One week had passed since Natasha and Sam had had to rescue Steve from a grimy old safe house in Eastern Europe. He’d warned them once not to say one goddamn word about killing Bucky and refused to talk about it since.
Not talking about it didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking about it. Hardly a minute went by without some piece of the event replaying itself in his head. He’d found Bucky, finally tracked him down after months of searching, and the sight of his best friend had nearly broken his heart. Bucky had crouched at the back of the safe house when Steve entered, wild-eyed and spitting words in Russian that Steve barely understood. So Steve had groped through his mind for the scraps of Russian he’d picked up off Natasha and tried to soothe Bucky with whispered nonsense and outstretched, empty palms.
Boy, had that backfired on him.
Natasha and Sam both had tried to convince him to go home, to leave the rest of the hunt to them. Natasha by appealing to his sense of duty, with reminders of the mess he’d left behind after SHIELD fell, and the Hydra hidey-holes that almost surely existed back in the US that could use someone like him taking them out. Sam had taken a different approach, all concern that Steve was burning himself out, reminders that he needed rest and couldn’t actually take on the whole world by himself. Steve had protested that he wasn’t trying to take on the whole world, just find Bucky. Sam’s answering glare said plainly enough what he thought of that excuse.
Steve couldn’t find it in himself to argue that Bucky wasn’t his world, not when it would have been so obviously a lie. Sam had given up after one more this isn’t healthy, man. I can’t stop you, but I can sure as hell disapprove.
Now, they refused to leave him alone. When one of them was out searching for information, the other stayed firmly planted at Steve’s side. Right now, that meant Natasha sitting at the little table in his hotel room, ostensibly reading over the few files they’d managed to obtain on the Winter Soldier. On Bucky. She’d memorized those files ages ago, though, and today her eyes hadn’t moved since she sat down, nor had she flipped a single page.
Finally, the silence must have gotten to her. “I don’t understand!” she said, still sitting stock-still at the table. Steve only quirked an eyebrow in her direction, determined to wait her out. “He hurt you, Steve,” she said, and Steve ignored the relief that she’d said hurt, and not another four letter word. “He hurt you, and left you for us to find, and it’s been months! More than long enough for him to remember something if he was going to, but his default response to seeing you was that and you still think that he's your friend!” She finally looked at Steve, before repeating, “I don’t understand.”
“It wasn’t him,” Steve said, meeting her eyes. He’d had plenty of time to think over what had happened, and while Hydra still managed to shock him with their perverse disregard for any kind of decency, he had come up with an explanation. “He was speaking Russian,” Steve continued, “so I thought maybe I could try to calm him down. Only my Russian’s a little rusty, and I must have said a trigger phrase. He wasn’t dangerous till after I started speaking.”
Steve knew he sounded desperate, and he was. He was also, however, convinced that he was right. Whatever had happened back at that safe house was his own fault, not Bucky’s. Bucky’d been used by those sick bastards for years, and it only made sense they would have trigger phrases for things Steve would never have imagined.
“What did you say?” Natasha asked. Steve resented the way her voice had gone gentle at the question. No matter what Bucky had done to him, he wasn’t the one who needed pity and compassion. Natasha, of course, remained as impervious as usual to his glare.
Steve told her what he’d said, as best as he could remember. He was certain his accent was mangling the words in all new ways, but hopefully Natasha would be able to make something useful of it anyway. About halfway through, she said, “Stop,” and he could see her repeating his last words to herself, rolling them across her tongue and teasing out how they might have sounded to a confused, brainwashed assassin from the 40s.
She looked away from him again when she said, “I think I know what the phrase was. There was… a similar phrase in the Red Room. A phrase to make us compliant for the handlers. There were… rumors… that there was another, similar phrase, for the Soldier. One for when he was interrogating prisoners, and the higher ups wanted to have a little fun.” Steve could imagine Sam in his head, telling him that it wasn’t his fault. He was glad Natasha was with him instead.
Before he could be too glad, however, Natasha’s phone rang. It was Sam’s ringtone, and their conversation was brief. From Natasha’s few terse words, Steve picked up on the important information, anyway.
“Sam found Bucky,” he said, when Natasha hung up. It was not a question.
Natasha considered him. “You’re not going to stay here, are you?” she asked. Steve shook his head.
“Fine,” she said. “But I do the talking, and you do not engage.”
“Sure,” he said, grabbing his jacket to follow her out the door. Both were fully aware he would ignore her orders as soon as it was convenient to do so, but she probably hoped Sam’s presence wherever they were going would help keep Steve on a leash. He let her keep her illusions, for now.
