Chapter 1
Colonel Viktor Bazhenov, one of HYDRA’s treasured agents. He was the Soldier’s handler when they moved him to Siberia. Like a mother duck after her chicks hatch, it was as if the Colonel imprinted on the Soldier. There was a sense of mutual respect, even though the Colonel was HYDRA and was often present when they wiped the Soldier’s memories and read from the small red book. The Colonel was not afraid of the Soldier, and the Soldier was not afraid of him. It just seemed to work. Even though he was untrustworthy, the Soldier trusted him.
This could, however, be due to the Colonel’s daughter. She was a beautiful girl—young, about seventeen when they first moved the Soldier to Siberia. She loved her father dearly, and understood why he served HYDRA. She did not particularly like some of the ways HYDRA did things, but neither did her father. But they knew that it was best not to defy them. So they played along, the Colonel working and controlling the Soldier while his daughter could be found helping with unimportant paperwork or cleaning weapons in the armory.
Before he joined HYDRA, Viktor Bazhenov had a wife. They had a beautiful daughter, and she loved to dance. She was a natural born dancer—long, graceful limbs; strong, pointed toes; and music flowing through her veins. You could spot her from a mile away. Her parents enrolled her in ballet lessons, and she quickly moved through the ranks. She landed lead role after lead role in every production the company did. Her parents worked day after day for enough money to support her dream. She understood their sacrifice, even at a young age, and she was grateful, even when there wasn’t a new doll under the Christmas tree.
Before he was married, Bezhanov was considered a scientist. He was a psychiatrist and psychologist. He had fought in the War of the Worlds. After his wife’s death in 1980, he was approached by HYDRA, an organization not unknown to him. He joined, if only for the safety of his daughter. They moved him first around Europe, training new recruits. His daughter was forced to leave her dancing lessons behind, and she soon grew to understand her father’s work. She continued to perfect her dancing whenever she could, and her father, on extremely rare occasions, would have a brand new pair of pointe shoes for her.
She also began to train herself. She learned how to fight, how to shoot, and how to kill. She became one of the best, and even went on some choice missions. However, she never lost sight of who she was and what she believed to be right and wrong. She only served HYDRA out of necessity, and was only truly loyal to her father.
When they moved the Colonel to Siberia to work with the Soldier, the girl was just turning seventeen. The girl was not uninformed of the acts of the one they called The Winter Soldier. She knew nothing of his past, of who he was before the fall. But she knew enough. She knew enough just by looking at him that he wasn’t dead inside—remorseless. She could see that he was a good man once. Hell, anyone can see that just by looking at him. Even the most dedicated HYDRA agent would have some sort of emotion in his eyes, albeit hatred and malice and the will to cause others harm.
He was intimidating, but she was not scared of him. She was not scared of anything, really. He excited her—goaded her. She wanted to know who he was behind that mask of cold, dead eyes and beautiful brown hair.
She was always there. She was there when they wiped him, his pained screams hurting her heart. She would watch him when he wasn’t looking, even though she knew that he saw her. He always saw her.
She confused him. No one batted an eye at him; no one looked at him like she did. No one cared enough to spare him a passing glance. He was a puppet—he was nothing special. So why did she look at him like that?
The base in Siberia was not specifically a training facility. It did, however, have a training room. To keep herself sharp, the girl would often go down and hit a punching bag. After they would unfreeze the Soldier, she would watch as he would prepare for a mission, easily taking down anyone he sparred with. She wanted to fight like that. She asked her father if he would find someone to train her, suggesting the Soldier to do it. Being on the higher parts of HYDRA’s ranks, he agreed, and the two started sparring.
The Soldier was confused, and a little angry. He was used to kill, not to teach. When he saw that it was her, his anger dissipated. They began to fight, and he showed her her weak spots and told her how she could do better. She was grateful; not only for the training, but for the time she got with him. They grew close, even though they only fought. Even after he was wiped and he had no memories, her presence was something he knew—something he remembered. It was something that felt right and could never be erased. Sometimes, when he was unneeded but unfrozen, he would look for her. He would find her alone in her room, often times stretching her legs. He would stand in the shadows and watch her.
