Chapter Text
“ If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”
~Henry David Thoreau
There's a blast, and Bucky feels searing heat and pressure in his ears, and then he's weightless as he's forced away. He flails his arms out and grabs hold of a bar as the frigid air whips around him. His heart’s pounding in his chest and he can't seem to catch his breath.
He looks up and Steve's desperately reaching for him, and Bucky calms because Steve's there, and Steve will save him just like he always does.
There's a sharp crack and then someone is screaming, screaming, and Bucky is weightless again, but this time he's scared because he knows there's nothing but sky underneath him. Steve is shouting, but the sharp wind carries his words away. Bucky watches Steve’s mouth move as he falls and thinks about how he never got to find out if his lips were as soft as they always looked.
He falls and falls and thinks of Steve, and he wishes he would just fucking hit the ground already, Christ almighty. And then he does.
He wakes, disoriented, and there's pain on his left side, pain and blood. Bright red blood on crisp snow, trailing away from him like a lazy mountain stream. He's moving somehow but his legs are still, and fear blossoms sharp in his chest before he passes out and the darkness claims him.
He wakes. He's lying on a metal table, arm and legs restrained. The room is spinning violently, and his stomach cramps. He tastes bile at the back of his throat, but then a shadow across the room moves toward him and he swallows heavily, closes his eyes, and wills the room to stop spinning. When he opens his eyes again, the shadow has turned into a man. The man moves toward him, one side of his mouth curling up into a smile.
“It is good to see you awake, comrade. We weren't sure you would pull through,” he says in heavily accented English.
“Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”
The man laughs. “We are on the same side, comrade! There's no need for formalities.”
He smiles. Bucky thinks he's trying to be reassuring, but he looks wolfish instead. Bucky’s stomach tightens, and a chill runs down his spine. No. Not again. He turns his face toward the ceiling.
“Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 33557038.”
Bucky watches as the man takes a step back, his smile gone as he silently assesses Bucky. He nods once, respectfully, saying “suit yourself” as he moves over to a tray of medical supplies. He picks up a hypodermic needle and sticks it into Bucky’s arm.
“Goodnight, Barnes, James Buchanan. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Bucky only has a moment to panic before he slips into oblivion.
He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately. The room tilts violently, and his stomach churns. His left side feels heavy, but that can’t be right. His arm’s gone, he should feel light. He risks a glance and sees a hand, an elbow. Metal. Shiny, glorious metal, and it’s sleek and gorgeous and it’s all wrong. It’s wrong, and Bucky doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want it, and he’s filled with hot rage, so he lashes out. He kicks and thrashes, but he’s not used to the new weight of his arm, and he’s still weak from the fall, so he’s easily subdued.
The man comes to stand by his side, wearing a white lab coat and holding some sort of book. He’s wearing his wolfish smile again, and Bucky wants to punch it off his smug face.
“How fitting of you to wake at daybreak, comrade; a new day, a new start.”
“I’m not your comrade,” Bucky spits. “You said before that we’re on the same side. So why haven’t you returned me to my unit?”
The man laughs. “Yes, I’m sure you’re longing for your friends and your home. One day perhaps you will see them again. But we both know today is not that day. Nor will tomorrow be. Not nine days, not seventeen. No, your homecoming will not be for a very long time yet.”
Bucky growls as he reaches for the man. He hears laughter as he slips into the darkness once again.
He wakes a few hours later, bracing himself for vertigo as he opens his eyes. It never comes. No nausea, no pain at all, in fact. He feels...almost good, which is worrisome because he just had a metal fucking arm surgically attached to his body. Shouldn’t he be weaker?
He looks around the room. He’s lying on a narrow bed in a small white room. There’s a thick window on one wall framed by threadbare white curtains, a small table with one chair against another wall. He’s alone. Standing up, he moves to the window to see if it opens. Maybe he can escape. The window doesn’t open. It’s too thick. Maybe if he hits it with his metal arm it will break.
He raises his arm and looks out the window. There’s a large tree a little ways away, and it’s budding. The grass is starting to green again, and there’s no snow in sight.
