Chapter Text
Frigid air seeping through finite seams, the Quinjet settled creaks and moans, engines went silent after Sam’s maneuvered landing on a roof he deemed a risk. Chance taken balanced with urgent, the building sprawled beneath matching the name scratched shaken in Barnes’ hand. Thoughts muttered aloud, “Alright, four out of five of those hen-scratched letters matched. Building’s right out of Hydra’s playbook. Stand-alone, gated entrances, active in the ’50s and ’60s.” A data search unearthed disturbing implications, “What the hell did Hydra want with an orphanage?”
Measured stance toes lined exacting, bright yellow line of demarcation before the Quinjet doors, feet appearing obedient to the painted warning. Each sneaker an inch across the line, enough to satisfy an irreverent daring, not enough to lose a foot if the ramp dropped open sudden.
Sam allowing eyes to close dry, breath settling a mind calm before he implements his plan, bold knocking on a door solo. A mutter groused quiet, “Alright Cap, no answer, no word from you, not even a thumbs-up. I know you know how to use a damn emoji, so it’s gotta be him; I hate to say this but, what’s-his-name is a bad influence. You two just better not be, you know, doing it, you know, the deed,” head shaken at an image conjured disturbing, “That’s all I’m gonna say.”
Mind’s eye recalling a sight more soothing, his flight into Moscow sprawling picturesque. Light of dawn hiding below dark shadows of spikes and spires. Yellow lights of a city slumbering bright circle center, spokes spreading out beneath a sky awash with stars, thrown far random scattered, dancing glitter overhead. Moon’s fall and sun’s rise teetering, time holding its breath dark quiet not yet awake beneath a vast blue-black expanse.
Cell phone ping a startle, pulling Sam back to the passenger bay, lights turned off, cold air chilling breath visible. Body twisting anxious, head tilted sharp, working angles convoluted to improve signal’s reception. Natasha’s whisper garbled, imbued sober, beyond any tone he’d heard from her before; foreboding underlying, “Ivan Petrovitch. The Architect is Petrovitch. I knew him. A long time ago. We have --- a story for another day.” Last sentence definitive, “He is not a nice man.”
Sam’s words rushed between static fits, “I’m texting you a name, a building, those clues of his, Barnes, on his damn sweaty, ratty, filthy scrap of paper that he probably swiped from my impeccable filing system in the tactical room." Reining in his rant with a sigh and a modicum of self-control, “The second line wasn’t a number. It’s a name, not a person, a building. Are you there? Did you hear me?”
Natasha’s voice scratched erratic, reception faltering in cold and distance, and questionable service, “Looking for Rogers --- Barnes --- sucks.”
“Barnes sucks? Absolutely. An indisputable fact.” Not entirely convinced it was what Natasha meant to say, Sam’s annoyance with Bucky needing an outlet. “Tasha, listen, I’m gonna check this place out, not gonna lie, I am not planning on freezing to death waiting for your merry band to get here.” Quick texting coordinates, a struggle with Cyrillic letters, a mutter for her, more for himself, “Damn, hope you get this. Tasha? Nat?”
A hum low-key interfering, the line falling silent, no breaths or words, or noise of a train barreling towards Moscow. A click ominous following, raising suspicions, cold flush of sweat back of neck. Sam scrambling to cover, voice lilting playful, “Can’t wait to see you, Sis. Enjoy the train, so very quaint, little houses, snow, food, more snow. Lots to see and do in Moscow,” hand to mouth, loud gestured kiss irrelevant, an ask dead serious before hanging up, “Bring food. Sweetie, food.”
Sam pacing quick steps rounding the passenger bay, a plan forming nebulous, feeling the need to move, explore the dilapidated complex beneath the Quinjet’s gears. “Barnes, have I told you what an asshole you are? No? Not enough definitely, never enough." Pulling collar up, jacket tugged tighter, a glance around the shadows, caught abrupt, glimmer of light on metal propped prominent in a storage bin. Circular edge sharp line, red star surrounded by silver, the shield awaiting a hand known familiar, its keeper a thousand miles away. Sam toying with a thought, take it with him, a weapon or a cover, uncertain what he’d find, building’s history telling of children held for years.
A finger slipping along an edge hard sharp, debate internal lasting seconds uncertain. Sam opting for another approach, “Yeah, this would be hard to explain.”
Decision made leaving the shield, a turn towards the ramp’s slow drop open steps picking up speed deliberate. A ball cap tugged from a back pocket, red letters spelling, Dodgers, scrolled across the front. An item scored from an overhead storage bin jammed tight under the first aid kit. A smirk knowing full well it belonged to Barnes. A gift from Steve, lost in the chaos of his rescue-escape a few months earlier after the old Widow held him captive.
Sam thoughtful reshaping the cap, rolled and pulled to fit snug on his head, brim tucked down, “Alright, let’s do this, Barnes. Hopefully, your old Hydra pals are too dumb to notice a jet double-parked on their roof.”
A shiver pulled involuntary, cold air assailing or a body’s response to what he faced unsure. His steps direct across a hard tar surface, bubbled weak by time and disrepair, the Quinjet ramp silent shutting. A mutter unnerved, “Or, they notice it when the roof caves in.”
The black iron fire escape swaying too perceptible, sweat dampening armpits annoying, Sam’s immediate regret for leaving his wings tucked safe in the jet. Slow descent facing red brick glowing yellow hot in the first light of sun’s rise, dust falling as his weight rocked the moorings with each step down. “I hate you, Barnes,” a mantra repeated offering solace and motivation, an outlet for methodically ticked plans of retribution at the soonest date once they were home; maybe before.
Feet hitting the ground, sighed relief, a glanced quick reconnaissance steps quiet, skirt the wall, duck windows barred, slip unnoticed beneath a camera scanning gates chained yards away. A driveway pot-holed gravel in disrepair, snow glistening flat iced in morning’s light. Sam reaching stairs wide stretch, their rails ornate at one time, curled iron now rusted, tines missing, tossed aside frozen to the ground. Sad testament to time, hope for doors to be locked, no one there, a place haunting Barnes’s memory, a thing to be forgotten now. Sam hoping to call a litany of teasing tell him it’s done, empty, let it go. All meant sincere in secret, never telling him true feelings, glad to see him free of one ghost anyway. Not giving him that leg up in their rivalry.
A sigh resigned, Sam flipping the ball cap to sit backward snug, collar pulled up, his steps switched from clandestine to bold. Shoulders back telling of brave or foolish or a plan improvised with each passing second. Striding up two steps at a time, approaching doors thick wood carved, divets and chunks missing, the glass wavy old still clear enough to see a hall dark tiled and empty except for thin-legged chairs lined along a wall. His knock firm telling of a man on a mission, driven, focused, absolutely sure of what he wanted at least giving that impression. The sound echoed abrupt, knuckles aching from his enthusiasm, his stopping with the creak of a door distant opening. Steps hurried, rushing forward, anxious gaze watching three people rapid approaching his calling at their entrance. Steps back thoughts running scenarios, the doors clunking wide open, hair standing up along arms, back of neck, two men clearly armed flanking a woman robust and round and glaring a look threatening. Flash of thoughts to Sokolov, the woman’s dress and demeanor similar, except this one was larger.
