see the stars again

Washington, District of Columbia, USA - 2014

“You’re my friend.”

The target’s pained words rattled around in the soldier’s head for what seemed like eternity after the mission. The failed mission. The soldier had never failed a mission before, but that wasn’t the only thing that was confusing to him. The longer the soldier kept himself MIA, the more his mind became simultaneously more clear and more muddled. Sparing the target’s life, saving the target’s life, hadn’t felt like a failed mission. It felt like -- something; some emotion or memory that was just out of reach.

He’d gotten his hands on some civvies, staring at his face in the mirror for a long time while he changed into them. It felt like watching a stranger. Something had been broken; the soldier wasn’t following protocol. He didn’t look at himself in mirrors, he didn’t spare people’s lives, and he didn’t linger after a mission had been compromised. He completed his assignments and followed his orders. That’s what the soldier had been programmed to do. There was a throbbing in the front of his skull that seemed to get worse each time he resisted the flow of routine.

He lurked, stayed back and watched, trying to decide what the next move would be. What his next move would be. By now he had gleaned that Pierce was dead, and Hydra was all but disbanded. There was no one left to give him orders, and it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t right. Something was off, just like it had been before...but, no, the soldier couldn’t remember before. His thoughts were like wisps of smoke: impossible to hold onto but still so overwhelming.

In that haze, he sought out a small cafe. Something busy enough to be a stranger in, but empty enough to keep down the risk of being spotted. He’d done undercover work before. Undercover reconnaissance-- that’s all this was.

The soldier flexed his gloved hand at his side, the metal coiling, ready for action while he sat outside the café. The sun shined on his back and he could feel sweat trickling down to pool against his collar. His eyes never wavered from the television screen displaying the news just inside the doorway. He struggled to keep up with the English subtitles, he wasn’t sure why it surprised him, just an inkling feeling in the back of his head that understanding should come more naturally. Secrets exposed. ‘Corrupt Government’, ‘Hydra’, and ‘many casualties’, seemed to be the phrases used most often.

The soldier’s brow twitched, he felt restless. His skin crawled whenever they displayed an image of Captain America on screen. When he looked down, he noticed his right hand was shaking. The soldier clenched it into a fist, but it still shook.

A waitress made her way over to his table, carafe in hand. She looked like she was about to speak. But he quickly pulled his cap further down over his face, turning away and flicking his eyes down to the newspaper spread out in front of him.

The soldier knew what to do from here. He had his orders, his training. Mission failed . Hydra compromised . Return to base in Novosibirsk for further instruction. He wedged a few bills under the cup and saucer and disappeared into the crowd.

Brooklyn, NY, USA - 1934

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky said, spying Steve’s scuffed leather brogues next to the tire of the truck he was in the middle of fixing.

“Got a sandwich for you; Mamma packed extra.” He heard Steve say, kicking Bucky lightly in the shin as he passed by, no doubt to perch on the stack of old tires in the corner of the shop like he always did.

Bucky rolled his eyes, ratcheting his wrench tighter around one of the lug nuts holding up the chassis. “Keep tellin’ her she don’t have to do that. We get by.” His voice strained as he struggled against the bolt, finally managing to get it lose. Totally stripped bare, just as he thought. Bucky pushed himself out from underneath the truck, grinning as he looked at his friend.

“She worries about you.” Steve shrugged. He dug around in his backpack, looking for a piece of charcoal, probably.

Bucky huffed, wiping his brow with-- fuck, that was the oil rag, not the sweat rag. Steve laughed at him, causing Bucky to blush and turn away to hide his face.

“She’s got enough to worry about. I don’t need to be on the list.” He took the paper bag Steve held out to him anyway. Mrs. Rogers was right, he hadn’t eaten today. They’d gotten to the end of the peanut butter jar that morning, just enough for the rest of his siblings.

Steve gave him a look to say, you’re kidding, right?

He finished the sandwich in three big bites, already moving over to his toolbox to continue working. If he could just get this one job done then he could walk with Steve back home. He always felt better when he saw for himself that Steve made it home safe, kid had a knack for finding trouble.

“Learn anything cool at school today?” Bucky asked, laying back down on the creeper to get underneath the body of the truck again.

“No, not really.” He could almost hear Steve’s shrug.

“Let me guess, head in the clouds the entire time? Didn’t listen to a thing.” Bucky smirked, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he continued to work.

Steve chuckled. No one else was in the shop that afternoon, and if Bucky stayed really still, he could hear the little scratches Steve’s pencil made against the paper as he sketched. It was familiar-- pleasant, it reminded him of all the times they’d stay up late; Steve in too much pain to sleep and Bucky tired of listening to his Pop drink himself into a stupor. Steve would sketch and Bucky would read and sometimes Steve would show him his creation in the early morning light, but most of the time he kept it to himself. He wondered what he was drawing this time.

