He watches her for just a moment longer; notes her body language, her facial expression. Notes his own, still-foreign feeling of pleasure at her laughter - more, at knowing that he's the one to make her laugh. He wasn't even trying to be funny this time. (Whoever 'he' is, at any given moment.)
Slowly, and then gaining speed once she makes no sudden movements, he shifts back into the far bedroom, pulling out small packets of food, wads of cash behind loose boards. He has a go-bag, but he'll get that last; since he has the time, he gathers all his provisions, not just what he deemed necessary for quick flight when he'd packed the bag.
It takes a little over 5 minutes, and the bag is now so full it's a little troublesome to get it zipped, but that's it: every worldly possession he owns. He pauses for a moment, hands resting on top of the bag, staring at nothing, gaze internal.
"Do you know who I am?"
He wonders, even if she does know, if she realizes just what a loaded question it is, for him.
She stays in the front room while he gathers his things, listening to the quiet sounds and feeling the vibrations reverberating through the walls and floor. He'd hidden things... everywhere, it felt like. So many things in so many places, and she can't imagine the state of fight or flight he must have been living in all this time. Even her months of vigilante life after Lincoln's death hadn't come close to this kind of existence.
It makes her angry for everything he's been put through, and also indescribably sad. Could someone ever truly recover from the type of trauma he'd been through? Even with all she hopes they'll be able to achieve together, will he be able to carve out something resembling a life after this?
The question is more than what it seems, she can tell that much. What that more is, though, it beyond her. But she answers honestly, hands holding on to the shoulder straps of her backpack while she watches him with an open and slightly sympathetic expression.
"I have pieces of the puzzle," she tells him without judgment or expectation. "I'm hoping we can both work to put them together."
That's not the answer he wants, and it makes him grit his teeth, fingers curling into the fabric of his bag before shaking it and shoving it away slightly.
"No!" He rounds on her, pointing almost accusingly. "No. I don't-- I know--"
He closes his eyes for a moment, and it's the first time he's ever consciously let go, pulled the Bucky-part forward to talk, because he always seems to have the words when the Soldier doesn't. The Bucky-part can make him understood.
"I don't want some bullshit 'we'll figure it out' psychobabble! I wanna know what you think you know! It ain't gonna change my mind about what I know, so just tell me! Or I'm parkin' my ass in this apartment, and good-fuckin'-luck gettin' me ta move!"
His reaction almost makes her flinch, only years of training in SHIELD keeping her perfectly still while she listens to every word he says. She'd said the wrong thing again, going for something more poetic than practical. Okay, then. Practical it is.
"You used to be Bucky Barnes," she informs him seriously, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag. "I have files on your missions with the Howling Commandos in World War II. You were supposedly killed in action, but Hydra found you and turned you into the Winter Soldier. I have a handful of SHIELD files that can be attributed to you, but that's it. I don't know who you are now because I do know that when you go through something like that, it changes you."
The memory of being bonded to Hive rises up in her mind and she does flinch then, her calm demeanor slipping momentarily as her stance shifts and she curls ever so slightly inward. Even all these years later, she still feels of the guilt of what she'd done while under his sway. She probably always will.
His eyes flinch and tighten at the name - he's been calling it 'the Bucky-part' of himself this whole time, but to hear it out loud... He's not Bucky Barnes. It takes slightly longer for him to register that she said 'used to be.' And that's... Frankly, it's refreshing, after having Rogers tell him over and over (and over) that he was Bucky, he was Steve's best friend, and feeling it but not remembering it. He remembers pieces of his life, but very few of them involve Steve Rogers. Quite a lot of them involve death and destruction.
Her words now are like daggers hurled at him, wind buffeting him, blowing him all around until he's dizzy, nauseous with it. It's not the words themselves, but every one is a trigger - his fractured mind suddenly eager to pull up corresponding sensory memories to everything she says. The white, the cold. The arm. The scientists. A tiny campfire that can't be too big because they're still behind enemy lines, but it's fuckin' cold and everyone's too tired to give a crap.
Science.
"I remember science," he finally murmurs, and blinks his vision back to find his facing in profile to her, as if he'd turned his body to physically shield himself from her words. "I remember loving all the-- the innovations, the ideas of what mankind could achieve."
He glances down at his arm, and it shifts slightly in response; the movements are fluid, almost too smooth to comprehend that it's a mass of machinery and not a living thing. "And then I became the science. The product.
"I'm not Bucky Barnes. And I'm not the Winter Soldier. But I'm..."
He tries, now. Tries to remember something that's wholly him. And it makes him angry when he can't, too many people calling him Bucky or Asset or Soldier or Sarge even, and the anger--
"James." He looks at her, almost shyly, through the veil of his hair. "You said Soldier wasn't a name. James is a name."
It's one he feels connected to, but has no real memories of ever being called it. Except when Rogers was trying to get him to remember, and even then it was only the once. Every other time, he called him Bucky.
She can almost see the gears turning in his mind, trying to put together those pieces with whatever he might remember from before, perhaps filling in gaps from her story or even trying to recall just that much. There are so many questions she'd like to ask him, but after his outburst, she doesn't dare. Not yet, not until she knows it's safe for her to do so — for the both of them.
"It's a good name," she confirms, offering him a supportive, if slightly sad, smile. James Buchanan Barnes. With a nickname like Bucky, he'd probably only been called James whenever someone was upset with him; that was a thing normal parents did, right? Shouted the full name when a kid was in trouble. Had he been the type to get into trouble often when he was young?