Now, the girl never gave up ballet. During the day, and sometimes even at night, she would find an old room to dance in. No one knew of her activities, not even the Soldier. But he soon discovered her secret. One time during his “down time,” he went to her room to find her with her father. He could hear them talking.
“Remember when I’d make you lift me into the air?” she’d laugh.
“Yes, my dear, I remember it like it was yesterday. You were an amazing little dancer, my little фея.”
“Do you still remember how to twirl me?” she smiled.
“Of course, how could I forget when you made me do it every day?” he laughed. The Soldier watched as the man twirled his daughter around and around, her leg coming to rest high above her head.
Soon after this incident, the Soldier found the girl in an old bunk room, twirling around on her toes. She wore ripped and faded pink tights and her shoes were worn with age and use. Her pink ribbons were fraying, but they were tied tight around her calves all the same. He sat and watched, unable to look away. He knew how strong she was; he knew what she was capable of. But to see her dance so beautifully… it gave him chills.
He continued to watch in silence, staying in the shadows. He watched her jump through the air and prance across the floor for what seemed like hours. He suddenly remembered what her hands felt like against him, how her muscles moved against his body when they sparred. He knew that she could be rough and hard—he knew how that felt. He wanted to know what this felt like. He wanted to know what graceful and beautiful felt like, because he could not be that for himself.
Before he could stop himself, he was stepping out of the shadows and into the old room. When she didn’t stop dancing, he cleared his throat. This startled her, and she stumbled. He immediately went to help her up. She was shocked, afraid that her gig was up. But he just looked at her, unable to say anything. After a long while, he finally spoke.
“Twirl.” He said. His voice was deep and stern, but this did not scare her in the slightest.
She was taken aback. “What?”
“Your father. He twirled you.” She blushed red at his words. He suddenly became nervous. He was not supposed to be doing this. This was surely grounds for punishment. But somehow, he could not find it in himself to care.
“You saw that?” she asked, embarrassed. He didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish, but he had to admit that he liked how she looked when she was embarrassed.
There was a long pause until he finally found what he wanted to say.
“Will you teach me how to twirl you?”
She stared at him. Moments passed before either of them moved.
“Yes, I can teach you.” She smiled. That smile did things to him. They were rare, but they were beautiful, and he found himself wanting to make them more of a regularity.
“Stand like this,” she instructed, setting into a sort of lunged position. He obeyed, and he found himself doing it not out of programming, but out of choice.
She stood in front of him, and they were almost eye-to-eye. She was still young and small, so he usually towered over her. He liked this new view. He could see her face a little better—he could see the little details of her skin: the way her cheeks flushed, but only up towards her hairline, the few freckles dotted around her nose, and the beautiful curve of her lips.
She noticed him too. She had always known what he looked like. She knew the lines of his face better than anyone. But as she stared into those eyes of his, she noticed for the first time that his eyes were not a cold, cloudy grey, but in fact, a wonderful, precious blue, muted only by the pain tucked away behind them.
It was a while before either realized they were staring.
“Good,” she said, breaking the spell and ending their staring contest. “Now, this is where I come in. I stand in front and spin, while your hands go here,” she took his hands and rested them on her waist, right above her hips.
She immediately flushed. Why was she blushing? He had touched her before—it was not like any of this was new. They sparred. They knew each other’s weaknesses. They had been closer than this before— she had been pinned to the floor under his heavy frame, often times struggling to get free. So why was this any different?
To the Soldier, she felt dainty in his hands. He knew that she was strong, she had proven it to him many times, but this too felt different to him. Maybe it was because whenever they had touched, it was to harm, or try and harm the other. This… this was softer. This was kinder.
This was intimate.
