capkink | Prompt Post 1

Prompt Post 1

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At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.

Update, April 22, 2014:
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Sorry for taking so long with this. School is evil.

At first the Soldier didn't realize just how dangerous things for him were growing. He didn't realize how much at risk he was putting himself in for something a simple as a fight. Only now, as the days went on, he wondered if it were truly about getting another fight out of Steve or about something else that eluded him. At either way the Soldier found that it'd grown easier and easier to ignore his mission, to brush aside the parameters he'd been given. Every time he'd sneak into Fury's not-base he found it easier to ignore Fury, to ignore the urge to kill, finish it, until he wasn't slipping into Fury's room anymore. Instead he made for the computer, searched out Steve's next set of orders, and left.

The Soldier shifted, feeling an ache from being still for so long. He kept his gaze trained through his snipers scope, waiting for the moment Steve and Наталья rode in to complete the sweep of the grounds. He licked his lips underneath his mask and rolled his shoulders slightly. The vantage point he'd found was up on the top of a munitions deposit, this particular SHIELD station housing just a bit more than intelligence. The deposit was shaded by a rather large tree, providing ample cover if it were daytime, and even more cover in the dead of night.

The ground was maybe four feet away, sitting on a hill overlooking the rest of the base. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Potomac, and in the distance the Triskellion. This particular mission had a high-risk factor, being so close to SHIELD's main infrastructure, and the Soldier was worried. He nibbled at his lip, shifted lightly again just to get feeling back into his legs.

Still no sign of Steve.

“Где ты?” the Soldier hissed between his breath. He was entirely focused on finding Steve, being sure that Steve arrived safely, that the Soldier didn't even notice the booted feet on the roof of the deposit until they crunched right down by his face. His eyes widened behind his goggles, and he turned sharply to attack whoever was there.

A knee slammed down into his diaphragm, expelling any air he had the minute he moved. He swallowed and forced the reflexive follow up punch to a halt at the familiar face of his weapons handler.

“Now what do we have here?” Rumlow hissed. He reached out, pulled away the goggles and the mask, and grabbed the Soldier by the chin. “Report.”

“This is for my mission,” the Soldier said quickly.

“The mission is Nick Fury,” Rumlow said coldly. “Not them.” He gestured in the darkness.

Steve. His eyes glanced over, caught sight of the familiar blue. He's here. He's okay.

“Mission parameters state surveillance until repairs are completed,” he said monotonously. “Repairs are taking longer than expected.”

“Are they?” Rumlow questioned, reaching down to grasp his damaged leg. He squeezed and the Soldier grit his teeth. He barely let out a grunt of surprise at the sudden jolt of pain. “Seems like all I'm hearing is that HYDRA's weapon is useless.”

“I'm not!” the Soldier snarled. Rumlow gave him a look, squeezed a bit harder, and Bucky let out a sharp curse. “My mission is guarded by Subjects: Black Widow and Steve Rogers. Surveillance is necessary to uncover weakness,” he spat out quickly and Rumlow let go of his leg.

“Is that so?” Rumlow questioned.

“Yes,” the Soldier said, tense.

“So HYDRA's asset isn't malfunctioning?” Rumlow quarried. The Soldier froze.

Malfunction? Yes, there was malfunction. He knew there was malfunction. Rumlow narrowed his eyes.

“I repeat, is there any malfunction?”

The Soldier swallowed, but did not answer. If he said yes, they would drag him back, wipe him clean, and he'd forget Steve. He'd forget desires, wants. He'd forget being Bucky. He'd forget his name. If he said no, it would be a lie to the ones who hold his leash. That would invite pain, suffering, and further setbacks. Lying to his masters was not allowed, he'd had that rule beaten into him long ago, before he could even remember. Like every other parameter he's given, it's something he can't quite fight. Not yet, perhaps not ever.

“I see,” Rumlow muttered, reached out, and squeezed the Soldier's leg hard. The surprise tore a quick, short yelp out of him before Rumlow let go and left him with a burning feeling up his leg. “I can't break this leg, obviously,” Rumlow said coldly. “That would slow down the timetable. However punishment is still due for the failure of not reporting malfunction.”

Rumlow grasped the Soldier by the hair and physically dragged him off of the roof of the deposit. The fall hurt in part because the pull on his hair hurt and falling four feet without getting a chance to brace yourself just hurts period. The Soldier grunted but didn't fight back. Fighting back meant more pain and failure, and that the Soldier couldn't face. Not now, not when he was almost healed enough for that fight. Rumlow chuckled, pulled him up by his hair, and he could feel his scalp on fire, the roots threatening to give until the Soldier got his knees up under him to support his weight so it wasn't all Rumlow holding him up.

