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YOU ARE THE REASON
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@wintersergeant-blog
Due to a desperate need for a reboot, wintersergeant can now be found over at wintersteel! Your favorite foul-mouthed Howling Commando and the silent Soldier have received a much-needed facelift, so head on over there and help me get started again!
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
“A myth?” He repeated her words, disbelief written all over his face though his pitch never changed. “Don’t tell me lies now, Natasha — you know more than you’re letting on, and I understood it before but I can’t now. I get that SHIELD would have had you cut off if you told me anything then, but now that I’m asking about us, just us and nothing more-…how can you still sit there and tell me lies?” He wasn’t angry — he was tired and hurt and sick of not knowing who he was, and for once, he wanted Natasha’s honesty and nothing else.
She was there, in his head, still looking beautiful and deadly. She almost looked more so in the filter his mind cast on those memories, like she was worth more to him than silver and gold; and he couldn’t understand why. What was she to him back then? She obviously knew more than she gave out, perhaps more than SHIELD knew; and this would be his only chance to find out. So yes, maybe he was a bit on the desperate side.
Natasha avoided meeting his gaze, just as she was avoiding the hurt in his eyes. She took a moment to breathe, gather and compose herself. “No lies, James.” She looked back up at him to further signal her sincerity. “That Winter Soldier file Fury has contains all the information he could find.” Which was the same as saying he had gathered all the information that exists. “Security footage corresponding with sanctions and accidents critical to the Cold War, the only proof of the Winter Soldier’s existence.” Natasha chose her words carefully, calling him the Winter Soldier and not ‘you’, something she had observed from his own speech patterns. There wasn’t much more she could say. He already knew what he’d done, and even Natasha wasn’t well-versed in those affairs. He had truly been a myth. Fury once called him the boogeyman of the Cold War. No, Natasha only knew about the man she had known and loved, and the time they had spent together. She did her best to remind herself that the man sitting with her now was not the man in her memories, and thus that information was rendered useless, or at least she intended to regard it as such.
Bucky's head hurt, and he called for another shot to ease it. He drank this one faster than the rest, and for a minute, he relished the burn as it traveled down his throat. It helped him feel alive, he thought, the burn of damaged living cells irritated by the flow of caustic alcohol. He sighed lightly at the empty feeling in his own body, turning to gaze at Natasha with a new look of murky confusion and a bit of ominous intent in his eyes. It was a different kind of ominous, he knew this -- different from the ominous there when he threatened to take her down if she was tapped into SHIELD for this discussion.
She really was beautiful, he thought. Almost radiant, like in his memories of her. She had longer hair then, smaller hips, thinner legs. Winter wasn't kind, and so, neither was the man named for it.
Ты была ее жизнь до этого. Вы тренировались ее.
"So you're saying that you have no idea why you're showing up in my memories? Why you've always shown up in my memories?" he asked evenly, voice dangerously quiet and eyes strangely bright as he shifted a bit closer to her. Every fiber of his being was hanging on her answer, tense and riled-up and beyond wanting it. Nothing outside of the battlefield had ever made his heart race like this before.
How in the flying fuck has my recent shit caused me to lose a follower?
More importantly, why the hell do I care?
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
Bucky visibly relaxed at Natasha’s response, and the tension in the bar seemed to drain away. He didn’t want to hurt her; he speculated that his threat had been completely empty in spite of how much he hated SHIELD for keeping everything from him. But the Bucky Barnes he thought he was was a firecracker, volatile and fun-loving and impetuous; he was only halfway this sullen and level-headed Winter Soldier character.
“Most everything about the missions,” he began, voice thin and hoarse but carrying none of the intent from before. “Who I killed, why and when and how. What I used to do it. What they called me. What they did to me to keep me young, to control me. And you…” His gaze met hers, searched it for some answer, pleading for it. “You’re there, too. With me, killing people.” He found himself turning towards her, tilting his head to the side as he watched her, as if the change in angle would give him the answers he so desperately wanted from her.
“Who am I?” he asked, voice weak and drained, as if the emotional upheaval from explaining all this sucked the energy right out of him. This was followed by the far more pressing question:
“What are we?”
