and tucked neatly behind his ears, the ends almost dry. He was considering what to do about the nightmare. Should he speak to Sam? Sam knew how he suffered nightly, but then the nightmares had been memories; this was different. He hadn't been on Vormir; he'd been snapped away by Thanos, just like Sam and billions of others, nothing but ash and a memory, a legacy and not a particularly good one at that. Captain America's best and oldest friend turned brain-washed assassin turned would-be Avenger? He took another sip of coffee, stopping his mind from burrowing down the rabbit hole he feared falling deeper into.
If Sam was at the new Avengers compound, perhaps today he should go. Sam and others had previously asked him to join them, but everything was different. No one was in charge; it felt disorganised, and he certainly didn't want to take the reigns; no one did. It was strange that following the snap and his return into a time that did not feel like his home, he was one of the only ones coping. Wanda had disappeared after the incident with the Hex in New Jersey. Barton had tried to retire again or, at the very least, withdraw to be with his family but had been caught up in something involving the assassin Ronin and the crime lord King Pin in New York. Thor was off-world, as was Carol. Bruce was withdrawn, focused on something to do with ancient intergalactic rings. Scott and Hope were present, but without Tony, Natasha or Steve, who led those that were left? Sam? He'd taken up the mantle of Captain America after the incident with Carly and the flag smashers with some gentle nudging, but no one, including Sam, wanted that responsibility. The Avengers were scattered, divided and leaderless.
A persistent rap at his door made him turn his head. Other than Sam, no one came here. No one. He stood motionless, listening. Whoever was on the other side of the door was male, breathing hard and anxious. The knocking came again with a hiss, "Open the door, man."
Bucky recognised the voice, paced over, and opened the door; he barely had time to register who he knew it was before they barged past him and into his apartment.
"Morning Barton, won't you come in!" he exclaimed sarcastically.
"Shut the door!" Barton demanded.
Bucky peered into the empty hallway and closed the door, staring at the morning intruder awaiting an explanation.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Barton?" Barton was pacing, muttering to himself. "Clint?"
Clint paused, considering, appearing not to have heard him. He looked at Bucky, about to speak, but another knock on the door interrupted them both. Bucky turned to his door, exasperated.
"I know you're in there," a female voice thick with a Russian accent called through the door.
"That's why," Clint replied in a hushed tone.
"Who the Hell is that?" Bucky whispered furiously, pointing at his door.
Barton beckoned him silently away from the door, "Natasha's sister."
Bucky froze as memories of his time with Natasha played in his mind like a perfect movie reel. Conversations in the dark of night about Steve, Rebecca, and her false family as a child, including a little sister - Yelena. He shook his head, not wanting to relive what had happened next and the heartache it would cause, as he followed Barton to the other side of the room.
"Why is she here, Barton? Why are you here?"
"Well, last time I saw her, she tried to kill me. Decided not to take the chance again. She's a widow."
"As in lost her husband tragically?" Bucky knew the answer, Natasha had told him, but the conversation to explain had been postponed until after the battle and never came, but he could hope.
Barton shook his head, "Like Natasha, and just as good. Lethal."
"Great. Well, thanks for that."
"I'm sorry, man, you were closest."
Bucky rubbed his face; how was it this early, and already there was drama? He needed a life- a real life.
"I'll get some clothes. You, make yourself scarce," Bucky pointed to his balcony as he went to his room. "I'll speak to her alone. Go." Bucky heard his balcony window open and felt a gust of cold air as he entered his bedroom, retrieving jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He paused at his bedside table to grab his leather gloves.
There was no sign of Barton in his kitchen as he stood to peer through his door. On the other side stood a blonde woman looking pissed off.
"I can hear you in there."
He took a breath and put on his best attempt at a genuine smile as he opened the door in what he hoped was a friendly manner.
"Hi. Sorry, I was in the shower. Can I help you?"
The woman was taken aback, but only momentarily, "Where is Barton?"
"Who?"
She looked confused but stood her ground, unwilling to leave. Bucky studied her carefully; this woman was a Widow, and he would not underestimate her.
"Clint Barton, Hawkeye, the Avenger. I tracked him here."
