Chapter Text
James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is recovering.
At least, that’s what he’s trying his best to convince everybody.
His days in Wakanda are bygone now, cut far too short by a war, and then a blip, and then another war, and then the American government getting antsy for retribution without giving him a damn break. Why they landed on intense cognitive behavioral therapy and his list of amends, he has no idea. It’s far less violent (and far more tedious) than Bucky thinks he deserves.
He made sure never to repeat that sentiment in front of Steve when his reaction reminded Bucky that it is, in fact, not normal to wish violent punishment upon oneself. He would’ve jokingly chalked it up to masochism if his best friend didn’t look like he was about to cry.
Those were the early days of his recovery. Now, Bucky isn’t just surviving, but “thriving” (according to the sarcastic report he gave Dr. Raynor three months into their weekly sessions—she didn’t seem to appreciate his frankly dishonest use of the latest internet term he had learned). The government official assigned to his case either didn’t catch onto or couldn’t care less about said sarcasm, hence why Bucky is now being assigned to team missions with the Avengers. An opportunity to “shape his future” after “correcting his past,” the man had said. A poorly disguised excuse to finally have his skillset in the field.
Why are people always making him fight? He doesn’t want to fight anymore. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied on that report.
A Hydra base the Avengers had no previous knowledge of popped up on their radar a week ago. The convenience of it all was suspicious, to say the least, but it was too good a lead to ignore after so long without one. All possible research revealed a high chance of useful intel and no inherent danger. The entire facility was abandoned, along with, they assumed, the security system that kept it hidden to begin with.
That was the hope, at least. Bucky came to learn that the Avengers worked off of hope more often than not (foolishly, he might add).
(Dr. Raynor would call him a pessimist and ask how he could reframe that thought. He hates that she’s gotten in his head.)
As the quinjet descends on untouched Siberian snow, Bucky observes the other members of this handpicked team—Natasha, Clint, Steve, and himself—mentally run through their gear as if it's second nature. He’s already done so thirteen times en route, but he figures another once-over couldn’t hurt.
Arm, check. Comms, check. Gun, check. Gun, check. Knife, check. Knife, check. Knife, check-
“Alright, you all read the file. This is a get-in-get-out mission. Nat, Buck, your job is to access the main database and collect any information we don’t already have. Clint and I are here to watch your backs in case of an enemy attack.”
“Why don’t they provide Russian classes at the compound? Maybe I’d like to collect data once in a while-”
A dull smack sounds as Natasha hits Clint upside the head, followed by a hushed ‘dude, you’re gonna knock my hearing aids out’ before Steve clears his throat and continues, “Any questions?” Silence, as there always is. “Make sure to keep your comms open and stay alert. Move out.”
The icy crunch under his feet could barely be heard over the rough winter winds, and no amount of super serum could stop the instinctual watering of his eyes against such frigid air. At least some part of him was still human, he thinks. (Reframe, Dr. Raynor’s voice butts in. He hates therapy.)
Crunch of snow becomes clunk of steel-toed boots on metal flooring. Get in, get out. In his peripheral vision, he sees Romanoff and Barton split off towards the opposite end of the building. Bucky knows the ease of their break-in means they were most likely walking into a trap. It wasn’t his opinion to have, though, let alone share.
(“Yes, it is.” Steve would remind him. “You can speak freely, you know that, right? No one’s gonna…” He never finished that sentence. Bucky could fill in the blanks.)
Get in, get out. Bucky takes a deep breath in through his nose and forces it out through his mouth as they pass a blood-red skull, his throat bobbing against the feeling of phantom tentacles wrapping around it. Right foot, left foot. Keep pistol steady. He surveys left hallways, Steve surveys right. He memorized the known parts of the facility’s layout in preparation, and the one of two control rooms they’re infiltrating should only be one right, two floors down, and two lefts away. They reach it within minutes. It shouldn’t be this easy, Bucky reaffirms, and he knows he’s not alone by the extra scrutiny written in the deepened lines of Steve’s face. He’s more tense than usual, one hand squeezed slightly tighter around his own pistol as the other flexes behind his shield.
If Bucky wasn’t so focused on decoding files upon files of highly encrypted Hydra jargon, he’d laugh at the irony of their vibranium counterparts. He’d reminisce on the days when he played defense after Steve’s fists got him into hot water.