The tension eased from her frame as she watched him relax. Of course her caution didn’t let up completely, she was in no position to let her guard down, and even if Natasha wanted to trust him she couldn’t risk it. Some sympathetic part of her ached and she did her best not to pay attention to it. Then she was mentioned. Killing. Nothing more. He remained oblivious to the little light they had shared during dark times. However, she could, in fact, imagine what it was like for him to remember all these things, what he’d done, so much time long forgotten. She saw no reason why she should impose more memories on him now. No, they would only make him uncomfortable, those feelings had long passed and they were best left buried with everything else. So she pushed the thoughts and feelings into the deep of her mind, deciding that those details in particular weren’t relevant to the past nor the present.
Natasha’s features were far less stoic now, as she felt her heart flutter weakly in time with his words and remembered speaking the very same questions herself, when she couldn’t tell which of her realities was the one they had programmed her with. “You were a myth, James.” She offered a sad smile along with the words. “That’s all I know.”
"A myth?" He repeated her words, disbelief written all over his face though his pitch never changed. "Don't tell me lies now, Natasha -- you know more than you're letting on, and I understood it before but I can't now. I get that SHIELD would have had you cut off if you told me anything then, but now that I'm asking about us, just us and nothing more-...how can you still sit there and tell me lies?" He wasn't angry -- he was tired and hurt and sick of not knowing who he was, and for once, he wanted Natasha's honesty and nothing else.
She was there, in his head, still looking beautiful and deadly. She almost looked more so in the filter his mind cast on those memories, like she was worth more to him than silver and gold; and he couldn't understand why. What was she to him back then? She obviously knew more than she gave out, perhaps more than SHIELD knew; and this would be his only chance to find out. So yes, maybe he was a bit on the desperate side.
Important character-changing plot ahoy, yo
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
“Don’t know, didn’t have time to find out,” Bucky replied gruffly. He’d known that if she knew anything, she wouldn’t show it; she was too good at what she did for that. “I just took him out, no questions asked. SHIELD likes me because I don’t question what they tell me to do — it’s the old soldier in me.”
He smiled ruefully at that. A good soldier does what he’s told; maybe that made him a bad man, but Steve had always been the good man out of the two of them, and Bucky liked that just fine. Somebody had to get their hands dirty while Cap showed the Press a smile and a wave. “But anyhow, they kept me prisoner for a month and a half…and I tried to get away using every trick I could. But they knew all my tricks, countered every single one of them without batting an eye. I was starting to think I wouldn’t ever make it out. But, of course, Cap came and got me.” Steve was always getting him out of sticky situations, which was something Bucky was sheepish about but still held a bit of pride for, pride that little Steve was the one saving him these days.
“Still…they told me things, made me remember things.” His tone went dark, and he looked up at Natasha with something like understanding and a bit of bitterness in his eyes. They hadn’t told him everything, he suspected, but he understood why SHIELD had him seeing three head-shrinks and kept extra security around whenever he was called in. He understood why Fury kept the file labeled ‘Winter Soldier’ in the bottom drawer of his desk, where nobody could get their hands on it. ”I’m sorry I lied to you about it before, but I didn’t want to tell you with SHIELD ears listening. And so help me, if you have a bug on you and they’re listening now, I will break you.” It was just a warning; he knew Natasha trusted SHIELD about as much as he did, but with everything that had been kept from him, he didn’t know who he could trust outside of Steve. And he doubted he could overcome Natasha, but with everything he now knew he was capable of, he knew he could damn well try. He felt his metal hand clench his thigh until he knew the flesh was bruised, and the air in this pleasant Brooklyn bar suddenly felt much colder.
“I know about the Winter Soldier. I know that he’s me.”
All Natasha could do was sit and listen, and as his explanation progressed her jaw would tense, word by word her expression would darken. All the memories -real or implanted, she could never tell- he had unwittingly brought back from her subconscious now came alight with new colors. Under some other circumstance she might have smiled in nostalgia, however he had set her too much on edge for that. The buildup was quite obvious, not to mention intense. When he had threatened her it was all she could do not to visibly shudder. James had been cold, yes, mechanical even, but never this harsh and certainly not cruel, not to her. This realization allowed her to reconnect with the reality of the situation, and to some extent disconnect herself emotionally. Her gaze flickered to the hand that was clenching his thigh, never having forgotten that it was metal, and she breathed deeply. As far as she could tell he had no hostile intentions, but there was no way of knowing what they might have done to him or, more specifically, his head while he was held capture by the very same people who had brought them together so many years ago.
