bracchium | some saw the sun; (for fossils)

some saw the sun; (for fossils)

[The Soldier stood statuesque before the prisoner, rifle in hand, loaded and cocked despite orders to not kill. There's something about this man that disturbs the programming buzzing under his skin, something that unsettles the natural order that confines the Soldier to his duties. Even with his full mask and goggles, The Soldier feels bare- exposed- before this one man.

Maybe it's because the Soldier doesn't know why he was sent for an extraction mission instead of an assassination, because he can hear distant voices in his ear, cries for help that end in a bark of gunfire. Why did this man deserve to live when all the others met terrible ends? It's not his place to question, but the Soldier doubts and he's not entirely sure it's the first time either.

He remembers waking up in the chair, screaming until his voice broke. Mission details about capture and extraction to Siberia. Do not, under any circumstances, kill the target. Holding back had been difficult, not pushing for death at every swing of his knife, but then the Soldier was able to land a few shots he'll be reprimanded for later.

But he did it. The prisoner is here and alive, mostly. The Soldier wants to run, to hand off to the next handler, rather than stand in this awfully small room with a man that unsettles him so deeply, but his orders were to not allow the prisoner to die. So here he is, watching for breathing and consciousness.

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[The Soldier furrows his brow beneath the mask. The words echo through his mind, like that name, dig under his skin and enrage him. No. He's a soldier, nothing else, nothing like this Buck. The words' familiarity are nothing but a wrench in the system, a disrupted signal to be corrected with more wipes, more injections, more something.

However, a part of him doesn't. A distant part of him reaches for the echo, for the hint of something more than the Soldier and the programming. He shakes his head to dismiss the whispers that threaten to distract him.

The two pieces collide, they clash and burn and the Soldier takes a step forward, his grip on his rifle white-knuckled.]

You won't. [He repeats, his tone tighter and laced with anger.]

[ Steve ignores the rifle, staring into his own black reflection in the goggles.

He knew what he was getting into. Romanoff-- Natasha helped him translate the parts of the file he couldn't read himself. Told him about her encounter with him in Odessa. She meant it all as a warning that there was a good chance that there wasn't anyone Steve knew left in the soldier.

He understood, but that wasn't going to stop him.

His head lolls forward again, he's not aware of it until his chin's nearly at his chest. He lets out another hard breath, muscles purposely going tense. ]

I need your help, Buck.

[ I need you to let me help you. ]

[For an instant, the Soldier gives pause, paralyzed in the face of the impact of the prisoner's response. I need your help, Buck. He sees the distant glimpse of an amber-lit bar, hand braced on the shoulder of someone who looks an awful lot like the prisoner. That little guy from Brooklyn glitches in and out of focus and the programming won't have it.

The Soldier shakes his head again and crosses the distance to slam the butt of his rifle into the prisoner's jaw, sharp and without restraint.]

Shut up!

[Do not, under any circumstances, kill the prisoner returns just as strong and the Soldier steps back just as quickly as he moved forward.]

[ He immediately braces himself for the strike. It still rattles his head like all hell, and for a minute he says nothing because he can't, pain blossoming into knives on the side of his face and his vision nothing but a dark sea of grey stars.

He spits out some blood, swallows the rest.

A rush of air escapes his nose. ]

When you... said we were going to the future... didn't think it'd be like this. [ Hurts to talk now, his jaw screaming in protest with every word. If you wanted him to stop though, you should've made sure to break it. ] Your... name is James Buchanan Barnes. You had four younger siblings. You'd say that's why you... you were always coming to my place. I didn't have any brothers or sisters... just me and my ma. And you... after the funeral-- [ His head starts to droop again and he trails off. ]

[The Soldier stares through the goggles at the prisoner, the light dimmed in the lenses. Originally meant to prevent sunlight glare and promote more accurate shooting, now blocks his ability to visually follow the rise and fall of the prisoner's chest. He's not supposed to take them off unless they impede his mission, but right now his mission is to keep the prisoner alive.

