THE SNOW
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“The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce
with the furies. A mirror’s temperature is always at zero. It is ice in the veins. Its camera is an X-ray. It is a chalice
held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.”
- Reflections, R.S. Thomas
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It wasn’t the first time he had left a HYDRA base in ruins, and as reflected tongues of flame danced on vibranium sheet metal, Bucky Barnes offered a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be the last.
Antarctic air seared the Winter Soldier’s lungs with cold as he took a deep breath, and then another. Behind him, six red-hot cartridges steamed in the snow. The combat high was fading. The all-too-familiar sting of lactic acid in his legs was taking its place, the throbs of exertion in his shoulders singing their song. He quietly basked in the aches and pains. They were his reward for a job well done.
One part of his body was in more pain than the others. His vibranium prosthetic arm was twisted and crushed, artificial nerves sending shooting pains to his brain. Before today, Bucky would never have believed anything could so much as dent vibranium. Now he knew better. With a twinge of regret and guilt, he slid his knife under his shirt and parted the straps that held it in place. The leather gave way with a sigh, and the twisted arm fell into the snow with a whumpf.
Despite his alias, the Winter Soldier had never felt very comfortable in the cold. He preferred cities. You could disappear in a crowd in a city. Turn a few corners, slip down a few alleyways, and any pursuers would be cursing their luck. There was always a window to slip through, a doorway to sneak into. The footprints… that was the worst part of the snow. Even worse than the cold.
But despite all of this, he was happy. Happy to have cut off another of the HYDRA’s limbs. Happy to have used all the skills they gave him against them.
In a few hours from now, a board room full of HYDRA directors will be cursing my name, Bucky thought, and couldn’t help a smile stealing onto his face. They would call him a traitor, a failed experiment, a deicide. Let them spit their venom all they liked. Bucky would spit it back in a twelve-gauge blast.
“How are you feeling, James?”
Even the familiar voice couldn’t overpower years of training. Bucky’s head whipped around, his remaining arm darting down to his pistol. It took him a couple of seconds of looking at Psylocke’s face to recognise her as an ally through the brain-fog of alarm. His hand dropped to his side as his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath.
Psylocke hadn’t even flinched as his hand had dropped. Her face was a mask of calm that seemed almost unnatural, a poker face that could put a mannequin to shame.
Where were her footsteps? Bucky wondered. It had been a long time since anyone had gotten the jump on him. I need to be careful with her. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought.
“Sai.” He sighed, and turned back to look out at the blanket of snow. It stretched across the horizon. Nothing but white, as far as the eye could see. No wonder no one had found HYDRA here until now. What madmen would be crazy enough to set up shop out here?
“I’m all right. Just, y’know… got a lot to think about.”
“I do.” Now he heard the footsteps, as she crossed the distance to stand beside him. They were light, a predator’s stride, like a cat approaching its quarry. Had Bucky been too caught up in his mind to hear her approach, or had she truly been silent?
He knew very little about Psylocke. Even on the journey from 2099’s Wakanda to 2025’s Antarctica, she had said precious little, speaking only when spoken to. She had scouted the base, and she had relayed her findings to the team clearly enough, but had given no hints of fear, or bravado - only a cold certainty.
What Bucky did know was thanks to Shuri. According to her, Psylocke - real name Sai - had been hunting demons in feudal Japan when the Timestream Entanglement had displaced her. Wakanda had contacted her on the mutants’ island of Krakoa, after she had escaped from some god-like creature called the Collector, and enlisted her help. Bucky had considered asking approximately a thousand questions, but decided he didn’t want the answers.
They stood together, the two assassins, enjoying the brief respite. Bucky considered starting a conversation, but the silence was comfortable. She came here for a reason, he decided; he would let her get to it in her own time.
And she did. “Was that your first time slaying a demon?”
Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’d made kill number sixteen or seventeen, too, by the time I was done in there.”
“And how did it feel?”
Bucky opened his mouth to tell her the truth, and closed it again. He couldn’t describe the feeling of muscle crushing under his boot. He couldn’t tell her the revulsion and hatred, the sheer personal hurt, that drove him to twist his heel and spread viscera across the stone floor. He couldn’t tell her that what had happened in the dark had silenced the voice in his head, and he thought it might be for good. And he certainly couldn’t tell her that some part of him had enjoyed it.