Sam blurting loud, channeling his deepest buried obnoxiousness, drawled accent unrecognizable for its location, not mattering to his audience, “Hello, hello, hello! How is everyone this fine morning? Did I wake you? I’m sorry. They didn’t tell you I’d be here?” Pamphlets tugged from a back pocket waved flamboyant under noses, tucked discreet into his jacket before anyone could notice what was written. The papers a collection of travel brochures, colorful bright eye-catching from their mission in Cartagena, souvenirs of Bucky’s obsession with all things shiny since his liberation from Hydra. Sam plowing on, “I am Samual 'Birdman' Wilson and I am here to scout this location.” Hands waving an imaginary banner grand wide and loud, “A blockbuster thriller coming your way! Big names, famous director, can’t say who yet, not yet, I can see you are excited. Let’s do this. Lots of money, rubles, right? You like rubles, yes?” Sam pouring considerable effort into his charade, hands planted on hips, wide stance, a smile as engaging as he could conjure after an all-night flight without food. His sales pitch aptly backlit by the sun’s bright golden rise.
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Bucky didn’t want to sob, not like this, choking on air stuck throat closing, chest ache with every gasp. A groan stifled quiet, reasons swirling mismatched. Steve’s possessive cradle head to chest, heartbeat comforting against his temple, Bucky not wanting him to hear and feel and shake even sympathetic to his body’s wracking spill of tears. Memory conjuring history’s lesson, silence safer, divert the scrutiny of handlers long dead not there, ghosts still a keen witness to his faltering, cruel waiting to mock, boot toes scolding his moans. Not wanting remorse on public display, judgment deserved, soul torn bare in front of scratched marks counting the dead, silent stare of children, or Steve, not like this, in front of Steve. Tremors hard to stop, keep control, whirl of metal fingers digging white scars to flesh cherished, not wanting to hurt the only one he trusted.
He didn’t want to cry like that, face wet hot tears, staining cheeks, familiar hand’s caress gentle brushed aside as they fell. Steve’s voice a warm hum consoling, grief doubling down as wetness spread across a chest broad and sure and protective; stained shirt evidence of his weakness, own thoughts flogging shame.
Air gasped ragged, trying to stop, thoughts telling to break Steve’s hold, get to feet, race for the door, wracking sobs stealing nerves and bone. A hiccup uncontrolled loud and sloppy and cheeks flushed embarrassed red, driving muscle’s clinch, need to escape, retreat. Find solace in the pills, small voice near familiar, maybe own, fairly sure, urgent whisper “Take them all, sleep forever.”
Scrambling up, feet bare on wet floor, his stagger flailing caught by arms strong and sure and stubborn, Steve not allowing his squirm to slip away, wrestling awkward ending center of the car. Bucky falling in behind Steve, held captive willing by hands reaching back, pulled tight close, face buried against nape of neck, scent of salt and sweat, and sex; hair tickling a cheek raw and red-colored with grief.
Steve’s whisper, “They’re not ghosts,” soothing towards long hair draped messy on his shoulder. Cluster of children prudent distance away, holding one another tight, staring unsettled.
Bucky’s forehead buried, face hidden between shoulders firm, claiming strength he believed beyond his own. Body warmth grounding fingers wrapped immovable into a waistband, metal sensors ticking silent, a heartbeat found impossible in spine’s curve. Needing that pulse, that heat, a body cherished barring his view, keeping him safe; vision insecure despite solemn promise. Steve reassuring, “They’re just kids, that’s all.”
The group standing ragged and worn, Bucky certain their looks accusing, no doubt, lost souls seeing his truth, his blame, his part in their pain. How he let them down, not these specific maybe; all connected he knew, believed, karma nipping hard at his heels, held at bay by Steve.
“You can look,” a whisper again, maybe heard, sounds dulled by trains rattle and the ringing eternal in Bucky’s hearing. A gaze locked down on bare toes curled chilled against damp wood, frigid air swirling around ankles, floor gaps open as the train sped forward. Hard to look, to let a gaze connect with eyes meant to be bright innocent now staring dull, trust stolen maybe more.
Steve, reaching back, tug on a sweater, grab a hip, slide aside, wanting Bucky to face his fear, trust his words, “Come on, look at them.”
Bucky not allowing eyes to fall on what a mind said was real, heart convinced of apparitions, memory conjuring first mission, blood spilled forever on his skin. A breath pulled seconds slow, a tremor jerking Steve closer, not wanting them to hear pulse’s thud to ribs, a thought irrational his gaze meeting theirs, would tear a heart from chest beating. Time passing interminable waiting for voices garbled or pain fired terrifying, to overtake his body, steal his thoughts, aftermath guaranteed when his past manifested. Gut rolling in a tremor dread familiar, vision blurring a figure accusing faint herald of a seizure flirting too close.
Steve’s turn to catch a waist, slow dance maneuvered, pull him from safe space behind, “Come on, help me talk to them.” A hand gentle, soft cupping a face, breath warm, blue eyes softest look reassuring, “This is what you wanted, right? To save them? First thing, you gotta look at them.”
Gaze slow rise to meet Steve’s, Bucky letting hands trusted move his body to stand side by side, lift his face. A thumb callused pulling tears from eyes red swollen, meeting a look telling all he needed to know, not alone, hands and voice reliable real. Forehead pressing his temple, arm circling a waist, body engulfing undeniable, not leaving him to face guilt and fear and accusations haunting. Steve’s whisper doting tender, “They’re not afraid of you.”
Air pulled in ragged at first, deeper with each breath urging tremors to dissipate under a caress reassuring. Steve’s watching intense, eyes saying words held back, Bucky seeing it indisputable. Daring a look tenuous, letting gaze move from Steve’s face, skin smoothed gentle, slightest of nods toward a silent gathering three strides away, not ghosts or demons demanding retribution. Steve slipping behind Bucky, heartbeat throbbed chest to back, arm’s strength not letting go, encircling tight bound, keeping weakened knees from a buckle, not letting him fall.
Bucky facing six children close gathered, not a sound coming from mouths tight-lipped. Eye’s stare direct, bolder than expected for souls locked hidden, cold-huddled in a cell beyond a wall fractured by his fist. Sun’s rise filtering soft light in the car, wide swatch laid across the floor, reflecting on bare legs thin, shoes weathered by wear, Bucky’s vision adjusting closer scrutiny of faces, expressions not afraid, more curious subdued. One look clearer than the rest, round cheeks ruddy tone, challenging gaze bordering defiant, a connection made in the dining car hours earlier, the spiky-haired boy offering hint of a smirk when their eyes connected. Warmth sparked tiny flame in a gut churned apprehensive, Bucky wanting to smile, acknowledge the boy, a nod slight, maybe awkward, the best he could muster.
The boy responding a modicum braver, hand’s slow rise as if in a wave, hesitant at first appearing shy. More fearless as elbow bent and fingers spread wide, a gesture universal as he curled a thumb then three fingers to leave the middle one extended, look of defiance not a debate any longer. His disdain stated bright in eyes, crooked smile, and a finger’s clear message.
“Friend of yours?” Steve’s laugh infused in his voice, soft-spoken at Bucky’s ear, chin resting playful nuzzled. Tense tremors receding in the warmth of arms wrapping from behind, hands spread tight possessive to chest and belly, Bucky letting head fall back to rest grateful nestled cheek to cheek.
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“Spring cleaning.” Tony Stark channeling energy anxious, spilling irreverent, “Amazing what you find when you finally empty out the Tupperware bins." Back tensed rigid straight, words rapid-fire distracting from a question not ready yet to ask, “Mismatched socks, Dad’s old pocket watch.” Skin’s twitch right eye hidden by glasses shaded, face an animated deception, “Family photos, me on a pony, me in a pedal car, me not with my father,” a hand wave cavalier, memories brushed aside. A pause dramatic, tone morphed serious, playful turn of mouth, eye’s brightness disappearing, “Faded pictures of you, a woman and a Soldier.” Words spoken precise, “A very specific Soldier.”