Taking another deep breath Natasha exhaled with a sigh and gave a curt nod. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way.” She replied stiffly, anything but comfortable in this situation, but there was no point in denying anything now. “How much do you remember?” Neither was there any point in keeping the rest from him, perhaps she could fill in some details, Natasha felt that was the least she could do for him now.
Bucky visibly relaxed at Natasha's response, and the tension in the bar seemed to drain away. He didn't want to hurt her; he speculated that his threat had been completely empty in spite of how much he hated SHIELD for keeping everything from him. But the Bucky Barnes he thought he was was a firecracker, volatile and fun-loving and impetuous; he was only halfway this sullen and level-headed Winter Soldier character.
"Most everything about the missions," he began, voice thin and hoarse but carrying none of the intent from before. "Who I killed, why and when and how. What I used to do it. What they called me. What they did to me to keep me young, to control me. And you..." His gaze met hers, searched it for some answer, pleading for it. "You're there, too. With me, killing people." He found himself turning towards her, tilting his head to the side as he watched her, as if the change in angle would give him the answers he so desperately wanted from her.
"Who am I?" he asked, voice weak and drained, as if the emotional upheaval from explaining all this sucked the energy right out of him. This was followed by the far more pressing question:
"What are we?"
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
Bucky took the shot like a champ, as he always did. The vodka stung his ragged throat as it went down; even if it was some of the smoothest vodka around, his throat had been rubbed raw from breathing in snow crystals and harsh Northern air, and putting alcohol on it was just salting the wounds. He winced a bit and set down his glass, then sat thoughtfully for a few moments, unable to look his companion in the eye.
After a moment to gather his thoughts, he glanced up at her and began.
“They sent me to Russia. SHIELD did, I mean. Some malarkey about treason, some idiot with secrets important to SHIELD I had to take down. But I’m convinced the whole thing was a setup…” He paused to take a deep breath, trying to quell the anger growing in his belly. After all, it wasn’t Natasha’s fault if SHIELD had set him up — she’d had no control over where they sent him and why. She was an agent, just like he was. “But anyway, I was carrying on with the mission as usual, even shot the bastard and cleaned up the mess; but on my way home, I got jumped by this group of Soviet fuckwads. They black-bagged me and held me prisoner for a month and a half, but that isn’t what perturbs me so; the creepy thing is that I understood every word they were saying. I’ve never spoke Russian a day in my life…at least, not the life I’ve known.”
He paused to take another shot, watching Natasha’s face carefully for any sign that what he was saying was hitting home anywhere. He suspected he wouldn’t find any answers there, so he sighed lightly and dropped the bombshell he knew he carried: “They called themselves Red Room. Ever heard of them?”
She watched her old companion knock back the drink and followed suit. Once the vodka had passed her lips she kept a somewhat straight face and focused on welcoming the familiar burning warmth spreading throughout her chest as if it was and old friend, too. Natasha’s not in the habit of drinking hard liquor anymore, and even if she was she wouldn’t have had the time or opportunity to indulge such a habit as of late.
Natasha listened intently, more so than she let on, with an open look and blank expression, carefully showing interest but not too much of it. She was also observing him attentively, not that he made an effort to hide much or keep his reactions from her, but already with the first sentence he had caught the majority of her attention, and her interest was certainly piqued.
At the mention of the Red Room her eyes might have narrowed a little, but she made sure that this was the only reaction to escape her. Natasha joined him in another shot, which served as a slight distraction as well as an opportunity to gather both herself and her thoughts, but she would still have to face his question. Well, there was no denying it. Natasha nodded, brows furrowed. “Soviet espionage training facility, thought to be inactive.”
She decided it wise not to comment further, but she also had questions of her own. “And your mark had no known ties to them?” Heads would surely roll if SHIELD had indeed set him up.
"Don't know, didn't have time to find out," Bucky replied gruffly. He'd known that if she knew anything, she wouldn't show it; she was too good at what she did for that. "I just took him out, no questions asked. SHIELD likes me because I don't question what they tell me to do -- it's the old soldier in me."
He smiled ruefully at that. A good soldier does what he's told; maybe that made him a bad man, but Steve had always been the good man out of the two of them, and Bucky liked that just fine. Somebody had to get their hands dirty while Cap showed the Press a smile and a wave. "But anyhow, they kept me prisoner for a month and a half...and I tried to get away using every trick I could. But they knew all my tricks, countered every single one of them without batting an eye. I was starting to think I wouldn't ever make it out. But, of course, Cap came and got me." Steve was always getting him out of sticky situations, which was something Bucky was sheepish about but still held a bit of pride for, pride that little Steve was the one saving him these days.