“It's time for another lesson, I think,” Rumlow said coldly. Bucky wanted to spit in his face, and he almost did until he caught sight of five other STRIKE members standing in the shadows.

Rumlow threw a punch at the Soldier's face, letting go of his hair, allowing the Soldier to fall back from the force of the blow. The Soldier pulled himself onto his hands and knees only for Rumlow's foot to connect to his face again, and then to the side of his ribs. It wasn't the side reinforced with metal and steel, but the side wholly flesh and blood. This was followed by a hard press to the Soldier's juggular with a foot and then that foot became a knee as Rumlow knelt down and smiled, coldly, face inches from the Soldier who struggled for breath.

“You follow my every command,” Rumlow hissed out, “and I'll allow you the freedom to finish the mission as you see fit in five days. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” the Soldier gasped.

“What are your new parameters?” Rumlow growled.

“Follow every command, confirm death in five days,” the Soldier said although the words were breathless and barely-there. Rumlow smiled.

“Good.” He let up, ordered the Soldier onto his knees, and said, “You know what to do.”

The Soldier did.

When they arrived at the base, mostly deserted, for a moment Steve thought he caught movement up in the corner on a hill overlooking the building. Natasha quickly drew his attention back, especially when there didn't appear to be anything else going on, with a carefully timed, “Rogers, pay attention.”

Steve turned his head back towards Natasha and gave her a grin.

“Sorry, thought I saw something up there,” he motioned towards the little stonework building on the hill. “Thought it might be a sniper, but there's nothing.”

“You mean you thought it might be your stalker,” Natasha pointed out. For a moment there was a barely there smile that Steve caught although it was quickly replaced with a frown.

“No, I mean I thought that maybe SHIELD has wised up and placed a sniper in play,” Steve shot back. A little part of him tingled though at the thought of the Winter Soldier being here, keeping watch over them. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel safe. The thought of eyes on his back was a familiar one.

Bucky used to do that all the time, actually. Steve breathed out slow, pressed down the sudden pang of guilt and sorrow that wanted to cripple him. He breathed out slow again, killed the engine of his bike, and shifted his shield from his back onto his arm.

“Let's go,” he said, giving Natasha a nod. They started towards the building. “No multitasking this time,” Steve added as an afterthought.

Natasha rolled her eyes. She entered in an access code, then paused when it came back negative and quickly began to hack the control panel. “You need to get out more, Rogers,” she pointed out as she worked. No multitasking, he said? She could do work like this in her sleep.

“I had lunch with Sam just the other day,” Steve said, quickly swinging his shield up to knock out the first guard they'd come across. Natasha round housed the second and they dragged both into a spare room. “I get out.”

Natasha gave him a considering look, which Steve saw. He promptly shook his head, said quickly, “No, Natasha.”

“It could be cute,” Natasha murmured.

“No,” Steve said back sharp. Natasha pouted and they left the room to hunt down other guards or men around. They split up when the hall went into two different directions and systematically cleared the first floor. Occasionally Natasha would pipe up with what Steve thought she thought were coy little comments over their headsets.

“He's para-rescue right? Why don't you go skydiving together then?”

“No.”

“He's already taken you out somewhere, that means its your turn, right?”

“Natasha.”

“You know I'm sure he could teach you a thing or two, he seems pretty learned from what I saw.”

“Oh my god can you just focus on the mission!”

It went on for the five minutes it took to clear the first floor and meet up on the second. There Steve shoved Natasha into a wall, face serious as he slammed a hand over her mouth, and spoke lowly, “I am not interested in Sam. Understood?” Natasha just licked his hand, drawing a surprise and somewhat disgusted look as Steve jerked back. He quickly rubbed his hand off on his pants. “Childish,” he said.

“Child,” Natasha shot back with a wide smile, pointing at herself. It was a joke aimed towards their age gap which Steve got readily enough. She tilted her head. “You're not interested in any of the girls I offer.”

“They're not my type,” Steve pointed back. They weren't. “One of them had a lip piercing,” he added as an afterthought.

“And a tongue piercing,” Natasha said brightly. “Imagine how that would feel?”

Steve flushed bright red and just took off. “I am not having this conversation,” he said quickly and proceeded to run into five men, all of which he dispatched in a manner of seconds.

“There's no need to be a prude,” Natasha said over the comms, and Steve could hear about three men go down on her end in quick succession.

