If the Wind Turns

The days are starting to bleed into each other.

It’s a Tuesday, and Bucky is only sure of that because his therapy session with Dr. Raynor—who wasn’t exactly thrilled about his escapades, even though he successfully managed to conveniently leave out the killing Hydra scientists part—was yesterday, and therapy is always on Monday. 

Actually, he isn’t really sure of that at all, and he doesn’t think he has it in him to care about something so trivial. It isn’t like he has any plans, anyway. He never does. Whether it’s a Tuesday or a Saturday, his phone never rings, no one shows up at his doorstep, and he proceeds through his day in relatively comfortable silence.

Comfortable, until it isn’t.

Usually Bucky heads to a spot with just a little bit of noise when the silence gets to be too much. The dive bar in the shitty part of town, the nice restaurant that’s just a tad too fancy for him to feel entirely comfortable, or the calm but not crowded park where he can just observe. He doesn’t really make any attempts to talk to people in those places. He was social, once, before the war and the Winter Soldier, the kind of person that would drink and flirt and dance. 

But he can’t get drunk, his flirting game is outdated by a century, and he isn’t exactly in a dancing mood lately.

So he just observes.

Sam thinks Bucky has a staring problem. Hell, maybe he does—he can never really tell when he’s giving too much eye contact or not enough, not after he spent so many years with the same blank look on his face as he awaited orders. It’s just another in a long list of habits that he can’t seem to break.

Lately, one of those habits is checking on the Hydra operative kept under lock and key. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s drawn to the cell, to be entirely truthful. It’s probably that same sense of obligation that pushed him to accept Sam’s request to begin with. The same one that now refuses to let him allow the operative to rot away in a cell under his watch.

Except She seems to be doing that anyway, he notes, once again watching the video feed from the observation room. 

She’s curled on the floor, back against the corner of the cell, with a thin blanket that She pulled from the bed wrapped closely around Her. He doesn’t need to question why. He knows exactly how hard it can be to feel any semblance of comfort from soft bedding after sleeping on nothing but awfully firm mattresses and concrete and dirt with sharp rocks poking at his sides for years. 

There’s a chilling stillness in the operative’s form. The Osprey hadn’t spoken in days. She’d barely moved at all aside from subtle twitches here and there and restless motions in Her sleep. Twice a day, the guard outside the cell would slide a tray of bland, unremarkable food—if it can really even be called food—through the small gap in the containment barrier. 

Twice a day, the tray would be retrieved, entirely untouched. She doesn’t pick at the food on it. Doesn’t even pick the tray up or look at it. She drinks water occasionally, though seemingly only enough to keep Her alive. 

Bucky’s attempts to coax the operative into eating are met with blank stares. Questions, both gentle and firm, elicit no response at all. He isn’t sure how to proceed—it’s not like he has all that much experience in the ‘stop the woman brainwashed by terrorists from slowly killing herself via malnutrition’ department.

He’s at a complete fucking loss.

Truthfully, he finds himself drawn to the observation room more often than he cares to admit. There’s something of a morbid fascination that he holds as he watches Her. Her suffering is a disquieting mirror that displays the time in which his own mind had been a battleground, when words held zero meaning and sustenance felt like a betrayal to some vital piece of himself. Bucky doesn’t know what to do except stare at the reflection.

Beside him, Sam seems to be equally confused. “We can’t sit here and do nothing, Buck. She’s clearly not going to help herself at all.”

For once, Bucky says nothing about the nickname. Doesn’t care enough to bother. His eyes are still fixed on the screen, on Her motionless figure. He’d tried talking to Her multiple times over the days, his voice low and even, sharing nothing of his own past but offering a simple acknowledgment of Her pain. Each attempt was met with the same vacant stare She’s currently leveling at the doorway of the cell. Like talking to a ghost.

"I know," he says, because what else can he say?

"Maybe a doctor…" Sam presses, though a hint of skepticism lingers in his voice. They had already tried that—Bucky had ordered medical personnel to check Her over after the initial outburst; all physical examinations were returned revealing no outstanding results. Her vitals are still stable, albeit weaker than they should be…The problem is something deeper and darker and hidden in recesses of Her mind that he can’t reach if he tries.