The prisoner doesn't say anything and the Soldier thinks he might have knocked him out or killed him. The goggles come off in an instant, tossed to the side so he can better observe vitals, but then there's a rush of air and more words.

More of the same nonsense-

Except he can dimly pick up fragments of a conversation. Cushions on the floor. Shining shoes.

That's never happened. That's not real. What's real is the prisoner, an enemy, he's meant to keep alive sagging in the saddle. Blood continues to ooze from the shoulder wound and the prisoner trails off. If he dies-

Dragged across a concrete floor. Failure. Failures get locked up. Failures do not see the light of day.

A thrill of terror sneaks into his veins and the Soldier moves forward. Don't die. He doesn't want to go back into storage. He presses his hand over the shoulder wound in an attempt to stem the red tide.

He's not supposed to get this close unless he's killing someone, but he doesn't want to go back to amber glass and frosted skin. It's selfish, he knows, but he can't go back. Not for this.]

[ There's a sharp wince when he feels pressure on his shoulder, air sucked in instead of pushed out. He looks up, meeting his friend eye to eye for the first time in months. In that short moment he's not searching desperately for any sign of recognition. Even with the file, the photos as proof, this whole search had been a leap of faith.

The restraints around his hands and arms creak like he's straining again, then go quiet. ]

... should've gone back for you.

[ I'm sorry. Feels like he's talking for his own benefit at this point. It's like scrambling for purchase on a ice block. He'll keep trying, as many times as it takes,

But there's gotta be something else. ]

[The words rattle around in the Soldier's head. Memories of snow, of staring up at the sky, at the plume of smoke disappearing. His chest heaves as he remembers the weight of his broken body and then darkness. Opening eyes when someone tugs on his shoulder. Steve. Must be Steve. But it's not. No, let go, Steve will come back, Steve won't leave him behind. Steve won't-

The Soldier furiously shakes his head, breaking eye contact and focusing on the blood rising through his fingers. The prisoner's blood. Don't let him die.

But he doesn't know if he can deal with this, whatever this is.]

Who the hell are you.

[His breath comes in short clips, jaw tense.]

Steve... [ Breathes his own name out, jaw aching. ] My name is Steve.

[ You know me, he'd said.

His gaze lowers a bit, tracking the arm and hand on his wound. ]

... you got a sewing kit?

[ He's gotta say, really doesn't want to die here after finally finding you. ]

[Steve. The name rings louder than he can ignore. His fingers loosen and blood coats them in an instant. Steve. Something about shining shoes and cushions, but-

No this is his mission, his target. Who is bleeding out.

He blinks at the suggestion. It's not in the protocol, but his target dying isn't either. Releasing his hold on Steve's- his target's - shoulder to reach for his supplies and fish around for needle and thread.]

Should've been a medic with how often I had you patching me up...

[ In his kitchen. In the bathroom at some club. In the field, when they'd been separated from their unit--

A soft breathy sound like a laugh punctuated with another wince, his gaze trying to focus on what Bucky's digging around for. ]

[The Soldier pauses in his search, his fingers brushing against the canvas kit. Shadows of a kitchen rise to the surface, curling around the edges of his vision. What the hell is this? Why can’t he-

-should’ve seen the other guy-

He blinks, turns back toward St- the mission- brows furrowed.]

Shut up.

Why?

[ Is he distracting you? Because talking is about the only thing keeping him awake right now, so he's going to keep doing it. He rolls his jaw. Softly, studying his features: ]

If you want me to shut up, then you've gotta talk.

[The Soldier furrows his brow further as the echoes grow louder. No. No this doesn’t- He’s not- He doesn’t know why this target is so distracting. Or maybe he does and it breaks the mission parameters. He hates that he doesn’t know the answer.

He has nothing to say, never has and never will. Do not speak unless spoken to. So he busies his hands instead with the needle and thread, on the mission.

The needle pierces the target’s skin with extreme prejudice, mechanical and methodical in itswork.]

