Stay With Me
It took her an embarrassingly long time to notice the little blinking alarm, Skye reflected, which was perhaps due to the fact that it was just a tiny purple flashing light at the bottom of the screen and she had been way too enraptured in following a virtual HYDRA paper trail. The tiny purple alarm was something she had installed to serve as a warning should anyone outside of their small vetted group of renegades try to access SHIELD’s servers; it was just one of many cyber-security measures put in place. She swiftly determined that whoever was using their servers did not try to steal or plant anything, which was in itself relieving, but brought on the question what, then, exactly they were trying to accomplish. The login was that of a former Special Service agent, number 13 to be precise, and they seemed to have been using the server capacity for research. Skye couldn’t access that data safely from her laptop in her bunk, and since she needed to inform Coulson of this anyway, she quickly snatched up the computer and made her way to Coulson’s office.
“We have a weird Code Purple!” she announced after knocking and entering. There was a main interface in that office, laden with every cyber-security measure she could think of and then some, and she punched in combination after combination while making her report.
“They searched security camera feeds and police and hospital records using footage from that street fight in DC, you know?, when they arrested Captain America.” Of course Coulson would know which fight she meant. “My theory is that whoever they are, they’re looking for either the Cap or that Winter Soldier guy, since he’s still at large somewhere for all we know, right?”
“Agent 13 you said?” Coulson asked, face inscrutable.
“Yeah, you know who that is?”
“I do, and if it’s actually her using her login we shouldn’t be in danger, but we need to make sure.” He called May, asking her to come and relaying this potential new development to her as she was on her way. Then, disappointingly, he sent Skye away, instructing her to inform him immediately should anything similar pop up.
---
The Soldier sat in your kitchen, back ramrod straight, just where you’d placed him on a stool in the warm sunlight. He peered suspiciously at the array of equipment you’d arranged on the counter – the scissors with the one wickedly thin and pointed blade, the pair of tweezers, the disinfectant, bandages and antibiotic ointment, some cotton balls, a small bowl containing warm soapy water and a clean towel, fresh out of the dryer – before locking his eyes back on you. He didn’t know how to feel about letting anyone near him with something sharp, even though he had gained a degree of tentative trust in you. He wished he could just have done it himself, but unfortunately most of the sutures were on his back where he couldn’t reach them.
“That’ll have to come off, you know.” You stated calmly, nodding to his shirt as you washed your hands. His reaction times were getting shorter, you noted with a certain degree of delight, and he pulled the simple blue cotton shirt over his head with only minimal hesitation.
The last time you’d been that close to him in a similar state of undress had been when picking him up from the hospital. Back then you had primarily noticed the cluster of dark mottled bruises all over his torso, only intersected by the white of bandages. Either of which were gone now, leaving only smooth skin and toned muscle in their wake. Well, that and the stitches. You pushed any and all inappropriate thoughts from your mind and made an offhanded comment on how well he’d healed. You noticed how tense he was, and figured it was probably best to distract him while you worked. He held himself taut as a drawn bowstring, seemingly clenching up further with every movement of yours. Yep, you definitely needed him to relax some, otherwise this wouldn’t work out. If only you knew how. You were taking too long to come up with something, drying your hands still although there was no water left on them. It was then that he surprised you yet again.
“Can I ask you something?” he spoke up meekly, eyes darting to meet yours only for a fraction of a second before he averted them.
“Sure.” You finally put the towel away, leaning against the kitchen counter as you waited for him to speak.
“Why did you help me?”
“Do you mean generally or …”
“When we… I was… on the night we met, why did you choose to help me?” And not them?, the question hung in the air unvocalized; you recognized it all the same.
“Two against one, and he was attacking you from behind – never did like that much. It reeks of bully.”
He reached for your hand, taking it in his and squeezing so gently it was nearly imperceptible. The first time you had offered your hand to him he’d perceived it as an order and for all the breaks in his programming hadn’t dared refuse. To his surprise he’d found the simple touch to be both comforting and grounding, and had grown to almost crave it deep down, though until this moment he had never been the one to take the initiative. You squeezed back, in a way that you hoped came across as reassuring. In any case you were glad he seemed to be opening up more.
An indignant meow jarred you both from the moment, and you shot the cat a reproachful glare as you saw the tension immediately seeping back into him.
“Are you still okay to go through with this? You seem a bit …on edge.” He nodded sharply, mouth set in a firm line as his eyes were glued to your instruments.
“You said the stitches need to be pulled.” He ground out between gritted teeth.