Fill: Pull the Trigger [2/?]
Not talking about it didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking about it. Hardly a minute went by without some piece of the event replaying itself in his head. He’d found Bucky, finally tracked him down after months of searching, and the sight of his best friend had nearly broken his heart. Bucky had crouched at the back of the safe house when Steve entered, wild-eyed and spitting words in Russian that Steve barely understood. So Steve had groped through his mind for the scraps of Russian he’d picked up off Natasha and tried to soothe Bucky with whispered nonsense and outstretched, empty palms.
Boy, had that backfired on him.
Natasha and Sam both had tried to convince him to go home, to leave the rest of the hunt to them. Natasha by appealing to his sense of duty, with reminders of the mess he’d left behind after SHIELD fell, and the Hydra hidey-holes that almost surely existed back in the US that could use someone like him taking them out. Sam had taken a different approach, all concern that Steve was burning himself out, reminders that he needed rest and couldn’t actually take on the whole world by himself. Steve had protested that he wasn’t trying to take on the whole world, just find Bucky. Sam’s answering glare said plainly enough what he thought of that excuse.
Steve couldn’t find it in himself to argue that Bucky wasn’t his world, not when it would have been so obviously a lie. Sam had given up after one more this isn’t healthy, man. I can’t stop you, but I can sure as hell disapprove.
Now, they refused to leave him alone. When one of them was out searching for information, the other stayed firmly planted at Steve’s side. Right now, that meant Natasha sitting at the little table in his hotel room, ostensibly reading over the few files they’d managed to obtain on the Winter Soldier. On Bucky. She’d memorized those files ages ago, though, and today her eyes hadn’t moved since she sat down, nor had she flipped a single page.
Finally, the silence must have gotten to her. “I don’t understand!” she said, still sitting stock-still at the table. Steve only quirked an eyebrow in her direction, determined to wait her out. “He hurt you, Steve,” she said, and Steve ignored the relief that she’d said hurt, and not another four letter word. “He hurt you, and left you for us to find, and it’s been months! More than long enough for him to remember something if he was going to, but his default response to seeing you was that and you still think that he's your friend!” She finally looked at Steve, before repeating, “I don’t understand.”
“It wasn’t him,” Steve said, meeting her eyes. He’d had plenty of time to think over what had happened, and while Hydra still managed to shock him with their perverse disregard for any kind of decency, he had come up with an explanation. “He was speaking Russian,” Steve continued, “so I thought maybe I could try to calm him down. Only my Russian’s a little rusty, and I must have said a trigger phrase. He wasn’t dangerous till after I started speaking.”
Steve knew he sounded desperate, and he was. He was also, however, convinced that he was right. Whatever had happened back at that safe house was his own fault, not Bucky’s. Bucky’d been used by those sick bastards for years, and it only made sense they would have trigger phrases for things Steve would never have imagined.
“What did you say?” Natasha asked. Steve resented the way her voice had gone gentle at the question. No matter what Bucky had done to him, he wasn’t the one who needed pity and compassion. Natasha, of course, remained as impervious as usual to his glare.
Steve told her what he’d said, as best as he could remember. He was certain his accent was mangling the words in all new ways, but hopefully Natasha would be able to make something useful of it anyway. About halfway through, she said, “Stop,” and he could see her repeating his last words to herself, rolling them across her tongue and teasing out how they might have sounded to a confused, brainwashed assassin from the 40s.
She looked away from him again when she said, “I think I know what the phrase was. There was… a similar phrase in the Red Room. A phrase to make us compliant for the handlers. There were… rumors… that there was another, similar phrase, for the Soldier. One for when he was interrogating prisoners, and the higher ups wanted to have a little fun.” Steve could imagine Sam in his head, telling him that it wasn’t his fault. He was glad Natasha was with him instead.
Before he could be too glad, however, Natasha’s phone rang. It was Sam’s ringtone, and their conversation was brief. From Natasha’s few terse words, Steve picked up on the important information, anyway.
“Sam found Bucky,” he said, when Natasha hung up. It was not a question.
Natasha considered him. “You’re not going to stay here, are you?” she asked. Steve shook his head.
“Fine,” she said. “But I do the talking, and you do not engage.”
“Sure,” he said, grabbing his jacket to follow her out the door. Both were fully aware he would ignore her orders as soon as it was convenient to do so, but she probably hoped Sam’s presence wherever they were going would help keep Steve on a leash. He let her keep her illusions, for now.