“It's not being prudish,” Steve mumbled back. “It's called decency.”

Natasha scoffed, round-housed another guy and they met at the computer room. “Decency,” she said blithely, “went out of style in the sixties.”

He stumbled onto the railing, cursed at the noise he made. He feared being found out, being caught here with his mask off and his face bare and his breath smelling like alcohol. He feared that his injuries, healing slowly but steadily, would prevent him from leaving before he was caught. He feared those big blue eyes training on his face and feared the results of what that would do to him.

Bucky worked on the window, worked it open because he couldn't stand outside all night. Someone would see him, call the cops, and then he'd be in shittier luck that this. Or Agent 13 down the hall would realize that there's someone outside the window, someone stalking the precious dancing monkey and then he'd be in the shitter even worse.

Bucky hissed out words in Russian, Romanian, German and English until the window rose up and he could slip inside. He didn't bother with silencing the recording devices. He didn't care to anymore. HYDRA knew already about this obsession, this broken malfunction in his head so what did it matter trying to hide it from them? He stumbled his way through the kitchen, ran into the counter with a curse. It was sharp and in English and Bucky had to slap his fist into his mouth to stop from making any more noise.

Punk's a light sleeper he had to remind himself, in his head because only there was it safe. He didn't know how he knew that, exactly, just that he did. He knew a lot of stuff he didn't understand, didn't know where it came from this knowledge. He figured more and more out every day even when it hurt to do so.

He realized in mid struggle between the kitchen to the bathroom, where all the antiseptic and the med-kit were kept (always so predictable, aren't you?) that he'd been referring to himself as Bucky instead of the Solider. It came and went ever since he'd learned his name (James Buchanan Barnes, Sargent, 325575—Steve?) but now it seemed to be thoroughly stuck.

Bucky stumbled into the bathroom, knocked the soap and toothbrush off of the counter and froze. He waited for the telltale signs of someone waking up and sighed in relief when there was no change in the noise around him. He stared at his face in the mirror, didn't bother flicking on the light because he could see well enough as is. His nose was crooked, his lip swollen and bloodied. He looked like he got in the loosing end of a fistfight in a back alley of Brooklyn protecting his punk, whatever that meant.

With a grimace he straightened his nose, hissed a breath between his teeth, and pulled open the cabinet. The Soldier (no—no—James Buchanon Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I am—) rummaged for antiseptic and bandages and a little white box he knew had to be there. He found bottles of pain killers, higher strength prescription strength and he pulled those open and dried swallowed a couple. He didn't care what they were, only that he needed them.

He crouched down and rifled through under the sink before he found the med-kit burried in the back. He fished that out, set it on the counter, and then sat himself down on the toilet. He pulled out strips of gauze, tore it to shreds, and then wrapped his face and his nose. It hurt, stung like a bitch, and it brought to mine the punches and kicks and the laughing hiss of (such a good toy for HYDRA) words he couldn't comprehend, mind too fogged by pain.

Bucky pulled off his jacket and began to dabble the antiseptic on his cuts, made by a knife happy Rumlow and his pack of goons. He bound each cut with a careful strip of gauze if they were larger than an inch and deeper than half that. There wasn't any thread or needles inside the kit so he couldn't sew himself up yet. He'd get around to that later, probably after he'd stumbled back to the hotel more fuzzy headed than he was even now.

Carefully he bound and wrapped up his chest, which probably had a broken rib now considering how strong a kick Rumlow and his STRIKE team could deliver, but at least it wasn't a broken leg. He could remember clearly that he had only (no, no I can't do this, please don't make me do this) five days before he'd be extracted and punished for mission failure. Five days to complete the mission he'd be given without the repairs (healing? it's called healing, for humans its healing) necessary to do what he wanted. Bucky wanted to cry, curse HYDRA from taking away from him yet another thing, another desire only this time they didn't even know.

With a grunt he tied off the bandage around his chest and then blinked when he felt something wet dribble down his chin. He reached up, worried for a moment that he started bleeding again except he forgot, dried blood was practically caked onto his face.

“глупый,” he hissed between his teeth and got to his feet. He turned on the sink, quickly scrubbed away the crusted blood on his face, on his hands. He couldn't do anything about any other wounds, and in the grand scheme of things they didn't matter much. His face looked like a beaten mash of flesh and it made him want to laugh. He looked like himself for the first time in ages, if Bucky discounted the hair which oddly suited him.