[ Talk to me. Please--

He grits his teeth, his head tilting to one side-- hard to say if it's entirely intentional. ]

You should go. Leave. Before they get back.

[ His handlers. If he can't convince you to let him go-- ]

[ In an instant, the Soldier’s hands still, frozen at the reply. Why would he leave? He is a weapon, to be discharged and then locked up again. He has no reason to be anywhere but here. Except-

flames lick his feet as he struggles to push them to move along the factory floor. Looking back over the lake of fire, desperate, “Not without you!”

His heart stops in his chest, his jaw clenched. What the hell was that? But the assault doesn’t stop there. He blinks and he can identify the face on the other side of the molten pit and itt’s-

It’s the prisoner, the target. He was there, in the fire, but that’s impossible.

He looks up, confused and uncertain and questioning. Who the hell

A door rattles somewhere distant, a shuffle of footsteps on stairs.]

[ He hears the sound of someone else moving in the distance, somehow, through the buzzing in his ears. Sees the confusion in Bucky's eyes through the growing haze. His eyebrows knit together and it's fear and frustration creeping up his chest-- ]

Go--

[ The last thing he manages to say as he starts to pass out again. ]

[No. He can’t let this happen. Something deep inside, beneath the layers and layers of conditioning, tells him to stay, to help this prisoner. Not without him. Not in the fire, not now. The Soldier doesn’t even understand why or how, but he can’t leave Steve behind.

Steve. Steve. That kid from Brooklyn.

The footsteps drum closer and the Soldier doesn’t have much time. Sucking in a breath, he pierces the needle into the torn fabric around the knife wound and unsheathes his knife.

But what is he doing? His mission is to capture, to not kill. A rescue is very much the opposite. He can’t-

The footsteps arrive at the door.]

Not without you.

[And he slices through the zip ties around the prisoner’s wrists before stepping back.]

[ He doesn't see the knife coming out, just feels his arms slip from the binding and fall to his sides. Without anything holding him up he starts slumping forward, a hand balancing on his knee at the last second before he falls out of the chair.

There are voices coming from the stairs now. Steve doesn't look as though he's got much fight in him, though he's struggling to get to his feet. Reaches out to Bucky's shoulder. ]

C'mon...

[ They have to move.

Or, rather, Bucky's going to have to do most of the moving for them.

(it's like seventy years ago, you scraping him off the pavement) ]

[When the prisoner collapses to the floor, something inside the Soldier tears, screams in a way it didn't before. He pauses halfway through another step back as the programming and the fragments of a skinny kid from Brooklyn clash behind closed doors. He's failed his mission. In releasing the prisoner, he has completely failed his mission. The handlers on the other side of those stairs will send him back into cold storage, never to wake again. That's what happens to erratic weapons.

He knows that. How, he's not so sure on, but he knows if he gets caught here and now, he'll never walk free again.

But why is he suddenly so worried about his freedom? Since when did he become so selfish?

Too many thoughts tumble through his head, too many to consider all at once. And the voices are so loud.

He ignores the hand reaching for him to move for the chair, scoop it up, and wedge it beneath the door handle. Wait- no- what is he doing, he can't-

Shaking his head, the Soldier returns to the prisoner, to Steve. He doesn't know where they're going, other than out of here.]

[ He steadies himself against a wall instead, one forearm braced against cold concrete. ]

Exits?

[ Blocking the door keeps the men on the other side out, but they're stuck if that's also they're only way out.

They need a plan.

He needs to stand up straight. ]

[The Soldier looks back at the prisoner and then to the door separating them from the gaggle of handlers attempting to break it down. He doesn't know any other way out, but the other side of the concrete wall is another hallway that should lead them away from the cell.

Is he prepared to go this far for a flash of something in his mind? A glitch? A malfunction?

He taps the concrete next to the prisoner with two metal fingers. He could break through it.]

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some saw the sun; (for fossils)

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i am forever slow

it's ok i am too