Tony placing palms flat on wood thick varnished dark and bright, swirled stains hinting stories not spoken aloud. Eyes squinting the requisite skeptical, meeting the Architect’s gaze beady, eyes set too close at least in Tony’s mind. Ivan Petrovich standing direct across the bar, hands laid flat, a mirrored image unnerving, stirring feet to shuffle weight, elbow glancing the bar awkward, not wanting to see even a glimmer of himself in that old man. Tony letting righteous heat course heady through his veins, low simmered rage against the Architect meeting his stare unrepentant proud; a man he saw as evil, all data being weighed, history unearthed, questions gnawed unanswered.
Petrovitch unwavering, gaze locked cold, near a wax figure in Tony’s estimation, not a twitch or twinge, breath so steady it seemed imperceptible. A voice female coming from the end of the bar, tone soft, still conveying firm conviction, “You came all this way to speak of faded snapshots?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.” Tony breaking the stare to glance pointed at the woman, his guide, slim build, dark dressed pristine, blonde hair obedient to her grooming; his smile conservative warm.
Her look to the old man a definite question, his nod a faint assent, her answer a flat statement returning Tony’s gaze, “You may call me Irina.”
“Nice to meet you, Irina. And yes, I came all this way to talk about old pictures.” Tony letting seconds pass, a laugh breathed short, his gaze shifting back to Petrovitch, a shrug deferential, “And get some answers, about the past, and who knew who, when and where and maybe a why or two. Maybe renew old friendships. Or not.” Finger’s tap on a temple, skimming glasses rim, data flashing discreet for his eye alone. Demeanor curious cautious, befitting his guise, an entrepreneur seeking to renew old ties familial. In truth, a mask hiding a more profound ache, churning belly, tightened grip of a heart’s unnatural glow.
A role not shared open in this room, not yet, pain splinted with a front cavalier; a son obsessed, rumination taking days and sleep, questions unanswered about a father’s past. Pictures dug from vaults avoided, Tony not wanting to know, to open wounds closed, not healed. Images time-faded brown edges curled, names, and dates needing technology’s persuasion to be read. Leading him here, to Moscow, old Hydra certain, facing Petrovitch, “It’s a small world after all,” sing-song annoyance flirting with his focus.
Gaze darting, edged nervous clandestine to a table within a quick lunge’s distance, lamp casting a pool yellowed soft across red leather, the black star reflecting light’s caress its gentleness not fitting the history contained. The book still under Tony’s eye possessive, the table flanked close by two bodies, one tall, suit’s fit letting more white cuff show than current fashion would approve; the partner squat with a vest, buttoned crooked comical, testament to a rush from a snore open-mouthed, or a chair over-stuffed musty, alone with his thoughts and a rye fermented beer.
Stark taking in the Old World décor, reconnaissance disguised casual: drapes curved thick brocade framing a window over-sized, metal grate barring beyond heavy lace. Walls graced with linen paper, keen eye catching edge curled worn, floor to a height fitting a man short-stature, a doorway not well hidden to vision F.R.I.D.A.Y. enhanced. Faint blip of red light shimmering masked behind a mirror gold-gilded frame garish, a wink not that subtle for the camera hidden slow panning the room, recording their encounter.
Suited men nondescript, shifting in the room clinging to the shadows, their steps silent absorbed by a carpet ancient plush, their movement caught suspicious in Tony’s peripheral vision. Distracted by aromas wafting light to strong, sour to sweet preceding slender figures, young women waif-thin eyes-demure bringing silver trays, laden Russian fare, opulent arranged between two rivals facing off. Stark letting alertness flow a touch irreverent, "Food, a good sign, right? Shared meals, bury the hatchet, minds meeting over the dumplings and caviar," a grandiose wave of a hand, "Kumbaya as we say in the West.” His turn to the woman quick playful despite a returned smile polite if not confused, “Do you say that here? No? You should.”
A man towering next to Petrovitch, broad-built, the words “Mack” and “Truck” coming to Tony’s mind, stern look a challenge not that subtle, a cold-embracing dare. Fingers thick, a hand gross large, placing a bottle clear liquid swirling, frost dampening the label, succumbing to room’s heat; two tumblers firm thudded on the bar. The guard’s dutiful step back measured exact arm’s reach of his master, not breaking the glare towards Stark dripping animosity, met by a smile deflective.
Tony shifting focus, eyes meeting with Ivan Petrovitch near enough to see white-lined scar across a cheek, faded story piquing interest; their face-off implied feet wide-set, hands in the open, shoulders square. Thoughts meandering absurd conjured from a movie viewed middle of a sleepless night: Western town, streets cleared, onlookers lined either side, a single tumbleweed blown erratic through the scene. Image discarded to contemplate the target of his current obsession. A man commanding all attention, white shirt crisp starched nearly immobile, gold ring glinting in soft light pooled along the bar. He reached a steady hand pouring one shot of the Vodka then a second, a smile not quite warm as he pointed to the glass, then lifted his own. Eyes intense watching Tony reluctant hesitant, following his lead.
A second held suspended before Petrovitch spoke formal, close to terse, "Za vstrechu,” Irina providing the translation, “To our meeting.” Tony nodding agreement as he followed example set, the shot downed quick and raw and cold. Refrigeration making no dent in the vodka’s burn, Tony likening it to lava's slow descent searing a layer of esophagus as the thick liquid slid down insidious.
“Bez pereryvov,” Irina’s demand echoing despite the room’s luxurious setting. “No breaks, Mr. Stark, second drink down it right away.” Another shot no pause, Tony obedient swallowing.
Petrovitch reaching for a dish, fingering a pickle, long and green and thin, a bit obscene in Tony's estimation, dripping juice errant falling not daring to spill on a tie tucked neat. A testament to the old man’s command of the room, even the pickle bowing subservient, swallowed whole. More disturbing was the offer insistent, the pickle dish thrust not tantalizing under Tony’s nose, his shivered review acknowledging sour taste cutting vodka’s burn.
“Tvoe zdorovi,” A voice graveled crude, coming from the guard, features a hard challenge, gauntlet metaphorical slapping a palm print bright crimson to both of Tony’s cheeks. Petrovitch providing neat English, “To your health,” as he downed another drink.
Tony following again, the shot slipping smoother, “My health is fine, so far, mostly, heart’s ticking, a little bit of lumbago otherwise fine.”
A series of toasts ensuing, the shot glasses brim filled repeated despite Tony’s hand placed to block the flow. Each toast in Russian, translated by Irina, her smile seeming genuine, perhaps more amused at his hands gripping bar’s edge for steady. That damned old man smiling thin line smirk at his discomfort betrayed by a beaded sweat perched precarious on a mustache groomed otherwise exact.
Petrovitch announcing with a near reverent tone, words spaced with deference in English exact, “To the dogs.” Glass held high, sweeping gesture towards a far wall, two dogs large lounging, drool pooling on a carpet laid particular.
Tony’s nod and salute grandiose towards the massive dark-fur creatures, a debate internal if they were bears masquerading as canines, unnervingly attentive to his deliberate moves, “Good doggies, no Milk Bones sorry, maybe next time or, I could have them flown in? Local, maybe?” Cold vodka welcomed slipping easier down a throat numbed insensitive.
A pause in the toasting and drinking, each man, taking a breath long, Petrovitch picking selective at food bite-sized, Tony engaged in a poking study of a breaded meat pie. “Za raditeley,” the old man catching his attention, gaze direct, glass raised equidistant between them, a clear ask for agreement. Switching words to English, a gesture slight to gain Tony’s compliance, “To our parents.”
Stark letting a thin smile spread uneven, glass raised, cautious trying not to spill a drop, buying time and thought and a measured response wrapped in his truth, “To Maria Stark. To my mother.”
