Chasing Ghosts Part I
Chasing Ghosts, Part I
Chapter 3
Present Day
Two Months After the Fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Three Hours Outside of Cleveland, Ohio
Steve ended the call and glanced at Sam, who was squinting over the steering wheel to see better through the rain-soaked windshield. The unexpected derecho over the Midwest was not welcome. While it wouldn't cause Rhodey much trouble in the suit, the high winds might ground Falcon-even with Tony's ever-so-lauded Mark II version of the wings. "Rhodes is on site. He's going to do some reconnaissance flights over the target before we meet up with the Tac teams."
Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on the dark road. "A'ight. We might be getting there late, though, if this rain doesn't let up."
"They'll wait for us. If HYDRA tries to move out before we get there, Rhodey can slow them down."
"Well, then, let's just do some sightseeing," Sam shot back, smiling. "Okay, keep going. Story time isn't over yet, Rogers."
"Where was I?" Steve asked.
"Picture it, Brooklyn, 1943," Sam chuckled. It was a pop-culture reference, but Steve was unsure which one.
"Ah, right. Erskine had signed off on my recruitment forms, so I went home to pack. Bucky had both the girls, so I didn't expect him any time soon...."
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Brooklyn Naval Shipyard
July 15th, 1943, 10:00 AM
"Two weeks on this scow!" Bucky proclaimed bitterly, arm stretching out to encompass the decrepit troopship tied to the dock. "And I thought my last Trans-Atlantic trip was a gas."
Hundreds of soldiers were milling around in loose groups along the dock. A Navy band was playing nearby, trying to keep the outgoing troops entertained as they waited to board the old steamer.
"You're just upset there won't be any women on board," Steve chided from behind, trying to keep the mood light.
Bucky fixed him with a glare. "I'll have you know that after you jumped ship on me last night, our double dates gave me plenty of memories to keep me company. Annabelle alone-"
"Stop. Stop! Stop." Steve held up his hands. "I don't want that image in my brain, Buck."
"This attitude? This is why you don't do well on dates, Stevie." Bucky wagged his finger at Steve, but sobered after a moment, eyes raking up and down like he was trying to memorize what Steve looked like. "I guess this is goodbye for a while, pal."
Steve glanced at the waiting ship, then back to Bucky, who looked every bit the professional soldier in his olive green uniform and rucksack slung over shoulder. "Yeah...for a while, I guess."
Saying goodbye a second time was even harder than it had been the summer before, when Bucky had shipped out for North Africa. It had only been sheer luck that had seen Barnes' unit rotate back through New York after the invasion. They might not be so fortunate this time. Bucky was likely headed to Europe for the duration.
Steve wanted to say he'd be right behind, that Erskine had signed off on his enlistment and Steve was leaving that afternoon. But he didn't. He couldn't. The orders dropped off by the courier that morning had been very explicit: Steve was to tell no one where he was going or why.
Even without all the secrecy, Steve wasn't sure his enlistment was even going to work out. He didn't want to tell Buck that he'd got in, then fail out of the program. Basic was probably going to be humiliating enough as it was without having to face his best friend if he dropped out.
I can offer you a chance. Only a chance.
For now, at least, Steve had to keep it to himself.
"You know," Bucky said, gaze sweeping along the busy dockyard beyond the fence. "I know you'll be mad at me for saying this, but...I'm glad you didn't get in, Steve."
Rogers opened his mouth, but Bucky cut him off. "No! Not because I don't think you can do it. You can do anything you set your mind to, always have. But...I saw a lot of people bigger than you get cut to pieces over there, Steve. I just don't want to see you get hurt."
Bucky had earned his sergeant's stripes in the fighting at Kasserine Pass. He was a hero, but Steve had learned the hard way to not mention that in his presence. Instead, he just nodded. "I know, Buck."
An Army bugler appeared on the deck of the ship, sounding the call to assemble. Bucky looked at Steve, grimacing. It was time. After a moment, he huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. "Come here, ya punk."
He stepped forward and scooped Steve into a hug. "You take care of yourself, all right? Stay outta back alleys."
"I'll do my best," Steve promised. He wouldn't be in any back alleys any time soon, but he didn't say that. "When you get to Europe, leave some of your stupid on the ship, okay?"
Bucky laughed into Steve's shoulder. "Wise guy."
He let Steve go and stepped back, taking the bag Steve had carried for him. He threw a casual half-salute and opened his mouth again, but no words came out. There was nothing left to say that they didn't both already know. Instead, Bucky just smiled and walked through the gate.
