the scientist
Toledo was quieter than he expected.
And the wind was warmer too. It filtered through the curtains of the safehouse to bring a comfort he didn’t expect. But it was welcome.
He liked this, he liked the open air of the countryside. It reminded him of a time he couldn’t remember, but a time he felt. A salty breeze and open sky. Sunlight. Distant honking of a bustling cityscape. Blonde hair and blue eyes.
He could think about these things now, for as long as he wanted. No one could stop him. Not the beast that held him hostage for so long, the creeping tentacles that stole his mind and twisted it into something else. But the fear was still close, and it didn’t feel right to be free. It felt… fake. Like a sick joke.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
His bionic arm felt much heavier nowadays, it was almost painful. A mind numbing, thrumming sensation that never left him long enough to know peace. It was a constant reminder of the past, the silver glint of chains that bound him. His fist clenched at the thought.
“Солдат.”
Not even blinking, the Winter Soldier responded. “певица.”
“It feels so… natural. For us, doesn’t it?”
The Shadow Singer was there when he turned around, half blended into the darkness that permeated the safehouse. Her eyes, evergreen, studied him with the same intensity they always had. But now, they weren’t poisonous. They were soft, calm, sad.
“I think they will always have a hold on us,” she said softly, moving towards the moonlight that he bathed in. “No matter how much we hide.”
They never stood closer than two feet to each other, were never allowed to. Even now, when nothing held them back, the memory of their muscles restricted them.
Absent-mindedly, she rubbed her hand against the scar at her neck. He can still remember the clasp around it, the sickly red swell it left when she’d finally pried it off. The tears that followed. He had never seen her cry before and it felt like something he shouldn’t have seen. That was natural, though, was it not?
He wouldn’t know. Nothing was natural for him anymore.
“You’ll have that scar forever,” he finally said, voice parched and rough like gravel. He hadn’t spoken in days.
The singer dropped her hand. “It’ll show what I’ve survived then. Same with your arm.”
Again, the weight of his arm caved, and he hunched slightly. There were times when he’d wake up from the sharp sensation of a cold burn, blood in his mouth. He saw round glasses and lab coats, harsh lights, mountains, snow.
He truly didn’t remember anything, then. Maybe the man on the bridge was right. What was his name again? Steven? Steve? Steve.
Steve. Perhaps he’d known him in another life, like he’d said.
That would be nice. It would be nice to know that somewhere in time, he had someone to count on.
The Shadow Singer was his mission partner. A fellow agent. A warrior. She would have his back, he would have hers. That was the way it had always worked for… how long? He would have to ask and find out.
“How long do you think it’s been?” Bucky said.
“Since what?”
He didn’t even know what he was going to ask. There had been a time before Hydra, but it felt impossible to imagine.
Her eyes shifted to the floor again, the creaky wooden boards that ran parallel to her. “I remember the day they found you. I watched them put you into cryostasis. A lot. It was always fascinating to me how the human body simply endured.”
A siren wailed miles away.
“You watched me.”
“Always.”
He nearly shuddered. Her green eyes burned into his retina.
Perhaps she knew more about him than he knew about himself. He never recalled… anything. Any feeling, any desire was absent to him, a void of limitless nothingness. He just remembered the cold and the pain and the lighting that danced across his bones. It gave him nothing. It gave him no incentive for help. Why? Why had he been so pathetic, like a dog, to sit there and take what they threw at him? Why could he have never stood up for himself?
He didn’t even realize how hard his metal fist was clenched before he felt feather-light touch against it.
His hand flew away from hers in a heartbeat. He didn’t want touch, he didn’t-
Immediately she retreated back into the safety of the darkness, shadows enveloping her into a tight hug before she all but vanished from his sight.
The whole apartment was dark, yet the Shadow Singer found comfort in it.
Within a blink of an eye she sat on the small green couch. Arm crossed and chest curved inwards, she was suddenly not the monstrous otherworldly-creature he remembered. Now she seemed just as afraid and cold and cautious as he felt.
“What do we call each other now?” Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a hundred years of servitude.
She was asking him. For an answer. For permission, a command. Something thick grew in his throat and he couldn’t swallow it. It wasn’t his place.
The man on the bridge- Steve- he called him Bucky. It had clicked like a missing puzzle piece in a larger equation. It felt right to him, to choose that instead of Soldat. He didn’t want to be a soldier anymore, he wanted to stop fighting.
The Shadow Singer sat up. “Do you remember your name?”
He thinks so. Yes. “Bucky.”
The word tasted like sugar on his tongue, rolled off smoothly. The stones of the past began to lift off of him.
“Do you have a name?” Bucky said slowly.
She nodded. “Frejaina. Jaina.”
In the years they’d worked together, never had they known their names, never had they used them. Bucky wanted to frown. He did.
Bucky and Jaina. The Shadow Singer and the Winter Soldier.
That’s who they would be now.