Carefully, he turned off the sink, listened because wouldn't rushing water wake sleeping beauty? There was no change in the environment so he sighed, examined his face for any new cuts, any new bleeding spots, but everything was the same as when he came in. He poured antiseptic on the open cuts that lined his face, the ones he'd missed, and then stumbled out of the bathroom.

There was this gnawing in his gut. He didn't know what it was except this urge to look around the corners and check back alleys and be certain there wasn't a face a (a fat-head wise guy with too much guts god what's he done now) dying someone he knew deep down in his psyche. It tied to with the silence that a light sleeper should have woken up too, that is the lack of it. Bucky hadn't been quiet, and he knew it, and it churned in him but right now he didn't care.

Perhaps his brain was too broken to understand the need to keep himself hidden was a priority. He moved down the hall, into the bedroom that he'd been dragged to before, the one with the picture and his name where everything hurt and didn't make sense. He came into a room as dark as pitch, but he still caught the shadows on the walls and the lump in the bed. Bucky stumbled over, almost crashed into the wall twice and eventually chose to use it as a guide instead. He made it to the edge of the bed before he crashed to his knees and just stared.

In the dark he couldn't see much, not the darkness that permeated this room. He did catch flaxen hair and a baby face peaceful in sleep with the faint sound of snoring.

“голубка,” he breathed, reaching out his flesh and blood hand to shaking touch a face he knew better than his own. He wasn't sure how, but he did. “Моя прекрасная моя голубка, моя одна мое сердце,” he chanted to himself under his breath unsure where these words were coming from. Bucky felt shaken with all that had happened and all that was before him.

Five days. He wanted to scream, to sob, to curse, but he just kept repeating and chanting, “Моя прекрасная моя голубка, моя одна мое сердце,” over and over to himself and to this man before him. There had been something, a fire in his mind that wasn't like being wiped but more like a burn of a memory he couldn't reach. None of his memories of before were viable anymore, he could tell that with how they remained so far away form him, buried and precious and gone.

Yet something pulled him closer, something wanted him here, to do what? He didn't know, just had this need he couldn't describe. The Soldier leaned over (he was Bucky damn you Bucky) and suddenly it made a sick sort of sense, what he wanted to do. What Bucky wanted to do. He pressed a kiss to the slumbering lips and it felt like (home oh gods he was home) some indescribable thing until the sick in his stomach threatened to spill over his lips and he pulled back.

Steve breathed out a broken, “Bucky,” in his sleep and the Soldier scrambled and then bolted. He didn't care at the noise he made he just had to get out. He ran from the room and then through the kitchen until he reached the window and the fire escape. He slid down ladder after ladder and then fled into the darkness his breath on fire and his cheeks burned. There were tears in his eyes and he didn't understand any of it.

In the apartment Steve jolted upright, finally woken up by the loud crashing sounds of someone fleeing. He slipped out of his room, but by the time he found the open window whoever had been there was long gone. The only thing he could feel was lips on his and the memory of kissing Bucky back on Coney Island in a dark corner behind the concession stand in 1943.

Natasha always got back late. It wasn't because she went out to do anything other than work, more because she often stayed behind after debriefing with Fury when Steve left to give her honest assessment of his psyche. Some days were better than others, some days he responded better.

“Does he know, sir?” she asked, curious that night.

“Know what?” Nick questioned back.

“That homosexuality isn't something that most people scorn these days,” Natasha asked. “We told him about that, right? About how two men and two women are now legally able to marry in the state of New York?”

Nick sighed, pressed his face into his hands. “No, Natasha. We haven't told him.” When she opened her mouth to reply, brow furrowed and lips turned down, Nick continued, “It wasn't just not done in the 1940's. It was outright illegal to have relations with other men or other women.” He stared at Natasha long and hard. “The world was a very different place, then, and we don't need a Captain America who looks at people in disgust for who they are.”

“And not warning him does what?” Natasha questioned back.

“I have my reasons,” Nick told her, and she left it at that. Nick had a plan in play, she knew that, and yet the idea that Steve didn't know....

“What if he likes men?” she asked, quiet.

“It's highly unlikely,” Nick shot back, and that was the end of the conversation.

She replayed the thought in her mind when she opened her door. She could remember his sudden seriousness, a sort of desperation that didn't seem right on his face as he pressed her into the wall with his hand over her mouth. It was more, she thought, than just the idea of her pairing him off with another guy. There had been something there, she was sure of it. It made her wonder, was Captain America gay?

“Well there goes my chances,” Natasha said to herself as she shut the door. It wasn't like she minded, actually, because the thought had been nothing more than a fantasy she cooked up while bored and hunting for a girlfriend for the blond mass of muscle. She dropped her bag and combed her hand through her hair.