So instead, after a moment, Bucky told her, “I’m just glad it’s over.”
If he had lied to her anywhere near as well as he lied to himself, perhaps she might even have believed it.
They lapsed back into silence once more, and for a time, the only sound was Psylocke’s skirt snapping in the wind. Even in the coldest part of the world, Sai had balked at wearing trousers. Something about the crotch being “indecent”. Shuri (and everyone else on the team) had argued that to wear a skirt in Antarctica would be like asking for frostbite. They had compromised on a set of tights, a pair of cotton trousers, and Sai’s pink skirt worn over it all for decency. A thick purple coat with a fur lining covered her torso, and a pink scarf decorated with Wakandan symbols and letters. Her ōdachi’s elegant leather sheath nestled comfortably between her shoulder blades. When she moved, Bucky caught occasional flashes of steel under her sleeves.
Bucky’s own outfit was no less protective. He had fought for something light at first; too many layers would restrict his movement, make noise, make his job harder. Only Steve could be the voice of reason. He had assured his old friend that without a coat, it would be his turn to spend a hundred and fifty years encased in ice, and Bucky had finally given in. They settled on a thick olive parka with a woolen interior, a bodywarmer, and a long-sleeved shirt, with two sets of thermal trousers, all capped off with a pair of black combat boots and leather gloves. As far as sub-zero fashion went, Bucky thought he looked pretty darn good.
His eyes drifted to the jet they had used to travel half the world. In the short time the mission had taken, a thin blanket of snow had draped over it. Since Bucky had been whisked out of HYDRA’s grasp by Clint and Steve, his life had been a whirlwind pageantry of future tech. “Modern” computers and gadgets were dwarfed by what he had seen at Wakanda. Shuri’s office - which Bucky seemed to have spent more time in than his personal quarters, with all the tests they had put him through - looked like the very concept of the future had coalesced into a room. Smooth white walls, computers that seemed to recognise Shuri’s voice (no keyboards in the future!), images thrown up into the air to form models that she could touch and move. “You, uh… you made contact with aliens yet?” Bucky had half-joked nervously. Shuri had just laughed.
And everything was so small. The Enigma machines the Germans had used to send each other covert messages were the size of his chest. Now, it seemed that a lady’s pearl necklace could hold more computing power. “Kimoyo beads,” Shuri had called them with a proud smile. Bucky had a theory that the reason he could understand Psylocke, who by her own admission couldn’t speak anything other than Japanese, was that the communications device in his ear was translating her words in real time.
How far had Wakanda advanced by 2099? They were travelling space, they had computers you could hide in the palm of your hand, they could cross universes. Had they cured cancer? Shell shock (or “post-traumatic stress disorder”)? Were there still food shortages? Hell, did they even need to eat at all? What was the future like?
The dry crack of a gunshot snapped the Winter Soldier out of his reverie. Once more his head whipped round, and he turned to behold two men in decidedly less fashionable winter clothing.
Clint Barton - "Hawkeye," he always insisted, "when I'm in the field and people will be watching" - was wearing a black anorak over a thick hoodie, and purple waterproof trousers over a pair of chinos. He was the only one of the team to have an inch of exposed skin outside his face; he was wearing archer's gloves. At the time, his rationale for this had been practicality. "Look, Bessie Blount Griffin, you have to have your whole body in sync if you wanna fire an arrow right," he had said to Shuri. When the others had questioned whether a coat would really restrict his archery that much, Clint had offered to cede the point, on the condition that one of them could shoot an arrow straighter than him.
Well, Bucky wasn't really the type to say "I told you so," but even Clint had seen his mistake, as his endless stream of complaints and complaints-half-hidden-behind-jokes had made clear to the whole team. During the mission, a black hood had been covering his head, but it was hanging loose now as he talked at his silent companion, rubbing his hands together and flexing his exposed fingers.
Francis Castle was wearing a long black overcoat over a black motorcycle jacket and a black bulletproof vest, a black trapper hat, black gloves lined with wool, a black balaclava over his mouth, black cotton trousers, black knee and elbow pads, steel-toed black boots, a crossed X of black ammo belts, and a ring of eye-black around his eyes (“For the snow-blind,” he had said). All that black hid the bloodstains a little too well for Bucky’s liking. Frank was wearing all of his own clothes, after all. For all I know, he could be covered from head to toe in red souvenirs.