A restrained facade slipping shaken, a touch, slight tremor seen in a finger marked with a crown inked black. The Architect’s features moved to a smile fleeting genuine for a second, indiscretion caught, reined in, he downed the vodka without a word or a nod or eyes flickering sympathetic.
“Speaking of questions.” Tony seeing a chance slim, senses not as muddied by alcohol as he may have led them to believe, “You knew my father. How? What brought you together? Weapons, cars, women? All of the above.” His lean across the bar intrusive enough to bring a guard’s thick arm as a barrier before the Architect’s body,” Did you two share a vision of a future full of hope? Or was it more like world domination?”
Petrovitch meeting his gaze, taking the vodka one quick swallow, tumbler's hard thud to the bar. Fingers toying with gold ring unconscious, first hint of his discomfort, fleeting gone while brushing aside dismissive the guard's protective stance.
“Let’s drag out the old photos, shall we?” Tony pulling a faded picture from jacket’s inside pocket, “Help me understand this snapshot. I dug it out of a ratty suitcase, back of my old man’s closet. Not really, close, though. Here look at it,” frail paper, scalloped edges slapped abrupt on the bar’s surface, turned deliberate to fall within the Architect’s view, pushed forward insistent.
Vodka poured and ready, Tony raising the glass, middle finger jammed angered on a figure in the picture. Black leather distinct, long-haired, expression empty, maybe scared or hopeless, those options not allowed to float annoying into his consciousness, words rasped sarcastic, “Let’s toast the Winter Soldier, your star pupil. Yes?” The shot downed decisive, back of hand wiping lips wet.
Petrovitch not answering, his gaze never wavering from Tony’s face, dark eyes narrowing, amusement cast aside.
Tony pouring thick liquid sloppy, one for each, loud announcing grand sweep of an arm, drops spilled careless, “To the Owner’s Manual,” his glass raised towards red leather, black star lying incongruous, commanding all attention. Petrovitch watching impassive, not joining in his toast.
Stark not relenting elbows laid rude to the bar his finger tracing a fourth person in the photo, part hidden by the scenery, face blurred by time or purposeful erased, “Who is this man right here in the background? In that god-damned picture of you and that woman and that, that piece of shit?”
The Architect, not one to be cowed or bullied, or afraid of a ranting threat grief-driven, having seen more rage than Stark could channel; his face placid unreadable, no smirk or wink or nod acknowledging what Tony had guessed intuitive. His glance slight, a finger raised and lowered precise signaling servants to leave, their scurry from the room nearly soundless. Except the thick-fingered guard; and the dogs, they stayed in place, rising to a sit attentive.
“Fine, no idea? Okay,” Tony’s anger evident, a tremor to mouth and hand, spitting words curt, “Let’s try this question. Did you send that sorry piece of shit to kill my parents? Was it you?”
A response near expected, Petrovitch staring frigid, tumbler turned hard upside down, no toast, no words, curt gesture dismissive, a snarl to lips thin, not hidden, maybe eyes rolling slight.
Tony taking his cue, breath drawn deep, hand raking hair messy, a turn towards the book lying unguarded, “Worn out my welcome apparently. My accent might be off, give me credit for trying, Vsego khoroshego, did I say that correctly?” Quick tucking the red leather book inside his jacket, a wave of fingers irreverent as he headed for the door, providing what he felt was a close translation of his toast, “All the best.” His exit stopped by the guard wide-bodied, pudgy fingers, blocking his path.
The Architect speaking reserved, more a warning than a story, “A Russian tale for you, Mr. Stark.” His steps towards Tony a measured threat, not warm inviting, ending within an arm’s reach daring. Head tilting up in deference to height’s difference, gaze colder than any Stark had seen in recent years, even that gaze on the tape played incessant, gray eyes empty in the killing of his parents. English words, hinted accent waking him from the memory haunting, “There once was a flock of birds, all flying as one, tight-knit working together on tasks that benefited all. Each bird working diligent for the greater community.” A pause to make his point, glancing a fond caress towards the dogs their fealty proven in the wag of their tails.
The story continued without looking at Tony, “One day the collective, the flock, decided to move on, change for the betterment of all, but one bird thought he knew better. He took what he felt was his, the work shall we say, and started to fly off on his own.” A gesture subtle, hand’s wave a flutter, “Little pathetic wings flapping hard and fast, heading for the sun.” Petrovitch pacing a circle towards dawn’s light a sliver through lace curtains, a toe kicking at the red-hued carpet, dust swirling bright golden. “The sun burned him, of course, his life --- and love, destroyed for want of high ideals, and a spotlight’s shine.” Steps ending at his beginning, standing before Stark’s firm stance. The Architect’s eyes closing as if in memory, reciting a mantra near a whisper, long-ingrained, “Let not one of us break away from the collective.”
Tony holding back from mocking words or a smirk ill-timed, close study of the man’s features, skin leathered over time, malevolence wafting mingled with the scent of old leather, starch, and hair’s slick oil. Heart’s pulse thick at temples, twinged pain across a forehead, stiffening a neck with story’s implications, settling real over seconds. Discretion and a plan morphing as he stood, watching Petrovitch near enough to strike, the gauntlet’s tickle imagined at his wrist, worth the risk, dogs and men and camera’s spying. A rage kept guarded in check, ever since the silo’s aftermath, still simmering raw beneath work and life and a facade of moving on. Raising heat to skin and brain, fists closing, jaw set tight, thoughts rational scattering fast; attention caught by Irina’s voice, light touch to his arm raised tense without his awareness, anger-driven near an error rash.
“Mr. Stark, you’ve had a long journey. You’ll stay with us,” a tugged encouragement to an elbow, resisting, “You will find no better accommodations in all of Moscow.” Thin fingers, nails manicured clean blood-red color, palm open before his chest, finger’s graze against the hardbound book tucked in his pocket, a demand masked as a request, “We will relieve you of your burden, a book with such a dark history weighs heavy on your grief. Let us help you.”
Tony shook his head, patting the book tucked safe against his chest, curt laugh, sharp words, “Sentimental value, I’d rather keep it close, we can review it together.”
Ivan Petrovitch, back turned to Tony, hands dug deep in the fur of heads massive, seeking his touch, “You don’t trust me, Mr. Stark?”
Tony answering, “You don’t trust me, Mr. Petrovitch?”
The Architect countering, “You are not in a position to bargain, Mr. Stark.” Pale finger’s caress of fur affectionate.
All attention rapt on Tony’s hand slipping reticent inside jacket’s pocket, slow pull of the book, a thumb’s cautious caress across a black star. Muscle’s twitch at jaw, lips drawn into a thin line as the book passed from his hand to Irina’s, “Trust is mutual, Mr. Petrovitch. I trust we will come to a mutual understanding."
A grin wide victorious, flash of gold on a tooth, Ivan Petrovitch shoulder’s less tense, step lighter as he strode to leave the room, a wave cavalier over his shoulder, “Na pososhok, Mr. Stark, may your walking stick be imbued with luck, as we say here in Russia.” His laugh bold enough to send a cold chill across Tony’s skin, “We will talk more. This has been quite entertaining. You are not your father, Mr. Stark. Not him indeed.”
A low growl greeting Tony’s steps gingerly crept past massive creatures fur tumultuous mingled hard to tell where one dog began, and another ended; their teeth visible distinct enough, message received. Following two men, solemn looks, muscle-bound, through a door ornate and over-sized. Tony debating macabre humor if the guttural sound came from one of them or one of the dogs. Pacing dutifully forward content with his plan debatable sane and free-wheeling, infiltrate the last bastion of Hydra hidden in the grandiosity of Moscow.
