If the Wind Turns

You’ve read the book cover to cover three times, and yet the Winter Soldier still hasn’t returned. 

It’s been a few days since his last visit, a fact you’re only certain of because of the way the light in your cell periodically dims and brightens to mimic the sunrise and sunset that you’ll probably never get the luxury of seeing again. 

You often find yourself wishing there was a window in the lab outside of your holding cell. It would at least offer a nice reminder that there is a world outside of the sterile white walls and strangely clinical smelling soap and trays of maybe food. 

But you don’t get a window, the white walls remain unchanged, the soap is as inoffensive as usual when the guards unceremoniously drag you out of the cell to the showers, and the food selection they offer you still sucks. You’ve grown hungry enough to at the very least pick at the food on the trays, but the trays ultimately end up getting taken back by the guards with most of the items still on them.

And still, no matter how long it’s been, the Winter Soldier doesn’t come back.

A part of you wants him to return. It isn’t just the part of your conditioning urging you to complete your assignment, either—there’s an unknown feeling gnawing at your gut that you’re hesitantly labeling curiosity. The longer you go without answers, the tighter its jaws clamp around your midsection until you’re sure you’ll be cleaved in two. But there’s nothing to do except read the book and stare at the doorway and wait and wait with only Hydra’s insidious whispers to keep you company. 

And they make pretty shitty company.

You wonder if you’ll go insane before anyone remembers you exist; that thought annoys you, you realize. There’s a coil of carefully compressed anger that tightens in your chest as you lean the back of your head against the energy barrier and pull your knees to your chest with a low groan. You have every right to be mad. Your target strolls in with his stupid piercing eyes and stupid handsome face and stupid gentle voice before feeding you hopeful lies and leavingyou to rot. He’d stoked some tiny ember somewhere in the darkest corner of your mind, reignited the fight you thought you’d given up on years ago, and then just…left it to flicker out, extinguished by its own smoke. 

If he isn’t going to come back, why’d he have to give you the literary peace offering to keep you from losing your mind in the silence? If he isn’t going to stitch the wound closed, why’d he have to make it bleed again?

You glance to where you’ve left the book facedown on the bed that you still can’t bring yourself to sleep in, but you don’t bother getting up from your spot on the floor to pick it up. It isn’t like you’re in a mood to read it again. It isn’t like the Winter Soldier’s message that you aren’t his enemy is any compensation for the restraints that bite into your wings or the insatiable uncertainty that chews at your sanity with every passing day. 

And he knows. 

That’s the part that makes the controlled fury in your chest unravel, fraying at the edges and burning hotter until it leaves searing imprints on the surface of every single bone of your rib cage. He knows what it’s like to be a weapon, how it feels to lack agency over anything you do. He spoke like you had a choice, as if the order to tear his aorta open like a birthday piñata was nothing but a suggestion that you just so happened to be amenable to. 

And then he left.

You wonder if you’re an idiot for having believed him. 

At some point or another, you’ve stopped counting the days. You’ve read the book another four times. Your routine remains the exact same as always.

Until, one day, it changes.

There’s a soft click outside of your cell, one that you’ve come to recognize as the guards entering through the door that connects the observation chamber to the lab. It’s a little early for food, you think, but maybe your timing is off. There aren’t exactly any clocks around, and you’ve never been particularly good at estimating the hours despite Hydra’s best efforts to drill the skill into your head.

"You’d think eventually someone would get the hint that I don’t have much of an appetite," you say without raising your gaze from the long umber and white feather you’ve been worrying between your fingers. It’s one of multiple scattered around the cell, a product of regular molting that only really served to annoy you half to death. 

"Shame. You have no idea how much of a pain in the ass it is to choose fruit arrangements for an amnesiac."

Your head snaps up, a jolt of shock coursing through your veins. You blink dumbly, your mind trying and failing to process what you’re seeing. It’s a trick of the light—it hasto be, because there’s no other explanation for why the Winter Soldier is here and standing in front of the energy barrier that makes up your cell while holding a fruit basket.

Which means you’ve well and truly lost it.

A choked laugh falls from your lips, bubbling up into a sound that you’re not sure you’ve ever made before. 

But he just stares at you with some unreadable expression. His wintry gaze looks…tired. In fact, he generally looks like hell right now, which certainly isn’t his usual if his last appearance is anything to go by. There are dark circles under his eyes, the set of his jaw seems tighter than before, and his 5 o’clock shadow looks a bit more like a charcoal pencil was vigorously rubbed across his jaw.