She almost missed the sight of the Winter Soldier sitting on her bed, staring down at his hands. He was oddly still, but then he'd always been good at just not moving even when he was full of energy. Natasha tensed.

“Winter,” she said.

“That's not my name,” he rasped, and looked up at her. For the moment he lacked the facemask she was used to seeing him in, and for the moment she felt like she was back in the Red Room with this strange enigmatic man standing before her, telling her to, “Сделайте это снова!”

“Okay,” Natasha said cautiously. This felt eerily familiar. “Then what is your name?”

“James.”

Natasha swallowed. This entire situation was familiar. It reminded her of the last few days she'd had with him, and she wondered what was going on this time to bring about this change.

“You remember,” she breathed. He stared at her, and nodded. “How much?” she asked.

“My name,” he said. “My rank. My number.” His hands clenched into fists and he pressed them into his eyes, leaning forward onto his knees. “You. The Red Room. My conditioning.” His shoulders actually shook and Natasha breathed out a heavy, surprised breath.

That was more than he remembered with her. She felt surprised and terrified as to what this meant, exactly. She stepped closer, moving like he was some sort of munitions dangerously close to going off.

“James,” she said. “Why are you here?”

Like she thought he seemed to just suddenly explode into movement. One moment he was sitting the next he was up and pressing her into a wall. There were lips and teeth and sharp breaths that stole from her at the sudden, unexplainable action. Until it just stopped and he went still, head pressed into the wall next to her breathing heavily. He pulled back and then pressed his head forward a few more times with gritted teeth.

“James?” Natasha asked.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, voice thick with confusion like he didn't know what that meant. Natasha felt suddenly sick. “Bucky. Barnes,” he said through gritted teeth. Natasha felt more than sick.

“Oh god.”

Natasha looked at him, and he looked back at her, and that's when she understood. This man she'd known as Winter, as James, had come to her because she was the only one who could understand. She was the only one who could help him make sense of what was going on in his mind as she'd been there. This was his last attempt, his last token chance for something he couldn't name or didn't understand and neither did she.

It felt like the night he left her all over again, only a thousand times worse. It took a second but then was was pressing his face to her neck, tears in his eyes and his back heaving. He was muttering half-broken phrases in Russian and English with a mix of German here and there and broken bits of Romanian. They slid down the back of the wall, Bucky heavy in her arms and Natasha breathed out. She whispered reassurances in Russian.

Natasha knew better. She knew this was goodbye. She could remember clearly what happened last time, as he wrapped her up, whispered his name, whispered the horrifying truth.

“I won't be able to go with you. They'll take me back, say a few words, and then burn fire through my mind until I can't even remember what I've done, what I've felt, who I was anymore. They won't let me leave. They'll never let me leave. I'm forever theirs, Natalia, and not even you can save me. No one can. Not anymore.”

It took an hour, but eventually Barnes tired himself out until he was asleep on her bed. Natasha didn't know what to do. She stared at him, shirtless and bandaged and broken. His face was a complete mess and she couldn't be sure what had happened, but she bet whatever it was, was the final trigger for all of this.<

Barnes looked like he'd been through a hell Natasha didn't have a name for, and she knew without a doubt that he was heading right back towards it. Her hands shook. She hadn't felt this vulnerable in a long, long time. Natasha reached for her phone and without thought dialed Clint.

“Hey lovely,” Clint said not even five seconds later. “Didn't we talk just the other day?”

Natasha didn't say anything. She wasn't sure what she should say, or even why she called Clint really. She stared at Barnes' face and remembered a time where he looked peaceful when he slept. Now he looked broken, tortured. There was none of the peace she could remember in him, but a man who didn't understand anything.

“Nat? Nat are you there?” Clint said, tone getting more worried by the second.

“I'm here,” Natasha replied, voice soft.

“Okay, what's wrong,” Clint questioned. When Natasha didn't say anything he continued, “I know that voice Nat. What happened, and who do I need to kill?”

“No one,” Natasha said. “It's not...you remember how I told you he had a name?”

“Who?” Natasha could see Clint's brow furrow in thought and it made her smile. “Wait, you mean the winter guy? Shit, Nat, what's bringin' him up again? I swear you're givin' me a complex here.”

Natasha smiled, she almost laughed. “He. Something happened to him, Clint,” she said instead, swallowing. “Something broke through his programming.”

“And you know this how?” Clint questioned, the paused, then answered himself. “Shit he's there isn't he. Fuck, Natasha! You know what a danger he is!”