And clearly, the current bloodstains weren’t enough, because he was kicking corpses. The gunshot which was still echoing over the frozen hills had been directed at a corpse that looked a little too alive. Barton was following, a purple shadow trying desperately to curtail him.
“They’re dead, Castle. You can… stand down, or whatever,” Clint said.
“Gotta be sure.” A wet thud came as steel-toed boots impacted an open wound. Frank paused for a moment, then stepped over the body to another. He kicked that one too. Waited. Moved on.
“I think the bullet hole in his head is kinda telling.”
The only response was another thud, this time accompanied by a quiet cracking as foot met rib. Hawkeye grimaced at the sound, and fiddled with his hearing aid.
You know, I might actually be looking at a worse human being than I am, Bucky realised.
Barton tried a different tack. “Steve’s gonna be back any second, Frank. Do you really want Captain America to see you hunting for a chance to double-tap?”
Punisher rounded on Clint with black fire in his eyes. “Listen, archer,” he hissed, spitting out the word like it was burning his mouth. “I don’t know why you do the whole ‘protecting Earth’ thing–”
“Well, it’s ‘cause–”
Frank bulled over him. “--and I really don’t care. What I do care about is making sure that not one of these scumbags ever draws another breath.”
He took a step closer to poor Clint, who resembled nothing so much as a deer in the headlights.
“You don’t got any superpowers. You’re not an alien, not a war hero, not a mutant. You’re just a guy with a bow.” Another step. Spittle flew from his lips as he continued, “Way I see it, you’re only a couple of steps away from being fair game yourself. So quit bugging me and stay out of my way. Before I drop you too. You wouldn’t be the first casualty in my war, and you won’t be the last.”
Without another word, Frank stomped off to continue his ‘investigation’. A pang of sympathy twisted in Bucky’s chest at the naked hurt on Clint’s face as he put his hood back up. Bucky would never call Hawkeye a friend, but he trusted him as a soldier. And while he had never said he was insecure about his abilities, he had told Bucky all the same. The reverence for the Avengers, the way he glosses over his contributions to the mission… The man’s the best damn archer on the planet, but all he can think about is what he can’t do, Bucky mused with a hint of sadness. Castle went too far.
Bucky turned back to Sai, who had also been watching the exchange. “I’m gonna…” Bucky said awkwardly, and tilted his head toward the grieving Clint. She nodded. Was that a hint of sympathy on her face, a slight furrow in her eyebrows? Maybe she isn’t as inscrutable as I thought.
The snow crunched under Bucky’s feet as he started towards his old ally. He wasn’t the best at sympathy, but he owed it to Barton to try. What would Steve say? he asked himself. Something about him being helpful. Worthy of being an Avenger. Or remind him of a time he saved his life. Or tell him Frank doesn’t know what he’s talking about– no, Steve wouldn’t want to make their friction any worse. Aghh.
Bucky’s mind was so preoccupied with how he could comfort Clint that he almost missed his face change. Only dimly did he register his jaw set, the fear and sadness boil away into anger. Bucky barely had time to blink before the bow had disappeared from Hawkeye’s back and was in his hands. He barely had time to inhale before an arrow was nocked and drawn. And he didn’t have time to call out before that arrow was whistling through the air. Clint, no–
The Punisher had slung his rifle back over his shoulder as he continued his macabre search. It bounced against him as he stepped towards his next victim or bent down to examine their wounds, making the hollow thump of a dropped sack of potatoes. Now it chimed like a bell as a steel arrowhead checked it. Frank spun, his eyes widening in surprise - and found himself staring at another arrow, nocked and drawn.
An impertinent smile was decorating Clint’s face, the smile of a gambler that had thrown caution to the wind and gone all in, for good or for ill. His grasp on the bowstring was iron. “You forgot my dazzling good looks,” he quipped.
Frank’s lips pulled back in an animal snarl, the blaze in his eyes promising body bags. Bucky’s hand found his own weapon. This wasn’t the first time Clint’s tongue had brought them trouble, and it wouldn’t be the last, but... I can stop them killing each other, at least.
It was as though the chill of the continent had frozen time itself. Frank’s hands had tightened into fists, and his furious breaths misted the air in front of him. Barton looked to be the essence of calm as he held the drawn arrow in front of him, the smile dancing on his face, but even from a distance Bucky could tell Hawkeye was all nerves. But it’s not gonna stop him. He heard the gentlest whisper of steel against leather behind him, and knew Sai was ready to intervene as well.