“I tried, Buck. I really did this time. But Calculus is so boring. And hard.” He complained.

“Let me take a look at it later,” Bucky said before blowing into the dusty emptiness underneath the car, “I can probably figure it out.” He’d not gotten to Calculus before he had to drop out, but he’d always had a knack for math.

“ Of course you could .” Steve muttered under his breath. “Sure. Come over after supper.” He added a bit louder.

School was never Steve’s thing. Always more interested in blank sheets of paper and dark pencils. Which was fine, but Bucky would do anything to go back. He had been so close to finishing when he dropped out last year, but a job was more important now.Bucky wondered if a job would always be more important.

He slid out from under the chassis, going over to get another set of tools. “You gonna let me see what you’re drawing this time?” Bucky asked, peering over Steve’s shoulder.

Steve shook his head, clutching his sketchbook close to his chest. He glared up at Bucky, shaggy blond hair falling over his eyes. “No! Don’t look! And don’t try anything, Bucky. I mean it. It’s private.”

“What is it Stevie?” He teased, reaching to wrestle it out of his arms. “Some pinup with a nice rack? Something real naughty, I bet. Bet it’s of that broad, Minnie?” Steve squacked, making futile attempts to thwart him. “Yeah I know you got a crush on her!” He laughed, giving up and shoving playfully at Steve’s shoulder.

“Shut up, Bucky!” He said, a bright red flush crawling up his neck. “I do not!”

Bucky sat back on one of the roller seats, smiling at him. “Tell that to them rosey cheeks. Can’t hide nothin’ from me, Rogers.” He tapped his finger against his temple.

Steve groaned, putting his face in his hands. Bucky winked at him before getting back to work.

Later that night, when Steve was busy washing the dishes his Mamma had left after supper, Bucky took the chance to steal a glance at Steve’s sketchbook. He paled as his eyes raked over the elegant charcoal lines-- it wasn’t some strippy pinup girl after all, but instead a portrait or a strapping young lad, hair pushed back, grease stain on his chin, and a toothy smile. Cold sweat sprung up across the back of his neck, heartbeat rushing in his ears as he leaned closer and realized, without a doubt, that the boy in the portrait was him.

Novosibirsk, Siberia, Russia - 2014

The soldier scrubbed furiously at the blood drying under the fingernails of his right hand. His discarded shirt bled red into the already murky bathwater where he had tossed it. The lights overhead in the motel bathroom flickered and he tensed, pausing to listen for any sign of an attack. It must have just been faulty wiring. He picked up the soap again, redoubling his efforts.

When he was finally clean, he clicked off the light in the ensuite. It left the room startlingly dark. The curtains were drawn tight, barricade at the door. The only light came from the dim reading lamp in the corner, and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. He positioned himself on the bed so he could keep an eye on both the exit and the window. He placed one of his guns on the bedside table; the barrel made an awkward clank against the cheap wood. The soldier pulled a file out of his pack. There was a smattering of blood across the cover, crimson droplets staining the Hydra symbol.

Prisoner #56898 - Winter Soldier

He flipped it open, seeing what he now understood as his own face pinned to the top of the stack. He pulled it from under the paperclip and brought it up closer. The photograph looked old, weathered around the edges. The soldier blinked a few times, trying to stave off the painful throbbing behind his eyes. It hadn’t let up-- not since he left DC almost four days ago. It seemed to be getting worse, too.

He set aside the photograph, moving on to read the first page of print.

Subject Name: James Buchanan Barnes

James. That name didn’t sound familiar to him. He kept reading. The first page wasn’t important, height, weight, eye color. The next few were more vital. They detailed the experiments done on Sergeant Barnes in captivity. Most of them were dated in the 40’s, but there were some all the way until the early 90’s. The subject’s reactions were also recorded, and, oddly, the soldier could almost remember those. The taste of metal at the back of his mouth, fire burning through his veins, straining so hard against the straps of the examination table he gave himself a fractured wrist.

Doctor Arnim Zola was mentioned often.

Zola .This name... the soldier could recognize it. He could still see those beady little eyes peering down at him, the pointy teeth of his smile. “The new fist of Hydra.” echoed in the soldier’s head with his horribly grating Swiss accent.  

The soldier ran his metal hand over the doctor’s script in the file. Becoming distracted, he held it out in front of him, observing how the metal plates shifted and moved. He never took much notice of his arm during missions, only using it as a tool. Zola had given it to him, but even the memories of that moment were fuzzy. He felt a phantom pain where the metal fused to his skin, heard a whirr of a bone saw buzzing in his ears and a cold sweat crawled down his spine. The soldier shook his head to clear it, flipping forward a few pages.