Quick tap to his watch, a text clandestine pre-written, time calculated to the second, hitting send: “Barnes, you pathetic excuse for a human being. Timetable’s moved up. Cut the damn sight-seeing trip and get off that train.” The message rhythmic ticking numbers across a thousand miles, Tony’s voice sounding mechanical annoying on the other end of the line, “Forty-seven hours, thirty-two minutes, seventeen seconds, sixteen, fifteen...”
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“Fuck, how did he know? How? I don’t get it.” Bucky head down, mumbling at his phone, awkward stumbled through a passenger car, occupants starting awake. Steps rocked by train’s brake, slowing for a station, scrambling dance to not fall over the spiky-haired boy, cheeks ruddy, a touch of cold driven snot hanging stubborn; a face not so angelic staring up at Bucky’s sidelong avoidant assessment, squinty-eyed debate, real or a ghost. A nose wiped clean on his sweater, settling that question.
The boy, a flotsam barnacle, latched onto his hip after the middle finger greeting, not a willing attachment on his part; rasped question to Steve, “Why me? I’m not that friendly. At all.” Hesitant effort to pry fingers from his body, a battle futile fought. Bucky’s groaned capitulation loud petulant as he maneuvered the aisles with the boy near dragging from his hip. Steve’s smile stifled long, laughter breathed discreet, still heard and duly noted for future bickering.
The rest of their new-found charges gathered in a nervous shuffle engulfing Steve; frail hands clinging desperate to one another, all leading to the eldest, blonde braids, tall and thin, strength beyond her years worn on features and a body erect defiant. Steve’s jacket hanging oversized from her shoulders squared protective of the group. Their guards left imprisoned; two Vory hungover more from sausage than from vodka, easy marks to overpower. A woman bristling efficient, weary appearance a deception, her fight an unexpected match, leaving a red lined scar on Bucky’s cheek; soft kissed by Steve despite protests shrugged aside embarrassed.
Bucky taking satisfaction in the sound of metal clanging to metal, strength wrapping a pipe as a lock to cell’s door, imprisoning the children’s wardens. Guilt’s burden a fraction lighter as he ripped the keypad from train car’s door, leaving them to a fate harsh deserved, a lesson he knew, taught by experience brutal.
Steve balancing a toddler in one arm, nimble enough to lay hand’s warmth on Bucky’s neck, a lean possessive over a shoulder, glancing at the phone, “Who? Knows what? What are you talking about?”
“Stark, he’s texted me. He says, ‘Get off the train’ How did he know?” Fingers twisting anxious in hair, feet shuffled indecisive, rasping panic tone, close spoken to Steve’s ear, “Is he tracking me? I ditched the jet. My phone, shit, he’s tracking my phone. Fuck me.”
Steve grabbed his arm, hard tug keeping him near, “We talked to him at the station, it was loud, it was obvious. So what.” Body jerked closer, whisper gritted, “I won’t let him hurt you."
Bucky studying the phone, a lean into Steve’s shoulder, needing his touch, warmth consoling, gaze connecting three seconds counted internal, shift to the phone, pale light casting a shadow across eyes puffed red, “Time frame, shit. He moved it up.” A pause, thoughts churning, a whisper spilled for himself, “I gotta go.”
“Go, yes. Home. We’re going home.” Steve maneuvering forward, search for Natasha, close eye on children underfoot, attention caught rapt protective, Bucky’s tremor more pronounced, his focus scattering past the phone, to a child viewed foreign or haunting or forgotten underfoot. Steve worried for the boy, tight clinging to Bucky’s leg. Thoughts distracted by toddler’s tears slipping, sound not more than a whimper, thin arms tight wrapping a neck, breath choked slight, “Time frame? What time frame?” Bucky wriggling arm free from a hand owning, Steve’s grab for a jacket abrupt, gripping catch stubborn not letting his squirm escape.
Natasha weaving through passengers waking backs stretched, blankets shed and folded, her navigating bodies, baggage, and trash over-flowing. Getting close enough to see them both, ragged group of children surrounding, her chiding a comfort in Steve’s comm, “I can’t leave the two of you alone for more than five minutes. Or six minutes in your case Barnes.” A nod to Bucky as she settled too close by his side, crowded car demanding.
“Doesn’t matter. Shit,” Bucky scrolling phone’s messages, “There’s a ton of these things, what is this?” Sudden video garish loud red bird singing something incomprehensible. “Stupid Birdman, what the fuck?” Fingers press and slide, trying to stop the sound, images flashing chaotic rattling nerves strung out, a tremor uncontrolled heralding worse. Final plea, “Here, take this, take it, I can’t,” shoving it against Steve’s chest.
Tasha’s quick reach missing, the phone tumbling erratic to the floor, sliding lost beneath feet shuffling. Frantic words and motion stopped split second, Bucky’s frustration caught by Steve’s fingers digging deeper into flesh, worry worn on features tired. Bucky rattled by his look, urgent press of a hold telling of concern; stammering escape, “I’m sorry. Sorry,” twisting arm until he slipped from hand’s grip.
Steve grabbing Bucky’s hood, sway and brake of the car rocking feet, the station coming into view; people swarming around, bumping between arms and legs, bags crashing, tearing them apart. Bucky squirming crowd’s press, the boy wrapping arms frightened to a thigh, two jostled ignored by the crowd. Steve watching skin beloved going pale, gray eyes wide anxious, maybe fear, body’s twisting to break his hold building harder. Ache rising in chest, the toddler holding tight, sensing Steve’s worry; bodies crowded pushed and shoved, space taken against their will. Hard to see Bucky’s face any longer, lost in the swarm. Dragging on a sliver of cloth, the hood sudden tearing, abrupt break, Steve staggering back, backpack’s thud to a floor, jacket empty hanging in his hand. Steve’s voice cracked loud and deep and meaning every word, “No. Get back here. Do not move from that spot, Buck. I’m coming to you. Stand still.”
Toddler snatched from Steve’s arms by Natasha, deft scooping the backpack as well, quick trailing Steve’s anxious push through the crowd, “Rogers, I see him, he’s right there.”
Train jolting to a stop, passengers swarming, Steve turned to slip past a man rotund, a woman carrying bags heavy laden, his trip over a box making him stumble into a small open space. Final clear view, the boy enamored still clinging to a hip, face buried in the sweater, tucked hidden behind Bucky standing stone still in the aisle. Long hair faint shaken, near covering features from the side, head tilted down, engrossed with a woman near, too near for Steve, cold sweat springing to neck. The old Widow, smile smug disconcerting, arrogant watching Steve coming closer, too late, gnarled fingers gripping Bucky’s phone.
A voice soft-spoken known, hard to hear across train’s noise, talk passing, Steve not sure at first, Bucky’s words forming slow reliable from a mist of disbelief, settling in a mind caught off-guard, “Call them.” Mother’s compliance gleeful efficient, done and done, phone shoved decisive against Bucky’s chest. Dark eyes shine of satisfaction, winning in her mind, taunting icy glare, meeting Steve’s gaze. Hard to snare pain’s ache from features, not wanting her to see heart’s break on a call, decision made, not quick enough to keep Bucky safe.
Heat’s rush coloring cheeks and chest and thoughts burning angered, Steve reaching Bucky, a dodging wrestle to see his face, Mother shoved back to a berth, body’s momentum near lifting Bucky from his feet. Natasha snatching the boy from their struggled stumble to train car’s wall. Steve demanding, “What did you do?” Bucky averting gaze, head turned reluctant, holding the phone from Steve’s reach. Rough shake of a body, fingers wrapping a jaw, forcing head up, gaze downcast pulled direct, voice rasped desperate to a cheek, “Buck, what the hell did you do?”
Bucky taking time, breath shallow pulled, tremor faint, not controlled, hiding what tears might be left, not wanting Mother to see, or feel or gloat unrepentant over feelings soul-deep. A whisper against Steve’s mouth, lips not meeting, ached want of the kiss; not here, not now, “It’s done. They’re on their way. Just get those kids out of here.”