And, damn it, he’s trying.

Bucky shakes his head slowly. "Programming is too deep. This isn’t something a blood test or MRI can fix." He pushes himself away from the monitors and opens the door leading to the lab, casting a glance back at the Falcon. "I’m going to try again."

"What are you going to do? Stare her into submission?"

That got an eyebrow twitch out of Bucky, which is a lot more of a response than he usually offers in the face of Sam’s jabs. He doesn’t respond as he passes through the doorway and approaches the cell. Sam only watches, a worried frown replacing his usual shit-eating grin. He knows Bucky’s own history leaves him uniquely positioned to understand, but he also knows that old wounds don’t always stay closed forever. The agent is a potentially dangerous trigger, a stark reminder of what it means to have one’s life stolen and mind violated.

And, admittedly, Bucky’s not sure what he’s hoping for. He doubts She’ll respond. His goal might have been to find the operative, but that doesn’t mean he can do anything to fix Her. He doesn’t even really know if such a thing is possible. 

He finds himself praying to gods he’d long since stopped believing in.

The Winter Soldier is back, or maybe he never really left to begin with, and you can’t seem to find a part of you that really cares.

He usually asks the same questions. Sometimes the order changes, but the selection never does. You don’t answer him—whether it’s spite or some other unknown emotion keeping you from speaking, you’re never sure—and eventually he leaves you in the yawning silence that threatens to swallow you whole and leave no remains behind for the world to remember you by.

"Do you remember anything…before?" He asks. His voice isn’t unkind. You don’t want to hate him, but the traitorous whisper of the conditioning in your head makes the decision for you. Pins him as an enemy. "A name? A place?"

The minutes tick by and the silence continues to yawn and you say nothing because there is nothing to say and no words that will shake you violently enough to allow you to escape the trance you’re under. You figure it’s about time for him to give up soon. He’s been trying for a while.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t leave you.

It’s clear to you that he’s considering his options as he shifts from foot to foot, but he isn’t leaving you. Before you can stop yourself, your lips finally part, the movement so slight that you wonder if he even sees it. 

A dry, raspy sound claws its way up your throat as you clear it.

You know he’s holding his breath by the way you see his chest go perfectly still from the corner of your vision. There’s a barely-hidden flash of surprise in those pale eyes as your own flicker slightly and slowly—agonizingly slowly, as if the movement was painful—turn towards him. It isn’t a look of recognition. You know your stare is probably still vacant.

You don’t care.

There’s another long silence as you stare at him, and he does nothing but stare back.

Finally: "Does it…come with a warranty?"

The Winter Soldier blinks. You don’t blink back. You’ve clearly caught him off guard, and he frowns as he attempts to process the meaning of your question.

"The hell are you talking about?" He asks finally, his voice flat.

There’s a ghost of a smirk that tugs at your lips. There isn’t any real emotion behind it. "The brainwashing," you reply, your bitter voice sounding far rougher than you intend as a result of disuse. 

"Does it usually…y’know, malfunction like this? Or did I just get a lemon?"

The man just stares. He doesn’t smile. At this point, you’re convinced he never does. But there’s an almost imperceptible upwards twitch of his lip that has some small part of you wondering what it would look like if he did.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, they did a bang-up job,” you snort, your voice full of loathing that you don’t even attempt to conceal. “Can’t even remember my own name. Or if I ever liked pizza. Real tragedy, that.”

"It can come back. The pieces. Takes time, and it isn’t easy, but—"

You cut him off with something that vaguely resembles a dry and humorless laugh before he can finish. Your eyes are narrowed, darkened with something that gives him pause. "I’m sure you know all about that, Sergeant Barnes. The Winter Traitor in the flesh! Tell me, did they offer you a refund on the programming?"

His jaw ticks, and you know your jab found its mark. His expression stays otherwise neutral though. Some part of that fact annoys you more than you can comprehend.

"No refunds," he mutters. "Just a long, hard road back."