“Um,” she cleared her throat. “That’s about it. You have it pretty easy.” When he said nothing, she turned away. “Now, when I spin, it’s your job to balance me and to help me twirl. To do that, you just… push.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. “Ready?” she asked. He nodded. She turned and focused on spotting. Then, she stretched her leg out and began to twirl.
The Soldier felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He had to force himself to focus on not knocking her over. She spun and spun and spun; her hands high in the air and her leg tucked under her. She reveled in the feel of his hands. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he was a deadly killer—she knew how much pain these hands had inflicted. But she began to have a hard time believing that hands as gentle as the ones on her now could do such things. She began to love the way he touched her, and couldn’t get enough. She began to slow down, until she finally came to a stop and the Soldier reluctantly released her.
There was another moment of silence as she caught her breath. The Soldier just stared at her, and she smiled.
“That was good,” she said. “You did really well for your first time.”
A forced, “Thank you,” was all he said.
“The only thing is, you need to learn how to slow me down. It’s really simple, just apply pressure with your hands and I’ll gradually come to a stop. Sound good?” she explained. He gave another quick nod.
His hands moved back to her waist, and she was grateful she was facing away from him, because she blushed an even deeper red than before. “Ready?” she asked, and he gave her waist a slight squeeze that sent shockwaves throughout her body and goosebumps up her neck. She was sure that the Soldier could see them from where he was standing. Before her thoughts of him looking at her neck had the chance to get too far into her brain, she began to twirl.
This went on for hours. Just her spinning in his hands. She had missed this. She had missed the days when there was someone there to twirl her. But those days were over, and she’d probably never get them back.
---
The girl’s father was the Soldier’s chief handler. He knew all about him, or at least what HYDRA had on him, and that was a good amount. He had a file in his office with all of the Soldier’s information, save for the list of words for programming.
The girl needed something. She knew there was someone behind that cold mask of a lethal killer. No one was that unflinchingly loyal without some sort of extreme measures. She needed to find out who he was.
So she snuck into her father’s office while he was busy. She knew she’d be severely punished if she was caught, but she wasn’t planning on letting that happen. So she slid open a drawer and took out the file.
On the front it read, “зимний солдат.” She opened the file.
The first thing she saw was an old photograph. It was of the Soldier in an old army uniform. His hair was shorter, and his face was clean-shaven. But it was still the Soldier’s face: the same sharp jaw, same strong chin, and the same beautiful eyes—except these did not hide pain or agony or sorrow. These hid happiness and joy. She wanted to see that same look on the Soldier’s face.
As she began to read the file, her heart hurt more and more. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the United States Army during World War II. Suffered a fall from a train that took his left arm. Born March 10, 1917. Lived in Brooklyn, New York.
Bucky. What a strange name.
She continued to read through the file, but it was mostly mission reports and other routine procedures. The documented electroshock therapy papers were in the file as well. Those were the ones that hurt her the most.
She knew how painful it was. She knew how it broke him. It was torture. But to read the reports… to read about the wipes from someone who didn’t care that they were causing such tremendous harm to another human being… it made tears sting in her eyes.
--
She would often wonder if he remembered her. They seemed to wipe him every day, but every day that he could, he would come find her in the same old room that she danced in with him. Every time he would come, she had to bite her tongue to keep his name from falling from her lips. It was a constant struggle, but it was one she could do. It was one she had to do. Letting it slip could lead to major consequences.
Eventually, he asked her to teach him something new. Being the selfish person that she was, she taught him how to lift her.
He was a very fast learner, so it wasn’t long before he held her high above his head. She rejoiced in the familiar feeling that lifts gave her. She didn’t want to stop ever again.
--
December 16, 1991
¬
The Soldier fought against each newly-made super soldier. They were tough. And strong—stronger than the Soldier, but not by much. At least, that’s what the Soldier liked to think. He might not have had memories, but he still had an ego.