Steve catching Bucky’s face, needing eyes to meet, see his face, force truth spilled, wanting Bucky to see and feel and know the wave of anger choking breath, strangling a voice, “Look at me. Call them back. I won’t let you do this. We found the children. Let’s go home.”
“No. Don’t you get it? There are more. It’s real, Steve. I have to do this. I have no choice.” Bucky wriggling free from Steve’s grip, lingering hand peeled reluctant from sweater’s weave, heart pulsing temple and throat, not wanting to leave, to pull free from arms engulfing. Sokolov stepping in front, sharp look over her shoulder, Bucky falling obedient behind, steps dragged, making his way to the stairs. Door open passengers departing, the platform looming below; a step held in check letting frigid air pull tears from eyes, maybe not cold drawn. A hand known trusted catching hair long, head tugged back, Steve’s mouth pressed to neck’s nape. Last thing Bucky wanted to do, step off that train, leave a body warm protective. Leaning back, skin taking the kiss, memory burning that feel electric to a mind searching for safe, words not matching heart and sinew falling into that embrace, “Let me go.”
Steve’s eyes blinking shut, seconds stolen before allowing slow release of hair, fingers entwined. Quick rush to stay close, hovering steps danced angered around Bucky’s steady walk forward, “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.” Bucky’s answer decisive, stride picking up speed. Medication bottles dragged from a pocket, one from each of three, pills swallowed dry, the bottles shoved apprehensive in Mother’s hands. Leaning close to her face, menace sincere, “You will give these to me. Understood. Do not fuck with me.” A command met by thin smile noncommital, metal fingers snagging her collar, shaking a nod, semblance of agreement.
Steve pushing her aside, fingers wrapping Bucky’s arms, flesh, and metal, pulling close, breath hot on a cheek pinked cold, “You’re trusting her now? With the meds? You’re out of your mind.”
“That is true. Isn’t that why I take them? I’m out of my mind.” Bucky searching the sky, gaze avoidant, pain too great to see in Steve’s eyes; words matter-of-fact, “They are gonna strip me naked. They’ll take everything. No sense bringing anything with me.” Body shaken by Steve’s hands and a growl morphed to a moan. Bucky forced to look, let eyes connect, breath catching on a sob controlled, guilt fueling words taken back, not wanting Steve to know what would happen in minutes coming, “Sorry, sorry. Nevermind. Forget I said any of that. She’ll protect me, I swear, we both want this. She wants the Architect dead too.” Grabbing Steve’s waist, hard tug near, rasping, “They aren’t going to let me have those pills. It’s better if she has them, I have to trust her.” Cold air forming breath’s evidence soft, slow release, gaze close search of Steve’s face, “Besides, I should be good for a couple days without them. It’s all good, Stevie. All good.”
“Stop it.” Steve wrapping fingers to a neck, caress stolen open, thumb’s rake of stubble.
Bucky’s beg shivered in wind’s gust, “Do this for me. Please, just let me go. Take care of the kids.”
Steve insisting, quick scan of the sky, gaze back to study Bucky’s face near enough to see fading scratch, “Tasha’s got this, the kids, getting them out. She has contacts. I’ll go with you both. We’ll think of something.”
Bucky tugging flesh arm free, not wriggling enough to break Steve’s hold, “No, no, you’re not. I told you, you’re not getting anywhere near him.”
“There’s no way…”
Anger flaring, Bucky’s hard shove, words spit real threat, “Steve, I don’t need you. Get the fuck away from me.”
Steve’s balance, soul, and heart and feet rocked backward, not expecting this rejection. Scrambling back, Bucky’s arms captured, forced dance tangled, “Bullshit, pal. Push all you want.” Their wrestle teetering on a fall, hands on biceps, lifting, lunging, driving Bucky back to train’s side, Steve’s voice raw, rasped to a cheek, heart-pounding heat to skin shared, “I’m not leaving you.”
Bucky squirming, not enough to break a hold cherished, trusted hands needed; awareness ticking a clock internal, stay committed to decisions made rash. Pressure building in a mind disorganized, Cyrillic words spilling angered uncontrolled, tone harsh, features morphing distorted, string of expletives rapid fire.
“I don’t need Google to translate that shit,” Steve not letting go of Bucky struggling out from under his weight laid claiming.
Mother rapping a foot to train car’s side, close startle, “Stop it. Your ridiculous fight is drawing attention...”
Steve’s gaze locked on Bucky, words growled decisive, “Get the fuck away from us,” understood by Sokolov as she meandered not far, moved obedient.
Bucky letting head fall back to cold metal, breath staggered resigned, “You won’t fight me, not really. I will fight you. Don’t make me.” Flesh hand catching Steve’s cheek, fingers tangled in hair, words secret measured cadence weighed meaning raw, “I need to walk in there being someone else, something else. A thing. Not me. I can’t do that if you’re watching me. I can’t be that monster with you there. I’ll stumble, my hand will shake, my mind will falter.” A thumb’s slow drag to lips parting, stolen wetness from tongue and teeth willing open, “I’ll think about your mouth, your fucking cock buried inside my body, the way you make me sweat. I’ll hear that sound you make when you come. I can’t have that kind of memory facing that man. I can’t. Lubov moya, moy medved, please stay away from me. He’ll kill you. I won’t be able to kill him with you watching.”
Steve letting tight grip fall slack, palms spread to a chest, their struggle waning, breath slowing resigned, unable to make his gaze leave Bucky’s face.
Writhing struggle half-hearted, words finished, Bucky’s deliberate pull of the sweater over his head, excruciating slow, short-sleeved T-shirt non-descript, metal arm brazen open, a shiver cold in biting Siberian wind. Folding the weave best effort sincere, ending with a ball rolled messy, pressed firm to Steve’s chest, “Hold this for me. I’ll lose it. Okay?”
Steve catching hair, a tug more tender than rough, needing soft feel on skin, a murmur private to an ear, “I hate you,” face buried in thick darkness, needing scent fire branded to memory.
A laugh sighed soft, “No, you don’t,” metal patting a cheek affectionate. “Stay with the kids. When you get to Moscow, call this guy." Bucky keying a number into his phone, tucked into Steve’s pant’s pocket, fingers digging deeper, hard caress dared to hip, brushed to groin, mouth pressed light to mouth, “Tell them, tell them you have a delivery, you need pick up. They’ll send a van. You know what to do after that. Just get them out. Get yourself out.”
“What about you? How will you get out? How will I find you?” Steve gripping hair harder, rough jerk, fingers catching jean’s waistband, body pulled insistent, needing a plan, an answer, not letting things play out random. “I hate this plan. Your plan, you suck at this.”
Bucky prying fingers free from body and hair carded, “This is mine to do. Alone. Let me do what I have to do, Rogers. Let me do this, please. It isn’t always about you. Captain fucking America. You don’t always win the day, swoop in the big damn hero. You are a hero. I’m not. I’m just, just a loser trying to do one right thing.”
“You’re not a loser.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the voice in my head.”
Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s neck, fingers taking skin, palm spread to the small of a back, breath hungered warm to an ear, holding him cherished, a sigh deep and long, rage and love and fear mingled irrational, a whisper, “He’s not a loser. I’ll kick your ass if you say otherwise.”
Bucky’s laugh soft settling in Steve’s memory, “Did you just threaten the Voice in my head?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” Steve pressing forehead to forehead, eyes locked, want and need, and hope clear conveyed, “Come back to me.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“Good, don't go, stay with me.”
“I don’t want to go. They’re coming. I can hear the chopper.” Reluctant wriggling free, cold air slipping between bodies.