So you probably aren’t imagining things after all.

"You usually show up with gift baskets after ghosting women? Or just the ones you really like?"

He huffs a laugh—still not a full-bodied one, but one that some traitorous part of you wants to hear again—and shrugs. "Didn’t think you’d care. You’re nosy, for a soldier."

"You’re mouthy, for a soldier," you shoot back, though your voice lacks most of the bitter edge it’s had for a while now.

"Touché." He steps closer to your lovely little prison and taps something into the access panel that causes the small gap in the energy barrier to widen until he can set the basket down inside of the cell. The gap shrinks once more when he withdraws his hand, but he remains where he is. 

"If you need to know, I brought it because Sam mentioned that you still aren’t exactly eating much of anything," he says with a slight wince following his words. "Not that I blame you, given the selection."

That earns a snort from you. You narrow your eyes and search his face carefully. If he has an ulterior motive for being here, you can’t seem to sense it. The thought has you on edge, even if you’re trying not to show it.

"You expect me to believe that the Winter Soldier is just going around with acts of goodwill for enemy operatives?"

His gaze hardens, and you know you’ve struck a nerve. As much as you want to test the waters and push it again…it’s probably best not to try your luck.

"My name is Bucky. If I was still the Winter Soldier, you wouldn’t be breathing, let alone complaining about the catering," he says firmly. It isn’t a threat—he says it plainly, as if it’s simply fact. Despite the sharpness in his tone as he corrects you, he isn’t being mean. You almost want him to be. Maybe if he says something hateful and poisonous, you’ll feel justified in listening to the whispers of your order to finish the job and kill him. Maybe if you keep him at arm's length and refuse to acknowledge his humanity, you’ll never have to find out if he’s lying to you about it all.

But his name falls from your lips all the same—quietly, tentatively, as if you’re unsure of whether or not you should say it at all—and any chance of you denying his personhood flies straight out the window. 

He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as he shrugs. "And it isn’t goodwill bringin’ me here, either. We need to talk."

"Because that’s a line that everyone wants to hear, I’m sure," you snipe. There’s no ignoring the hint of dread that scratches insistently at the base of your spine, but you carefully school your features into an expression that doesn’t reflect it. "Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?"

He merely stares at you until you sigh and wave the feather you’re holding as a gesture to continue. Not like you have any choice in whether or not you have to listen to him.

"Had a talk with an…old friend," Bucky starts. "Same one that helped me. She said that we can replicate the treatment I had with tech we have here, but, uh—"

"…But there’s no free lunches," you interject. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before dipping his head in a nod. "So, what’s the cost? An arm and a leg?"

What you’ve said doesn’t fully occur to you until Bucky rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t comment on it.

"The cost is that she can’t help without it being made known to everyone that you," he jabs a finger in your direction. "exist. The Accords made sure of that, and you’re clearly Enhanced. Unless you plan on cutting those wings off and keeping your head as far down as you can, she’ll be forced to give the suits a call."

"What does it matter?" You ask, shrugging. "The alternative is probably to die or rot in here until I die."

Bucky’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t give you any answer despite your hope that he would deny it. 

Yet another choice you don’t get to make for yourself.

"And what, exactly," you press on as you slowly get to your feet. You feel a little bit unsteady, like a newborn fawn, but you manage to lean your back against the wall and fix the man before you with a look of what you hope is bored curiosity. "are you suggesting as a treatment? I’m guessing an all-inclusive spa resort on the beach isn’t on the table here."

"It’s not…pleasant," Bucky admits, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t meet your eyes, and you still can’t quite read his body language apart from the fact that he seems tense. "Shuri’s algorithm pretty much maps your brain, finds the parts affected by Hydra programming, and…overwrites them."

A chill snakes its way down your spinal cord. The idea of something rooting around in the darkest recesses of your mind and rearranging the very fabric of your thoughts is one that you aren’t particularly fond of. You do your best not to show the trepidation that rears its ugly head. "Overwrites them? Sounds, uh, invasive…?"

"Because it is. You’d have to relive things. See places you never wanted to see again, do things you probably wish you could forget about. I can’t even guarantee it’ll work perfectly, or at all. There could be side effects."

You blink, staring at him. There’s still a tiny flicker of hope lingering heavily in your veins like silt at the bottom of a river, and you can’t seem to bring yourself to bury it. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You can’t let yourself get your hopes up, because that would mean that you’re wanting something, something that Hydra will never allow you, something that you can’t grasp and could just as easily lose.

