Chapter Text
He dreams in lights and shadow, shades of bright vivid red, lifeblood seeping away from bullet wounds, gashes, and cuts. Faces are blurry, voices muffled like he's underwater, but he dreams in dark red blood being spattered against bright white snow, and creeping through shadows into bedroom windows in the dead of night, and bright lights aimed down at him from the ceiling right before he's wiped clean, electricity surging through his brain, stealing details of the horrendous crimes he's committed.
And when he wakes, shaking and drenched in sweat, twitching, as though he's just been freshly wiped in a back room of one Hydra base or another, he remembers things he hadn't before. Remembers murders on his ledger, how they happened, even though it's all blurry, like watching snippets of a movie that is severely out of focus. He doesn't remember things that were said during the murders, though he sometimes remembers exact instructions that were given to him before being sent out to assassinate someone. 'Get the case in the trunk,' and, 'there can be no witnesses on this one, Soldat.'
He doesn't deserve to live, but here he is, alive, breathing, when at least twelve other people aren't. They should be here, he shouldn't. He doesn't even know how he managed to escape. He'd woken up on a table like he always had, but instead of bright lights, the room had been pitch black. He'd sat there and listened for several minutes, listening for a breath, or the shuffle of a foot in a dark corner, but there had been nothing. He'd found his way to a wall, and then around the edges of the dark concrete room to a light switch, and once it had been flipped on, he'd still found himself alone. Alone in a room in an empty Hydra base, a few dead bodies to keep him company. No instructions to follow, just Soldat, alone in his own mind for years. Soldat is the property of Hydra. Hydra's tool, Hydra's weapon. He'd sat in that empty base waiting for three days to be a tool, a weapon, to receive instructions, to be sent out on another kill. And then, finally, when nothing had been demanded of him, no instructions, he'd walked out the front door, and no one had stopped him.
Soldat. Tool. Weapon.
No. There was only Barnes. He had time, endless time to discover what that meant to him… what it meant to be Barnes, instead of Soldat.
* * *
Barnes knows that he dreams in memories. He hopes, as he presses forward from one town to the next, living sometimes in an abandoned building, at other times sleeping out under the open stars, cold, alone, that new memories will fill up the space in his mind. It doesn't happen though. His new memories are bland, boring. They run together into each other like his days and weeks, and eventually years. He drifts, aimless, just trying to survive.
Eventually he turns his focus to piecing together the fragmented memories he re-lives in his dreams night after night. He crosses Europe twice looking for answers. He finds his way back to crime scenes, to places he's stayed before, to spots he sat in, still and silent for days at a time, just waiting for his mark to pass by so he could throw a knife, send a bullet, or leap out of the shadows to attack.
He remembers a few names of people he'd taken out. Remembers the name of one lady with bright red hair he'd been sent to kill but hadn't been able to. She remains the only one of his victims to ever get away. Soldat had returned to Hydra to be wiped and repaired, his good arm broken in several places, his metal arm smashed. A broken nose, broken ribs. His Hydra handlers had laughed at him, told him right before wiping him that they had wondered if he'd actually be able to kill the Black Widow… wondered if he'd return to them alive.
'We'll give you an easier target next time,' they told him before they wiped him. Sometimes, their laughter wakes him from sleep and follows him into the day time. Barnes has failed at a lot of things in life. Despite Hydra's disappointment in him at his failure to kill the woman, he's glad that Soldat failed at something too. Someone deserved to get away from him. He's glad she did.
* * *
His life before Hydra is almost as fragmented as the dreams of his years spent as an assassin. He remembers names and faces, has fleeting glimpses of memories, of laughter, and of being happy, but he can't remember what it feels like to laugh or to be happy. He remembers Steve Rogers, knows that they were friends, as close as brothers even, and that they grew up together. He remembers that at some point, before being a killer, he was a protector. He protected Steve when he couldn't protect himself. He helped Steve, made sure he had enough to eat, made sure he had a safe place to go when things got rough. At times, he wonders which is true, if he's a killer, and the fantasy of being a good guy is just something his mind made up to protect him, or if he's a good guy, and being the Winter Soldier was all just some sort of nightmare. Both can't be true, can they?
He doesn't know. He drifts, he survives, he looks for answers, and he tries to remember that he's 'Barnes' now, and not 'Soldat'. Soldat was two years ago. Barnes was too long ago to remember, but he's trying to bring that version of himself back.
It's been a long time since he's had goals for himself, but he thinks, just maybe, that he finally has one: be a good guy. He doesn't know how to do that anymore, but he's going to try. He reaches back into his memory of being out on missions for Hydra, thinks about how he felt, waiting in the shadows to make another kill, complete another mission. He thinks that Soldat wanted to be a good guy too. Soldat couldn't disobey, but he thinks Soldat felt sick deep down in the pit of his stomach each time he pulled the trigger.
* * *
Barnes has explored all of his old kill sights in Europe. He has a few names, remembers faces, but the others are lost to him. He thinks of going to Asia next, or Mexico, or Canada. In the end he sneaks onto a boat headed for America. There are two faces he can't get out of his mind. Two faces he knows the names of. Their deaths are one of the few missions that stand out starkly in his mind. A car crash. A woman whimpering in pain while her husband pleads for her life right before Soldat snuffs the light out of her eyes. He doesn't know why this mission bothers him so much considering there are far worse things he's done to people, but it does.
It bothers him a lot.
He finds the back road in New York where he'd killed them. Finds the exact spot and stares down at it, as if the car is still there, crashed against an embankment of snow. It's summer now, trees and bushes alive with greenery, but in his mind's eye everything is white, and he can smell the burning rubber and circuitry of a car crash.