A hand pressing Bucky to the car, keeping him in place, “Yeah, I hear it.” Steve reached for the jacket dropped at his feet, slow tugging one sleeve over flesh, tender wrapping shoulders, moving a body compliant, “It’s cold, too cold. Wear it, put it the fuck on.” Abrupt yank over metal fingers, breath caught at Bucky’s pull of air, a moan tickling memories of sex only minutes before, Steve grousing, “Give me that, that one thing. To take care of you, one...”
Bucky cutting him off, “Jeezus Rogers, you’re so sappy.”
Zipper pulled snug to chin, cloth smoothed loving to a chest, rise, and fall distinct, telling hard to breath without falling apart. Steve pressing foreheads tight, skin blanched white, marked red, breath and time and touch held still desperate clinging.
Bucky’s ask soft-spoken, “Don’t watch me leave. Close your eyes. Don’t turn around, give me that. Okay?”
A nod hard to see more felt skin to skin, lips brushed, stealing taste, Steve reticent letting eyes shut, still facing the train, spirit slipping resigned.
Bucky pushing past, metal fingers drag up an arm, flirting caress to a hip, a back, smallest touch fired hot until last step taken, too far to keep connected. His whisper more a breath, a sigh light, nearly mistaken aberrant noise wind carried, swirling snow and sound and wishes kept secret, “I love you.” Steps double-quick silent, moving swift and far, iced air filling the space between body heat warmed seconds earlier.
Steve opening eyes, vision blurred, wind and cold, and tears mingled. Too late for Bucky to hear, regret a fire in gut wild racing across sinew and nerve, flushing heat to chest, shame burning cheeks and throat and heart, words breathed his hearing alone, “I love you back.” Steve turned slight, enough to see sidelong, too painful to watch full-on, a promise made, broken both knowing fated to break. Bucky walking away rolling gait uneven, the Soldier’s stride deliberate growing with every step, the Widow near running alongside, Steve taking a sliver of solace at her discomfort. Bucky fading in snow driven harsh across wind-swept expanse concrete and dirt and a past haunted returning vivid real.
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A mind searching for solace tends to assign significance to things irrational.
The parking lot empty except for a truck, and a wagon, missing its horse. A cluster of three cars sitting near enough to speculate year and make, all dark and small and at least from the 1960s as best Bucky could recall, memory being such as it is, cryo occupying most of the sixty’s and seventy’s technically speaking.
The truck distinct with rickety slatted sides and one significantly flat tire. A bonus for Bucky. Needing all things to fall obsessive into a set order, three tires vastly qualifying. One less thing driving sweat’s cold drip down his back. A Soldier’s certainty telling he’d find the keys tucked in the visor. Not that it mattered; with the flat and all.
Creative stretch to find a three relative to the cart, he thought he could discern three planks composing its side. “Close enough,” he thought, “Close enough.”
The cart wearing blue paint, flaked and dull, a not so educated guess that it was reasonably garish popular in 1974. He didn’t actually remember that year, it just sounded like maybe it was a good year for bright blue paint. And, well, it is divisible by three, after all. That counts a lot at times like these. Facing his fate. His plan. The one he stood in silence second-guessing.
In the distance, beyond the truck and cart and three cars, a couple of dogs mock fighting over a three-foot stick. The two dogs dissonant in his counting, a hiccup in a mind struggling stable, saved by a sound, a bark far distant fitting his scheme, three dogs, two close one far, all good. A sigh dared to breath so soft not anyone would hear. Stick length something Bucky estimated sure but estimating, calculating, assessing; all skills he possessed, at one time anyway, well-honed in an assassin.
Even one out of practice.
Sunrise in full swing, snowbanks glistened despite a layer of soot and dirt, fallout from exhaust and home fires burned through frigid Siberian nights. White spreading vast dotted random with green, Spring’s attempt to push Winter aside. Landscape dotted bright colors, chimney’s swirl of smoke in early chilled air, the village at train’s stop not yet bustling.
It all feeling so familiar; Bucky silent taking it in, gaze scanning casual, near leisurely, a tourist maybe, if one squinted hard. Long hair whipped across vision, jeans and boots nondescript, unlaced speaking to a rush to rise, or a Soldier well aware of what was to come. Ritual undressing. Not here, not yet, bile’s rise swallowed for now. His clothes and look nothing to make him seem like his former self. Like the Winter Soldier. On the outside, anyway.
Gaze wandering a landscape cold, sights seen a thousand times before in his life with Hydra. A comfort strange now, not making sense, this place, these people, not his, not his family, his home, his history.
It shouldn’t feel this way. Deep-seated in his gut, tension released, breath pulled tranquil calm, this place settling familiar as if it was his own.
It doesn’t matter in the end. Brooklyn so very far away, in miles and time and memory. Tenements creak and moan, street’s rhythm wafting in open windows, faded like a dream of distant places, exotic magical, unattainable, pictures luring hopes from a magazine’s pages. A place only living in his head, flashed erratic across eyes closed sleeping in the cold of cryostasis. A place unknown except in a museum.
Not a real place. Home isn’t a place after all.
“It’s a person.” Own voice answered musings, dashing errant across a mind wanting to forget, to chase dreams and touch, and scent deeper buried locked safe away.
Home is not like here, vast expanse, bones chilled to an ache inescapable, moist breath inhaled jagged slicing lungs not use to this cold, this place; if he was ever used to this place, maybe once ages past, another life. Not this life the one he has with Steve.
“Steve?” Shove down own voice, saying a name, beloved bear. A laugh near escaping. Hold it back, think about the pain soon to come, betrayal’s payment. Sobering thoughts embraced.
Distant chatter Cyrillic words, too muddy in the wind to pick the meaning. Tone clear, children’s banter, a parent scolding not meant angry, more a warning, a tale told of the devil coming in the night, steal them from their home, their beds left crumpled empty to the wail of a mother deprived.
“Babayka is coming.” Bucky unsure if his voice or the Voice a mocking taunt. Not mattering in the end who said what or why.
Bucky repeating that phrase over and over silent rolling in his head. Babayka. Taking it for himself, his plans, his past. A threat made to soldier’s children, marching him out, displayed, used, a weapon spun inhuman, metal arm objectified, frightening the children into their obedience. Laughter mocking his discomfort echoed still in Bucky’s head.
The soldier’s not afraid, guns ready, stun prods, darts drugged, and dark night’s visits threatened overwhelming. Control a weapon with a weapon, better yet, steal his will, taint his hope, erase his mind. Hydra not afraid of him, not since the Handler Captain, and mind wipes, cryo’s cold. Not since Bucky lost his sanity.
That would change now. His plan, such as it is. They would come to be afraid. It would change, he hoped sincere, last-ditch, done, and done. Seconds dallying on an image, metal fingers tight wrapping a throat, countless times, damned to hell, countless times before. This time fingers squeezing bloody pulp around a throat deserving, the Architect in his sights.
A smile flashed slight across lips chapped cold, hid away as quick as it passed. A slip. Can’t happen. Hold it all in delicate balance now. Game played harder. So much harder. Having a memory while acting as the Soldier.
Bucky staring straight ahead, not glancing up or over or down. Gaze locked distant void, nothing, empty for all close scrutiny. A rough approximation of how the Soldier would look or act or feel. Empty at casual glance, an ember’s glow soft filling a belly, sparked faint in gray eyes, a heart beating rhythmic, slowing to calm at every breath, finding the Soldier buried deep in a soul lost to all redemption.