Before, of course, recognizing that he doesn’t remember a whole lot of those days, and his time as the aggressor far outweighs his time as the protector. Funny, how things change.
An echoing boom shakes the ground beneath them, and the super soldiers make alarmed eye contact as crackled shouting comes through their ear comms. “Bomb engaged in the southwest control room. Natasha got the brunt of it, we’re evacuating now.” Another explosion, this time closer. “Shit. Probably a chain reaction. Meet you at the jet—don’t get blown up!”
“Copy that,” Steve replies professionally, as Bucky sarcastically mutters ‘we’ll try our best’ and the click of metal and flesh against the keyboard speeds up. “Buck, we’ve gotta go.”
Plaster falls from the ceiling with the next detonation. “Gimme a second, Steve.”
“Drop it, Buck, we’ve got enough.” Steve’s frantic assertion falls on deaf ears—failing to finish a mission goes against one of the deepest instincts in Bucky’s body, despite the lack of programming making it an empty one. There’s only one more section, labeled under ‘Project Scythe’ if context proves his translation correct. He just needs another second-
The cement wall at the end of the room collapses like a deck of cards, showering both super soldiers in sharp rock and plumes of dust. In a second, Steve is ripping Tony’s state-of-the-art flash drive out of Bucky’s computer and yanking him out by his metal arm.
They run in sync—one more right until the stairs—even as Bucky bites, “What the hell, Steve? I wasn’t done-”
“The room was exploding Buck-”
“Just the one wall, actually-”
Halfway up the second flight of stairs, their bickering comes to an end with the thunder of a hidden explosive between them, sending Bucky barreling down a floor and Steve sideways through the upper entrance.
Clint’s voice crackles through the comms again, barely intelligible past the ringing in his ear. “Where are you two? This place is going down fast, and I can’t figure out any logical sequence to where the bombs are going off.”
Bucky pushes himself up using the wall, coughing to clear his lungs of debris. “We’ve been separated. Be ready for Cap, I’m going to find another way out.”
“I’m coming down-”
“There’s no point, Steve. Just get out and put one of the soft pillows on the gurney for me. I hate the ones they come with.”
That doesn’t seem to be the comforting response Steve wanted if his look of consternation is anything to go by, but he eventually gives a short nod and they take off toward their respective escape routes. Bucky’s heading into a dark spot, the layout to this floor completely unknown, but he knows where another stairwell is and can fill in the blanks. What can he do if not this? Pistol holstered and useless now against his current obstacle, he focuses all energy on navigating the maze of…medical labs? Prison cells? An odd combination of both, and weirdly familiar the more he lets himself focus on his environment. Flashing emergency lights illuminate metal exam tables, reflective glass walls, and, shit-
“Is somebody in there?”
.
.
.
The words float around in your brain for a few seconds.
Minutes? Hours?
Who knows. Certainly not you.
Are you somebody? No, you don’t think you are. Somebodies have names. You don’t have a name, haven’t been called by one in years.
The floor trembles once again against your shivering back, this detonation curiously farther away. You’re so glad that the building is imploding; you really weren’t looking forward to dying of starvation and/or dehydration in this nauseatingly sterile glass box. You were doing a pretty good job of rationing the water bowl your handlers filled and left on the ground so far. Maybe too good of a job, as you seem to be delirious to the point of hearing voices. An unfitting giggle scratches its way up your dry throat—of course the voice you hallucinate sounds like your Soldat. He always did have such a hold on your life.
Your death too, it seems.
For a split second, Bucky freezes. Your faint laugh sends chills down his spine, catapults him back to a time of ice and death and horror and doing everything he can to distract you from it. Is he hallucinating? Maybe the post-traumatic stress of returning to replicas of his torture chambers has finally gotten to him. But then the ringing in his ear returns with an explosion down the hall, words that his brain sorts as low priority come through the static of his comms, and his feet are rapidly carrying him toward the glimpse of a body on the floor.
Three things happen in succession when he reaches your cell: one, he determines with pure shock that you are actually, undeniably breathing in front of him; two, he rips the grated metal door directly off its hinges; and three, you look up at him with his missing stars in your eyes.
As the building around him crumbles into pieces, his universe finally falls into place.