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As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.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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Fill: Title
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Fill: Remote Part II

[(Anonymous)]

I love you.

Blood as cold and thick as a bog morass began to churn its way through the soldier's veins, pumped slowly by a heart that burned and ached and struggled against its frozen confinement. In a few minutes, he would be able to open his eyes. For now, he was in the dark, still cold, barely aware. It was the closest he ever came to REM sleep.

Someone was with him.

It was only ever during this in-between period that the soldier could feel the presence of the Other. He desperately wished that he could open his eyes and look at whoever it was, but he knew that once his eyes opened, he would be too awake; the Other would disappear. The Other was the only company he ever had. Not a scientist who worked him like a machine, nor a giver of orders to be obeyed, nor a mission target, but some kind of friend. Once upon a time, he had known what a friend was.

The Other was speaking. It always said something like this:

"I love you, Bucky. I miss you... you are my soul. You always were."

The soldier didn't know who Bucky was, but he had the vague sense that the Other was speaking to him, so he listened as though that were the truth. There was hope in the words, and faith, and trust, and so many things that the soldier could only barely recognize as things that he had once known. The Other made him feel safe and loved and warm even in the cold thaw of waking.

This was the only happiness the soldier now knew.

But now he was waking up.

His heart was revving up like an engine, from a mutter to a roar. When it was near the breaking point, his blood finally began to warm and the rest of his body was slowly soaked in a paralyzing agony of pins and needles as his nerves were tormented to life. He laid there, waiting to be able to move. The more he could move, the quicker the pain would dissipate... he waited, and inside of his mind he screamed, a sound that escaped his mouth as the slightest of sighs. His lungs were not yet able to hold the air to support his voice.

By the time he had a voice, the pain was edging away. He began to flex his arms and legs. The initial pain of it burned through him like a current, and then eased as he continued to move.

By the time he sat up, his eyes and ears and nose were online, registering everything around him. The light was too bright; his overly acute eyes preferred the dark now. Sounds clashed against his eardrums in a chaos until he began to weed through the noise to determine what was happening... men around him were murmuring, there was the clink of hardware and the humming of machines. Smell was the worst of all. Some remnant of the self he once was remarked to his own mind, Gee, a super-sensitive nose, what a GREAT gift to give someone who's gonna be around dead people and firearms most of the time.

Lightning shot up and down his left arm as he flexed the metal plates. He could tell by the sound that there was still ice in the circuits, condensed from the moisture of the remnants of his old arm, still buried beneath the hard surface. There was a brief juxtaposition in his mind of the feeling of his old arm, phantomlike and strange, and the feeling of his metal arm, which was painful but satisfyingly real. He clung to it. The skin around the shoulder joint where the metal joined flesh was raw and flaking. He could smell the drugs they smeared on him to keep his skin from rotting around the metal, the greasy film they sprayed on him to keep him from getting frostbite, and his own skin. He stank.

They would let him take a shower soon, but it wouldn't stop them from smearing the drugs on his shoulder again. His body always stank. Bile rose briefly in the back of his throat; he swallowed it down. There was nothing to vomit up, anyway. His stomach would soon start to grind and gnaw on itself until they gave him his food; hard bricks of vitamin and protein meal that grated against his teeth and felt like greasy sawdust going down. Nothing here smelled or tasted good. Nothing here was good, including him.

I love you. Don't hate yourself. I love you.

The thought rang out in his head like a siren, causing him to jerk in his seat and look around wildly. Who said that? Nobody around him noticed, they were too busy attaching electrodes to him and reading the results.

I love you. Where are you? I have to find you.

His breath whistled harshly through his nose, and he could smell fear wafting off his own skin. Vaguely, he remembered his dream, the Other person. It sounded like the same voice. But he had never heard it before while awake.

Bucky, I'm coming to find you. Just hang on, okay?

A tiny, venomous sting lit at the base of his thoughts and crawled out into the light. It was hope. He squashed it almost violently inside his head. There was no place for hope here. Hope had died long ago in him.

Don't say that! I love you, don't give up!

He was panting now, and the technicians were beginning to notice, giving him quick covert glances, bright with fear. They knew his history. Amid his long list of designated assassinations he had also killed five techs, usually while thrashing himself awake, or during surgery because they could never completely anesthetize him. He felt his own unhinged sense of time and space threaten to engulf him, and he wanted to lash out. He was unhinged; unsteady. He was broken.

No. I'm going to find you and we're going to fix you. I swear to you, Bucky, we're going to fix you.

The soldier looked around him at the technicians, the lab-coated doctors, the men in suits at the other end of the room who were in charge of it all and who would soon tell him who and where to kill, and he thought, Who the hell is Bucky?

You're my friend, Bucky. I remember who you are. You will, too.

Something about the insistence of the voice in his mind triggered a feeling somewhat like hysteria. He began to do something that he hadn't done in seventy years, something that nobody in the room could possibly have expected; something utterly bizarre.

He began to laugh.

The technicians immediately backed away, and the doctors exchanged alarmed glances. The men in suits looked at him with critical puzzlement. Something about the looks on their faces made him laugh harder. Soon he was curled up, pressing his arms into his belly and howling with laughter, unable to stop...

He felt the plunge of a needle into his right shoulder, and everything went black.

Re: Fill: Remote Part II

[(Anonymous)]

Ow...fucking ow.