He had killed Howard and Maria Stark here in this spot. Stolen something from the trunk of their car, though he doesn't know exactly what. It bothers him. It eats away at the pit of his stomach. He'd never known them, or at least he thinks he hadn't. He has a faint memory of Steve telling him about Howard… thinks that Howard helped Steve to become a soldier… Captain America. But why does the name Stark bother him so much? WHY WHY WHY?!
He leaves the road behind and tries to leave the memory of the kill behind too. He goes to New York City and hopes that the hustle and bustle of such a busy place will push the quiet country road and snowy landscape back into the empty, dark recesses of his mind where they belong. But still… "Please spare her. It's me you want," echoes through his mind, along with, "there can be no witnesses on this one Soldat."
He doesn't know why it bothers him, can't pin it down. What he does know is that it's not that he killed Maria Stark. He's killed innocent people before.
* * *
He watches people go about their daily lives, observes them like he was taught to do, and tries to predict what they're thinking, where they're going. He wonders what their lives are like after they pass him by where he sits in a shadowed alcove, or an alley, or up above them on a fire escape. He can't. He can't imagine what normal life looks like, because he can't remember what it was like for himself. Sometimes he remembers things, like Steve calling him Bucky, though he can't remember why he was called that when he's sure that his name is James. Bucky, not Barnes. Barnes, not Soldat. Bucky had been a good person, or at least his fragmented memories make it seem that way. Barnes is not a good person, but he's better than Soldat.
He makes a decision one rainy day that he wants to be Bucky, and to find out why he was called that instead of James. He'll never remember those details, and will probably never get the chance to ask Steve, but he feels like 'Bucky' and 'good guy' are synonymous with each other, so he tries to make the shift in his mind, from the tentative hold he's had on being 'Barnes' to being Bucky.
Bucky watches people pass by, can't imagine what their lives look like once they go home, and tries instead to imagine ways in which he can help them… ways he can be a good guy instead of those other people he's been in the past.
The problem is, no one is in need of his help. Men pass by in suits, women pass by holding the hands of their children tightly. New York is a city where people don't seem to interact all that often unless they have to, and Bucky for certain doesn't interact with people enough to know what they need.
Being in America and being Bucky feels a lot like being Barnes crossing Europe, just existing as he drifts from place to place. He hates it, but has no idea how to change it. No idea at all.
* * *
For as long as he can remember, even during his time as Soldat, he has dreamt in bright splashes of red, and in screams and haunted pleas of, "Please, please God, no," and, "Please spare her, it's me you want."
Tonight is different. Tonight he's confused, because he stands as an outsider in his own dreams, watching a younger man help a lost child. It's not something he's ever done as Soldat, or as Barnes.
He moves closer, trying to hear what the man and child are saying, and is surprised to hear his own voice… the voice of younger Bucky, come from the stranger.
"Hey there buddy, ya lost?"
The child sniffles, rubbing his eyes. His cheeks are wet with tears and his sleeve covered in snot. He can't be more than four or five years old. "I- can't- find- my- mommy," he gasps through his tears.
"Yeah? Well guess what, I'm pretty good at finding people. I'll help ya find her."
"You- you will?"
Bucky nods, reaches forward, and scoops the little boy up into his arms. He turns in a circle, looking for someone, and Barnes turns too.
"Where'd ya last see her?" Bucky asks.
"We were shopping." The little boy gives a soft hiccup, and continues wiping at the tears in his eyes, completely unconcerned that a strange man picked him up and is now walking away with him. It makes Barnes' stomach squirm uncomfortably. It's himself he's watching, but he wants to run forward and shout, to snatch the boy out of Bucky's arms and fight him, to keep the child safe. He strides forward quickly after them to do just that, but when he reaches forward for Bucky, certain he's going to kidnap or kill this child, his hand goes right through Bucky's shoulder and he only grasps thin air. Bucky and the child continue on unbothered, like Barnes isn't there.
"Well there's a grocery store over here. How far'd ya wander do ya think?"
The little boy shrugs. Barnes follows the two of them into a little corner grocery store. He thinks they're in New York, and suddenly the answer comes to him, Brooklyn. They're in Brooklyn.
"Hey, anybody in here lose a kid?" Bucky asks, and several women doing their shopping turn to look. One catches sight of the little boy, sighs and comes over to them, holding her arms out for him.
"Walter, there you are." Once he's safely in her arms, she looks up at Bucky and says, "I'm sorry he bothered you. He's antsy. He doesn't stay put in one place."
"Yeah, well, he wasn't too far down the street." Bucky laughs. "Think he thought he'd lost ya forever."
"Thank the nice man, Walter."
"Thank you." The boy murmurs it into his mother's neck, holding her tightly with both arms. Then the store, the woman and the child start to fade away, becoming a blurred out background, and things go quiet.
Bucky turns and stares at Barnes like he can see him, stares straight into his eyes and says with a small smile, "You can be good too."
Barnes turns to look behind him. Maybe the boy's father is there, but there's nothing but darkness. When he turns to look back at Bucky, who must have only been 17 or 18, he finds that he's gone, along with the store, and the woman and child.
"You can be good too."
He doesn't know why he's been granted this dream… doesn't know if it's a dream or a memory. He stares up at the dark warehouse ceiling and feels the chill of the cold concrete floor seep into his back from where he'd fallen asleep earlier.
You can be good too, you can be good too, you can be good too.
Barnes… Bucky, wonders if he can be.