memories for memory week @ a_fac
Warning: May contain violence and mild sexual content.
Special Combat Training+++
You’re standing in your dingy cell in the brig, at attention, still a little buzzed, whether from beer or adrenaline you aren’t sure. It’s your sixteenth birthday and they let you into the bar anyway, and you feel like such a big man for decking all those sailors, but now the Major is here, and he’s staring down at you with an expression that’s both fond and exasperated. Blood is drying on your split lip and you can feel your eye swelling shut.
“You know I was friends with your father, Bucky. And I’ve always felt it was my responsibility to look out for you since his death - which has been easier said than done.” The Major is smiling though, exasperatedly, but smiling.
You’re sufficiently chastised, and you’re pouting, though you’d never admit it because you’re a man in a man’s army. You smack one fist into your other palm and say, candid and earnest, “I know, sir, and I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but those deck monkeys were askin’ for it!”
“I’m sure they were. But you’re restless, Bucky, and I need to figure out what to do with you before you burn down the whole camp.” This is where you hang your head, dejected, and wonder if they’re going to ship you off to boarding school like your sister. “So I’ve got a different kind of birthday present for you. Get cleaned up and pack your bags, soldier. You leave at 0600 for England - special combat training.”
But then you brighten impossibly as those words meet your ears. It hurts to grin because your lip is split and blood is drying on your face and you’re going to have one hell of a shiner in the morning, but you grin anyway as you salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Pals+++
You push open the heavy wooden door, back from gathering intel. You’re practically drowning in an over-large trench coat as you step into the room; their costumes are covered and masks are off, but there are your teammates, the Invaders - Steve, your mentor, Jim Hammond, your friend, Toro, your buddy who’s also your age. You only catch a snippet of the conversation as you enter.
“...So it’s too late.”
“What’s too late? What’s goin’ on here?” You’re confused, curious, wondering what you missed. Toro is a terrible liar, you can see it in his face.
“Nothing, nothing’s going on here.”
You shut the door. Steve at the table furrows his brow as he looks over some documents. “Wait, did you say the Matron? How did you tell her to decorate the cake?”
You immediately perk up at the mention of cake. It’s something you haven’t had in a while, with the rationing. Toro is throwing his hands up in the air in childish frustration. “Steve! You’re ruining it!”
“A cake?”
Steve isn’t nearly as excited about that as you are. He’s already in motion, angry and frustrated, pushing Toro against a wall to demand, “Did you tell her Bucky’s name?!”
“Yeah, of course-”
“Damn... Hit the deck!” The Invaders run for cover as Master Man and Warrior Woman break down the door. They have to move fast to shed their overlarge coats and duck down, or burst into action. You yourself have thrown off your disguise and pulled on your mask, and you’re scrambling for your gun. You can tell from Steve’s tone that you’re gettin’ a talking-to later, both of you. “The matron isn’t part of the resistance! She works for the Nazis!”
“I didn’t know!” Good old Toro. Steve and Jim have joined the fray, and you and Toro crouch behind an overturned table. You’re grinning broadly, elated at the rush of adrenaline and the sentiment of your friend.
“You gave up our cover to throw me a birthday party?”
“Not on purpose, but... yeah...”
You leap up and open fire on the two Nazis. “What a pal!”
Twentieth Birthday+++
“Not how you expected to spend your birthday, I guess, interrogating a German spy?” You’re leaving a warehouse with Steve, in costume. He has his cowl down, and you’re both soaking wet from the rain that continues to pour. He’s slicking his wet hair back and smiling in that kind, sheepish way.
“I’ve learned to have no expectations, Steve... It’s been a long war.” Boot-clad feet splash through puddles. It has been a long war, and you can’t wait for it to end. It’s so close you can taste it, and then maybe you can see the Grand Canyon and be a forest ranger and settle down with a nice lady and have a family, do all the ‘normal’ things you ever wanted. You turned twenty today, you’re really a man now. “How did you spend YOUR twentieth birthday?”
“Me? I was in a lab, having bloodwork done... Getting jabbed with needles by Dr. Erskine... Having x-rays taken. Basically being a lab rat.” He throws his arm over your shoulders, gives you a one-armed hug, and you can’t help but smile. “Now let’s go find the bar and celebrate yours.”
Happy Birthday, Avenger+++
It’s another birthday. You’ve had a lot of them, more than you can really count unless you sit down and do the math. You’ve been out dealing with a Watchdog problem, getting shot at - just another birthday, just another day. You expect to find your apartment dark when you unlock the door and make your way inside, but instead, you find light, and banners and decorations, and all the Avengers there, cheering out a “Happy birthday!” Clint’s voice is the loudest as he raises his mug of beer and yells, “Happy Birthday, Avenger!”. Natasha is there, too, the woman you’ve always loved, smiling the way she rarely does. Red hair frames her face and it’s breathtaking. She pulls you toward the table, laughing, and you see why - there’s a cake there, the top of which is covered with candles, just leaving room for the red-icinged Happy Birthday Bucky.
You throw your head back and laugh like you haven’t in a while. “Very funny! I hope there’s a cake under those candles, Natasha!”
“You love it.” She’s grinning, hugging your arm, and you know she’s right. You do love it. This.
Everyone gathers around you. Sometimes you’re angry with Steve for giving you your memories back. Sometimes it seems a curse, being brought back to the world. But then times like this, you realize what he was trying to do - he was trying to give you a family again. A place to belong in the world. Mockingbird asks you if you’re going to make a wish, and you smile up at her, at your new family gathered behind you. “Nah. I’m good.”