The one that was currently fighting him had the Soldier into an exposed position, twisting his metal arm behind his back. The Soldier was surprised. The man only continued to attempt to bend the Soldier’s arm further, almost as if attempting to break it at the elbow.
He almost succeeded. The bending had damaged the arm just enough to not be noticeable, enough to be easily hidden when it wasn’t being used. But it was enough.
The next thing the Soldier knew, he was flying across the room. He slammed into the glass barrier and fell to the ground. He was dazed for only a second, for he was programmed not to show pain—pain was weakness. The Soldier had no weaknesses.
Well, none that anyone ever thought to think of—a dancing seventeen-year-old girl.
As the Soldier lay on the floor, a doctor walked over the super soldier that had subdued the Winter Soldier. Then all hell broke loose.
The super soldier reacted, taking the doctor by the neck, his shrill scream filling the air. The soldier threw him to the floor, his forehead cracking on the cement ground. The Soldier quietly stood to his feet in front of Colonel Brazhenov. They watched as an armed guard hit the super soldier across the back with a baton. The soldier was unfazed, and suddenly, the other five super soldiers were all on their feet.
“солдат,” commanded the Colonel. “Get me out of here.”
The Soldier quickly came to attention, swiftly following his new order. They walked out of the training room, the Soldier beating enemies and HYDRA agents alike. They made it safely out of the swarm of super soldiers and the Soldier slammed the barred door closed with a loud bang.
--
The girl couldn’t stop staring at him. She knew she couldn’t call him by his name. She had caught herself more than once with the word on the tip of her tongue. When she looked at him, she no longer saw a cold-hearted HYDRA puppet. What she saw was even more heartbreaking—a helpless, pained, hollowed-out man. She didn’t see a villain; she saw a man plagued by what he was made—no, forced—to do. She saw a victim.
She wanted to help him. She wanted to give him hospitality. She wanted to give him something to hold on to for whenever they wiped him. She wanted him to know that someone cared, even if he didn’t believe no one ever could. She wanted to show him that there was still good in the world, even if it was hard to find in the desolate prison that was his mind.
She wanted to love him.
She wanted to show him what that felt like.
--
The Winter Soldier was a machine. He was a ghost, a silent and deadly killer. He was a weapon, and a damn good one. Yes, the Winter Soldier was deadly—a trained and lethal assassin. He was everything yet nothing at all. He was the perfect soldier. Even before the fall, he was a perfect soldier.
The Soldier did not fail. He was perfect, even when he wasn’t. He did not give up, he was fast, and he didn’t ask questions. He just followed orders. When he ever did fail, he was punished for it. He was taught how to succeed for the next time. He was reminded of how perfect he must be.
He did not fail.
So when he dropped her, he expected a beating. He expected to be yelled at. He expected her to run out of the room to find the nearest armed agent to beat him for her. He expected to see a look of disappointment on her face, the disgust in her eyes.
What he got was something completely different.
--
She could tell something was wrong. She could tell that something wasn’t working. She watched as he would occasionally clench his metal fist absentmindedly, as if it was causing him trouble. As if it was hurting him. As if it wasn’t working properly.
Something inside her told her not to push him that day. Something told her that it wouldn’t end well if she did.
But she ignored that nagging little voice inside her head. Because she loved to dance. Because she was selfish.
Of course, the Soldier pushed through the discomfort, pushed through the pain. He knew he shouldn’t, but he just loved holding her too much. He loved seeing that look on her face when he lifted her into the air. He wanted to do that forever. He loved being the one to make her smile.
So instead of letting himself rest, instead of letting the doctors fix his arm, he lifted her. Because she loved to dance. Because he was selfish. Because he loved the way her waist felt in his hands. He loved the feel of her. He loved the look of her. He loved the smell of her.
He loved her.
And that scared the shit out of him.
--
As he prepared to lift her, he stretched out his arm one last time. She noticed.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “We can take a break today, if you’d like,” She offered.