Steve watched as he moved down the steps onto the pier and toward a group of soldiers. As Bucky got close, he called out. "Able Company! Fall in!"
Watch out for the 107th's newest sergeant, fellas. Steve smiled to himself. Bucky could be a real ballbuster when he wanted to be. Soon, the crowd was too thick to see where Bucky had gone, so Steve turned and headed back for the train station. He had his own bags to get and an apartment to lock up.
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Present Day
"You didn't tell him?" Sam asked, shooting Steve a disbelieving look.
Steve shrugged, watching the dark interstate go by outside the rain-streaked window. "I had my orders. Project Rebirth was a huge secret back then. Heck, even I didn't know the details until I got to Camp LeHigh."
"Yeah, sure, I mean, that makes sense," Sam replied. "It's just...from what you've told me, you and Bucky lived in each other's pockets. I’d’ve thought you’d’ve wanted him to know before he left."
"No..." Steve shook his head. "He had enough to worry about without me adding to it. Besides, he probably would have kicked my ass up and down that dock if I'd told him I got in. He really didn't want me to enlist. He'd have flat out slugged me if he'd known it was an experiment."
"So, what? You were just going to turn up one day on the battlefield, 'oh, hey, Buck, look at me?'"
Steve laughed softly. "I admit, I didn't think a lot of it through at the time. But, in my defense, I didn't know I'd change so much, either." He gestured toward his body. "This was as much a surprise to me as to anyone else."
"Was that the last time you saw him before Italy?"
"Saw, yeah. But we wrote to each other. He'd write about once a week, or just when he could. Mail moved a lot slower then, especially with the wartime censors, so the letters were always behind. I got most of them while I was touring with the USO. I didn't think much of it when they stopped a few months later. I figured they were catching up to me as the shows made their way around the country."
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July 19, 1943
Dear Steve,
You're lucky you're not on this tub with me, buddy. We hit a storm the first night out and it hasn't let up since. It's a lot like riding the Cyclone except they never let you get off!
We have no idea where we are, which I suppose is a good thing, because that means the Krauts don't know where we are either. Everyone's pretty much bored out of their minds, when they aren't spewing over the side. Got a few guys who think they're the next Patton, and a lot of goofs who don't know their rifle's butt from their own.
Our lieutenant's a real pistol, though. I like this guy a lot more than the fat-head that was with us in the 34th ID. He's nuts, but he knows his stuff.
On second thought, I wish you were here. I hate shining my own shoes. (Just kidding, Stevie!)
Sincerely,
B. Barnes
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July 23, 1943
Dear Steve,
The weather finally cleared up. Lot of us were up top today, and it was a good thing, because we got a helluva show. There was a U-boat scare this morning, and we watched a couple of tin cans dropping depth charges. Don't know if they hit anything. Probably just a whale losing his blubber anyway!
Have you found a new job, yet? I know the Old Man likes you watching his shop, but fifty cents an hour isn't gonna pay the rent. Why don't you see if Pete will let you take my old job at the restaurant? The tips are good, and you'll meet a lot of dames that way.
LT told us we weren't staying long when we get to England,__ just a couple of days. Then we're moving again. I'm sick of boats already. From the sound of it, big things might be coming. I don't know when I'll be able to write again, that's why I'm sending this now.
I miss you, Stevie.
Sincerely,
B. Barnes
P.S. I meant what I said about talking to Pete. I know you don't have the charm, wit or good looks of the job's previous occupant, but it's good money. Think about it, okay?
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Present Day
Abandoned Factory outside Cleveland, Ohio
The high-pitched whine of the repulsor was the only warning the Iron Patriot gave the guards inside. The blast shattered the thick, armored door, sending it flying into the tunnel and taking out one guard along the way. Steve threw his shield to the left just seconds later, catching the other guard in the midsection and flinging him against the stone wall. He caught it on its return arc as he and Rhodey passed.
"Alpha team in, south side," Steve hissed into his comlink. "Falcon, call it."
Sam coordinated the entry of the other three FBI teams from his vantage point five hundred feet in the air. Steve could hear the buffeting winds through his ear piece. Luckily, the new wings had some extra features, courtesy of Tony, that made it easier for Sam to stay up in bad weather.
Steve and Rhodey made their way down the mine-like tunnel, leading beneath the ground floor of the factory and into a network of underground chambers. One of Stark Industries' satellites had detected heat signatures beneath the structure, and after some observation, Rhodes had determined that the main HYDRA base was beneath the dilapidated manufacturing facility. The tunnel extended nearly another three hundred feet before branching off in two directions.