"Still...they told me things, made me remember things." His tone went dark, and he looked up at Natasha with something like understanding and a bit of bitterness in his eyes. They hadn't told him everything, he suspected, but he understood why SHIELD had him seeing three head-shrinks and kept extra security around whenever he was called in. He understood why Fury kept the file labeled 'Winter Soldier' in the bottom drawer of his desk, where nobody could get their hands on it. "I'm sorry I lied to you about it before, but I didn't want to tell you with SHIELD ears listening. And so help me, if you have a bug on you and they're listening now, I will break you." It was just a warning; he knew Natasha trusted SHIELD about as much as he did, but with everything that had been kept from him, he didn't know who he could trust outside of Steve. And he doubted he could overcome Natasha, but with everything he now knew he was capable of, he knew he could damn well try. He felt his metal hand clench his thigh until he knew the flesh was bruised, and the air in this pleasant Brooklyn bar suddenly felt much colder.
"I know about the Winter Soldier. I know that he's me."
Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck; some nights, I call it a draw. Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle; some nights, I wish they’d just fall off. But I still wake up, I still see your ghost -- oh Lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for, oh what do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know anymore!
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
He thought mildly that she was beautiful. And of course she was, all red curls and green eyes that seemed so damn familiar; but he still carried a torch for Steve, and he suspected that she kept a special place for Clint — they were always together, after all, but that could have been SHIELD protocol. So he pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on not looking so scrappy as she sat down beside him.
“You gonna keep your promise?” he asked, gesturing for the barkeep to pour them each a shot — Russian Standard, of course. “I intend to keep mine.” His eyes shone in the dim light of the bar. He’d been meaning to tell someone where he’d been sent; he’d been waiting for the right time to come along. It was important, and Steve wouldn’t understand.
But she would.
“I’ll tell you everything.”
“Of course.” She responded while already procuring a bill to leave on the bar. She had decided to let him do this at his own pace, letting him take the lead. Natasha would give him the opportunity to make sense of what he could, while helping him where it was possible. It didn’t matter that he no longer remembered the things they had experienced together; she wasn’t expecting things to be like they once were. A part of her wanted him to know, while another envied his ignorance. He might not share her memories, but they shared something, that much was undeniable, along with the fact that she still cared for him. However, no one could predict what consequences telling him would have and she appreciated that he was so tolerant of her predicament.
It didn’t pain her to see him like this, she made sure of that, but she had to admit to herself that the sight of him tugged at her heart. She’d never been completely cold hearted, in spite of popular belief, and after all he had been the first to discover that fact.
Natasha’s smile transformed into one of reassurance. “I’m listening.”
Bucky took the shot like a champ, as he always did. The vodka stung his ragged throat as it went down; even if it was some of the smoothest vodka around, his throat had been rubbed raw from breathing in snow crystals and harsh Northern air, and putting alcohol on it was just salting the wounds. He winced a bit and set down his glass, then sat thoughtfully for a few moments, unable to look his companion in the eye.
After a moment to gather his thoughts, he glanced up at her and began.
"They sent me to Russia. SHIELD did, I mean. Some malarkey about treason, some idiot with secrets important to SHIELD I had to take down. But I'm convinced the whole thing was a setup..." He paused to take a deep breath, trying to quell the anger growing in his belly. After all, it wasn't Natasha's fault if SHIELD had set him up -- she'd had no control over where they sent him and why. She was an agent, just like he was. "But anyway, I was carrying on with the mission as usual, even shot the bastard and cleaned up the mess; but on my way home, I got jumped by this group of Soviet fuckwads. They black-bagged me and held me prisoner for a month and a half, but that isn't what perturbs me so; the creepy thing is that I understood every word they were saying. I've never spoke Russian a day in my life...at least, not the life I've known."
He paused to take another shot, watching Natasha's face carefully for any sign that what he was saying was hitting home anywhere. He suspected he wouldn't find any answers there, so he sighed lightly and dropped the bombshell he knew he carried: "They called themselves Red Room. Ever heard of them?"
Well, FUCK.
