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Bucky lowered his head to duck under a branch as he walked around a large tree. Walker’s steps crunched on a twig beneath his feet, close in stride behind him.
“Remind me why we’re out here again,” Bucky said, annoyed when the pant leg of his suit got caught on a thorny bush. “I thought I agreed to be on this team to, you know, help save people from danger. Why did we let Val send us on a recon mission?”
“Gaining intel is a preventative measure,” Walker answered, because of course he had an answer. “Knowing what’s going on with a threat means being prepared for it, or even stopping it before it happens.”
“Or it just means giving Val more information for her to continue with her schemes,” Bucky said, glancing back at his counterpart.
The thunderbolts had split up on the trek to their destination. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei were ahead; Bucky and John were taking up the rear.
They cleared the underbrush that Bucky had fought his way through, and John stopped their pace to look at him seriously.
“You think we’re being used.”
Bucky shrugged, because he had no proof of that yet. “I’m always concerned we’re being used.”
Walker relaxed a little in his posture, and he took a step closer to Bucky. He spoke with quiet reassurance in his voice, “Val needs us for posturing more than we need her. That means we never have to do anything she tells us to. If missions like this raise an alarm for you, we should talk about it as a team.”
Bucky exhaled deeply, looking away from Walker for a moment. A breeze blew his hair across his face, and for a moment he forgot where he was. He looked back to Walker.
“We’re on a tightrope here, Walker. I don’t want to be openly at odds against Val. She needs to trust us so I can know what she’s up to. I only want to intervene at the right moment,” Bucky said. “She can’t make us do anything, but if she shuts us out we’d be back at square one, and with a lot fewer resources, too.”
“I understand that,” Walker said plainly. “I’m just saying, you’re not alone in this—talk to us about it. I’m following your call over Val’s every time.”
Bucky studied John’s face, and then scoffed lightly. “You should make your own decisions, Walker, not just listen to mine.”
“I have,” John insisted. He smirked. “I’ve decided I trust you a hell of a lot more than I do Val.”
Bucky hummed, smirking in return. “Bold choice, considering I’m the one who broke your arm once.”
John huffed a laugh. “Well, I decided to forgive you for that, too.”
Bucky smiled, and then he gestured in the direction they’d been heading. “We should keep going. Don’t wanna fall too far behind.”
“Yeah, we should get to higher ground,” Walker agreed, taking the lead as they continued up the hill of the forest.
When they fell quiet, Bucky focused on his steps, the evenness of his breath, and he took note of the chatter of birds in the trees. For a second, he could have sworn that he felt his sniper rifle strapped to his back, but that was incorrect—he wasn’t a sniper anymore. He hadn’t been in a long time.
He stopped his pace, having to physically confirm it in order to convince himself it wasn’t there. He really did only have a pistol and knife, both in the holster on his waist. So why was he thinking about his old sniper rifle?
He let out a frustrated breath, closing his eyes hard when a surge of pain passed through his head.
“You okay?” Walker’s voice sounded more distant, but it was there.
Bucky didn’t respond, because when he opened his eyes again, something ahead of Walker caught his eye. Furrowing his brow, he silently stepped forward. John followed.
As the trees started to thin out near the top of the hill, there was a run down stony structure in the clearing. Bucky’s hand went to the hilt of his knife and he didn’t know why—it was clearly abandoned.
“Huh. Looks like an old homestead, maybe from the 1800s,” John guessed. “Pretty run down now. Maybe it was too hard to live up at this elevation in the winter…”
Normally Bucky would have teased Walker by asking why he could so confidently date a pile of old rocks, but now his heart was too busy thrumming in his ears, drowning out Walker’s rambling. He walked past the ruins—he was searching for something, he just didn’t know what. He brought his hand up to his face, his index finger brushing against his cheekbone, attempting to tug away a mask that wasn’t actually there.
“I—” Bucky said, his breath growing heavy. “This is…”
“What?”
When Bucky’s gaze landed on the river and the town in the valley below, with the wind swaying through the trees and the sun shining on all the colors of the morning, he fell to his knees.
“Bucky!”
“I…I’ve been here before,” Bucky said, his voice weak and body trembling.
His eyes squeezed shut. He forced them open, as if that’d help. He stared at the grass beneath his hands, one flesh and one metallic—silver? No, black—it was black now. The blades of grass were long and swaying in the wind.