"I go left, you go right?" Steve said quietly.
"Got it," Rhodes' voice filtered through the audio modulator in his red, white and blue faceplate.
Steve looked over his shoulder at the dozen FBI agents dressed in black tactical gear. "Agent Howard, you and your group stay with me. Agent Doyle, your group sticks with the Patriot."
The agents nodded, following behind them in a double file line with their rifles at the ready.
They made it a few more yards before the Patriot's armored hand shot out and pushed Steve against the left wall. "Incoming!"
No sooner had they ducked to the sides when a small rocket raced through the air, trailing flame and smoke, before exploding behind them near the entrance. Steve glanced up from behind his shield, and saw three squat, multi-armed monstrosities coming their way on thick tank treads. The tops of the couch-sized machines bristled with guns, rocket launchers and metal grappling arms.
Steve grimaced. "Guess Tony was right about this being a munitions lab."
"Yeah, he's annoying when he's right," the Iron Patriot replied, though Steve could hear the smile in Rhodey's voice even behind the armored helmet. "I got these. You all stay behind me 'til we get down the tunnel, then go right. Tony's sat-feed says most of the bigger rooms are that way."
The Iron Patriot dropped to a crouch, then blasted down the tunnel in flight mode. He intercepted the first robot, grabbing hold and spinning, flinging it against the far end of the tunnel. It landed on its back, immobile. The other two bots turned their attention to the Patriot, and they moved to surround him, but the hail of bullets from their guns glanced off his armor and he was able to force them back and to the left in the tunnel intersection.
Steve saw the opening, and bolted down the corridor, keeping his shield up to deflect any stray shots. He stopped at the intersection and covered as the twelve agents ran past. He rounded the corner just as he heard the Patriot's twin, shoulder-mounted minigun spooling up. Rhodey's return fire turned the noise of the fight into a deafening cacophony.
The second, shorter hallway was a double row of doors-six in all-lit only by emergency lights, since the FBI had cut the power lines outside just before they stormed the base. At the far end was a seventh door, wide and made of steel like the outer entrance. They'd have to clear the side rooms first.
Steve drew his 9mm-though he felt a little strange doing so. He hadn't carried a gun in combat since the war. The shield was usually enough, but both Sam and Rhodes had insisted, especially in case they got separated, like they just had.
He chose the first door on the right, testing the handle quietly. It was locked. He motioned to the other agents silently to take up positions at the other doors. They'd enter all the rooms simultaneously. When they were in position, Steve gave the signal to breach.
One firm chop with the shield was enough to slice the handle off, and Steve kicked the door in with his booted foot. As soon as the room was open, one of the agents behind him tossed a flash-bang inside. Six of the grenades went off almost in perfect synchronicity in all the rooms. Steve covered his face, but was more resilient than the average person, so the blast didn't affect him as badly.
Counting to three, Steve and the two agents entered. Inside, there were two men in white lab coats sprawled on the floor, coughing. They weren't a threat. Two hulking brutes in black and red body armor and steel helmets with goggled face masks, on the other hand, were. They charged.
"Hail HYDRA!"
The bigger of the two took Steve head-on, driving him back through sheer momentum into the wall beside the door. He was quick, agile even in his heavy armor. For a few moments it was like wrestling with an alligator, but Steve smashed his shield into the goon's chest, staggering him back. Using the moment of distraction, he reached out with his gloved hand and broke the strap on the man's helmet, then yanked it off. The man started choking as he inhaled smoke and gas from the grenade. Steve rushed and flipped the goon over his shoulder, slamming him hard into the concrete floor. He didn't get back up.
The two agents had brought down the second with a tazer by the time Steve turned back to them. Once the two brutes were secured, Steve glanced around the room. It was a small assembly line, apparently for the robots that Rhodey had taken on. Two more of the machines were on a platform in the center of the room, with pieces of several more in various stages of construction.
Speaking of....
"Rhodes, status?" Steve spoke into his mike.
"Right behind you, Cap," Rhodes said from the doorway, his faceplate raised. He glanced around the room from behind the two agents. "I see you found the birthing suite."
"You all right?" Steve asked, motioning for the FBI men to cuff the two hacking HYDRA techs sprawled on the floor.
Rhodey nodded. "Nothing a little polish won't take care of."
He stepped back to allow Steve out into the hall, then fell into step behind him, heavy metal footfalls echoing slightly in the now quiet bunker.