You blow out the candles.
Spring in Moscow+++
Spring in Moscow. It’s a beautiful night, one of the most beautiful you’ve ever seen, but that isn’t saying much. Your memories only go back a few years. It’s 1956, and as far as you know, you were ‘born’ in 1954. Mother Russia is all you’ve ever known. But you don’t love it, you don’t love anything - or you didn’t until her. A red-headed beauty named Natalia. You circle her building, climb up the south wall. She’s left the window open for you, and you slip in without being seen, to go to her. You are a ghost, a phantom of death, and in her strong arms you become tangible again. Her warmth, the fire of her lips, make the ice around you melt. Her words, her voice, her love make you feel like you’re human. They are the only things that ever have.
“I’m promised to someone else.” She murmurs, as she always does, but you smile against her mouth and hold her close. She doesn’t flinch from the chill of your steel limb.
“I know. He’s an ass.”
You kiss her again, feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her nightie as curtains billow around you both. Alexei doesn’t deserve her, but neither do you - you aren’t a person in your own right. But Natalia makes you forget that, for a few hours.
Partners+++
It’s the big day. You’re practically squirming with excitement. You’ve been training for months - those two months with the SAS in Britain was some of the hardest you’ve ever been through. But you made it, and you’re here, standing in the middle of camp at attention. The Major is there with a tall, muscled blond man standing beside him. They’re looking you over, the Major critically, but there is a sort of warmth in the other’s blue eyes.
“This is codename Captain America, son. If you pass muster, you’re going to be his partner.”
The words bring a thrill, and you salute as crisply as you can. The smile practically splits your face, and Steve Rogers is smiling right back at you - he seems happy, he seems pleased with you.] Sir, yes, sir! [You’re going to be his partner. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything, because this man is already your hero. Being his partner is the biggest honor you can think of.
“Steve,” the man says, offering a hand. You shake it firmly.
“Call me Bucky.”
Coming Home+++
You feel the sweat on your face, the warmth of your overexerted body, the dull pain of your wrapped, broken ribs. You shouldn't be working out, but you did anyway, just for something to do, because bed-rest never appeals to you, and anyway, Captain America doesn't rest - and that's who you are now. You're out in the public as the shield-slinging Avenger, and you still don't know how you feel about it, or how you feel about the red-headed woman standing across from you right then.
“That since you're front page news, you and I won't be seeing as much of each other.” Because she works for SHIELD, and SHIELD has to keep a low profile after this mess. It doesn't help that things have been awkward with Natasha since you first stole your shield, Steve's shield, back from her and Nick Fury.
You're disappointed. You can't keep the look off your face, so instead you throw a towel around your damp neck and glance down at your hand. You don't look up to see her expression. “Oh. Okay.”
She waits. A pause. A breath. “Do you remember it all? Our time together, when I was young?”
How could you forget? Two whirlwind years where you learned how to be a human being again, before it was all taken away. “Yeah, I remember everything, Natalia. And you were the one good thing in all of it. That's why I need to do this. Not just for Steve, but for those years, too.” You hold the shield in your hands, feel the weight, watch the light glint off the red, white, and blue paint. She approaches you.
“Well... Until we fight together again, then.” And before you know it, she's kissing you, the way she did in Siberia. That kiss that made you feel whole again, made you forget that you didn't belong. You're stunned when she pulls back, fingers going to your lips. “A little something to let you know that I haven't forgotten either.”
She takes her leave, and all you can do is smile. It feels like coming home.
Father-Figure+++ Claimed for Timothy
You’re somewhere cold, holed up in a bunker, wrapped in an overlarge trench coat over your uniform. Your domino mask isn’t on your face. Toro is huddled up beside you, a boy your age with dark hair, and he’s radiating heat, so you shift a little closer, subtly. Jim and Steve are standing in front of you, tall and blond and imposing, because you and Toro are in trouble for that cute stunt you pulled earlier. You’ve gotten your lecture, taken your lumps, and you feel about ten inches tall, but then Steve reaches out and ruffles your hair fondly.
“Bucky, lad, don’t go blowing our cover to the Nazis while we’re gone, okay?”
You pout a little, hunker down a little more despite Steve’s chuckle. “Aw, gee, Cap, I wouldn’t do that. ...Not again, anyway...” He just gives you a smile and another head-pat as he goes, a smile and gesture you tuck away in the depths of your war-scarred young heart. Steve’s only five years older, 22 to your 17, but times like these, he feels like your father.
Grand Canyon+++
You’re on a plane, being shipped out to London. Steve is sitting across from you, flipping through his sketchbook; he always does the nicest sketches. He’s the best damn artist you know, and the best damn soldier you know. The war is drawing to a close, you’re talking about what you want to do when it’s all over as he sketches and you munch on a candy bar. It’s terrible chocolate, but it’s better than c-rations.
“That what you want after service? To be an art student?”
“Nah, I was thinkin' more along the lines of pitchin' for the Dodgers. Maybe bein' a movie star.”
“Well, that's sensible.” The sarcasm makes you smile a bit, though you sober pretty quickly.
“Okay, seriously?” This sounds silly. But you can tell Steve anything. “I was thinking maybe forest ranger.”
“Since when?”
“Aaaahh, it's just... Redwood forests, gulf stream waters, all the rest of that song. Supposed to be gorgeous, right?”
“I never went three miles outside of Brooklyn until I shipped out. You're the traveler, I'm surprised you didn't see any of that growing up.” He's looking down at an issue of Life magazine. One with Captain America on the cover. He's in that thoughtful place again.