After an exceedingly-long mission during which I may or may not have been held prisoner in a foreign country, I have returned.
And also, my shirt has opened? And I seem to have lost my shirt.
Well, this is awkward.
Awkward is right. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m agent Adler, and you are?
Sergeant James Barnes at your service, miss. SHIELD got you on a leash, too?
downxthexroad started following you
Hey! Welcome! You wouldn’t happen to have a shirt I can borrow, would you? This shirtlessness is-…garnering attention from the ovaries like you wouldn’t believe.
“I actually do; strange as it is. Here it is if you want — a white tank top if you don’t mind wearing them. I have over a thousand of these back in my apartment, mister.”
Ah, thank you. I've really been needing something to cover these rippling abs. Can't be having ovaries exploding like they have been.
And save the mister -- mister is my father. The name's James Barnes, but my pals call me Bucky.
What do they call you?
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
If Natasha was in the habit of getting nervous she might have been. However, nerves were a luxury she’d never been graced with, spending the majority of her life torn between calm concentration and fear. She wasn’t afraid now, she was calm; she could never be afraid of him. No, not when the simplest thing would remind her of how she had reached through to his humanity. How they had done their best to keep each other sane, or happy. Those memories only served to calm her now. There might have been pain tied to them once but she had put that behind her, along with so much else.
He once told her she made him feel human, but that was a long time ago. It’s true that she knows who he once was, but she knows very little about who he was before that, and even less about who he is now. She’s not nervous, she’s expertly calm and collected. Natasha wondered briefly if this was an attempt at getting reacquainted, or starting again, but the thought leaves her none the wiser.
“A woman’s prerogative, James.” She returned his smile while untying her trenchcoat and sat down next to him, noting that he wasn’t drinking yet. Neither did his increasingly worn look go unnoticed.
He thought mildly that she was beautiful. And of course she was, all red curls and green eyes that seemed so damn familiar; but he still carried a torch for Steve, and he suspected that she kept a special place for Clint -- they were always together, after all, but that could have been SHIELD protocol. So he pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on not looking so scrappy as she sat down beside him.
"You gonna keep your promise?" he asked, gesturing for the barkeep to pour them each a shot -- Russian Standard, of course. "I intend to keep mine." His eyes shone in the dim light of the bar. He'd been meaning to tell someone where he'd been sent; he'd been waiting for the right time to come along. It was important, and Steve wouldn't understand.
But she would.
"I'll tell you everything."
downxthexroad started following you
Hey! Welcome! You wouldn't happen to have a shirt I can borrow, would you? This shirtlessness is-...garnering attention from the ovaries like you wouldn't believe.
A Few Drinks || brutallyefficient
Bucky looked older than two months, he knew it. His skin was sallow, almost translucent from being kept in the winter dark for so long; he had great bags under his eyes, which were even more dark and hollow than they usually were. At least he'd shaved before tossing on his weather-beaten leather coat and wandering down from his apartment to a nearby bar. This one was quiet and relatively empty, with an understanding bartender who sold good vodka for a cheap price -- a good place for a traumatized, PTSD-afflicted soldier to meet up with one of SHIELD's foremost assassins, who likely had problems of her own.
He was polite enough to wait for Natasha to show -- that old-fashioned Forties charm shining through, he supposed, though he didn't really know how much of that he had retained. How much of his actions were really, truly his? Besides, she'd promised to buy drinks, and he couldn't bring himself to start without her.
"You're late," he said, offering her a friendly smile as she walked in. In all reality, they weren't friends; they were barely comrades, but something in him stirred every time he saw her. She was the first person that came to his mind when he was troubled, replacing even Steve in his head, something he thought very odd.
I want to be mad at you, but I just can't.
I want to unlike every post of yours that I’ve ever liked. I want to delete every post I’ve ever reblogged, every conversation we’ve ever had. I want to forget that I wanted to hold your hand, to be your friend and so much more. I want to forget that I ever spent all that time with you.
But I can’t.
I can’t be angry, and the fact is that I still need you, and I will always need you. I’m sorry for all that, too — sorry that I abandoned you, sorry that I let you down, sorry that I can’t let you go, even though you’ve already left.
Well, FUCK.
After an exceedingly-long mission during which I may or may not have been held prisoner in a foreign country, I have returned.
And also, my shirt has opened? And I seem to have lost my shirt.
Well, this is awkward.
