Work Text:
Bucky closed his eyes and stepped into the Void.
******
Wind howled all around him. Screeching metal grated against his ears. Cold swept under his shirt and caused goosebumps to run down his arm. He swayed on his feet as the floor juddered in motion across the tracks.
When he opened his eyes, he was on the train.
Bucky could remember it all too well. Being blasted through the wall of the train. Steve fighting his way across, desperately reaching out to him (“Hang on, grab my hand!”). The ground rushing beneath him, too fast, too far away to be survivable. His grip getting looser and looser on the flimsy rail which wasn't meant to hold a man's weight. The cold, hard mountainside which disappeared into snowy whiteness.
He could remember not wanting to die.
But this was so much worse. Bucky could see in perfect detail the rail breaking, Steve lunging towards him (“No!”), the terror in his eyes, the brief touch of hands before he was plummeting, plummeting, plummeting down into the ravine.
He could see Steve crumpled against the wall of the train, hunched over, looking even smaller than before he got the serum. He had never seen the tears that spilled freely across his cheeks, his shaking hands when he tried to climb back into the carriage.
Bucky was frozen in place. He blinked, and then there was a bang when he was blown through the side again. Steve threw the shield and then climbed again across the wall (“Hang on!”). The rail broke again. He plummeted again.
It was a loop.
Bucky had to get out.
He ran to the door to the next carriage, ducking out of the way of the shield which flew over his head and planted itself into the attacker. He pulled on the door. He punched the door. He kicked the door. It wouldn't budge. He kicked the fallen attacker for good measure and turned back to face the carriage. He wasn't getting out that way.
Steve was again clinging to the wall. Bucky’s heart ached at seeing him again, not old and wrinkly, but young, unworn by years of responsibility. Even though it had been years since he left, he still missed him. No one, not even Sam, will ever truly understand him the way Steve did.
“Stop it.”
Steve wasn't coming back. Bucky just needed to get out of this place, and then he could wallow all he wanted with a take away and a box of tissues.
He looked around the carriage again. There were two ways in and out. The door, and the hole in the wall, which young Bucky was currently clinging onto the end of.
Bucky stood at the edge of the floor and peered down into the depths of the ravine. It was so far away. His pulse hammered in his throat and his hand shook.
He glanced at the young Bucky, who was scrambling for purchase on the rail. He was so young. He shouldn't have to be put through all of this. Bucky felt his throat grow tight and a red itchiness in his eyes. He couldn't cry. Not when he was here. Otherwise he'd never escape.
The young Bucky’s grip faltered and for a split second their eyes met. He gave Bucky an almost imperceptible nod.
Then he was gone.
Bucky spared one last look at Steve, closed his eyes, and stepped off the train.
******
The sharp tang of antiseptic hit Bucky's nose, followed by an underlying waft of damp. Beeping and murmured Russian filtered through the haze of dirty metal instruments. His stomach churned as he stood up from the wet floor.
He was back. He was back in the place he never let himself go back to, the place where the very worst of his nightmares played out. The chair. The chamber. The scientists and the instruments and the pain the pain the pain the -
“Pull yourself together.”
Bucky had a job to do. Find Bob. Get out of here. He just had to get through this and then he’d be free to go back to taking down Valentina and calling Sam and finding that cat that he'd been feeding outside his apartment. That's all he had to do.
The doors to the right swung open. Four armed guards strode in, with Zola scurrying closely behind. He dumped a large stack of newspapers onto a table and walked around to lean over the chair.
Bucky moved swiftly so he could keep him within view, standing to the side and staring across to the chair.
The man chained to the chair was slumped over, with black and purple bruises covering his pale skin. His left arm was a mess of skin and sinew, the muscle torn away and bloodied. He was barely alive. There was little resemblance to the man Bucky had seen a few moments before. He felt sick, knowing what was about to happen but being powerless to change it.
“Солдат, У меня для тебя хорошие новости. Хочешь услышать, какие?”
(“Soldier, I have some good news for you. Do you want to hear what it is?” )
The man looked up at Zola, something like hope glittering in his eyes.
Bucky couldn't look. He turned away and pressed his hands against his ears, but his hearing still picked up every word.
“Капитан Америка мертв. Он не придет спасти тебя.”
(“Captain America is dead. He is not coming to save you.” )
Screams reverberated around the room, pulling apart everything that Bucky had tried so hard to keep together. He couldn't tell which were the man's and which were his own.
He ran forwards, only knowing that he had to make the noise stop. He grabbed Zola’s arm and wrenched him back from the chair. With all his strength he punched him over and over again, feeling his glasses snap and nose cave inwards. For a second it felt good, to fight back, to finally do some damage to the man who had caused him so much.
But then he felt a hand on his arm. He was violently swung around, and the Soldier was staring him down. There was no recognition, no twinge of guilt or regret, only blankness, a cold hard stare which penetrated down to his soul.
“Тебе здесь не место.”