“Price of being an army brat. Got dragged far and wide, but all I ever got to look at was barracks and more barracks.” You take another bite of chocolate, shake the bar at him. “Maybe you're right. Could be a dull life. But the first thing I'm gonna do once I'm back home? The very first thing? I wanna visit the Grand Canyon. ‘Timeless wonder,’ my pappy used to say. ‘Puts everything in perspective.’ I tell you, I dream of the Grand Canyon.” You're young, and naive, and cocky. You have no idea the war will never be over for you, and you'll never see the Grand Canyon.
Famous Last Words---
The Nazis are after a remote-controlled drone bomber. If they get their hands on it, they'll take it right to Germany - set it off straight for Washington. You're on the back of Steve's bike, you're chasing it down, but it's speeding down the landing strip. “We gotta turn it around! If you stop drivin' like my grandma, we can catch it!” You're standing, preparing to make the jump. Adrenaline is coursing through you. Confidence.
“Bucky, what are you-? Bucky, there's no time-!” He's realized what you're going to do. He doesn't approve, but you know you can handle this, you know you can catch it if he just speeds up.
“Details! We got this!” You make the leap. “Jump!”
“Bucky, NO!” Steve roars, but you've already hit the wing and you're scrambling on. He jumps after you, but his grip is less stable. “Can't- get a grip-!”
You climb up the wing toward the cab, pause. “Oh, hell. I think I set something off-!” You grit your teeth in determination and force your way up the wing. You can hear Steve screaming at you, but you don't listen, don't look back as he slips from the wing and plummets. “Cap, I see a fuse-”
“NO! Bucky, DROP AWAY!”
Realization dawns on you as you press your hands to the glass and peer inside the plane. You try to scramble back, but your sleeve catches. Your eyes widen impossibly. Your stomach knots and you realize, in that moment, that you're going to die. At twenty years and three weeks old, you’re going to die.
Your sleeve rips, you fall - but it's a minute too late, the blast throws you off and the sound is deafening. It all happens so quickly, all you can register is pain, so much pain - your arm is gone, your left arm is just GONE, and you're burning, you're burning, it hurts so badly and you think you scream, but you can't hear it, can't hear anything- You hit the icy water below, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. You plummet, your blood turns the water red. It's so fucking cold, water invades your lungs when you gasp reflexively. Everything goes black as you die, but it's a mercy - at least this way the pain is gone.
Lab Table---
You jolt awake with a start on a table in a dimly-lit room, cold and wet and hurting. That must be how you come into the world, because you remember nothing else - you don’t know where you are, what time it is, why you’re wet, why your left arm is only phantom tingles, like it should be there but it isn’t. You don’t even know your own name, and you’re surrounded by people speaking in a language you don’t remember. You’re frightened, panicked, upset and confused; mind-numbing fear is all there is to your racing thoughts. No name, no identity, no personality, no idea how you should react, so your body reacts for you - you leap off the table and you start to fight. You don’t know how, but it’s like your limbs have a mind of their own. You let them take over. You fight until you feel a needleprick at your neck, and then everything goes black again.
Sleep is a welcome relief.
Channel Islands---
The mission went wrong. Everything went wrong, wrong, wrong, is all you can think about as you hang from manacles in the dungeon of Baron Zemo’s castle. You’re supposed to be retrieving a stolen drone plane from the Nazis, you and Steve, but you’ve been captured, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been like this. They’re trying to make Steve - Captain America - crack, so they’ve stripped off the top half of your uniform, leaving you naked from the waist up in the cold. They’ve chained your hands above your head. You’re barely standing on your tip-toes, and everything is strained and hurting. Stone is cold and rough at your back, and all you can do is try to stifle your grunts and groans of pain as Zemo and his henchmen take turns beating you, whipping you, leaving bruises and welts.
“Let him go, you monsters!” You hear Steve scream as you drift in and out of consciousness. You want to tell him it’s okay, open your mouth to do so, but all that comes out is a hoarse yell as Zemo lays the lash to your bared skin again.
Humanity--- Claimed for Alfred / America
Natalia is everything that has ever made you feel anything at all. You hold on to those memories of her, the warmth and softness of her skin, the fire of her hair, the beauty of a smile on her rose-red lips. Lips that promise things incomprehensible and wonderful, things you’ve never felt before in your life - love, peace, serenity. When you’re with her, you’re a man, not a tool or a weapon. When you’re with her, lying in bed for a few stolen moments post-coitus, sometimes things start to come back. Little flashes of a life before the Winter Soldier. A man named... James, you think, and when you tell Natalia about it, she agrees that James is a good name for you. She never calls you anything else in private.
She’s calling you that now, as two KGB agents hold her back, and she fights to get to you. You’re on your knees before Karpov, before your handlers, shirtless and with your arms behind your back. They aren’t tied, but you can’t go against orders, so you keep them there as you’re savagely beaten. Every blow you take stoically; they won’t damage you too much. You’re valuable property. You worry for Natalia, though they won’t damage her either, for she is still promised to Alexei, a national hero.
“James!” She shrieks as they drag her away, and it haunts your thoughts until you’re locked in tight, hooked to electrodes to be reconditioned.
They strip all your memories again, and when you wake next, the name ‘James’ means nothing to you.