"Hawkeye! Wow. I'm really sorry, but I don't know him. You sure you tracked him here?"
"дерьмо." Shit. She cursed in Russian and scanned the corridor, checking her phone. Bucky caught her whisper to herself about needing to speak to Clint. In her native tongue, he replied.
"Добро пожаловать, если хотите." You're welcome to come in if you like.
She gave him a surprised but appreciative side-long look, "You're Russian."
"Нет, просто работал там какое-то время." No, just, uh, worked there for a while, he said, throwing the door open and stepping aside.
"Your accent is flawless," she commented as she stepped in.
"Thank you."
She surveyed him closely, watching his every move, "You seem very familiar; do I know you?"
"I think I'd remember if we'd met," he replied, attempting to sound casual.
"Why?"
Bucky turned; she looked perplexed, and he cleared his throat as he tried to think of a good reason that didn't make him sound insane or like he was flirting. Honesty. Always stick with a semblance of truth; far easier that way.
"I, uh, have an identic memory, so I'd remember if we'd met before; I'd know." He smiled again, making him aware that he was smiling too much. "You're welcome to take a look around. Can I get you a coffee?"
"Black, no sugar, thank you," she replied before checking the areas of Bucky's apartment.
He stood listening in his kitchen as he prepared two coffees, listening to her subtly checking every area of his apartment almost silently. With few possessions and fewer hiding places, it wasn't long before she returned.
"It's a nice apartment, very clean, clinical," she eyed the folded blanket and pillow on the chair opposite the TV.
"Thank you, here," he placed the coffee in front of her on the island in his kitchen.
She took it, and he sipped his. The moment he lowered his eyes to his cup, he knew he heard the gun removed from the holster and the safety click.
He gave a nervous smile and a sigh as he put the coffee back on the countertop.
"Shit."
"I know who you are, Winter Soldier."
"I don't go by that anymore. What gave me away?"
"Your gloves."
"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I have very poor circulation," he queried. She stood silently watching as he nodded before removing his right glove and then his left, flexing his dark, metallic fingers at her.
She didn't reply or even budge, just held her gun at him unflinchingly. "Plus, there is a picture of you with Captain America in your bedroom from like 1917."
"Hey," he pointed at her angrily, not caring about the gun, "that photo is from World War II, not World War I. I wasn't born till 1917. I'm 105, not 135." He dropped his finger and regained his composure, casually picking up the cup, leaning on the counter and taking a sip of his coffee, "As a widow, you should know your history, Yelena." He watched, gratified, as her brows furrowed at the sound of her name.
"How do you know my name?"
"Your sister, Natasha, she told me about you."
He noticed misunderstanding wash across her face, instantly replaced by determinism.
"Where is Barton?"
"Put the gun down, Yelena; I'm not a threat to you."
"Huh, I heard the stories about you, the assassin, Winter Soldier, fist of Hydra. I'm not taking any chances."
"I'm not a killer anymore, just like you."
"Well, then, you were fooling yourself. Pain and suffering is every day, and we are both still a trained killer."
"I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Buchanan Barnes," he stretched his hand out to her in offering, "or Bucky, if you like."
She eyed his hand and then returned to his face; the gun didn't move.
"Yelena, I know how it feels; I do."
"What you're talking about, what you went through was psychological conditioning; what I suffered was chemically altering brain functions; it's two completely different things."
Bucky took a step forward and breathed; he had her sympathy. Decades of being frozen, mind wipes, it wasn't the same as what the Widow programme had done, but it was a pain he understood as no other could.
"Fully conscious, but you don't know which part is you. Some small piece is in there, watching like a passenger in your own body. You struggle to break free, but you lose over and over again till you stop fighting."
Yelena's stone-cold persona fluttered, and the gun in her hand lowered slightly. He'd hit a nerve.
"Unless you're 100% sure you can hit me here," he touched the centre of his skull, "before I can move and stop you, that gun is pointless. No one has managed yet, not Tony, not Steve and not Natasha. So put it down, come on, let's talk."
He watched her consider, swallow and chew her lip before putting the safety back on and placing the gun on the counter.
"Bucky," he extended his hand again, and this time she shook it.