“He's not,” Natasha said. “Not right now. Not like this.”

“And the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Clint he remembers,” she said. “I don't. It's like the last day I had with him all over again only worse.”

Clint was quiet. Natasha bit her lip. “Worse how,” Clint asked.

Natasha sat down on the ground and stared up at the bed. “He's Bucky Barnes,” Natasha said. “Clint he's Bucky Barnes.”

“...fuck.”

Natasha looked down at her hands. She whispered, “I don't know what to do.”

There is a part 5D to come soon.

Oh, very soon, I hope. I've been waiting on this one.

Its up 8D

When morning rolled around Natasha was fast asleep, but Bucky woke up feeling worse and better for all that had happened. He sat up in the bed and looked over at her and sighed. Carefully he pulled the blankets from the bed and wrapped them around her before he stumbled over to the bathroom. His brain hurt something awful, probably a mixture of alcohol consumption and actually crying because fuck it, nothing made sense.

He wondered if it ever made sense before all this (no, not really) and shook his head. Carefully he unwound the bandages, useless now that the most of hits cuts and bruises were healed. Only his ribs hurt like some sort of dame went and shoved him out the window into the asphalt. For a moment Bucky thought he could remember such a thing happening, but he figured it was a figment of his imagination because anything from before, before the conditioning, before the sensation of falling and cold, is gone.

The ribs will take another two days to heal, given their current rate, which means they weren't broken but probably bruised. Bucky clenched the sink, leaned forward in thought. That gave him two days before the programming kicked in. He had four days left to finish the mission. He pressed his head into the porcelain of the sink and breathed out.

He hated getting attached like this. He hated remembering bits and pieces of who he was and what he had been to people. This wasn't the first time he'd drawn back his sense of self, overrode his programming for a moment of time. Bucky knew it was the first time he was Bucky in nearly seventy years, certainly, but this wasn't his first rodeo.

They'd drag him back by force if he didn't comply. Bucky knew he'd comply.

Calmly he scrubbed his face clean of any dried blood he'd missed, grabbed a towel and hand washed the cuts and bruises that were healed but he didn't clean off last night. He thought of Steve and how he still wasn't sure who or what Steve was to him, just that Steve was something to Bucky at some point lost to time. He thought of the kiss, of how furious he was when he saw others around him. He wondered if Steve had a girlfriend.

(didn't they talk about that once?)

Bucky breathed out through his nose, at least pleased the darn thing wasn't broken again. Doing any sort of breathing through a broken nose was such a fucking bitch to handle. Once he'd wiped himself down as best he could (wait, where was the armor?) he slipped out from the bathroom, dropping the bloodied towel into the wastebasket as he did so. He moved around the room, silent like a cat, until he scrounged up a pad and pen. Carefully he scribbled a letter.

The words were in English. Bucky frowned. Normally he wrote things in Russian, because Russian was familiar. Russians were the ones who found him, who nursed him (handed him to Zola, killed him, broken him) and the language felt more familiar than English on most days. His hand clenched the pen tight enough to break it into two.

English was Bucky he remembered, and breathed out through his nose. Carefully Bucky tore his note free. He moved around the room, paused, and then walked back to Natasha.

“Sleep well, princess,” Bucky said, placed a kiss to the crown of her head, and then walked back towards the door. He pulled out one of his knives from the back of his pants and stabbed the note into the door itself. It was a waste of a good knife, but he had more back in his room. Besides, this way at least Natasha wouldn't miss it.

Bucky wondered when he started thinking of her as Natasha and not Natalia. He wondered when he started thinking in English instead of Russian. He decided he didn't care.

What Sam said to him wouldn't leave. Especially after being woken in the middle of the night to an intruder and the feeling of lips on his and the memory of Bucky. Steve had to breath out a sigh as he hunched down and stared up at the building before him at the same time. He didn't have a computer. Tony tried to give him one but it confused him more than the phone ever did. Instead if he wanted to learn something he went to the local library, or asked Fury if he could use one of the older computers at SHIELD.

Today it was the library, and Steve felt somewhat strange being here to look at this information Sam had mentioned. It felt like it should be something dirty, or wrong. Steve wanted to be at SHIELD instead. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Now wasn't the time to feel squeamish about something, not when his mind weighed heavily on topics he didn't want to think about. He had some idea what Sam meant when he said LGBT, although the words were unfamiliar without context. He had guessed based on what Sam had been trying to imply, about him and Bucky.