Itsu--- Claimed for Dick Grayson
You have your orders. Orders are everything, orders are all you know. This mission is a pain in the ass and you don’t see the point, but Karpov owed this guy a favor and you’re Karpov’s trained attack dog. You feel nothing as you crouch in the trees outside the small wood and paper house in lovely Japan, cleaning the handgun methodically in your hands. You never had to be taught how to do this. It’s like you’ve held a gun in your hand your entire life, and maybe you have, you don’t know because you aren’t a person. You do what you’re told, nothing more, and you’re rewarded with dreamless, frigid sleep. This one is just another victim.
You put the pieces of your firearm back together in record time, load the clip, put on the silencer, leap fluidly from the high branch. The target is here. Her husband is not. You were warned about the husband - keen senses, he’ll track you down if he catches your scent, like an animal. The woman doesn’t see you coming. You slip on silent feet into the house, you shoot her point-blank.
She falls to the wooden floor without a sound, on her back, heavily, obviously pregnant in her delicately-patterned kimono. Blood pools around her dark hair. You don’t care. You don’t know what remorse is. You are the Winter Soldier, a killing machine born of the ice and snow in Siberia.
You crack a pheromone capsule to hide your scent, and you steal away into the trees again. Your handlers are waiting at the retrieval point.
Sniper---
You’re seething with rage, quietly, beneath the surface, as you move through the crowd gathered on the courtsteps one afternoon. The crowd parts for a car pulling up, and you see your best friend, in uniform, his cowl down, being escored out by two armed policemen. Anger threatens to boil over when you see that his hands are cuffed behind his back like a common damn criminal, being paraded in front of the unwashed masses. People try to surge around him, held back by flimsy barriers as Captain America is marched through up the steps. You should be with him, but you can’t be. You exist underground for the time being, working for Nick Fury.
The press shouts questions that Steve won’t answer. Protesters on both sides of the issue wave their signs. And then you see Steve’s expression change as he looks over his shoulder. It all happens so damn fast. You hear the shot ring out, see Steve move - to intercept the bullet, it would have hit one of his guards instead, see him collapse on the steps. Your eyes widen and fear seizes your heart like it hasn’t in a long, long time. People are rushing to him, crowding around him, and you should be there with them, you should be holding his hand and waiting with him for the paramedics to arrive and reassuring him that it’s all going to be okay.
But you’re unregistered, living off the grid. You’d be arrested in a heartbeat, and then what good would you do Steve? You trace the trajectory of the bullets and go after the sniper instead.
It isn’t until later that you find out that your oldest friend is gone.
Loss---
Steve is dead. Steve is dead and gone, and you’re still here, left behind to face the world without the one who brought you back to it. The one who saved you and cursed you all at once. The bar is quiet this time of night, just a few rednecks and trucker-types having beers and hushed conversations. You’re having the bartender keep ‘em coming, shots of whiskey, neat, as much as you can down. You don’t drink often, but when you do, it’s times like these - times when you don’t know what else to do, times when you’re just responsible enough to pick a less self-destructive method of handling the consuming misery and anger. The TV above the bar plays the evening news, more coverage on Steve’s death.
You almost ask the bartender to change the channel, but before you can get the words out, you hear from the guy next to you, “He was a damned traitor anyway!”
You lose it all to blind, red rage. Haul back and deck the fucking idiot. His friends come to the rescue, and you just let your body take over, instincts not yet dulled by the whiskey. You’re just drunk enough to intensify your fury. You’re not sure how much later it is, but you’re standing above a bunch of downed rednecks, fists clenched at your sides. There’s wetness on your cheeks.
You cry for the first time in decades.
Steve would be so ashamed of you.
Christmas of '37---
You look up, up, up at the Major, as a light snow falls over the cemetery. He's standing in front of you, bent over, his posture perfect as he holds out an American flag, folded twelve times. You're frozen for a moment; that flag had just been draped over your father's casket. "On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation," he's saying, voice heavy and solemn. You stare up at the man, your dead father's friend, with wide brown eyes.
You've been to military funerals before. You know the procedure. But being the next of kin at one is different. You're dressed in a scratchy, olive wool suit that is too big for you, and your brown hair has been meticulously combed back. Rebecca clings behind you, sobbing. The two of you are alone in the world, your sister and you.
You can't manage any words as you accept the folded flag from the major, and hold it close to your chest.
You're twelve years old. It'll be Christmas Eve in just a few days, and your fate is uncertain.
Cryostasis---
Your mission is over. You know what comes next. Still, you feel the twisting rejection of it in the pit of your stomach as they lead you through white hallways down to the lab where you usually wake and sleep. "" one doctor tells you in Russian. Karpov is standing in the doorway as you do, arms crossed, watching. You aren't sure why. Possibly to make sure his property isn't damaged or you aren't helped to escape. Why would you escape anyway? You are only a tool.
You strip, movements mechanical and methodical, until you're naked in the cold room. There is no embarrassment; you're only a weapon. The table is cold against your back as you lay upon it, so very cold, as cold as winter in Siberia, but you don't react. You are born of cold.
The men in their white coats with fear in their eyes inject you with solutions of chemicals meant to keep your cells from being damaged by the ice. You only stare at the ceiling, count the tiles. There were twenty-six last time, you think. Or was it twenty-eight? It's always so hard to remember, you're reconditioned every time you wake again.
The men soon leave, to watch behind a glass pane. You can't see them, but you know they see you. The heavy metal door seals shut behind them, and the temperature of the room drops. It drops slowly, gradually, to prevent damage. You don't try to huddle for warmth, don't try to cover your naked body. It's hopeless to do so. Your flesh shivers, but your limbs don't move. You count the tiles, again and again, as you freeze.
Every time is like dying.