Thoughts scurrying deeper comfort, warm bed tousled, yellow house, red barn white doors, tree line deeper green than he could recall in a hundred years. Cold sweetness ghosted on his tongue ice cream, peanut butter definitely, maybe chocolate, blueberry the best. First choice. Music, big bands, swing, dark room socked feet, the only light a glow from that damn big screen TV. Steve in his arms, slow sway, one foot then another, hearing a voice, his own, undeniable, “God you're heavy. Damn, you’re a klutz. Shit, what am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? Steve? Steve, you didn’t hear me. Wait, no, not yet. Don’t take me yet. Steve?”
A sound sickening familiar overhead, swish-thunk repeated, loud and louder until papers skittered sharp, iced snow cutting cheeks, thoughts blown far and scattered by chopper’s sound overwhelming, his plan falling into place. Downdraft swirling air and dirt and frozen snow biting chaotic. Gnarled hand grabbing his arm, Bucky knowing without looking, that touch, the feel, Mother steadying her feet against the wind, fierce gripping his arm. A touch too familiar rising bile, ache of nausea churning unanswered in his gut. Fleeting wonder for the Voice, burrowed somewhere cowardly in his brain. Abandoned even by that piece of shit.
“Figures.”
The routine, predictable, dark-dressed men carbon-copied same across his memory, these tending disheveled, disorganized, fear glinting in eyes meeting his stare direct. A joke kept internal, wry smile hinted, “Big gun dicks.” One slipping clumsy on the snow, arms splaying feet dancing awkward; Bucky squelching his laugh, guarded impassive, unaffected encouraged by a gun’s cold steel barrel jammed rude beneath his jaw.
The required frisk beginning, legs rough kicked spreading, ankle’s throb from steel-toed boot; jacket torn from shoulders, tossed disrespectful to the ground. A bat rapped sharp to soft tissue, pain screeching knees to hips, time passing quick as he fell body spread-eagled on the ground. Belly skin cold exposed, a shiver hard to keep controlled, hidden, don’t give the fools the satisfaction. Legs kicked wide, arms spread overhead, rough hands searching intrusive, brushed bold between his thighs, balls caressed, a tremor chasing ragged across nerves raw, cold pissed. Having a memory intact, not the Soldier, not beat and trapped and agency stolen. One thought catching anger abrupt, the Architect within his reach, soon, close enough to smell the fear and blood imagined. Bucky channeling patience into a breath held long.
“What the fuck do you think I’ve got stashed between my balls?” Growled challenge dared, unlike his time as the Soldier, this version speaking up. The man startled enough to pull fat fingers away, a pause brief caught off guard, regrouping with a boot driven hard into a kidney left vulnerable, Bucky laid flat out arms spread, defenseless.
The Widow Sokolov not moving an inch, her observance a close watch, near enough to hear Bucky’s groan. Words curt, not soft-spoken, “Enough. Would you steal pleasure from the Architect? Shall I tell him why and who harmed his prize? Or are you willing to explain to him yourself why his gift can’t piss?”
Counting numbers, sets of three repeated, consoling time’s passage, thoughts drifting three seconds, hope spent on Steve doing what he asked, not watching his undoing. Stomach rolling pain, nausea’s race to back of throat, burning tongue, taste of bile spreading sweat’s flash to cold skin. Bucky rising to his knees, not wanting to puke, pain a distraction, a risk willing to take, the Vory driving gun’s butt to back of head, rude hands on a body, rough touch known, strange comfort, nothing new. These things never changing in the end.
Boots torn from bare feet, dragged to the chopper, knees ache slammed, metal floor passing, shoved, kicked, driven to a seat curled sanctuary far corner. Chains wrapped swift around ankles and wrists, secured to a waist, barrel of a gun permanent mark indented to a neck once graced with Steve’s bite, faded marks gone, still imagined, ghosted press of teeth taking skin, pulled blood welted. Bucky shaking his head, chase away the thoughts, Steve’s touch, lips press; breath pulled ragged sigh.
The seat next filled, feet not reaching the floor, catching his eye, side glance connecting, Mother watching, dark eyes not betraying their plan, cold look familiar, roles assumed too easy to fall back into place. Better to look away, play the part, no eye contact allowed, Bucky watching the ground fade away, the chopper gaining sky. Three cars growing smaller, cart’s slats not seen at this distance, truck’s tires obscured. Two dogs running side by side, one brown, one black, stick shared uneven; barking dog drowned by chopper’s scream, Bucky imaging a howl, finding comfort in all things balanced neat, three and three and three.
Hair blown across vision, forget the shackles, reach to brush aside, metal catching an arm, reality washing over. A mind scrambling lost imagining better outcomes. Hide the smile, count the seconds, metal arm’s strength known indisputable, eyes closing to see internal, six seconds break free, three seconds take a gun, kill one guard then another, six seconds more, eliminate the pilot, three seconds breach the door. And jump, calculated landing, tuck, and roll and run. Race hard and fast and lungs burning ache, thighs fired, scrambled slip iced patch, get up, keep running, stay the course. Catch the train. Race and run and fly back to Steve. Back to Steve. He’d be waiting on that fucking train. Go home like he said, “What was I thinking?” Heart’s ache imaging, Steve watching that chopper leave, gaze rapt livid at his plan. Just how Bucky would have felt if it was Steve. “What the fuck was I thinking?” Mumbled loud enough to catch Mother’s attention, fingers deep hard squeeze of a knee already throbbing with pain his cue to keep random comments to himself.
Heart sinking dark, the chopper gaining height, leaving Steve behind. Bucky’s focus delving deep hidden, head pressing cold glass cool temple’s sweat, falling to the comfort of the rattle, and hum and rock of being carried away. Choices made conscious still regretable. A glimpse of the train, slow movement building pulling far beyond the station, imaging Steve, awkward holding a toddler, cursing his name under breath held close. Bucky closing eyes tired, letting a mind wander indulgent for now, skin cherished seen and felt, scent still lodged in nostrils, taste lingering on lips.
Cold air’s rush sending a shiver unconscious, bodies moving in the passenger bay, Cyrillic words hard to hear over chopper’s blades, ear’s ring, and the pounding in his head. A foot grazing bare toes, once and then again harder. An accident clumsy, third time pulling his attention, Bucky looking up, cold stared warning. Caught short unsuspecting, blue eyes staring back, sweater stained and pulled ill-fitting, a backpack familiar tucked between legs he knew too well. Steve watching him impassive, a twitch at mouth’s corner, Bucky knowing that tic, telling uncertain, not able to stay behind, let him go, risking life, both lives, all lives to remain inseparable.
A nod slight, discreet, Natasha sitting next to Steve gaze darting one second to meet, then settling on the toddler asleep in her lap. Tall girl with braids tucked close to Natasha, a glance oozing disdain, chin raised haughty, playing the game. The other children piled on laps, tucked in corners. None looking at Bucky except the boy. Ruddy cheeks, hair not as spiked as when they first met the night before, his stare at Bucky cold. A gaze cutting deep, not fear or dread, that easier to take, to pass off as a compliment or a joke private held, laughter not allowed. The boy staring direct open, tight clutching Bucky’s jacket rescued from the ground, words spoken bold in Cyrillic, “You lost this. I saved it for you. My name is Dima.”
Bucky letting emotion show fleeting, a tremor chasing hard head to toe, rattled by the boy. Gaze slipping pointed to Steve, a stare direct, letting him see and feel and weigh a choice made last second. Anger flashing real in gray eyes, mouth’s curve thin line disappointment, features morphing rapid flat, impassive, cold, true self retreating into compartments built by necessity, hiding away. Gaze returned frigid empty, slow blink to end, the Soldier leaning head to glass, watching the landscape pass beneath the chopper, heading for his fate. Meeting Ivan Petrovitch, a mantra soft internal playing on repeat, “Three children. I remember them.”
“You are so fucked, Soldat. So, so fucked.”