Logically, the soldier knew that James was him. This man, along with his own reflection, were both strangers to him, but they were undoubtedly the same person.

The name ‘ James ’ didn’t feel right. Referring to himself without one, though, was beginning to feel unnatural too. Soldat was the only title given to him in years. He tried hard to remember a time when people called him something else, something different. He knew there had to be at least one memory, but there wasn’t one that he could recall.

James read on about the Winter Soldier’s missions, remembering each one in vivid detail. Prague. Chechnya. Dallas. Mumbai. All spanning years and years. None of this was new to him. They had worked on his brain specifically so he could remember these missions and nothing else. Mission report, any given number, and the soldier could give every continuous fact, even what the weather was like. But this wasn’t the information he was after. He couldn’t quite say exactly what he had hoped to learn, but it wasn’t this.

He turned to the photograph again. In the picture, James was wearing an American uniform, a Sergeant rank on his right sleeve. He had on a bit of a crooked smile; one that looked easy, familiar and settled. The soldier tried to remember when the photograph was taken. He closed his eyes tightly and willed something, anything, from that time to resurface. But nothing came.

Methodically and meticulously, James read through the rest of the file. Each page, each mission, floated a specific memory to the forefront of his mind, pushing the previous one out. It did little to relieve his confusion surrounding the continuity of his life. All it seemed to do was leave him, impossibly, more frustrated and hopeless.

Somewhere along the border of Germany and Poland - 1944

Bucky had been colder and more miserable than he was in that moment, he knew he had. He kept telling himself that it could be worse, that he’d gotten through worse. But of course his insincere complacencies weren’t doing much to help. It hadn’t stopped raining for what seemed like weeks. There was a perpetual chill to his bones that he just couldn’t shake. The cold was becoming a pressing constant just like the overbearing sense of fear and being watched. These things were the horrible nightmares of war that no amount of sergeant preaching could prepare a soldier for.

At home, everyone had thought soldiers were out here living harrowing tales of majestic glory. The reality was far bleaker, far grittier, and far less romantic. Bones ached like old wood; cold came and eased its way into the skin, taking hold so that no amount of preventative measure could drive it away; rain-wet clothes, drenched additionally in sweat, stayed damp for ages after, seeping into the skin during subsequent weeks of wear. None of that compared, though, to the ice chilling fear that ran down the spine at any startling or unknown experience. He’d seen even the rustle of a startled deer be enough to send a soldier spiraling into panic. Nothing about war was as valiant as people thought.

A battered tin mug of coffee waved in front of his face. It looked dark and warm and was probably the most wonderful thing he’d seen all day. Bucky looked up to see Gabe holding it out to him, taking a sip from his own cup.

“Falsworth made it.” Gabe said in warning, squatting down to sit next to him.

“I don’t even care. I think I’d drink the water squeezed out of Dum Dum’s dirty socks if it was warmed up.” Bucky muttered.

Falsworth always made the worst coffee so it was almost as if it was the water squeezed out of Dum Dum’s dirty socks. Where he lacked the talent for milking coffee beans to a perfection, Monty could make one of the best cups of tea out of all of them combined; he liked to boast that he could even do it with his eyes closed. That might have been true except there weren’t any tea rations this far out onto the frontline, so Bucky guessed they would never know for sure.

Sure enough, when he took a sip it was more chicory than anything, both horribly bitter and dreadfully weak at the same time. But all that probably had to do with shit army rations rather than Monty’s coffee-brewing skills.

Gabe chuckled, face tilted down over his mug trying to catch the steam.

Bucky hunched over again, settling his arms across his knees. He moved his eyes back out to stare blankly against the dense forest. The sun was setting and Bucky couldn’t remember who had first watch. He might as well volunteer; it’s not like he got much sleep anymore anyways. He could at least stay useful.

He saw Steve in the corner of his eye, under one of the makeshift lean-to’s, out of the rain. It still caught Bucky a little off guard too see him like this, all healthy and big and Captain America . He was still Steve though-- always would be. Steve Rogers with his big heart and an even bigger personality, stubborn as all get, without a lick of common sense to know when to back down from a fight. A fight he couldn’t win. Because no one could win this one in the end, not even Steve.

Bucky knew that; knew it when he’d first opened his draft letter. But he wouldn’t tell Steve that. He wouldn’t tell him the truth, the reality of this war. It’d break his spirit, knowing how absolutely terribly pessimistic Bucky really was. He’d probably give him some long drawn out speech about never losing hope and fighting for the greater good and making a difference. The same bullshit that those army recruiter’s did what felt like a lifetime ago. Except Steve genuinely believed it.