It isn't painful. You merely drift off to sleep. Blessed, dreamless sleep.
Special Combat Training+++
You’re standing in your dingy cell in the brig, at attention, still a little buzzed, whether from beer or adrenaline you aren’t sure. It’s your sixteenth birthday and they let you into the bar anyway, and you feel like such a big man for decking all those sailors, but now the Major is here, and he’s staring down at you with an expression that’s both fond and exasperated. Blood is drying on your split lip and you can feel your eye swelling shut.
“You know I was friends with your father, Bucky. And I’ve always felt it was my responsibility to look out for you since his death - which has been easier said than done.” The Major is smiling though, exasperatedly, but smiling.
You’re sufficiently chastised, and you’re pouting, though you’d never admit it because you’re a man in a man’s army. You smack one fist into your other palm and say, candid and earnest, “I know, sir, and I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but those deck monkeys were askin’ for it!”
“I’m sure they were. But you’re restless, Bucky, and I need to figure out what to do with you before you burn down the whole camp.” This is where you hang your head, dejected, and wonder if they’re going to ship you off to boarding school like your sister. “So I’ve got a different kind of birthday present for you. Get cleaned up and pack your bags, soldier. You leave at 0600 for England - special combat training.”
But then you brighten impossibly as those words meet your ears. It hurts to grin because your lip is split and blood is drying on your face and you’re going to have one hell of a shiner in the morning, but you grin anyway as you salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Pals+++
You push open the heavy wooden door, back from gathering intel. You’re practically drowning in an over-large trench coat as you step into the room; their costumes are covered and masks are off, but there are your teammates, the Invaders - Steve, your mentor, Jim Hammond, your friend, Toro, your buddy who’s also your age. You only catch a snippet of the conversation as you enter.
“...So it’s too late.”
“What’s too late? What’s goin’ on here?” You’re confused, curious, wondering what you missed. Toro is a terrible liar, you can see it in his face.
“Nothing, nothing’s going on here.”
You shut the door. Steve at the table furrows his brow as he looks over some documents. “Wait, did you say the Matron? How did you tell her to decorate the cake?”
You immediately perk up at the mention of cake. It’s something you haven’t had in a while, with the rationing. Toro is throwing his hands up in the air in childish frustration. “Steve! You’re ruining it!”
“A cake?”
Steve isn’t nearly as excited about that as you are. He’s already in motion, angry and frustrated, pushing Toro against a wall to demand, “Did you tell her Bucky’s name?!”
“Yeah, of course-”
“Damn... Hit the deck!” The Invaders run for cover as Master Man and Warrior Woman break down the door. They have to move fast to shed their overlarge coats and duck down, or burst into action. You yourself have thrown off your disguise and pulled on your mask, and you’re scrambling for your gun. You can tell from Steve’s tone that you’re gettin’ a talking-to later, both of you. “The matron isn’t part of the resistance! She works for the Nazis!”
“I didn’t know!” Good old Toro. Steve and Jim have joined the fray, and you and Toro crouch behind an overturned table. You’re grinning broadly, elated at the rush of adrenaline and the sentiment of your friend.
“You gave up our cover to throw me a birthday party?”
“Not on purpose, but... yeah...”
You leap up and open fire on the two Nazis. “What a pal!”
Twentieth Birthday+++
“Not how you expected to spend your birthday, I guess, interrogating a German spy?” You’re leaving a warehouse with Steve, in costume. He has his cowl down, and you’re both soaking wet from the rain that continues to pour. He’s slicking his wet hair back and smiling in that kind, sheepish way.
“I’ve learned to have no expectations, Steve... It’s been a long war.” Boot-clad feet splash through puddles. It has been a long war, and you can’t wait for it to end. It’s so close you can taste it, and then maybe you can see the Grand Canyon and be a forest ranger and settle down with a nice lady and have a family, do all the ‘normal’ things you ever wanted. You turned twenty today, you’re really a man now. “How did you spend YOUR twentieth birthday?”
“Me? I was in a lab, having bloodwork done... Getting jabbed with needles by Dr. Erskine... Having x-rays taken. Basically being a lab rat.” He throws his arm over your shoulders, gives you a one-armed hug, and you can’t help but smile. “Now let’s go find the bar and celebrate yours.”
Happy Birthday, Avenger+++
It’s another birthday. You’ve had a lot of them, more than you can really count unless you sit down and do the math. You’ve been out dealing with a Watchdog problem, getting shot at - just another birthday, just another day. You expect to find your apartment dark when you unlock the door and make your way inside, but instead, you find light, and banners and decorations, and all the Avengers there, cheering out a “Happy birthday!” Clint’s voice is the loudest as he raises his mug of beer and yells, “Happy Birthday, Avenger!”. Natasha is there, too, the woman you’ve always loved, smiling the way she rarely does. Red hair frames her face and it’s breathtaking. She pulls you toward the table, laughing, and you see why - there’s a cake there, the top of which is covered with candles, just leaving room for the red-icinged Happy Birthday Bucky.
You throw your head back and laugh like you haven’t in a while. “Very funny! I hope there’s a cake under those candles, Natasha!”
“You love it.” She’s grinning, hugging your arm, and you know she’s right. You do love it. This.
Everyone gathers around you. Sometimes you’re angry with Steve for giving you your memories back. Sometimes it seems a curse, being brought back to the world. But then times like this, you realize what he was trying to do - he was trying to give you a family again. A place to belong in the world. Mockingbird asks you if you’re going to make a wish, and you smile up at her, at your new family gathered behind you. “Nah. I’m good.”
