“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” the target says, and the Soldier remembers. He doesn’t know who Barnes is, and he’s not sure that it matters, but he does remember. That name, said a hundred times a hundred different ways.
—His ma, pulling out the middle name when she found him stealing a finger of his dad’s whiskey—
—His little sister, proudly introducing him to the schoolyard bully who was so much bigger than her—
—Saying it himself as he holds out his hand to help a small boy up from the dust—
—Steve—
Something clicks into place in his brain, but the flashes are so fast that he doesn’t know what. It doesn’t matter. He has to finish the mission. He has to take out the target, protect Hydra. The Soldier feels off balance, but he keeps fighting, taking no notice of his bruises or his dislocated right shoulder. The target’s face sparks more flashes, so he strikes at it with his metal fist.
—until the end of the line—
And then they’re falling.
The next thing the Soldier knows is that he’s dragging the target out of the water, saving his life. The world— the real world, not his memories— comes in flashes after that. His head is hurting and his body is moving on autopilot.
He steals clothes to conceal his armor and battered body.
He catches a ride under a semi truck for miles down a highway, clinging with his metal fingers.
Days pass, weeks maybe. He steals food when the pain in his stomach becomes too annoying.
He sleeps occasionally, or maybe passes out.
He staggers into a safe house and finds inside it a fragmented strike team. Strike teams know what to do with the Soldier.
“May as well, right? Who knows, we might even soil him so bad his precious Captain won’t want him.” The Soldier is too out of it to register the words, but he tries to place the tone of voice. The strike teams used to love him, but he expects them to hate him for failing. He knows what hatred is— being left alone, stunned, frozen. But instead they’re touching him, taking him to another room of the building and staying with him. Maybe they forgive him for his failure.
The Soldier’s awareness comes back as the agents gleefully tear his clothes off. He remembers this, and he needs it to mean something.
“No,” he says. They ignore his words and keep going and this— this is more than he ever dared to hope for. He hates their touch, but they don’t stop no matter what he says. They still love him. He sags a little in relief.
“Aw, gross, his shoulder’s still out.”
“You gonna put it back in?”
“No way, have you heard the sound that makes? Eurgh. You do it.”
“Sissy. Now, hold still,” the agent says. The Soldier does. He doesn’t move even a little, even as he twists and slams the Soldier’s shoulder back into place.
—Hold still, Buck, I know this is gonna sting but I gotta clean the cut—
Then the strike agents drop the Soldier to his knees and force his mouth open. The one who had fixed his shoulder thrusts into his mouth, and he can’t say ‘no’ in this position, but he can grunt and twist. He has to try to get away, because otherwise this doesn’t mean anything.
The man at his mouth holds him in place by the hair, and another moves around to his back. His rough touch slides down the Soldier’s spine, between his legs, and inside where it hurts to touch.
The Soldier can handle pain, if it proves that he is still loved.
A minute later the agent behind him thrusts inside, and he screams despite the obstruction in his mouth. He allows himself to cry, using his tears as a tacit objection that he hopes the agents will understand. They do, probably, because they laugh and thrust harder, until the one in his mouth finishes and another takes his place.
The Soldier chokes and tries to swallow, grateful for their forgiveness of his failure.
Then there is a crash outside the room and the one in his mouth pulls out. It feels like more than just his body is pulling out of the Soldier’s mouth— it feels like the agent is pulling out his forgiveness as well. “No!” the Soldier cries, desperately wanting it back. He needs to be loved, he needs—
“Stop!” a voice cries, a voice that the Soldier knows. It is the voice that shocked him out of sync with the world, the voice that haunts his flashes. The voice that means everything.
—Steve—
—No, Steve, come on, you know it’d be so much easier if you did me the first time—
—Shut up, jerk, I know what I’m doing—
And then he knows who Steve is, and Steve is so important and Steve loves him. He remembers that Steve loves him, and then all the love these agents can offer isn’t enough. For the first time, he uses all his strength and skill on a Hydra agent, and he snaps the neck of the man behind him as he rolls to his feet. The others are already scrambling away, but they don’t matter, not when Steve loves him.
He walks forward, exhilarated by the thought that he is loved by someone who is everything and so important and so good.
“Steve,” he says, and he smiles for the first time in seventy years.