"And you think I’m...what, lining up for the scenic route?" There’s a heavy dose of cynicism in your words, but you can’t bring yourself to shut up now that you’ve started talking. Clearly the silence did a number on you. "Frankly, the amnesia is the best part of this whole gig. Less baggage."

"Everyone has baggage." The Winter Soldier counters. His gaze doesn’t waver. Some part of you wants to recoil underneath it. You feel as though you’re being examined and can’t decipher why.

"Oh, I’m carrying it alright. Just don’t know what the hell’s inside the suitcases. And this," you say, gesturing around the stark containment cell with a bleak expression. "Doesn’t really look like baggage claim, does it?"

"No. It doesn’t." You like that he doesn’t try to offer platitudes, you think. You wouldn’t have wanted to hear them if he did. 

Another silence descended, but this one isn’t as heavy as the last. 

"We can try to help you recover your memories. The ones you lost."

You snort again, fixing him with a shit-eating grin. "I’m sure you’d just love to poke around in my brain...Find all kind of fun Hydra secrets. Unfortunately, you’re outta luck. I got nothin’."

But he meets your eyes steadily, and he doesn’t seem to find anything about this funny. "It’s not about that. It’s about giving you back what was taken from you."

"Sentimental, are we? You, of all people?"

That jab didn’t land. You didn’t get so much as a nostril flare from him.

"I know what it’s like to lose yourself," he replies simply. "And I know what it’s like to fight to get back."

"Nothing to fight for." It was the truth as you knew it, but the Winter Soldier doesn’t seem satisfied with that response. 

"You don’t remember anyone? Family? Friends?"

You can feel your lips twisting into something that probably resembles a grimace. "Friends? You think they encourage friendships at that charming little trade school?" If the bitterness in your tone could sting any more, you’re sure it would leave a gaping wound in your throat that no number of sutures could close. "We’re nothing but weapons. Sharpened and pointed in the right direction. We don’t get the luxury of making pals."

He shakes his head, and you tilt yours in a birdlike expression of curiosity as you watch him carefully.

"No, before that. Before Hydra."

"I told you. There is no before. As for family…I’m sure if I had a mother that I remembered, she’d be thrilled with how I turned out. Model employee, sociopath extraordinaire—you think she’d send a fruit basket?"

That earns a choked laugh from the Winter Soldier, as if he’s not sure that he should laugh at that at all but yet can’t seem to stop himself. Some part of you preens at the sound. Another part despises it.

"Maybe a greeting card," he says dryly. "Why the sudden talkative streak? Finally thinking about letting us help?"

"Maybe," you reply after a long moment. Your voice seems a little quieter, a littler smaller than before. As if you’re hiding, but you’re not even all that sure of what you’re hiding from. The armor forged from bitterness is still there, but it’s a little less potent and a little less painful and you aren’t aiming it at him.

"Or maybe I’m just…bored. And you’re the only entertainment this lovely little box has to offer."

The Winter Soldier doesn’t respond other than offering a curt nod. 

He finally leaves, but you don’t feel the relief that usually comes with his absence. There’s something…empty that takes up residence in your chest instead. 

You eventually manage to sleep, tugging the blanket over your trembling wings and curling in on yourself to preserve any lingering warmth, and the sleep is entirely dreamless.

That never happens.

And when you wake, there’s a particularly worn copy of a book waiting for you on the shelf that typically holds the food trays the guards slide through the energy barrier’s gap. You pick it up carefully, fingertips running over the texture of the creases in the book’s cover. It’s clear that the owner had read the book many times over, that the book had probably been shoved into a number of backpacks and shelves and awkward positions. There’s a single small piece of paper sticking out of the pages; the words ‘little bird’ written in surprisingly neat cursive. 

With nothing else to do in your boring little cell, you flip to the pages holding the piece of paper and read the passage highlighted there as the note gently flutters to the ground.

"But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?"

And something in that unknown, guarded part of you shifts and creaks and splinters into brilliant broken pieces, catching fire under some infinitesimal form of sunlight that you never thought you’d see.