You blow out the candles.
Spring in Moscow+++
Spring in Moscow. It’s a beautiful night, one of the most beautiful you’ve ever seen, but that isn’t saying much. Your memories only go back a few years. It’s 1956, and as far as you know, you were ‘born’ in 1954. Mother Russia is all you’ve ever known. But you don’t love it, you don’t love anything - or you didn’t until her. A red-headed beauty named Natalia. You circle her building, climb up the south wall. She’s left the window open for you, and you slip in without being seen, to go to her. You are a ghost, a phantom of death, and in her strong arms you become tangible again. Her warmth, the fire of her lips, make the ice around you melt. Her words, her voice, her love make you feel like you’re human. They are the only things that ever have.
“I’m promised to someone else.” She murmurs, as she always does, but you smile against her mouth and hold her close. She doesn’t flinch from the chill of your steel limb.
“I know. He’s an ass.”
You kiss her again, feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her nightie as curtains billow around you both. Alexei doesn’t deserve her, but neither do you - you aren’t a person in your own right. But Natalia makes you forget that, for a few hours.
Partners+++
It’s the big day. You’re practically squirming with excitement. You’ve been training for months - those two months with the SAS in Britain was some of the hardest you’ve ever been through. But you made it, and you’re here, standing in the middle of camp at attention. The Major is there with a tall, muscled blond man standing beside him. They’re looking you over, the Major critically, but there is a sort of warmth in the other’s blue eyes.
“This is codename Captain America, son. If you pass muster, you’re going to be his partner.”
The words bring a thrill, and you salute as crisply as you can. The smile practically splits your face, and Steve Rogers is smiling right back at you - he seems happy, he seems pleased with you.] Sir, yes, sir! [You’re going to be his partner. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything, because this man is already your hero. Being his partner is the biggest honor you can think of.
“Steve,” the man says, offering a hand. You shake it firmly.
“Call me Bucky.”
Coming Home+++
You feel the sweat on your face, the warmth of your overexerted body, the dull pain of your wrapped, broken ribs. You shouldn't be working out, but you did anyway, just for something to do, because bed-rest never appeals to you, and anyway, Captain America doesn't rest - and that's who you are now. You're out in the public as the shield-slinging Avenger, and you still don't know how you feel about it, or how you feel about the red-headed woman standing across from you right then.
“That since you're front page news, you and I won't be seeing as much of each other.” Because she works for SHIELD, and SHIELD has to keep a low profile after this mess. It doesn't help that things have been awkward with Natasha since you first stole your shield, Steve's shield, back from her and Nick Fury.
You're disappointed. You can't keep the look off your face, so instead you throw a towel around your damp neck and glance down at your hand. You don't look up to see her expression. “Oh. Okay.”
She waits. A pause. A breath. “Do you remember it all? Our time together, when I was young?”
How could you forget? Two whirlwind years where you learned how to be a human being again, before it was all taken away. “Yeah, I remember everything, Natalia. And you were the one good thing in all of it. That's why I need to do this. Not just for Steve, but for those years, too.” You hold the shield in your hands, feel the weight, watch the light glint off the red, white, and blue paint. She approaches you.
“Well... Until we fight together again, then.” And before you know it, she's kissing you, the way she did in Siberia. That kiss that made you feel whole again, made you forget that you didn't belong. You're stunned when she pulls back, fingers going to your lips. “A little something to let you know that I haven't forgotten either.”
She takes her leave, and all you can do is smile. It feels like coming home.
Father-Figure+++ Claimed for Timothy
You’re somewhere cold, holed up in a bunker, wrapped in an overlarge trench coat over your uniform. Your domino mask isn’t on your face. Toro is huddled up beside you, a boy your age with dark hair, and he’s radiating heat, so you shift a little closer, subtly. Jim and Steve are standing in front of you, tall and blond and imposing, because you and Toro are in trouble for that cute stunt you pulled earlier. You’ve gotten your lecture, taken your lumps, and you feel about ten inches tall, but then Steve reaches out and ruffles your hair fondly.
“Bucky, lad, don’t go blowing our cover to the Nazis while we’re gone, okay?”
You pout a little, hunker down a little more despite Steve’s chuckle. “Aw, gee, Cap, I wouldn’t do that. ...Not again, anyway...” He just gives you a smile and another head-pat as he goes, a smile and gesture you tuck away in the depths of your war-scarred young heart. Steve’s only five years older, 22 to your 17, but times like these, he feels like your father.
Grand Canyon+++
You’re on a plane, being shipped out to London. Steve is sitting across from you, flipping through his sketchbook; he always does the nicest sketches. He’s the best damn artist you know, and the best damn soldier you know. The war is drawing to a close, you’re talking about what you want to do when it’s all over as he sketches and you munch on a candy bar. It’s terrible chocolate, but it’s better than c-rations.
“That what you want after service? To be an art student?”
“Nah, I was thinkin' more along the lines of pitchin' for the Dodgers. Maybe bein' a movie star.”
“Well, that's sensible.” The sarcasm makes you smile a bit, though you sober pretty quickly.
“Okay, seriously?” This sounds silly. But you can tell Steve anything. “I was thinking maybe forest ranger.”
“Since when?”
“Aaaahh, it's just... Redwood forests, gulf stream waters, all the rest of that song. Supposed to be gorgeous, right?”
“I never went three miles outside of Brooklyn until I shipped out. You're the traveler, I'm surprised you didn't see any of that growing up.” He's looking down at an issue of Life magazine. One with Captain America on the cover. He's in that thoughtful place again.
