From Grit to Pearl

by BlueSimplicity

Summary:

He does not have a name.

He has been called many things over the years; a weapon, a ghost, HYDRA’s Fist, the Soldier, and from what they have told him his work has shaped the century.

But he does not have a name. His name, like so many other things, has been taken from him, stolen.

Forgotten.

Until the day it is not, and remembering, he breaks free, killing his handler and making his escape in a desperate bid for freedom.

Frightened, lost and hurt, he seeks out the last person in the world he can trust, his baby sister, now an almost eighty-year-old widow, somehow knowing she is the only one who can help him.

It is a difficult journey, one filled with pain, tears, and things that should not be possible. But also with recovery and redemption, rebirth and miracles, family and hope.

This story is a love letter between Bucky and his sister Rebecca, the world, and eventually his childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, the boy he once loved. But ultimately, it is the love letter Bucky writes to himself, as he reclaims who he once was, discovers who he is now, builds a new life for himself and realizes he might, just might, be as strong, as beautiful, as precious as a pearl.

Notes:

So if you’ve read any of my other fics (and thank you so much if you have) then you know Bucky recovering stories are my jam. This one is no different, and this time around it’s a mishmash of ideas pulled from the MCU, the comics and anything else my brain decided to throw at me. It’s a bit dark at points, but it is a recovery fic and has a very happy ending. I promise. This story is also complete at this point, and I will be posting chapters, some long and others short, twice a week

This story would not be what it is if not for my amazing beta Merry_rf. Merry is the one who tells me 'Yeah, no, you might want to change this so it’s clearer' and 'This is the science behind what you’re trying to do here', while also catching my spelling mistakes, comma abuse and pointing out ways to make my writing better. They also always do it with kindness, generosity and a lot of humor. Seriously, Merry_rf is the ultimate Fairy God-Beta, using their magic touch to transform anything I write from a plain housedress into a ballgown, and if you enjoy this story, it’s because of their hard work. I hope you know I absolutely adore you Merry, and can never, ever thank you enough. Not only for betaing this, but for your friendship and just being you.

That said, while this story has a happy ending (I promise), and quite a bit of eventual silliness, it does deal with some dark topics. I have tried to tag for everything, but if there’s something I missed, please let me know so I can add it.

Lastly, comments and kudos give me life, are the cookies of my soul, and each and every one is GREATLY appreciated. However, PLEASE NOTE, with the world the way it is right now, the comment section is one of my safe spaces, and I am NOT looking for concrit or negative feedback at this time.

OK then, enough from me. I had a lot of fun writing From Grit to Pearl, and I hope you have just as much fun reading it. Thank you so much for giving this story a chance. Let’s get on with it, shall we?

=) =) =)

Chapter 1: Prologue - The Asset

The Asset

 

This is the first thing it knows:

 

It does not have a name. It has been called many things; the Asset, the Fist of HYDRA, the Soldier (this last one most commonly of all), but it does not have a name. Names are for humans, people, and it is not one.

 

So it does not have a name.

 

This is the second thing it knows:

 

It is not human. It is a weapon. A creation of flesh and blood and metal, the perfect instrument. It has no fear, and does not react to pain. It can hunt and stalk and adapt. Endure when others would collapse. Move through rooms, streets, cities, nations, decades without leaving a trace.

 

This is the third thing it knows:

 

It must obey the Handler. That is what it is programmed to do. Obey, and if necessary, protect the Handler.

 

The Handler instructs and commands. Identifies the target, what needs to be done, and the timeframe. Provides the intel, weaponry and camouflage, should it be necessary.

 

If it does well, and the Hander is pleased, it will be given sustenance, praise, its wounds tended to before it is allowed to sleep.

 

If it does not, then come the Words, and after the Words, the Chair, and then…

 

And then…

 

It does not matter. It has learned to obey the Handler, so much so that it is not something it ever has to learn again, it is simply something it knows, does, is. The Handler is the face of HYDRA, and HYDRA wants peace, order, not just for it, but for the entire world. It understands peace, or at least the desire for it.

 

If it were to want anything, which it does not, it would be for a peace that is endless, dark and deep.

 

So it obeys the Handler.

 

This is the fourth thing it knows:

 

It was nothing before and it is perfect now. A perfect weapon, a perfect tool, a perfect machine. It accepts this without question. It was nothing then and it is still nothing, but now it is a perfect nothing. It is intelligent, stealthy, cunning and efficient, but it has no wants, no desires, no needs. It cannot be swayed by emotion, and is immune to begging, pleading, bargaining, screams. It exists purely to serve, and it is that service that has elevated it above all others, except for the Handler. If the nothingness is the cost of that perfection, the price it has to pay, then it does not need the Handler, or the technicians, or the men who have trained it to tell it so.

 

But then again, it is their creation, so perhaps they have a right to their pride. Any who doubt or question their wisdom will eventually be shown the errors in their judgment anyway.

 

It is what it was created for after all.

 

This is another thing it knows:

 

It is very, very good at killing. By bullet or blade, poison or pressure. It can make it look like an accident or murder, or vanish entirely if it has been told to dispose of the body. A car crash, a stroke, a domestic dispute, an overdose, it has done it all, without leaving a single trace. Unless the Handler has instructed it otherwise, and then it will leave a perfectly constructed trail of breadcrumbs, seeds whose subsequent sprouts will sow doubt, confusion, chaos and unrest. Nations, regimes, leaders and their false promises have all crumbled like a house of cards, because it knew where and when to strike, and how to best serve the Handler.

 

It has shaped the century, or so it has been told, and all for the greater good. Peace, for it, for the world, will be its reward.

 

So it continues to obey the Handler. It is the only thing it has ever known, was created for, and it is not its place to question or doubt. It has always been, and it will always be, and only a fool questions such things. And if it has ever been anything aside from what it currently is, it is not a fool.

 

So, it will obey.

 

(This is the last thing it knows:

 

Somewhere deep in its heart, deeper than the programming, the Words, the Handler and even the Chair can reach, is the knowledge that all of the things he knows are lies.)