No, that can’t be right, Bucky thinks. It should be winter still. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his head, and he drops to his knees..
He wakes. There’s a tray of food on the table, a copy of “Crime and Punishment” next to the tray. He picks it up and starts reading. He’s three chapters in before he realizes it’s in Russian. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his head, and he drops to his knees.
He wakes. He’s drenched with sweat. The room is sweltering. He moves to the window to see if it opens. If it opens, there will be a breeze, and he can escape the heat that way. Or...just escape. Yes, maybe he can escape. The window doesn’t open, though. It’s too thick. Maybe if he hits it with his metal arm, it will break. He clenches his fist and raises his arm and freezes. There are voices outside his door. Two men enter the room, and they apologize for the heat.
“A rusted furnace went haywire and turned itself on. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t summer and already hot. But don’t worry. It’s been taken care of. The temperature should start going down now. Have a nice day!” one of them says.
They turn and leave the room. Bucky looks out the window and sees the leaves, lush and full on the tree. He wonders how they grew so fast when they were just budding a few days ago. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his head, and he drops to his knees.
He wakes. He sits up and brushes the hair from his face. It tickles his nose, making him sneeze. He runs his flesh fingers through it a few times before tucking it behind his ears with a soft sigh. He doubts even the SSR would let him get away with such anti-regulation long hair. The thought of Phillips’ sour face when he sees Bucky’s hair makes him chuckle.
Wait. Why is his hair so long suddenly? He’s only been here, what, a few days? It’s felt like a few days. Two weeks, tops. Surely not more than that? He thinks of the tree outside and runs to the window. The leaves are golden, beautiful in their dying throes.
“No. No, no no no no no no!” he shouts, banging his hands on the thick glass of the window. Surely if he hits hard enough he can break the window and escape.
The door bursts open after his third hit, and it takes five men to restrain him in his rage. The man in the white lab coat walks in, and Bucky’s stomach drops.
“You. What did you do to me? Why can’t I remember anything?”
The man smiles his wolfish smile. Bucky closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it.
The man says, “You can’t remember because it is of little consequence. What we have done so far is of little consequence. But, oh, what we’re going to do to you next. We are going to transform you, James, into something more. You will be the terror in the night, death’s silent shadow. You will be the Winter Soldier.”
Then the pain starts.
He wakes. The room he’s in is large and dim. The smell of blood hangs thickly in the stale air. He hears water dripping, pat pat pat, pat pat pat , but he can’t locate the source. The room is hot, and he feels sweat cascading down his back, feels it streaking down his face. A door opens, and he raises his hand to block the blinding light that spills in. There’s a man silhouetted in the doorway who pauses before entering the room and walking forward. Bucky starts to lower his hand, freezing halfway. His knuckles are scraped and bloodied. He checks his other hand. Those knuckles are bloody, too. He looks up when the man stops a few feet away.
“What did I do?” he asks desperately.
The man smiles.
“What did I do? Tell me what I did!!” he shouts.
“You don’t remember?” the man asks.
“No, I don’t. What did I do? Why don’t I remember?”
The man’s smile widens. “Excellent. The treatment is working better than we anticipated.”
Bucky feels his blood run cold. Not again. Christ in heaven, not again.
“What treatment? He hisses.
“Goodnight, soldat .”
“What treatment?!” Bucky shouts.
“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen…”
“Answer me, god damnit!”
“...Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign…”
Bucky clenches his fists and stalks toward the man, ready to beat an answer out of him.
“...Homecoming, One…
He raises his fist.
“...Freight Car.”
Darkness.
He wakes. The room he’s in is large and dim. The smell of blood hangs thickly in the stale air. There’s water dripping, pat pat pat, pat pat pat , somewhere to his left. The room is hot, and he feels sweat cascading down his back, feels it streaking down his face. A door opens, and he raises his hand to block the light that spills in. There’s a man silhouetted in the doorway who pauses before entering the room and walking forward. Bucky starts to lower his hand, freezing halfway; there’s dried blood under his fingernails. He checks his other hand. The metal is clean. He looks up when the man stops a few feet away.
