#captured.

[ray0079]

[ray0079]

[sgtbarnacle-archive-blog]

sometimesiamthemonster:

   ”I’m very aware of what you do to the ‘other guys,’ and moreso concerned with what they do to you.” Ji’s got this look on his face, his dark eyes seizing Bucky and his wounds up in a calculating manner.

  There was only so many times he could keep returning with the man while he was covered in blood before they started questioning the value of him as a handler.

   ”I believe the American term is ‘You look like shit.’ Come here and let me attempt to patch this mess up.”

"I don't need your help," he groused. "Most of the blood's not even mine." An outright lie - or maybe not, he hadn't really been keeping track.

"I just need a shower." And to lie down for a while, maybe, let whatever had his head swimming and searing in pain heal up. That's why he'd come back to the house first thing; didn't want medics poking and prodding him when he felt like shit and probably didn't need their attention anyway.

[sgtbarnacle-archive-blog]

Mission A | sometimesiamthemonster

True to his word, Han had worked HYDRA over to the Soldier's favour. They didn't give him a house of his own, not at first, but after the first initial hours he was essentially left alone. A minimal guard was all he was given, time to recuperate and to read up on his files. Eventually, even a medical team who treated him like a human being, although they were nervous around him still. He hadn't decided yet if that was something he wanted to change.

Overall, he was given what he asked for, what he needed. Time, and answers, many of which did not paint HYDRA in a positive light. In the space they provided him, he warred with himself. Part of him reasoned that he had his answers now, that there was no reason to stay. But a dark, quiet part whispered back, in scared syllables he would not admit to: They had taken care of him. They would provide. This was what he wanted. This was the right choice.

Days passed. They gave him their conditions, and, unsure still what else he might do, he accepted. Moving into the house, along with his liason, kept his mind busy, gave him something to do while peripherally gears still turned. There wasn't a great deal of down time after, however, as his first assignment arrived mere hours after they'd settled in. Again, undecided, he accepted.

It was practically routine, practically an insult, but he understood that they wanted to test the waters. Doing so was a good idea. This would give him a chance to test his footing with them, as well. A team came by his home and ushered him away to field prep, where he was given his choice of an entire arsenal of weapons and introduced to the men who would be accompanying him. They were to take out an enemy facility. Survivors were not needed, not encouraged. Simple, straightforward.

As a compromise to choosing his team for this mission, they had provided him a direct line to his liason. Han would be staying back to communicate with him constantly, check up on his state, provide him with information as needed. While not within the line of fire, he would be with the Soldier every step of the way. An odd sense of security and comfort settled into him as he secured the earpiece, and thanks was on the tip of his tongue when they called ready and ushered the team onto the plane.

Once there, James ignored their request to sit with the rest of the team and, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, trudged through the corridors. In part to see if they'd set the man up here, in proximity, in part to check its validity for the mission they were on, but mostly simply to see how they'd react. Testing the waters, testing them.

[sgtbarnacle-archive-blog]

They had found him. He had tried to hide, tried to run, tried to take time to find himself and his head. He had put up a hell of a fight, but they had won. That it had been a small victory was what kept him going strong, the need to continue to give them hell, to struggle battle after battle until he won the war. What his final stance was, even he did not know, but there were things he held tight to now. A promise, if not an identity, words and anger and trust. Glimpses of memory, shattered reflections of a self he was determined to create anew. Although he knew very little, he knew with utter certainty that he would never be owned by them again. To find himself back here was here a serious blow, but not one he could not deal with. Despite their best efforts, he had made a very big impression to this effect, had proved to them that he was no longer simply their tool. More than one had died in the effort to take him in, and he was still here, resilient, if wounded. Barely more than a chained beast, and only just contained. Let them threaten him all they liked, send in every mam they had at their disposal; he would not go down quietly. Eventually, they had accepted this fact. And so he sat, wrists chained to a heavy table, guns surrounding him, wielded by terrified eyes. They were right to be afraid. His patience would cost them dearly.