The wind. It was just like that day. That day—when had that been? How many years, how many decades ago?
His eyes closed again. He could barely breathe as his heart pounded against his ribcage. His hands turned to fists in the grass, desperately trying to hold onto reality. But his brain hit against itself like a shock wave, and he winced.
“Guys, we’re gonna fall a bit behind,” John spoke into their comms.
Yelena’s voice was staticky in Bucky’s ear piece, her accent too familiar. “Why? Have you been compromised?”
“No, it’s Bucky, he needs a minute.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Not exactly. I think this is a WS thing.”
WS. That was what they called it. What they called him. The—
**
“Winter soldier. Status report.”
The demand comes through your ear piece in curtly spoken Russian.
You’re walking through the woods. The first of the morning sun is bleeding through the trees. You have been following orders: assassinate the target before sunrise, leave the town unseen through the forest. No one goes into the woods, you are told. No one will see you.
You understand this is not reassurance, but another order: no one will see you. You will make sure of it.
You walk quietly, the sniper rifle strapped securely to your back so it does not jostle, the knives—one at your waist, another strapped to the opposite thigh, and yet another tucked away in your boot—are sheathed. It is not dangerous here. You keep assessing the area, and all you determine to be here besides yourself are the birds.
You raise your hand to press the button on your ear piece to speak. Your words are muffled by the stiff mask that covers half of your face, but you have just enough room to move your jaw to form the words in equally curt Russian, “Mission completed. Ready for extraction.”
Static, and then a response.
“Extraction is delayed. The winds are too turbulent for pick up.”
You look up and take note of the trees swaying in the wind. You agree with their assessment. You wait for more information rather than asking for orders. You know they’ll be given regardless of your silence.
“Find somewhere in the woods to lay low and stay put until further instructions.”
At least they are simple.
“Copy.”
The ear piece makes a beep that indicates they have turned off their communicator. They are done talking to you.
You take three more steps, checking your surroundings with each one. But it is just woods. There is no one here except for the birds.
You stop your pace. You do what you only risk in the rarest of moments, when you are most certain no one can see you. You tuck a finger into the hard plastic of the mask, swiping from your ear down across your cheekbone, effectively pulling it off. It settles against the collar of your suit. And you breathe.
The air is strikingly fresh. Cool, especially in the wind. The wind blows hard enough through the trees that it’s nearly a challenge to capture the air to bring into your lungs. But when the gust stills, it becomes unfairly easy to breathe. No faint smell of plastic, no condensation collecting from your exhales and staling the air. It is a pure inhale, and uninhibited exhale.
It is relief, and that is the first danger you have come across in these woods. Relief is a concept you are not supposed to comprehend. It is dangerous for them, for you to feel.
You aren’t supposed to feel anything. They often have thought they succeeded in making you feel nothing. The truth is, you have just gotten better at hiding it.
That is why you don’t close your eyes in relief. You keep vigilant. You are not supposed to be seen according to them, and now you cannot risk being seen by them.
But there are just birds.
You do not know why, but you press ahead. You convince yourself that you are looking for a better spot to lay low. You believe there is safety in keeping moving. You want to see more of these woods.
You continue your trek, the terrain at an incline. You should feel tired, but you don’t get tired anymore. Not since—you don’t know. Not since they did something to you that you can’t remember.
The trees begin to thin. You stop walking when you spot something novel, that isn’t just trees.
At the top of the hill, there’s a structure. It’s decrepit. There is no roof. There is moss growing on the stones that remain of the structure. There is rubble at its edges, where the stones have collapsed under the weight of their decay.
Regardless, you put your mask back on. A human structure even in disarray could mean humans are present.
You approach the ruins with more caution. You listen—you hear nothing. You unsheath the knife from your waist anyway. You hold it at the ready, and you step into the ruins.
Light falls into the structure as did the dirt and leaves and all other nature that chose to reclaim this structure to the wild. There is a busted, rotting chair in one corner, but nothing else remains in this place. You cannot tell what its purpose was, or why it was abandoned.
You raise your head when there’s sound overhead. But it is just birds flying over, from the woods to open sky. You sheath your knife.
Open sky.
You realize there is more sky visible than just the clearing this structure created. You can hear the birds’ calls echo and linger without the trees as a muffler.
You, for some reason, follow the conventions of the structure as if it were still intact, and you walk through what remains of a doorway.