Agents Howard and Doyle were waiting by the last pair of doorways. Steve nodded to them and spoke quietly. "Agents?"
"Clear, Captain," Mike Howard replied quietly. "Twenty men, mostly techs, a couple of guards. All down for the count."
"Good," Steve pointed to the last door at the end of the hall. "Six down, one to go."
The four men walked to the elevator-style door. It was secured with a thick metal lock along the center, but nothing elaborate. It was difficult to tell if the lock was meant to keep people out or people in. A stenciled sign read "Bio-Engineering."
Rhodes lowered his faceplate, and extended both arms with guns and repulsors armed as Cap slammed his shield into the locking mechanism. It fell away in pieces, and Steve forced the doors to slide apart.
Inside was a small vestibule, leading to another set of double-doors. There were also two more guards, but they were no threat.
"Christ...." Doyle murmured, staring at the prone figures. Both men were staring sightlessly at the ceiling, throats slashed identically. The floor beneath with was stained red, and it looked fresh.
"Maybe an hour, tops," Howard said analytically, keeping his expression more controlled than the younger Doyle. Steve knew little about Agent Howard, just that he was one of the Bureau's most experienced counter-terrorism experts and an accomplished field commander. He glanced at Steve grimly. "Whoever did this was a professional."
Grimacing, Steve stepped past the bodies and forced open the inner door. Its lock was already broken. Inside was a lab, shelves lined with the typical test tubes and beakers, but also elaborate computer stations and testing machines. Steve led the way into the room. Rhodes flanked him, moving to the right along the wall.
There was woman in a white lab coat slumped over a desk. Howard stepped over to her and checked her vitals. "This one's alive."
"This one's not." Rhodey called out, bending over another lab-coated figure, this one a man. His throat was cut like the men outside, though worse. More brutal. There were some signs of a struggle by the scientist's workstation. A beaker smashed; a shattered computer monitor sparking.
"Why him and not her?" Doyle asked, peering around the otherwise undisturbed laboratory.
Steve frowned. The room had no windows, only one door, one large air vent in the ceiling which didn't seem to have been opened in months, judging by the dust. The outer door had been locked from the outside. He turned a complete circle, examining the room. It didn't make sense. He looked over at Rhodes.
"What happened here?"
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Present Day
Cleveland, Ohio
Four Hours Later
"I have part of an answer for you, Cap. Not sure if it's good news or bad news, though."
Steve was sitting at a small, round dinette table with Wilson and Rhodes, staring at Tony Stark's face on the screen of his computer tablet. "What do you have, Tony?"
"The evil HYDRA scientist turned pez-dispenser wasn't on any FBI watch list or mentioned in any intel Langley had, but JARVIS did some sifting through the S.H.I.E.L.D. data Romanoff uploaded and matched the face to a name.
"Valery Karpov. Born 1957, Russian ex-patriot, expert in cybernetics. He got on the wrong side of Putin a few years back, so he got an all-expense paid flight to America courtesy of one Jasper Sitwell. Resettled in Cleveland about a year ago."
Karpov's passport photo appeared beside Tony's on the screen. Steve's brow furrowed and his stomach did a virtual cartwheel. He's the spitting image....
Sam, noticed immediately. "What?"
"Karpov..." Steve murmured.
"Score one point for the Star Spangled Man," Stark crowed pleasantly. "Valery was the son of one Vasily Karpov, Soviet general in World War Two, and-"
"And the monster who brainwashed Bucky after he was captured in the '40s," Steve spat, mouth curling in anger. "His name is all over the files Natasha gave me."
"Wait, wait, wait," Rhodey said from the other side of the table. "Are you implying that Barnes killed this guy? Tonight?"
"What about the woman, Tony?" Steve asked, ignoring Rhodey's question for the moment.
"Um...Michaela Phillips. Biochemist. No relation to Karpov whatsoever, so far as I can tell. They were just lab partners. Feds have her at the field office in Cincinnati. She isn't talking, yet."
"And only unconscious..." Steve muttered, staring at the tabletop. "It was surgical. Karpov was the target. The rest never even knew he was there...."
Sam was frowning. "But why? Was this guy involved with the Winter Soldier somehow? Tony, you said he was into cybernetics...maybe he did work with that arm of his?"