5+1 fill: 4: Strike
*
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” the target says, and the Soldier remembers. He doesn’t know who Barnes is, and he’s not sure that it matters, but he does remember. That name, said a hundred times a hundred different ways.
—His ma, pulling out the middle name when she found him stealing a finger of his dad’s whiskey—
—His little sister, proudly introducing him to the schoolyard bully who was so much bigger than her—
—Saying it himself as he holds out his hand to help a small boy up from the dust—
—Steve—
Something clicks into place in his brain, but the flashes are so fast that he doesn’t know what. It doesn’t matter. He has to finish the mission. He has to take out the target, protect Hydra. The Soldier feels off balance, but he keeps fighting, taking no notice of his bruises or his dislocated right shoulder. The target’s face sparks more flashes, so he strikes at it with his metal fist.
—until the end of the line—
And then they’re falling.
The next thing the Soldier knows is that he’s dragging the target out of the water, saving his life. The world— the real world, not his memories— comes in flashes after that. His head is hurting and his body is moving on autopilot.
He steals clothes to conceal his armor and battered body.
He catches a ride under a semi truck for miles down a highway, clinging with his metal fingers.
Days pass, weeks maybe. He steals food when the pain in his stomach becomes too annoying.
He sleeps occasionally, or maybe passes out.
He staggers into a safe house and finds inside it a fragmented strike team. Strike teams know what to do with the Soldier.
“May as well, right? Who knows, we might even soil him so bad his precious Captain won’t want him.” The Soldier is too out of it to register the words, but he tries to place the tone of voice. The strike teams used to love him, but he expects them to hate him for failing. He knows what hatred is— being left alone, stunned, frozen. But instead they’re touching him, taking him to another room of the building and staying with him. Maybe they forgive him for his failure.
The Soldier’s awareness comes back as the agents gleefully tear his clothes off. He remembers this, and he needs it to mean something.
“No,” he says. They ignore his words and keep going and this— this is more than he ever dared to hope for. He hates their touch, but they don’t stop no matter what he says. They still love him. He sags a little in relief.
“Aw, gross, his shoulder’s still out.”
“You gonna put it back in?”
“No way, have you heard the sound that makes? Eurgh. You do it.”
“Sissy. Now, hold still,” the agent says. The Soldier does. He doesn’t move even a little, even as he twists and slams the Soldier’s shoulder back into place.
—Hold still, Buck, I know this is gonna sting but I gotta clean the cut—
Then the strike agents drop the Soldier to his knees and force his mouth open. The one who had fixed his shoulder thrusts into his mouth, and he can’t say ‘no’ in this position, but he can grunt and twist. He has to try to get away, because otherwise this doesn’t mean anything.
The man at his mouth holds him in place by the hair, and another moves around to his back. His rough touch slides down the Soldier’s spine, between his legs, and inside where it hurts to touch.
The Soldier can handle pain, if it proves that he is still loved.
A minute later the agent behind him thrusts inside, and he screams despite the obstruction in his mouth. He allows himself to cry, using his tears as a tacit objection that he hopes the agents will understand. They do, probably, because they laugh and thrust harder, until the one in his mouth finishes and another takes his place.
The Soldier chokes and tries to swallow, grateful for their forgiveness of his failure.
Then there is a crash outside the room and the one in his mouth pulls out. It feels like more than just his body is pulling out of the Soldier’s mouth— it feels like the agent is pulling out his forgiveness as well. “No!” the Soldier cries, desperately wanting it back. He needs to be loved, he needs—
“Stop!” a voice cries, a voice that the Soldier knows. It is the voice that shocked him out of sync with the world, the voice that haunts his flashes. The voice that means everything.
—Steve—
—No, Steve, come on, you know it’d be so much easier if you did me the first time—
—Shut up, jerk, I know what I’m doing—
And then he knows who Steve is, and Steve is so important and Steve loves him. He remembers that Steve loves him, and then all the love these agents can offer isn’t enough. For the first time, he uses all his strength and skill on a Hydra agent, and he snaps the neck of the man behind him as he rolls to his feet. The others are already scrambling away, but they don’t matter, not when Steve loves him.
He walks forward, exhilarated by the thought that he is loved by someone who is everything and so important and so good.
“Steve,” he says, and he smiles for the first time in seventy years.
He can’t wait for Steve to prove his love.