You step out into a landscape that has changed from forest to shrubs, and you find that you have reached the edge of the woods.
The steady incline of your walk led you to the top of these hilly woods, and you now look upon the river below. It is vast and winding, disappearing between two taller hills in the distance. You can see a town in the valley of the hills. You gauge that you are far enough away that the people of the town would not be able to see you.
The wind blows starkly against your face. Its coolness makes you realize that your face has grown warm. Without the shade of the forest, the sun was warming your skin. You think about taking off the mask again to feel more of the sun. You don’t.
You watch the river, the way it glistens in spots where the light hits the water. You see the trees below swaying in the wind. You note the colors of everything you can see. You watch more birds fly above, from the tree tops down towards the river. You wish you could be like them, although you don’t exactly know what that means.
You sit down in the grass at the edge of the clearing. Here feels like a good place to lay low.
They disagree.
After extraction, they strap you down to the chair. You know this is bad. The only time they keep you here instead of taking you to the cryochamber is for punishment. You do not know what you did wrong yet. You know it does not matter. Sometimes you are punished for no clear reason at all.
One of them stands in front of you. You pick a spot across the room to stare at. They do not like it when you look them in the eye. Or maybe you are the one who does not like it. It is hard to remember.
“Why were you in the clearing?”
“I was awaiting extraction, as ordered.”
The sting in your jaw is familiar as the punch lands across your face.
“Your orders were to lay low. You were in plain sight.”
“I needed to come into sight for the extraction team to find me.”
You taste blood in your mouth on the second punch. You know better than to spit it out, so you swallow the metallic taste.
“You were out there before extraction was ready for you. You had been out there a long time, hmm? Doing what? Admiring the view?” They grab your jaw with a tight grip. You still do not look them in the eye. “That is not your job. That is not what you are for. You risk everything we work for if you are seen.”
“There was no one in the woods,” you say, knowing better than to add you told me so.
This time the punch is to your gut, and you fold forward, coughing. You watch the blood drip from your mouth to the floor. A hand taking a fistful of your hair forces your head back up.
They stare at you for a long time. You do not look at them.
When they speak next, it is not to you.
“We need to wipe him. He got too close to a sense of freedom.” They walk away from you, muttering, “That’s the risk of sending him somewhere beautiful. Beauty inspires, and we cannot afford for him to be inspired. Ideas are the worst thing he could possibly have.”
You don’t understand what this means. You want to understand what this means. You want time to think about what it could mean. But you have no time left.
Someone is already forcing the guard into your mouth.
**
“Bucky, you with me?”
Bucky blinked hard. His eyes were blurred, but came into focus on his hands in the grass. He felt the blades of grass between his fingers, the textures more noticeable on his flesh hand, scratchy yet cool with morning dew. He drew in a gasping breath, as if he’d just come up for air after being forced under water.
“That’s right, Bucky, breathe. You’re okay. You’re safe now, no one’s going to hurt you. I’m here…”
They were still talking, repeating the same phrases, the same name—Bucky took a moment to recognize it was his.
He only recognized the voice when his gaze lifted enough to see the pair of knees in a combat suit and a red gloved hand rested palm outwards, towards him.
The thunderbolts had a protocol for whenever Bucky had a severe flashback. John had been the one to figure it out.
It was a bad idea to try touching Bucky when he was having a flashback. It didn’t pull him out of it; it just made his panic worse. But, according to John, he was most soothed by voices. So whenever a WS incident happened, whoever was with Bucky was supposed to sit near him, speak reassurances, and hold out their hand. And Bucky, whenever he was ready, would take their hand to show them when touch was allowed, and that he was ready to at least try communicating with them.
Bucky drew in and let out another shaky breath before he unclenched his fists from the grass. Using his flesh hand, he reached over, placing it into John’s offered hand.
“Hey, there you are. You with me?” John’s voice was soft, and kind. He sounded relieved.
Bucky curled his fingers in order to primarily feel John’s skin, focusing on the unclothed part of his fingerless gloves. John mimicked the movement, pressing the pads of his fingers to Bucky’s. It was astonishingly grounding.
“Can you look at me?” John asked gently, adding, “No rush, just when you can.”
Bucky took another breath, closing his eyes for a moment and silently cursing the throbbing headache he now had. He took a bracing breath, before lifting his head to meet John’s eyes as requested.