“I’m fine,” he deadpanned. “I’m fine,” he repeated, more to himself than to her.
“Okay,” she said. She smiled nervously, and he returned it slightly. She stepped closer to him like it was second nature. He placed his hand on her waist, the other grasped her hand. “Ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. She nodded and moved into arabesque. He waited until she was balanced before he moved his metal hand to her waist and his flesh hand to her leg. They’d done this lift many times before, but every time it still sent shivers all over her body. She loved his hands. She loved the stark contrast of smooth, cold metal and rough, calloused flesh.
“Ready?” he asked. He always asked. He always made sure she was comfortable. He would never want to make her feel scared, even though that was his sole purpose—to scare, to maim, to kill. She meant something to him, something he couldn’t explain or understand. But he was dead-set on keeping it.
“Ready,” she said, and he lifted her.
He was fine the first time. He was able to keep her steady for the first few seconds. When he started to waver, he was able to put her down before his arm gave out completely.
He was nervous that she would walk away. He was afraid that she didn’t trust him anymore. He was afraid that she could feel the way his arm shook under her tiny weight.
But when she turned to him with a smile on her face like she had done every other time before, all of his worries faded away.
“That was great,” she praised. “Do you think we could try dancing into it?” she asked shyly. He was confused by her demeanor, but she quickly explained. “When I was little, we had a dance number that had a lift like this in it. It’s the one I do every time I come down here. The lift is my favorite part, but I’ve had to skip over it because I never had someone to lift me. But now I have you to dance with,” she said, and he found himself blushing slightly. She was adorable, but you wouldn’t know that just by looking at her. It only came out in special moments—moments like these. The moments spent with him.
He didn’t realize he was staring until she cleared her throat.
“Yeah,” he pushed out. “We can.”
At his words, her face lit up, and a smile broke out across her face. She excitedly directed him to where he was to stand, and explained what exactly he was going to do. He listened, the look in her eyes making him smile. He completely forgot about the pain in his arm.
--
He watched as she danced across the water-stained concrete floor. He watched her become a completely different person. He watched as she poured out her heart into her dancing. He was enchanted. He almost didn’t hear her when she called out for him to come in.
He walked over to her. He went through the steps in his head, not even thinking about his faulty arm. This was his first mistake.
This time when he lifted her, he was able to get her to a completely extended lift. But this only lasted for a few seconds before his arm started to shake again. It was only a matter of seconds before she came tumbling down on top of him.
--
It was her fault. She blamed herself. She knew that the arm was bothering him; she knew he couldn’t lift her properly. She knew it even before the first lift they did. But she was selfish. She loved the adrenaline rush too much. She loved the feel of his hands too much.
She was stupid for letting her emotions get the best of her. She wasn’t usually like this. She was a soldier. She was level-headed and dependable. She made good decisions. She evaluated and acted on her training. She didn’t act on her feelings.
She knew how to control her tongue. But something about him made her forget everything she ever learned. That was how his name burst out of her mouth in the first place.
--
As she toppled out of the air, he scrambled to catch her. His metal arm had been supporting the majority of her weight on her waist, so when she fell, she began to fall face-first towards the floor. She shouted and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact.
But the Soldier was fast. He quickly wrapped his flesh arm around her leg. His metal arm tried to control her fall and wrapped around her torso to keep her from hitting the ground. Luckily, this was not too much for the prosthesis to bear, and he was able to pull her body to him and stop her fall.
It had all happened so fast that he didn’t realize that she had shouted his name when she fell.
He was shocked. He never failed. He could rip car doors from their hinges; he could kill a man with one punch for God’s sake! He did not drop one hundred-something pound girls. He did not fail.
As she lay in his arms, he was suddenly aware of how close they were. Her body was pressed tightly against his chest, and her face was dangerously close to his. She had her arms around his strong, broad shoulders. She could feel his breath on her skin. He made no move to release her, and she made no move to leave his embrace. They eventually locked eyes, and neither of them looked away.