“Price of being an army brat. Got dragged far and wide, but all I ever got to look at was barracks and more barracks.” You take another bite of chocolate, shake the bar at him. “Maybe you're right. Could be a dull life. But the first thing I'm gonna do once I'm back home? The very first thing? I wanna visit the Grand Canyon. ‘Timeless wonder,’ my pappy used to say. ‘Puts everything in perspective.’ I tell you, I dream of the Grand Canyon.” You're young, and naive, and cocky. You have no idea the war will never be over for you, and you'll never see the Grand Canyon.
Famous Last Words---
The Nazis are after a remote-controlled drone bomber. If they get their hands on it, they'll take it right to Germany - set it off straight for Washington. You're on the back of Steve's bike, you're chasing it down, but it's speeding down the landing strip. “We gotta turn it around! If you stop drivin' like my grandma, we can catch it!” You're standing, preparing to make the jump. Adrenaline is coursing through you. Confidence.
“Bucky, what are you-? Bucky, there's no time-!” He's realized what you're going to do. He doesn't approve, but you know you can handle this, you know you can catch it if he just speeds up.
“Details! We got this!” You make the leap. “Jump!”
“Bucky, NO!” Steve roars, but you've already hit the wing and you're scrambling on. He jumps after you, but his grip is less stable. “Can't- get a grip-!”
You climb up the wing toward the cab, pause. “Oh, hell. I think I set something off-!” You grit your teeth in determination and force your way up the wing. You can hear Steve screaming at you, but you don't listen, don't look back as he slips from the wing and plummets. “Cap, I see a fuse-”
“NO! Bucky, DROP AWAY!”
Realization dawns on you as you press your hands to the glass and peer inside the plane. You try to scramble back, but your sleeve catches. Your eyes widen impossibly. Your stomach knots and you realize, in that moment, that you're going to die. At twenty years and three weeks old, you’re going to die.
Your sleeve rips, you fall - but it's a minute too late, the blast throws you off and the sound is deafening. It all happens so quickly, all you can register is pain, so much pain - your arm is gone, your left arm is just GONE, and you're burning, you're burning, it hurts so badly and you think you scream, but you can't hear it, can't hear anything- You hit the icy water below, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. You plummet, your blood turns the water red. It's so fucking cold, water invades your lungs when you gasp reflexively. Everything goes black as you die, but it's a mercy - at least this way the pain is gone.
Lab Table---
You jolt awake with a start on a table in a dimly-lit room, cold and wet and hurting. That must be how you come into the world, because you remember nothing else - you don’t know where you are, what time it is, why you’re wet, why your left arm is only phantom tingles, like it should be there but it isn’t. You don’t even know your own name, and you’re surrounded by people speaking in a language you don’t remember. You’re frightened, panicked, upset and confused; mind-numbing fear is all there is to your racing thoughts. No name, no identity, no personality, no idea how you should react, so your body reacts for you - you leap off the table and you start to fight. You don’t know how, but it’s like your limbs have a mind of their own. You let them take over. You fight until you feel a needleprick at your neck, and then everything goes black again.
Sleep is a welcome relief.
Channel Islands---
The mission went wrong. Everything went wrong, wrong, wrong, is all you can think about as you hang from manacles in the dungeon of Baron Zemo’s castle. You’re supposed to be retrieving a stolen drone plane from the Nazis, you and Steve, but you’ve been captured, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been like this. They’re trying to make Steve - Captain America - crack, so they’ve stripped off the top half of your uniform, leaving you naked from the waist up in the cold. They’ve chained your hands above your head. You’re barely standing on your tip-toes, and everything is strained and hurting. Stone is cold and rough at your back, and all you can do is try to stifle your grunts and groans of pain as Zemo and his henchmen take turns beating you, whipping you, leaving bruises and welts.
“Let him go, you monsters!” You hear Steve scream as you drift in and out of consciousness. You want to tell him it’s okay, open your mouth to do so, but all that comes out is a hoarse yell as Zemo lays the lash to your bared skin again.
Humanity--- Claimed for Alfred / America
Natalia is everything that has ever made you feel anything at all. You hold on to those memories of her, the warmth and softness of her skin, the fire of her hair, the beauty of a smile on her rose-red lips. Lips that promise things incomprehensible and wonderful, things you’ve never felt before in your life - love, peace, serenity. When you’re with her, you’re a man, not a tool or a weapon. When you’re with her, lying in bed for a few stolen moments post-coitus, sometimes things start to come back. Little flashes of a life before the Winter Soldier. A man named... James, you think, and when you tell Natalia about it, she agrees that James is a good name for you. She never calls you anything else in private.
She’s calling you that now, as two KGB agents hold her back, and she fights to get to you. You’re on your knees before Karpov, before your handlers, shirtless and with your arms behind your back. They aren’t tied, but you can’t go against orders, so you keep them there as you’re savagely beaten. Every blow you take stoically; they won’t damage you too much. You’re valuable property. You worry for Natalia, though they won’t damage her either, for she is still promised to Alexei, a national hero.
“James!” She shrieks as they drag her away, and it haunts your thoughts until you’re locked in tight, hooked to electrodes to be reconditioned.
They strip all your memories again, and when you wake next, the name ‘James’ means nothing to you.