“What did I do?” he asks.
The man smiles.
“Tell me what I did.”
“You don’t remember?” the man asks.
“No, I don’t. What did I do?”
The man’s smile widens.
Bucky narrows his eyes.
“Goodnight, soldat .”
“Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign…”
Bucky feels an itch under his skin; there’s something he’s supposed to be doing now, right now, but he can’t remember what it is. Fight? Run? Why can’t he remember ?
“...Homecoming, One…
Bucky’s head snaps us. Escape!
“...Freight Car.”
Darkness.
He wakes. The room he’s in is large, windowless, and dim. The smell of blood and gunpowder hang thickly in the stale air. There’s water dripping, pat pat pat, pat pat pat , ten feet northwest of him. The room is hot, and he feels a bead of sweat slowly crawl down his face. The dried blood on his fingers is making them itch, but he holds them still. Light spills into the room as a door opens, and he steps further into the shadows. There’s a man silhouetted in the doorway who pauses before entering the room and walking to the center, where he stops. The man smiles.
The man’s smile widens.
Bucky narrows his eyes.
“Goodnight, soldat .”
“Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign…”
Bucky feels an itch under his skin; there’s something he’s supposed to be doing now, right now, but he can’t remember what it is.
“...Homecoming, One, Freight Car.”
Darkness.
He wakes. The room he’s in is large and windowless. The smell of blood, gunpowder, and fear hang thickly in the stale air. There’s water dripping, pat pat pat, pat pat pat , near the wall ten feet northwest of him. The room is hot. There’s blood slowly dripping from his left hand, pat...pat...pat. He wipes his hand on his pants to stop the sound. Light spills into the room as a door opens, and he steps further into the shadows. There’s a man silhouetted in the doorway who pauses before entering the room and walking to the center, where he stops and looks around. He scans the room once, twice, letting his eyes acclimate to the gloom. The man smiles.
“I know you’re here, soldat. ” The man waits.
Bucky slinks behind the man and stops, watching as the man turns toward him, beaming. Bucky feels an itch beneath his skin, but he pushes it down.
“You’re ready,” the man says. “Come.”
He leads Bucky into a different room, bigger, with high ceilings and dark corners. There’s a glass tube against one wall with various hoses and knobs and nozzles. There are a handful of people milling about trying to look busy, but Bucky can see them glancing nervously in his direction.
In the middle of the room sits a large chair with restraints and a metal halo. The man leads Bucky to it. A woman with cold eyes joins them. “We’ll have better results if we wipe him after he comes out of cryofreeze, not before,” she says. “A clean slate.” The man thinks for a moment and nods his head, acquiescing. He turns to Bucky. “Something to look forward to,” he says, chuckling darkly.
They lead Bucky back to the glass tube. He glowers at the two technicians who try not to tremble as they wipe the blood from his metal arm, as they undress and redress him in a tight sleeveless jumpsuit.
The woman pushes a small lever and the glass tube opens with a light hiss. She gestures to the opening and Bucky steps inside. “Face the other way,” she says, and Bucky turns around so he’s facing her. She pulls the lever back down, and the glass closes. Bucky feels his heart rate spike, and he takes a few deep breaths to slow it back down again. The woman starts fiddling with an instrument panel, adjusting knobs and pushing buttons. Bucky watches her.
“Phase Two ready,” she says.
The man steps into Bucky’s line of sight. He raises his hand and trails it down the glass fondly as he says, “and now the real work begins. Goodnight, soldat. ” He nods, and the woman presses a large red button.
White mist fills the chamber, hissing and crackling in Bucky’s ears. It’s bitterly cold, and Bucky feels his heart rate slow, his breathing shallow. He feels fuzzy. He thinks of red blood on deep white snow. He thinks of golden hair and silver bullets. He thinks of flying cars and fast trains. The cold gives way to white-hot agony, and he clenches his teeth and bites back a scream as his body freezes and he’s plunged into darkness yet again.