She was the first one to speak.
“Are you alright?” she whispered. He didn’t respond. He just blinked at her. It was only when she gave his shoulders a squeeze that he finally reacted.
His eyes widened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. I just—” His hands suddenly released her, and she scrambled to find her balance. She was confused—had she hurt him? Had she done something wrong? Had she been the cause of the fall?
She watched as he backed away from her, stretching out his metal arm. He wouldn’t look at her—he was actually putting distance between them. It was as if he was scared. He looked terrified.
“It’s okay, it happens, it was just a little slip,” she said. She made a move to put a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched as if her touch burned him. He cowered away from her.
She was worried. She’d never seen him like this—afraid. The Winter Soldier was not scared. The Winter Soldier didn’t show fear.
But the Soldier didn’t fail either.
“Please—” his voice was rash and jagged. He was begging. He sounded close to tears. He suddenly collapsed to the floor, crouching dejectedly in front of her. He was shaking; it looked like he was crying.
The Soldier was having a meltdown. He never failed. He was a machine. He did not fail. They gave him a very good reason not to.
He was made to forget. They went to extreme lengths to make him forget. He knew that they wiped him; he knew what it did to him. It was almost ironic—the thing he always remembered was that they always made him forget.
But he could never forget the way they beat him, or how he was forced to take it. How they abused him—broke him to his very core. They had ugly methods to make him compliant; it wasn’t just the memory wipes. They battered him, slapped him, even shot him on occasion. He hated it, so he never failed. They made him perfect. They made him compliant.
They made him afraid.
He was afraid. Of failing. Of being hurt.
Right now, he was afraid of her.
“Please,” he begged again. She stepped closer to him, and he only seemed to shrink in on himself more. She stopped her advances and looked at him. She had to strain to hear him. “Please. Please, don’t. Please, I’ll do anything, just please don’t…” he whispered.
“Don’t what? What’s wrong?” she asked. He was scaring her, and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t know how to comfort him. All he had done was dropped her—accidents happen.
But she knew that this was about more than just the fall. This was deeper than that.
“Please don’t. It won’t happen again, I’ll do better, I promise,” he said. “Just please, don’t. I can’t do it, not from you, please.”
She took a timid step forward, and when he didn’t react, she took another step. And another, until she was on the floor beside him. She placed a comforting hand on his back.
“What can’t you do? What don’t you want me to do?” she pushed. He was crying now. Her heart ached for him. She wanted him to tell her what was wrong so she could fix it. “Please, talk to me.”
“Please don’t do this to me.”
“Do what?” she begged. “Tell me, please.”
“Hit me,” he finally admitted, and her stomach dropped. “Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t fail again, I promise.”
She was heartbroken. She couldn’t believe that he would think she would hurt him.
Tears stung her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she found herself hating HYDRA. She had always played along, never asking too many questions. She was a good soldier. She never agreed with HYDRA’s methods, but this was too far. She had always thought what they did to him was horrible, but this was a whole other level of horrible. This was inhumane.
She rubbed comforting circles into his back. He wasn’t wearing his leather tactical suit; just a black, one-armed, long-sleeved undershirt. She could feel the strong muscles pulled taut in his back.
“Why would I hurt you?” she asked. She tried to look at him through the curtain of hair in his face.
“Because I dropped you,” he admitted.
Her heart stopped. “Oh, no no no,” she argued. She moved slightly closer to him and attempted to get him to look at her. “It was an accident. Accidents happen,” she reassured him. He finally allowed her to take his face in her hands. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and the sight of him made her heart hurt. They made him so afraid.
“I never fail. I'm not supposed to. They make sure I don’t,” he confessed. She continued to comfort him, stroking his face and reassuring him.
“It’s okay. Shh,” she consoled. She pulled him close to her chest and he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her closer to him, and she moved around him. He was sitting on the floor with one leg curled under him while the other one was bent off to his side. He pulled her so she was basically sitting in his lap, her knees digging into the floor near his hips. He buried his face in her neck and she could feel his tears wet her shoulder.