“They do, eventually, but I’d rather not do this if you aren’t comfortable. Right now you don’t seem comfortable at all – actually you look like you’ll snap clean in half if you so much as move wrong – so if you’d rather postpone a bit we can absolutely do that. Or you could assist me, maybe that would make you feel more at ease.” You didn’t know which part of your little speech did it, but you saw him soften, dispelling the tension from his body with a few deep breaths. His jaw set in determination.
“No, let’s do this. Now.”
The biggest scar is from a long laceration along his ribs, sloping down his torso from his side until just under the ridge of his ribcage, more than twenty stitches. He understands that is where the falling rafter pinned him down and crushed his ribs, and the further exertion of fleeing and fighting made the bone fragments shift and pierce things that should not be pierced. All that was healed now, and only a dotted line of white scar tissue remained. He held the tweezers, pulling up the threads so you could sever them with the scissors, then pulling the pieces out of his flesh.
“Those pancakes were delicious by the way, if you couldn’t tell from the way I basically inhaled them.” You said casually, moving to prepare the sutures on his back by lightly cleaning them with the towel and warm soapy water. There had been eight bullets. Curiously there are nine scars, the ninth stemming from him digging out the tracker implanted at the base of his neck, which was how the HYDRA goons who’d ended up chasing him all the way to your apartment had found him in the first place. Luckily you were too immersed in your current task to muse on mathematics that didn’t quite add up. But back to the pancakes. The urge to make them had seemed right, and the knowledge how to had simply been present in his brain. The smell of them, once made, had in turn brought back the vaguest of recollections, more a sense of a memory than a memory in and by itself. He knew he connected those pancakes with home, but the sensation seemed impossibly far away now, a mere child’s fancy. It seemed a ridiculous notion now that he’d ever even had a home.
“My mother’s recipe …I think.” He answers plaintively, and is suddenly struck by the image of skirt- and apron-clad legs stood in front of a kitchen counter that he is barely tall enough to reach and he almost feels the hand patting his head affectionately. Looking up he expects to see a face, maybe even hear a voice (maybe the voice will reveal his name to him, finally, even if it’s just a nick name; he is so tired of not being anybody), but when he looks up there is nothing there – the memory ends in fog. He can’t even remember his own mother’s face. Who among those fortunate enough to have their mother long enough to commit her to memory cannot recall her face? He realizes once again just how much HYDRA took from him and feels the first shy tendrils of something akin to wrath stir in the pit of his stomach.
“Well, I know that’s not exactly consolation, but I don’t know my mother’s name either, if that helps.” Your words are accompanied by a little stinging tug at the skin of his right shoulder and a muffled curse and he realizes that he must have been speaking his thoughts aloud, before. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.
All the stitches had been easy to remove, except for the very last one of course. You dabbed at the minute trickle of blood and covered it with a bandage. After placing your supplies back on the counter to be cleared away afterwards, you timidly handed him back his shirt. He thanked you quietly and slipped it back on, moving to help you as soon as he was clothed again, but you gently sent him away. There was no denying it anymore now, he was fully healed, physically at least. Putting away the last of your pieces of equipment you made up your mind. Now came the hard part: getting the words out there.
“So, you know how I said before, that you could stay until you’re better…” your voice faltered, your stomach dropping a bit at what you were about to suggest. To any reasonable outside person this would surely seem insane, but then again so would have taking him in in the first place.
“That was very kind of you.” He replied softly, still standing awkwardly in the kitchen. You made the mistake of raising your gaze to his face. There was vulnerability there, hidden imperfectly behind a blank mask. Time to get it out already, you chided yourself.
“If you wanted to stay, here, longer, I mean from now on still and longer I… I wouldn’t mind.” You spoke quietly, barely above a murmur, stuttering pitifully, too; and stared doggedly ahead, intent on not meeting his gaze. “Only if you want.” You quickly added, as if that would somehow erase the tone of supplication from your voice, which of course it didn’t.
He inhaled deeply, bracing himself and buying time by twiddling with his sleeve.
“I am the Winter Soldier… or I was-“ His tone was apprehensive and oddly devoid of hope. Hope that you wouldn’t know what to make of that or hope that you wouldn’t mind? In any case you were about to give him an answer.
“I kinda pieced that together.” You admitted, rather sheepishly. The stuff was all over the internet after all, not even speaking of the various TV programs, newspaper articles, radio shows and general chatter on the streets, and even if you didn’t outright inquire that didn’t mean you hadn’t been curious. You had just counted on him confiding in you eventually. And apparently you had been right.
His head snapped up, eyes incredulous. You shrugged. “To be honest, it was more of a very strong suspicion until just now.” At a loss for what to do, you shrugged again. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“How can you be so unconcerned?” he entreated you, intently, disbelieving. You were more caught off guard by the fact that he addressed you like this at all.