"Like what? Suddenly developing a penchant for flamenco dancing?" You ask in a thinly veiled attempt to keep things light.

But Bucky doesn’t even crack a smile. 

"Personality shifts, emotional instability…cognitive damage. This isn’t like flipping a switch—it’s like trying to screw with wiring while things are still running."

The casual way he’s talking about potentially frying your brain like an overdone egg isn’t exactly inspiring much confidence in you. You’re trying—and failing—to keep your voice even, but your wings are trembling in their restraints. Based on the way Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly as they assess you, the motion doesn’t escape his sight. "And the chance of success?"

"Not a hundred percent. Not even close. Things might be a lot faster for you, but you’re still only the second person to try it."

A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips before you can choke it down.

"You know, I’m thinking that one of these days I’d like to stop being the guinea pig." You push off the wall and slowly approach the energy barrier separating you from your captor and would-be savior. There’s enough of a height difference that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his discerning gaze, but it doesn’t make your form any less intimidating.

"But, tell me, what’s your stake in this, Bucky? What do you get out of helping Hydra’s best little lap dog cut her leash? You said yourself that you aren’t doing things out of goodwill."

"One less weapon off the board. Hydra turned you into some sick creature, and if there’s a chance to undo that, even a slim one, then it’s worth the risk. For everyone," he says flatly, and your gut twists violently at the words. You aren’t even sure what you were expecting—it’s not like he knows you, after all. He has no personal reasons to want to save you in the first place.

Some part of you wishes that someone would care. Some part of you wants the affirmation that someone might be looking out for you, that someone would see the pain you’ve been in and reach out a hand, if only to rescue you from it. 

But you aren’t afforded that luxury. You’ve reforged yourself into a knife and kept your edge so sharp that it could slice through any enemy that might step up to you because your rage and brutal efficiency is your armor. You are defenseless without the blood in your fuller and the harsh point of your blade. Killings are the only form of mercy you’ve come to understand under Hydra’s direction. There is no rescue for a murderer.

He’s right to see you as a weapon; you’re well aware of that. 

And it doesn’t hurt any less.

"So it isn’t about me at all," you breathe out. "Just tidying up loose ends."

"It’s about preventing more damage," he counters. His stare is unwavering, but you can see the tiniest crack in the carefully constructed wall he’s created. A flicker of…what, guilt? Resentment? Disgust? You can’t quite tell, but something about it makes your heart sink.

"You were enhanced. You were trained. Left unchecked and under Hydra’s control, you’re a threat that can topple entire governments. The right person says the right words; you could start a war. This is one of the only ways to neutralize that threat without a body count."

Gotta admit, his logic is cold, clinical, and undeniably bulletproof. It doesn’t particularly make you feel any better about being labeled a sick creature, but it does offer a grim sort of comfort to know that this isn’t pity or some misguided sense of altruism. He’s doing it because it’s the pragmatic choice.

"Neutralize…" You repeat the word slowly and don’t even bother trying to dilute the venom that drips from the syllables as they roll off your tongue. "So, even if this treatment works, I’m still just a problem to be solved."

"It’s a chance not to be a problem," Bucky corrects. His voice is sharper, and it makes a clean incision a little ways into some part of your throat. "A chance to have a life where you aren’t controlled, where you make your own choices."

You scoff, turning away from the energy barrier and pacing the length of your cell. The movement is jerky and agitated, a stark contrast to Bucky’s controlled demeanor.

"Choices? That’s funny, coming from the man that had his stolen."

A muscle twitches in Bucky’s jaw. He doesn’t speak immediately; the silence yawns between you, thick with a shared misery.

When he does speak, his voice is low and rough. "Yeah…yeah, trust me, I know."

The admission hangs heavy in the air and lingers long after the words have faded. It’s a fragile bridge that you’re afraid to place any weight on for fear that it may not hold you. For the first time since he detained you, a tiny part of you wonders if you’re more similar than you originally thought. If maybe, just maybe, you aren’t alone in having experienced the horrors that had been unleashed upon you in your worst moments.

The part of your brain tainted by loyalty to Hydra demands that you tear the sentiment out with your talons, that you sink your teeth into it and shake until it dies out. 

Despite your history of obedience, you do your best not to let that part win.

"Fuck it," you bite out, halting in your pacing and casting a sidelong glance at Bucky through the cell’s barrier. "What’s the worst that can happen?"