She had never seen him this vulnerable. She knew he put his walls down when he was with her, but nothing like this. He was crying. The Winter Soldier did not cry. He didn’t show emotion. He couldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to feel. Machines didn’t have feelings. He didn’t have feelings.
But this girl. This girl—she did things to him. She made him feel things. She made him feel more like a person and less like a puppet. She made him feel human. He trusted her. She made him happy. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. He didn’t know if he had ever known happiness. She gave him something to hold on to.
She loved him.
And that made him feel even worse about letting her fall.
“It’s going to be okay, and I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you,” she said, and he believed her. “I promise. Hey, look at me,” she said. She pulled away enough to look at him. She brushed the hair out of his face and wiped the tears from his cheeks. She made him look at her, his grey-blue eyes red and puffy from crying. She gave him a stern look. “I will never, ever, hurt you. And I know that you would never hurt me,” she said. “I promise.”
He looked at her. He looked for any sign to show she was lying. He looked for anything to tell him not to believe her. He needed her to be lying. He needed a reason to dismiss the way his heart was beating out of his chest because of how close she was—because of how she was practically sitting on him. He needed a reason to hate her, if only to give him a reason not to love her.
But as he searched her eyes, he couldn’t find any tells. No slide of the eye, no obvious quirks. Nothing that told him that she was lying.
He couldn’t get it through his head. How could someone so beautiful and undeniably good love a broken, damaged soldier?
It made him… happy. She made him happy. He was afraid of losing her to that retched machine. That horrible, damned machine. It took everything. It took everything from him. Everything that was ever good in his life. He didn’t need memories to know that it took everything. He knew without a doubt, that it would take this from him. Would take her. He was determined to hold onto her. He was determined to keep her. He was determined to make the most of her, while he still had the chance.
So he kissed her.
He kissed her hard.
She didn’t react at first. She was surprised. She hadn’t expected him to kiss her. Not that she was complaining. His lips were skilled, and impressively so. When she finally reacted, she kissed him back with even more fervor. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his neck, and eventually came to tangle in his hair. His lips were surprisingly soft, and she could taste the salty tears on his cheeks.
His arms wrapped around her waist. He pulled her closer, if that was even possible at this point. He shifted his legs and moved his metal hand to pull her hair out of its ponytail. When he finally freed it, she laughed against his mouth and pulled away from the kiss and shook out her tangled and sweaty hair. He smiled at her, but only slightly. He wasn’t good at smiling. He wasn’t used to it. But he knew it made her happy, so he did it for her.
She held his face in her hands. She looked at him. She looked at the happiness in his eyes. It made her happy. He made her happy.
She kissed him again, softer this time. Slower. She took her time. She reveled in the feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue. He was an excellent kisser, and she thought he probably always was. She decided that she loved kissing him, and she wanted more.
So she pushed. She kissed him harder. She threw caution into the wind. She pulled at his hair, and smiled again when he gave her a growl of approval. She sighed as he began to trail kisses along her jaw and neck. She clutched at his shoulders as he trailed lower, to her collarbone.
She tugged at his hair again, and his lips were on hers. She sighed in contentment. She was happy for the first time in a long time. She wanted this. She wanted him.
She wanted more.
He wanted her too.
He shifted again, and moved so she was lying on the ground beneath him. The concrete dug into her back, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was him. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her legs around him. He kissed her harder.
He supported his weight on his real arm. His metal one was positioned on her hip, the dull digits twisting in her shirt. He loved the taste of her. He wanted to be closer. He wanted to have all of her. He wanted to give himself to her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to show her how much he loved her.
So he did.
And she did the exact same thing.
They gave themselves over to each other. They showed the other how much they loved them in the best way they knew how with the limited time they had.
They gave each other something to hold onto.
And when the time came for him to be wiped, he would hold on to that moment for dear life.