Steve thought they'd been careful. Steve thought no one could know. The idea that Sam could tell terrified him because that meant someone else probably noticed too. Steve swallowed and sat down heavily in front of one of the computers, slightly more advanced than he was used to, and used the library card information to log on. He licked his lips, pulled up Google, and started to search.

The dirge of information surprised him. Steve had always thought it was illegal, that it had still been that way. He felt almost breathless in his surprise, and then wondered why he'd never noticed. Was it because he didn't want to? Sometimes, sometimes he had wondered way back when if he and Bucky hadn't been born in the wrong time, the wrong place. They'd seemed so different. Steve small and scrawny and never giving in to a fight, always so accepting of the people around him even when they were beating him to a pulp. Bucky, witty and sarcastic, who always had his back, always over protective and always brought him back from the brink of death with tears and sharp promises.

Steve felt oddly chocked up. He logged off of the computer. He had to get out of here. Moist eyed and feeling hurt in a way he couldn't describe, this pain in his chest that he didn't want to deal with. Couldn't deal with actually, he could remember Peggy berating him for sitting in a broken bar with broken bottles sobbing his heart out because fuck he didn't save Bucky, he should have tried harder. Steve forced himself to breath out, breath in, as he walked quickly from the library.

Outside Steve fumbled for his phone. He found Sam's number and, rubbed at his eyes to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall, and hit call. When he heard Sam pick up his voice wavered just slightly.

“Hey, Sam? Are you free?” he asked.

“Yeah Cap, you need something?” Sam asked back. Steve knew he could recognize the tone, Sam was good at that. Sam was good at recognizing things Steve didn't want anyone to know. It reminded him a bit about Bucky.

“I'd like to...have that talk,” Steve said. “If you don't mind.”

“No problem,” Sam said back, and Steve could practically hear the smile. His heart felt a bit lighter. He breathed out heavily. Maybe, Steve thought, it'd be good to talk.

Bucky always followed Steve. He couldn't remember where, why, or how, but he knew that following Steve had been something he'd done since forever. Perhaps that was why it seemed so natural to be drawn to the blond haired man in blue when he couldn't even remember his own name. Perhaps that was why he felt the draw to fight him, to be around him. Perhaps that was why whenever he saw another man around him he felt this surge to hurt, to pull Steve away and lock him in a room where no one would ever touch him again.

Bucky sat in a tree. He didn't bother to hide himself, not this time. It wasn't worth it to hide himself anymore. He had his mask firmly in place, and the snipers scope in his hand which he used only periodically because he could see inside the house well enough without it most times. He couldn't hear what was being said, but then Bucky also knew how to read lips. He had the distinct feeling that it'd come in handy before, and not in the missions HYDRA had him performing.

He wore his leather jacket, designed to hide his arm from view when he's not on a mission or the mission required more stealth. He didn't have his normal armor. Bucky had the vaguest recollections of having left it behind in Steve's bathroom, and fuck if that wasn't embarrassing enough. He didn't like the jacket normally, often left it behind because it made his arm feel too stiff and something that wasn't quite pain. It was a discomfort, and he knew if he wore the jacket long enough the discomfort would be damaging.

Bucky breathed out through his nose and licked his lips. He focused his attention back on the house and what was going on inside. Steve and Sam were discussing him. He found it strange, he found he hung on every word with wide eyes that he could read. He didn't know anything that Steve talked about. Steve spoke of a place called Coney Island (kisses stolen behind buildings) and of some sort of last ride before Bucky enlisted (wrong, wrong, he was drafted damn it) and something about heading to the future.

(he had two dames on his arms and little Steve seemed so lost, so determined to not leave Bucky behind that fuck if it didn't piss him off and make him want to smack some sense into the boy. couldn't Steve see he didn't want this? he didn't want to leave the sickly skinny rake alone because Steve would die without him he knew he would he knew it)

Bucky grasped at his head. He wanted to groan at the pain, the thoughts that swirled around and then at the emptiness that resounded like a hollow. It hurt to not remember, it hurt to remember. It hurt to not remember remembering and to remember not remembering. It just hurt. Almost as soon as he had a thought, a tangent in his head connected to Steve and what Steve was talking about, it slipped through his fingers like a sieve.

The memories were lost. Bucky knew that. He knew that all he had were fragments and broken bits of a broken mind, that anything before conditioning was gone and irretrievable. He'd get flashes, sensations, words, but nothing ever concrete. The only thing that stayed firm was that he knew Steve. He'd known Steve in ways he couldn't even fathom. The way Steve spoke about him, about their life together, told him all that he needed to know.