It was JARVIS that answered, through the tablet speaker. "No, Sergeant Wilson. Files captured by the FBI suggest a connection between Valery Karpov's work and that of Cybertek Corporation, which has been associated with illegal research into weaponizable cybernetic organ replacement and biochemical alteration. Numerous files contain references to a Project: Centipede-"
"Super Soldiers," Tony interpreted. "Surgically altered, cyborg soldiers. They had some help from A.I.M., and might have gotten their hands on Extremis, but I'm still looking into that. S.H.I.EL.D. had them on their radar until recently, and their headquarters was raided. Officially, they're out of business. As to why Cap's BFF would want this guy dead, I don't know."
"Maybe he didn't." Steve said. "They were related. Same family, same last name, similar first name. Hell, they even looked alike. Maybe this was just a case of mistaken identity."
Sam looked dubious. "Steve...."
"I know I'm making a lot of assumptions, Sam." Steve cut off his friend's objection angrily. "But Bucky saved my life in D.C.. He's the victim here, not the villain. If he's still putting his memories back together, he could have easily mistaken one Karpov for another. With what's in the files about Karpov and what he did...I'd want him dead, too, if he wasn't already. And let's not pretend this Karpov was innocent. He was a HYDRA weapons designer."
That effectively ended the conversation.
Tony was the first to break the awkward silence that followed. "All right, good work tonight, guys. Get some sleep. Cap, I'll keep digging and let you know if anything turns up."
When the call ended, Rhodey confirmed the time for their debriefing the next morning and offered to help Steve put together his report for Ellis on the raid, which Steve gratefully accepted, then left for his own room down the hall.
Steve stayed seated at the table, rubbing his temples. Sam settled on the closest bed and watched him. After several long minutes, he finally spoke. "What's going through that head of yours, Rogers?"
"An hour." Steve sighed miserably. "I missed him by an hour, Sam."
"If you want, I'll grab my wings and we can snoop around town. He couldn't have gotten far."
Steve shook his head. "Natasha said it herself, he's trained to be a ghost. He snuck past a dozen armed men to get into that lab and evaded forty of us to get out. He's long gone."
"I'm sorry, Steve." Sam said quietly. "We'll do better next time. Okay?"
It was hard to share the optimism, but Steve nodded. "Yeah."
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The Soldier cursed himself for his clumsiness. He'd seen the signs of the coming law enforcement incursion into the HYDRA base, but had still let his escape route be cut off by one of the tactical squads. He'd barely made it into the ventilation system before the underground bunker was breached.
He had been distracted all day. He'd awoken shaking from a nightmare filled with formless, faceless shapes and harsh voices. Ever since, he'd found himself thinking in both English and Russian, and the constant double-murmur of his thoughts had kept him off-balance. Ideally, he should have scrubbed the mission, but HYDRA knew their base had been discovered, and his window for action had shrunken abruptly.
Karpov hadn't been expecting him, though, that was a positive. He'd cornered and eliminated the target in less then ten minutes. The Soldier only regretted that he hadn't made the bastard suffer. His dreams had been riddled with images of the man. Every one linked to a distinct, visceral memory of pain. Karpov's face was always overlaid in his mind with memories of needles, electric shocks, deafening noise, cold rooms....
He shook off the unhappy thoughts and settled near the window of his hotel room. He'd...liberated some money from the last three HYDRA cells he'd reconnoitered, along with a few different credit cards under false names from some of their uncover operatives. He'd also appropriated some long-range listening equipment from one of the FBI vans outside the factory earlier that evening. The elaborate dish and receiver was set up facing out the window of his room, aimed directly at the room across the street where Rogers-Steve-Wilson and the man known as the Iron Patriot, were talking.
He remembered Steve, from before. His memories were getting clearer and more detailed every day. They'd been friends. Steve and Bucky had been friends. The Soldier was still on uncertain ground when it came to Bucky Barnes. It seemed indisputable that he had been James Buchanan Barnes, a long time ago. What was less clear was how much of that man remained.
Some days it didn't seem like much.
Still, for the moment at least, the man provided him with an identity, a name, something more than "the Asset." For some reason, having a name felt important. He was dubious about "Bucky," even though on an intellectual level he understood the abbreviation of the middle name Buchanan. He didn't know why he had disliked the name James enough to go so completely by the nickname-even history recorded him as "Bucky," predominantly. But, in Russian, the word Bucky held a very different, and absurd, meaning.
He wasn't a vat. He didn't hold liquids of any kind!
He was leaning toward James. Definitely. It was his proper name. Moreover, the name was his. It had been taken away from him, like his memory and everything else, by people like Karpov. But, Steve had helped him get it back.
Whatever else he might or might not remember, James wasn't going to forget that.