(“You have no place here.”)
Bucky was shoved back, and fell into darkness.
******
Bucky's breath lodged in his throat once the darkness had dissipated.
He was in a forest clearing, moonlight spilling from the black sky like oil. Trees surrounded him and were a wall to the outside world. All was still. He was in a bubble of silence.
Which shattered when a scream pierced through the quiet.
There was a crash on the other side of the clearing and a small figure appeared, running as fast as their short legs could take them, straight towards Bucky. As they came closer, they became clearer. It was a girl, not yet eight years old, her pigtailed hair streaming out behind her. She clutched a brown teddy bear to her chest.
He had overheard that her father was the leader of the opposition party to one of HYDRA’s high ups, and was receiving enough support to take him down if it came to a vote. He was the target. Kill on sight. Eliminate any witnesses who may compromise the Soldier’s identity.
He had been leaving when she had seen him through her bedroom window. She had managed to leave the house, and was now running away from the man with a metal arm and a big gun.
Bucky couldn't do anything. The Soldier had a clear shot and he took it.
The girl crumpled at his feet.
Bucky turned and ran, faster and faster, wanting to rid the horrible image from his eyes. He reached the treeline and tipped forwards, the ground swallowing him up.
There was another.
And another.
And another.
All more terrible than the last.
Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as ran.
After what felt like an eternity, he reached something different.
******
The ground was falling away. Everything was collapsing around them, chunks of metal and glass hurtling towards the river far below. Thundering engines pierced through Bucky's head as he stumbled onto the platform which was suspended above a mess of twisted metal beams. The smell of burning wires singed his nostrils and he coughed.
“You're my mission.”
Ahead of him was the Winter Soldier, his back turned away from Bucky, his metal fist glistening with blood. Underneath him was Steve, lying limply, not even trying to defend himself. His face was swollen and bloody, his eye half closed with a colourful bruise forming across his cheek. There was a pain in his eyes which wasn't from his injuries.
Against his better judgement, Bucky moved forwards along the platform and just caught the whisper which passed Steve's bruised lips.
“Then finish it. Cause I'm with you till the end of the line.”
Bucky could only remember that day in brief flashes, odd memories and phrases which he had pieced together later on. To see it so clearly, to see the horror, the pure terror, that passed across the Winter Soldier's face, he wished he had died on that ravine in the mountains. His best friend's face was beaten to a pulp because of him. Steve would have died if his messed up brain hadn't pulled him from the river.
No wonder Steve didn't trust him with the shield.
No wonder Steve left.
The platform gave way beneath him and Bucky was swallowed by black.
******
When Bucky opened his eyes again, he was back in his Brooklyn apartment. For a foolish moment, he thought it was over, that he had made it out of the Void and it was all back to normal. He had escaped, Bob had let them out, and he could go and see Sam and try to fix the shitshow that was the last twenty four hours.
There was a shuffling sound from the corridor, and a hunched over man stumbled into the kitchen. In his flesh hand he held a phone, in his metal hand a gun.
Oh no. Oh no no no. Bucky could remember this day far too well for a brain damaged centenarian.
It had been a couple of months since Stark’s funeral, and five weeks since Steve left. Bucky had still expected him to walk back through the door, start complaining about the ‘state of today's youth’ with his sketchbook slung under his arm and a bag of bagels in his hand.
Bucky couldn't really blame him for leaving. A lot can change in five years. And he had always wanted his happy ending with Peggy (Bucky had never understood what was so special about her). He just wasn't a good enough reason to stick around.
The phone buzzed. Bucky didn't need to read it. He remembered what it said.
Hey bud, long time no see!
Just checking in making sure your ok
If you need me I'm only a call away
That's if you even know how to call, old timer :)
Sam. Most other people would have given up on him a long time ago. But the level of patience that man has would last longer than the average lifetime. And he was a stubborn son of a bitch.
The other Bucky dropped the gun onto the counter and read the messages. His thumb hovered above the call button.
“Call him.”
Bucky stood next to his younger self. He was trembling, the metal hand clinking against the countertop. The phone screen turned dark.
“Call him!”
Bucky grabbed the phone and tried to press Sam's contact. In a second, the gun was pressed against his cheek. He lowered the phone.
“You cannot interfere.”
“But I'm trying to help you! Sam, he's your friend, listen to him, talk to him -”
The gun hit him in the jaw. Blood flowed into his mouth from biting his tongue and he watched as the phone was sent flying across the room.
“You cannot help. He cannot help. You cannot interfere.”
“But -”
There was a pop. The other man crumpled to the floor.
There was an odd stillness to the room. As Bucky stared down at his own body, heard his breath rattling through his lungs, he noticed something he hadn't seen in any of the other rooms. There was a strange reflection in the mirror by the front door. He could make out people moving about, a room which wasn't his own. A way out.
He took one last look around the room. The phone, neglected on the floor, started to ring. Bucky's lips twitched, and he stepped through the mirror.
******