“Enough!”
Four years on the front lines in the Second World War had given Captain America a commander’s voice. The drill-sergeant’s bark cut the air like a knife, and the tension vanished as suddenly as it had built.
The void of silence was filled by Steve Rogers’s footsteps. His every movement had purpose and drive, every step an advance. He wore his usual Captain America suit, with a military-issue navy blue greatcoat over it, and red gloves. When the others told him he should put on something more, he had simply said, “Don’t worry about me, Buck. I’m a super-soldier,” and smiled at him.
Steve wasn’t smiling now. He stopped in front of Punisher, and, in a tone that brooked no argument, told him “Stand down, soldier. That’s an order.”
Frank stared daggers at him, but Steve was unmoving. He might as well have been threatening a wall. After almost five seconds that felt like five hours, the Punisher’s face softened. “Yes, sir,” Castle replied, with pure venom.
Bucky let his hand fall away from his waist, and back down to his side. He realised he had been holding his breath, and let it go. Close.
Steve continued walking, this time to Clint. Barton had been staring down at his boots with his arms folded, tapping his foot, trying to look anywhere except Steve. Now, he turned his smile on full beam. Without missing a beat, and with Steve still a few paces away, Clint began.
“Back in the nick of time, Cap. I thought Frankie was about to give me a closed-casket service. Do you think I would get a state funeral if I took a bullet to–”
Steve raised a single gloved hand, and the stream of words cut off. Their eyes met for a few moments, and Bucky watched as the smile faded from Clint’s face.
“Are you hurt?” Steve asked, gazing at Hawkeye imperiously.
Clint opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. “No,” he said finally.
“Good. You’re not a child playing games, Barton. You’re an Avenger. I expect better from you. Understood?”
Clint looked absolutely crushed. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Steve turned away. He nodded cordially at Sai - who returned the gesture - and, as he spotted Bucky, a tired smile graced his features.
Bucky smiled in return. “Hey, Steve. We all good?”
Rogers nodded. “It was a couple of scientists. Real scientists, not HYDRA. I took a picture with them, and asked them not to tell anyone that they saw us here.”
“They probably will anyway.”
Steve inclined his head in agreement. “Hopefully we’ll be done in New York by the time they do.”
“Right. New York.” Bucky had got so caught up in turning HYDRA’s dreams to ash that he had forgotten they had two jobs, and had only just completed the first. Something about vampires, or so he had heard. The extent of Bucky’s knowledge of vampires came from the time he took a girl to watch Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, back before he had enlisted. Her name had been Rosalinde or Rosa or something. Well, Rosalinde had been so scared her nails had dug into Bucky’s hand, and she had almost passed out. He told Steve about it the next day, expecting them to share a good laugh over it. Instead, Steve stuck up for her, telling Bucky that she had been brave to sit through the whole thing. He wondered if people had even heard of Nosferatu these days.
Steve’s voice cut through his reminiscing. “You ready to go, Buck?”
The whole team was back together. The HYDRA base was a smoking ruin. And Bucky was sick to death of the cold. He took one last look at his hard work, etching every detail into his memory, before turning back to his old friend. “Ready.”
“Fall in!” Steve called, and the five of them started towards the jet, Castle still staring daggers at Clint, Clint still nursing his wounded pride. Bucky grabbed what was once his metal arm on the way, and shook some snow off of it.
Wakanda hadn’t spared any expense on their transportation. The interior of the jet was pure luxury. Every seat was leather, every floor carpet. The walls were made of some material that looked like polished wood, but wasn’t. The cockpit had seats for two, but the “autopilot” function flew it for them, so the whole team could be sleeping and they would blaze a course for New York regardless.
And speaking of sleep… I should get a few winks now. Not sure how much time I’ll get.
As Bucky turned towards the sleeping quarters, he saw a light blinking on the wall, with a screen built into the wall next to it. He tapped the light, and the screen flared to life. The picture showed an African woman, whose face burst into a grin at the sight of the team.
“You’re alive!” Shuri exclaimed. “And still in one piece!” Her eyes found his stump. “More or less. Tell me everything. How did it go? Did you find some answers?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replied. “Yeah, I think we did.”
Guess I won’t be getting a catnap after all.
And he began to speak.