“Look, it’s been what, two weeks now? You’ve not given me any reason to; I mean I have not felt unsafe or in danger at any point during that time. Whatever it is you are worried about, all the evidence points toward the fact that it isn’t happening. Either you have pretty solid handle on it, or it’s not actually as big an issue as you seem to believe.” You held out your hand to him, palm upward, as it had become a habit by now. He took it hesitantly, his fingers remaining yet stiff as yours gently curled around them. “I trust you; I trust you’ll not hurt me. Okay?”
“…Okay.” He said after a moment of inner debate. The word sounded solemn, more like a vow than an admission, as if he was more placated than reassured or even convinced.
“So, you’ll stay?” you asked, twiddling the fingers of your free hand hopefully in anticipation of his answer. You really didn’t want him to leave anymore. It wasn’t just that you felt responsible for him, or that you sensed he still needed help, but that in the short amount of time you had grown accustomed to his presence and if he left again you would feel more alone than you had before.
“I have nowhere else to go.” Not the answer you were craving deep down, but you’d take it. You reached into your pocket and procured the spare key to your apartment. You placed it in his hand with a smile and gently closed his fingers around the small piece of metal, vaguely wondering why you knew that you could trust this man who didn’t even remember his own name.
He felt the edges of the key dig subtly into his flesh, the sensation an oddly tangible proof of trust he hadn’t been afforded in a long time (if one didn’t count the man in the blue-white-red suit who had entrusted his own life to the Winter Soldier’s mercy, a gamble if anything; that man who was so strangely familiar appeared to lack any sense of self-preservation). He knew he was still a far way off from being okay, but for the first time since his world crumbled amidst the wreckage of the Helicarrier he felt like he might be one day.
---
This was the third time they got together like this and so far nothing had yielded actual results. Steve was getting impatient again, unhappy with scouring the digital world for scraps that ultimately led to dead ends. This was a last resort, though she didn’t think it would render up anything substantial. Then again what harm ever came from being thorough?
Sharon was in the process of adjusting the parameters for sifting through recent hospital reports when her phone rang. The phone that only a handful of people knew the number of, about half of whom were currently in the room with her. No caller ID, naturally. Sharon suppressed a sigh and answered cautiously.
“Who is this?”
“Agent 13, please confirm your identity and status."
“Melinda!” she exclaimed, mind put at ease immediately at recognizing the other agent’s voice. Steve looked bewildered, as did Sam, but she gave them a reassuring wave, "Agent 13, Sharon Carter, badge number 9623 8373 1736, though I suppose that’s not exactly valid anymore. What's the matter?"
"We have a security breach. Someone's accessing our servers through your old login and running various searches. Please tell me that's you and there's a good reason for this."
“Yeah, that’s me. Captain Rogers asked for my help in locating the Winter Soldier.” Steve gave her a look, which she ignored in favor of filling in her former colleague, in turn learning that SHIELD continued to exist in the shadows. Steve made a face at that, and a sound that sounded a bit like a huff, but refrained from saying anything, thankfully. Meanwhile her search request was gathering hits, the majority of which she could dispel fairly easily. It had been a far shot, since it wasn’t that likely that the Winter Soldier would just walk into a hospital to get patched up, but better safe than sorry. One result caught her eye, from Sibley Memorial Hospital, which reported the odd case of a young man who recovered from major traumatic surgery and several bullet wounds within a week, or at least enough so to be sent home. With May’s help they pulled up the records and security camera feeds. The names and address were false, but this was unmistakably the man they were looking for, and Steve forgot everything else as his eyes were glued to the slightly grainy image of Bucky lying in a hospital bed, being wheeled through the corridors. According to the hospital’s records, he had been brought there and taken back by a young woman who according to basically every other database didn’t exist. (Well, there was a pre-schooler in Palo Alto and a pensioner in Johannesburg by that name, both of which they could reasonably discount.)
The name you had given in the official forms at the hospital had been a false one, a mashup of two of your caretakers at the orphanage where you had grown up, both of whom were long deceased – at the same time an obscure reference to medical history. You had used it to set up a ‘bail fund’ in case Skye should ever get into trouble (or generally just in case). Of course none of the agents currently trying to discern your identity could possibly know that. Curiously, there was no actual footage of you that was worth anything (though Sam briefly thought he recognized you at one point), making a facial recognition scan a fruitless endeavor. Nevertheless Sharon and May ran search after search for the mystery woman, all of them coming to dead ends.
“Seems like we’ll be making a trip back to the hospital, then.” Sam quipped, ever practical-minded and already jotting down the name of the doctor who had been in charge of Bucky’s treatment along with all other relevant information.