Itsu--- Claimed for Dick Grayson
You have your orders. Orders are everything, orders are all you know. This mission is a pain in the ass and you don’t see the point, but Karpov owed this guy a favor and you’re Karpov’s trained attack dog. You feel nothing as you crouch in the trees outside the small wood and paper house in lovely Japan, cleaning the handgun methodically in your hands. You never had to be taught how to do this. It’s like you’ve held a gun in your hand your entire life, and maybe you have, you don’t know because you aren’t a person. You do what you’re told, nothing more, and you’re rewarded with dreamless, frigid sleep. This one is just another victim.
You put the pieces of your firearm back together in record time, load the clip, put on the silencer, leap fluidly from the high branch. The target is here. Her husband is not. You were warned about the husband - keen senses, he’ll track you down if he catches your scent, like an animal. The woman doesn’t see you coming. You slip on silent feet into the house, you shoot her point-blank.
She falls to the wooden floor without a sound, on her back, heavily, obviously pregnant in her delicately-patterned kimono. Blood pools around her dark hair. You don’t care. You don’t know what remorse is. You are the Winter Soldier, a killing machine born of the ice and snow in Siberia.
You crack a pheromone capsule to hide your scent, and you steal away into the trees again. Your handlers are waiting at the retrieval point.
Sniper---
You’re seething with rage, quietly, beneath the surface, as you move through the crowd gathered on the courtsteps one afternoon. The crowd parts for a car pulling up, and you see your best friend, in uniform, his cowl down, being escored out by two armed policemen. Anger threatens to boil over when you see that his hands are cuffed behind his back like a common damn criminal, being paraded in front of the unwashed masses. People try to surge around him, held back by flimsy barriers as Captain America is marched through up the steps. You should be with him, but you can’t be. You exist underground for the time being, working for Nick Fury.
The press shouts questions that Steve won’t answer. Protesters on both sides of the issue wave their signs. And then you see Steve’s expression change as he looks over his shoulder. It all happens so damn fast. You hear the shot ring out, see Steve move - to intercept the bullet, it would have hit one of his guards instead, see him collapse on the steps. Your eyes widen and fear seizes your heart like it hasn’t in a long, long time. People are rushing to him, crowding around him, and you should be there with them, you should be holding his hand and waiting with him for the paramedics to arrive and reassuring him that it’s all going to be okay.
But you’re unregistered, living off the grid. You’d be arrested in a heartbeat, and then what good would you do Steve? You trace the trajectory of the bullets and go after the sniper instead.
It isn’t until later that you find out that your oldest friend is gone.
Loss---
Steve is dead. Steve is dead and gone, and you’re still here, left behind to face the world without the one who brought you back to it. The one who saved you and cursed you all at once. The bar is quiet this time of night, just a few rednecks and trucker-types having beers and hushed conversations. You’re having the bartender keep ‘em coming, shots of whiskey, neat, as much as you can down. You don’t drink often, but when you do, it’s times like these - times when you don’t know what else to do, times when you’re just responsible enough to pick a less self-destructive method of handling the consuming misery and anger. The TV above the bar plays the evening news, more coverage on Steve’s death.
You almost ask the bartender to change the channel, but before you can get the words out, you hear from the guy next to you, “He was a damned traitor anyway!”
You lose it all to blind, red rage. Haul back and deck the fucking idiot. His friends come to the rescue, and you just let your body take over, instincts not yet dulled by the whiskey. You’re just drunk enough to intensify your fury. You’re not sure how much later it is, but you’re standing above a bunch of downed rednecks, fists clenched at your sides. There’s wetness on your cheeks.
You cry for the first time in decades.
Steve would be so ashamed of you.
Christmas of '37---
You look up, up, up at the Major, as a light snow falls over the cemetery. He's standing in front of you, bent over, his posture perfect as he holds out an American flag, folded twelve times. You're frozen for a moment; that flag had just been draped over your father's casket. "On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation," he's saying, voice heavy and solemn. You stare up at the man, your dead father's friend, with wide brown eyes.
You've been to military funerals before. You know the procedure. But being the next of kin at one is different. You're dressed in a scratchy, olive wool suit that is too big for you, and your brown hair has been meticulously combed back. Rebecca clings behind you, sobbing. The two of you are alone in the world, your sister and you.
You can't manage any words as you accept the folded flag from the major, and hold it close to your chest.
You're twelve years old. It'll be Christmas Eve in just a few days, and your fate is uncertain.
Cryostasis---
Your mission is over. You know what comes next. Still, you feel the twisting rejection of it in the pit of your stomach as they lead you through white hallways down to the lab where you usually wake and sleep. "" one doctor tells you in Russian. Karpov is standing in the doorway as you do, arms crossed, watching. You aren't sure why. Possibly to make sure his property isn't damaged or you aren't helped to escape. Why would you escape anyway? You are only a tool.
You strip, movements mechanical and methodical, until you're naked in the cold room. There is no embarrassment; you're only a weapon. The table is cold against your back as you lay upon it, so very cold, as cold as winter in Siberia, but you don't react. You are born of cold.
The men in their white coats with fear in their eyes inject you with solutions of chemicals meant to keep your cells from being damaged by the ice. You only stare at the ceiling, count the tiles. There were twenty-six last time, you think. Or was it twenty-eight? It's always so hard to remember, you're reconditioned every time you wake again.
The men soon leave, to watch behind a glass pane. You can't see them, but you know they see you. The heavy metal door seals shut behind them, and the temperature of the room drops. It drops slowly, gradually, to prevent damage. You don't try to huddle for warmth, don't try to cover your naked body. It's hopeless to do so. Your flesh shivers, but your limbs don't move. You count the tiles, again and again, as you freeze.
Every time is like dying.
It isn't painful. You merely drift off to sleep. Blessed, dreamless sleep.