Bucky wouldn’t say Steve was dumb. He wouldn’t laugh in his face and call him an idiot, although if it were anyone else, if it were any other issue, he probably would have. But Steve was idealistic to a fault. And hell if it wasn’t hard to find fault in probably one of the most honorable men Bucky, and the whole goddamn world, would ever know.

He saw Steve’s get that stupid compass out again, staring at the inside cover with a look of intense adoration. The same one that all of them in the Howling Commandos had an unspoken rule not to tease him about. He deserved that. Her . He deserved her. As Bucky came to understand it, she’d even liked him before he looked all-- before he became Captain America. And he had to begrudge her that. Not that he had anything to give. He didn’t have a dog in the race. Steve wasn’t his . But damn it all to hell if he didn’t feel that white hot pang of jealousy when Steve would talk about her, the tips of his ears all red and and a tiny involuntary smile on his face. God, Bucky hated it and loved it all the same. Glad that Steve could be so happy but just wishing it was with him .

They could never, would never be; not because of anything more than Bucky’s luck had just up and run out. A couple firefights ago, to be exact. What was that saying again? SOL? Bullet whizzed right by his face and he knew it: Shit. Outta. Luck. There was only so much a person got in life and Bucky’d spent his last. Now it was only a matter of time before his brains and brawn would fail him. The Fates or God or whatever else was really out there puppeteering all of this mess was just one muscle twitch away from snipping that life thread Bucky’d been living on. Who knew it’d be so short?

He took a sip of his now tepid coffee, staring down into its dark depths like it had any kind of consolation for him. And, of course, it did not.

Presnya, Moscow, Russia - 2014

James could feel hot breath on his neck. He looked down to see a mess of blond hair, the man’s face obscured, pressed into his chest fast asleep. It was peaceful, and for a moment it almost felt real. Then the scene morphed and suddenly the soldier had a knife in his hand, his muscles tensing to keep the other from struggling. He ripped the knife’s jagged edge along his mission’s jugular, blood spraying into both their faces. The other man, who now had dark brown hair and a white scar across his left eye, gargled with an open mouth so close to the soldier’s ear that he could hear the blood pooling into the assailant’s lungs, drowning him. The soldier loosened the grip of his arms and the lifeless body collapsed away from him into a pile on the ground at his feet.

James put a hand to his chest as he startled awake, a half muffled shout catching in his throat. After one too many noise complaints, he’d learned to sleep light enough that he could wake up before his nightmares caused him to start yelling. He took a few deep breaths and looked down at himself. It comforted him to see that he wasn’t covered head to toe in blood like he had expected, just sweat. Sweat that was beginning to dry and become uncomfortable.

The soldier rolled himself out of bed, stripped off his clothes and stumbled into the bathroom to shower. This routine was quickly becoming all too habitual, not only to clean off stale sleep-sweat but also to ground himself. He didn’t bother to wait for the water to warm up, not that it ever got much hotter than lukewarm anyway, before stepping under the spray. It was icy cold against his back, helping him focus on the present, a grounding force he needed after the visions in his mind. He breathed in and out deeply through his mouth, long hair hanging wet and heavy in front of his face. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the cracked tile wall, only to find himself more troubled when he saw his metal arm. He hadn’t always had it, had he?

On principle he tried not to think about the nightmares that kept him up. But he closed his eyes anyways and thought about what had happened just before the memory of the mission. There was… there was another man, with him as he slept. Small. Small in a way that was concerning to James, prompting him to protect this stranger. No, not stranger; they knew each other. He just couldn’t call to mind how they knew each other. In that memory, his left arm was flesh and bone, mirroring his right. There was so much comfort and safety wrapped up in the fleeting scene, and James ached to bring back more of it. Of course the more he tried, the harder it was to recall and the harder his head began to throb, pain piercing through his vision. It kept him from putting together a coherent thought.

He turned the shower off forcefully, drying mechanically and pulling on a set of clothes from the pile he’d been collecting. He picked his way through his dingy rented apartment. It wasn’t in any kind of decent neighborhood but the landlord didn’t ask any questions and the old woman who lived next door would leave him a tin of homemade Tula Pryanik every once in a while.

James didn’t bother to lock the door behind him before walking the darkened streets of Moscow. He kept his hands in his pockets, hood pulled low over his face to obscure it from view.

The soldier felt his feet take him to his next target. He’d memorized the list— another high ranking Hydra official. He was slowly eliminating them, one by one. At first he was motivated by revenge, red hot anger that had spurred him to destroy the base in Novosibirsk. Now, he realized, it was just to keep busy, to relieve the constant ache behind his eyes as his brain continued to try and heal itself. Mindless killing, James had found, was the only thing that he could do without bringing himself pain.