For a brief moment, with his brain all fried and getting its wires crossed, Bucky could have sworn John looked like he did when they first met five years ago. When Bucky had hated him, resented him and hurt him out of spite. Now, he could only huff a laugh about that. As if that younger Walker had really done anything so wrong, so cruel to him as the other men he’d once known. Bucky had only pushed violence onto Walker the way it’d been pushed onto him. For so long, it was all he’d known—it was all he received, and therefore all he could give in return.
He was lucky as hell that Walker didn’t hold it against him now. That they were able to overcome their misunderstandings of the past and become teammates. That they had grown close, even.
John looked confused about Bucky’s small laugh, but he gave a tentative smile anyway, perhaps figuring anything was better than his previous panic. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky sighed, feeling able to breathe at a more normal pace.
John hummed. He reached behind himself to grab the water bottle in his pack, and he offered it to Bucky. As Bucky took it, John shifted to sit next to him rather than in front of him, still holding his hand the entire time.
“So, you’ve been here before?” John asked. “That was the last thing you said before you were gone.”
Bucky nodded as he swallowed the water. It was refreshing, and his heart was starting to come down to a more forgivable rate.
“On an assassination mission. I couldn’t even tell you what decade, though.”
“Huh. You think it has to do with why Val sent us here?”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to Bucky. “I have no idea.”
“We can keep it in mind moving forward. Just look out for patterns, intel. You don’t need to try remembering anymore.”
Bucky nodded. He wouldn’t have been able to give anymore information anyway; he used to just do as he was told. He never used to have information about his targets beyond what was needed to get the job done. He wasn’t a part of a team or even his own person; he was just a weapon. John knew that, though, and it was why he didn’t expect anything more.
After a strong gust of wind blew past them, Bucky spoke up again. “They punished me for stopping here. Wiped it from my memory.”
“Why?”
Bucky gestured towards the river. “It’s a beautiful view.”
“Yeah. So?”
“The winter soldier isn’t supposed to appreciate beautiful things. That’s too human of a thing to do.”
John blinked, his mouth open. He scoffed, picking at the blades of grass. “Fucking scum of the earth. I hope they’re all burning in hell.”
“I don’t,” Bucky said. He met John’s eyes, who was looking at him quizzically. “They’re dead now. They don’t exist anymore; they can never come back. That’s better than hell.”
“Shit,” John said. “Yeah, I guess I get that. They’re nothing now.”
Bucky hummed in agreement.
Static buzzed in their ear pieces—Bucky had almost forgot he even had one in.
It was Yelena again. “Any updates, Walker? Is Bucky okay?”
Bucky started to pull his hand away from Walker’s to hit his comm button, but John squeezed his hand, holding onto it.
John spoke into his piece instead, “Yeah, he’s doing better, but we still need some time.”
“How long?”
“Maybe another half hour.”
“We’re going to fall behind schedule.”
John scoffed. “So? Val can just be pissy about being on standby for an extra half hour. It’s actually not a big deal.”
Yelena, of all things, chuckled on the other end of the line. “Yeah, you are right. Call us if you need backup, okay?”
“Same to you. We’re super soldiers, we can catch up quick if we need to.”
“I know. You brag about it too much, Walker.”
Ava piped in to agree with her scolding. “Yeah we all know you’re a fucking super soldier, Walker, we’ve been on the same team for like a year now.”
Yelena added, “It is not even special on this team, there are—”
“Bucky needs me, gotta go,” John said abruptly, and his communicator beeped off.
Bucky chuckled as he heard Yelena call him a dick over the comms before he pulled out his own ear piece. He met Walker’s eyes as he asked, “Why the extra half hour? I’m okay, if we need to get going.”
John pouted, shrugging. He turned his head, looking out across the valley. “Just figured it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy the view a bit longer.”
Bucky’s chest swelled with warmth, because he knew they both understood that it wasn’t just a small gesture. John was giving Bucky a chance to relive the moment, the way he deserved to—as a person, as a healed man. He could feel at peace without fear of repercussions. He was free.
He smiled at John, who pretended not to notice, instead focusing on the river.
Bucky closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath of the fresh air, and he rested his head onto John’s shoulder. He opened his eyes again, admiring the way the water glistened in the sunlight and the birds sung as they flew overhead.
“It is beautiful,” he agreed.