When the afternoon rolled around Steve and Sam stopped talking. Sam was in the kitchen, throwing something together. It looked so horribly domestic and brought to mind something, something that he couldn't quite grasp. Bucky wondered if he had done this for Steve before.

(no, his cooking sucked, he knew that much)

Steve looked out the window. Glanced up in the tree Bucky was perched in. He'd done this about fifty times over the past few hours. He knew Bucky (the Soldier) was there. Now, as Sam cooked, Steve slipped outside the sliding glass door and walked until he was under the tree, staring up.

“He's making dinner for three,” Steve said calmly, turning around to press his back against the tree. Bucky said nothing. “I haven't seen you eat while up there, figured you could use something.”

Bucky bit his lip. “Would it be okay if I took my jacket off?” he asked. He felt overheated. “And borrowed a shirt,” he added, a bit embarrassed.

“Since yours got left in my bathroom?” Steve practically smirked and damn did that do things to Bucky he hadn't thought possible. “I brought a spare.”

Bucky blinked. “You're an ass, Голубка.” The familiar Russian word fell from his lips like a taste of fine wine. He hadn't realized he could still use Russian like it was natural to him. Bucky breathed out through his nose.

“You're the one who broke into my apartment and left a mess,” Steve pointed out. Bucky winced.

“I wasn't in my right head,” he said, instead of saying half of the other things he wanted. “I had meant to return back to my base of operations.”

Steve shrugged. “You hungry?” he asked instead. “Like I said, Sam is cooking for three.”

Bucky debated actually going down and eating. He didn't like the thought because his mask would have to be removed and he didn't want Steve to see his face. He didn't want Steve to know. He swallowed.

“I'll take you up on that shirt,” Bucky said instead, and gracefully dropped from the tree. Steve nodded, led him inside.

“You eating?” Sam asked, looking up from whatever he was frying.

“I don't,” Bucky bit the words off before he could say them. Steve slipped out of the room.

“Hell you need to eat,” Sam pointed out. “You can do it from the closet for all I care and make conversation through the door.” He watched Steve leave and then said, quiet enough for Bucky to hear but not Steve, “You need to tell him.”

Bucky scowled. “It'll break him,” he pointed out. “You don't get what him knowing will do to him.”

“He needs to know,” Sam said back.

Bucky licked his lips, and laid out what he knew would happen if he ever told Steve who he was.

“If I tell him, if he finds out, it'll tear him apart,” he said, the words coming out in a broken rush. “You don't know him like I do,” and fuck if that realization doesn't hurt because Bucky is certain he knows Steve better than anything in this world, just not how. “If I tell him he'll be devastated. It'll mean the one thing he fought against most, the one thing he saved me from won. They got what they wanted. They made me a weapon, a tool for their bidding. They stole me right out from under him and there was nothing he could do as they broke me at the seams.”

Sam swallowed. Bucky continued, voice cracking just a bit, “If he knows he won't stop them.” Bucky bit his lip. “I need him to stop them.” Bucky breathed out, ragged. “I need him to stop me.”

Sam stared at him, hard, and said in a whisper, “He still deserves to know.”

Steve came back with that shirt. Neither said anything about Bucky, or how he stood right there under Steve's nose. When Sam gave him food, Bucky hid in the closet and ate in the darkness.

When Natasha woke up, it was already mid-afternoon and Bucky was long gone. She found the note pinned to her door. She read it. She wanted to cry. Natasha was stronger than that, though, and she knew Bucky had given her something far more precious than anybody could realize. Carefully, she crumpled the note up, then lit it on fire before she left. The words seared into her mind, reminding her of what she had to do.

Princess,
I have four days left. My mission is Nicholas J. Fury. Stop me.
James

OP here and man is this getting so good. Poor Steve being the last one to know. Poor Bucky for going through this. Also poor Sam for having to deal with the two of them. Anyway this is definitely my favorite fic and I can't wait for more!

When people say this, I'm always left shocked. When an OP says this, I'm left giddy. Chapter 6 is going up now (I'm working through the last bit of it so I'm posting what's already done to keep me motivated)

But yes. Steve kind of is the last to know XD

I will warn, there won't be much humor in the next chapter either because shit is starting to hit the fan (sort of) but there should be at least SOME. (It's a delicate balance and its starting to somewhat unbalance -- dammit Bucky, I blame you for this mess....you keep screwing up what I have plotted)

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Prompt Post 1

Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5A}

Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5B}

Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5C}

Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5C}

Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5C}

Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5D}

Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5D}

Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {5D}