He listened to Steve and his compatriots debrief after the raid. Had he known hours ago that Rogers was involved, he might have revealed himself. Once he'd discovered that fact, he'd decided to track Rogers back to the hotel where he was staying and find out why Captain America was leading Federal law enforcement agents against HYDRA.
For a world-renowned hero, Rogers was pathetically easy to find; they should talk about that. James needed to be careful, however, so gaining some information on what exactly Rogers was doing there seemed a safe first step.
Why he felt so...uncomfortable doing so, he had no idea.
James settled in between the curtains, out of sight, and used the scope from his sniper rifle to peer into the other hotel room. Steve seemed healthier than he had two months prior in the hospital, but he looked tired, haggard. Perhaps he wasn't sleeping well. James could fully sympathize. He idly wondered what could give heroes like Rogers nightmares.
Walk over there and talk to him, you coward. You almost killed him on the carrier. You should at least make amends to the man who freed you.
He silenced the aggravating thoughts and kept watching through the scope. While he observed, he listened to the audio feed. Rogers was investigating Karpov. Good. That bastard deserved to be expo- W-what? Son?
"...Files captured by the FBI suggest a connection between Valery Karpov's work and that of Cybertek Corporation..."
"...As to why Cap's BFF would want this guy dead, I don't know..."
"Maybe he didn't." Steve was saying. "They were related. Same family, same last name, similar first name. Maybe this was just a case of mistaken identity."
Mistaken identity.
No. No, that wasn't- James left the window, stepped over to the bed, and shuffled through his notes and printouts of files, looking for the pages on Karpov. He found the pages, saw the face. It was Karpov, James was certain...except....
He stared at the file photo, taken some four decades prior. The old general's gray hair, crinkled eyes, the frown lines around the mouth.... Whatever else had been done to his brain and long-term memory, James had a very good memory for mission details. He remembered Karpov's face clearly from the lab- It wasn't the man in the photo he was holding. The resemblance was striking, almost eerie. Father and son. They looked so simi-
"Bozhe moi," he muttered. "What have I...?"
He heard Steve's voice raise on the audio feed. He and Wilson were arguing, it seemed. About him.
"I know I making a lot of assumptions, Sam. But, Bucky saved my life in D.C.. He's the victim here, not the villain. If he's still putting his memories back together, he could have easily mistaken one Karpov for another."
Mistaken one for another.
Why was Rogers defending him? James had murdered a man just because he looked like someone else who had tortured him. What was wrong with him? What kind of...monster did they make me?
Steve was still talking. Still making his case for James, even though he had no reason to do so. "...And let's not pretend this Karpov was innocent. He was a HYDRA weapons designer."
It was little comfort. James understood what Steve was saying. The younger Karpov was a weapons designer for a terrorist group. His work had probably resulted in the deaths of innocents, however indirectly. He wasn't innocent. But that didn't matter. James had targeted the wrong man, and carried out the attack without a second thought.
The Soldier. The other personality in his mind. It was James, but it was also the Winter Soldier. He didn't question orders, he just obeyed. He killed on command. The Winter Soldier had murdered Karpov.
James Barnes was the Winter Soldier.
He had developed the mission against Karpov on his own. He'd seen the scientist's file in a HYDRA databank. He'd seen photos of the elder Karpov and just...assumed. He'd just murdered the man.
James swept the rest of his meticulous notes on HYDRA agents of interest off the bed with a cry of anger. How could he trust himself? How could- What if the Soldier inside him killed again without thinking. What if- God, what if he killed Steve?
Captain America was the last official target given to the Soldier. Pierce wanted Steve Rogers dead. James was standing not two hundred meters away from that very same Captain America, watching him through the scope of a sniper rifle! What was wrong with him?
The realization hit like a blast of ice water. Steve wasn't safe around him. He couldn't make contact. He was damaged. Dangerous. A rogue weapon. What had he been thinking?
He had to stay away. It was the only way to keep Steve safe. Keep Steve safe. That directive felt older than all the others. That had been Bucky's directive.
I know you'll be mad at me for saying this, but...I'm glad you didn't get in, Steve...I just don't want to see you get hurt.
It was a strong memory. He could even remember the smells of the dockyard. It only reinforced his decision.
James had to stay away.
TBC
A/N: The black bar in Bucky's letter is my attempt to show the wartime censor blacking out where the ship was heading. During the war, a lot of soldiers' mail was reviewed before being allowed out, to ensure that military details weren't accidentally or intentionally revealed.
Also, special thanks to uminoko on tumblr for the analysis of Bucky's name in Russian.