Turning toward the door, she calls softly over her shoulder, "Come on, James. Show me that building you found for us." Because no, she's not leaving him anytime soon.
When that's all she says, he-- he, James, finds himself relaxing, nodding at the quasi-order she gives him. No 'Maybe you'll be more like Bucky later' or 'I'm sure you'll remember eventually.' Just quiet acceptance, and moving on, and that's...
He feels like he can breathe more easily, after that. He doesn't understand why, but has learned not to question too hard. The less he questions things, the more easily the answer will eventually slip into the back of his mind, slowly shifting until it slots into place.
Hefting the duffle onto his right shoulder (keeping his left arm free, and also he doesn't need the strain on the joint on top of the metal constantly pulling), he moves over and then sidles past her, opening the door and stepping through, stride confident but casual. Rule #1 of infiltration: Look like you know where you're going, and like you belong there.
No one questions him - especially not in this neighborhood - and it's easy to make it down and onto the street.
There might be dozens of people who would insist that he'll feel like Bucky again later, or he'll remember before too long, but she doesn't want to push that kind of pressure on him. He might never feel like Bucky again, and that... that has to be okay. No matter how hard he might try, he can't force himself to remember things, nor can he simply will away everything he's been through. And as someone who's changed her name more than once over the years, she has no right to question his decision of using this particular one.
She follows him with that same easy confidence, keeping an eye on their surroundings with her peripheral vision. More than a few people eye them as they pass but most of it's just awareness and not even basic curiosity — curiosity kills in neighborhoods like this. But as they hit the street and start heading down the block, she notices a group of men taking a particular interest in her. Not Hydra, just assholes.
She moves to walk directly beside her new companion and instructs him, "Some guys are watching, pretend you actually like me for a minute." She gives him a smile that anyone watching will believe without question. It's the smile of someone in love; she tries not to think about how long it's been since she last wore it.
The Winter Soldier doesn't sigh, because he doesn't have emotion, so there's nothing to show - but a part of him wants to. Not at her, but at the men. Men in these kinds of neighborhoods are always predatory, and they'll go after anyone weaker than they perceive themselves to be. Hell, this might even be a worse area than some of the places he found Stevie in, getting his ass kic--
He stumbles over the ground, over his own feet, clumsy and uncoordinated in a way he doesn't think he's ever been, but he doesn't have time to contemplate that, because he's suddenly assaulted with other memories, back alleys and side streets and parking areas and rundown buildings and Jesus did Steve Rogers ever do anything besides pick fights?
"Holy shit," he mumbles under his breath, but at the same time, without conscious thought, he turns his stumble to his advantage, throwing his arm over Daisy's shoulder. His body knows just how to move, to settle his arm comfortably, pulling her in close, but still loose. It's his left arm, which isn't ideal in this situation, if the men decide to try their luck with him here anyway; the duffle will hinder him on the right side anyway, but he'll make it work. Hopefully Daisy knows how to fight.
And that's it. Without really even thinking about it, he's thrown his lot in with her. She could betray him, hell this close she could pull a needle and incapacitate him and there's a good chance he wouldn't be able to stop her. But his mind has apparently been made up, and until/unless she does, he's going to trust her, and he's going to protect her.
"Nobody said I didn't like you," he says softly - the Asset, James, not the Bucky-part, and he wonders if she can hear the difference in the way he talks. She probably thinks he's crazy. He's not sure he isn't. But crazy and functional aren't mutually exclusive. "I don't know you. But you're here, not knocked out in the apartment, so I must like you a little."
That muttered holy shit almost breaks her ridiculously in love mask, and she's a fraction of a second away from reaching out when he stumbles, but then his arm is suddenly around her and she wonders how much of it had been an act. Maybe not the words, but perhaps the stumble? Either way, she slips her own arm around his back, just partway to anchor them in this facade. Her fingers splay against hard muscles she can feel through layers of fabric, his vibrations sinking into her bones...
So it's true then. He really does have a metal arm. She can feel the difference now, the contrast between skin and bone and metal. If it were just one or the other, she wouldn't have been able to tell, but with them next to each other, there's no mistaking it. Weird. It makes her wonder, distantly, if he'd let Jemma and Fitz build him a new prosthetic when their timelines finally meet in a few years.
"A little is a good place to start," she acknowledges quietly, still smiling but a measure of genuine feeling behind the expression now. "I like you a little too, if that matters any."
He keeps his head down, masking how his eyes are constantly scanning their surroundings, looking into shadows and narrow alleyways between buildings, anywhere someone could be hiding. Sometimes it's good to have knowledge of how an assassin would think, all he has to do is think about where he would hide, and check those spots, look for any of the telltale signs of movement or life that he'd try his best to mask.
Shifting the bag as far onto his back as he can while it's slung over his shoulder, he draws the knife he'd had out earlier, but keeps it tucked close, hidden against the dark wash of his jeans. It helps marginally relax him just to have the familiar grip on it, even if he won't be fast. But he also knows flashing it around could backfire, making the men want to try their luck, like drawing a knife is asking for a fight. Best to be discreet.
"Not sure why," he replies to her, glancing at her face for a second. "So far I've threatened you with a weapon, yelled and sworn at you. And yet." He gives her another, longer, considering look. "You're still here. Starting to think I'm a magnet for stubborn."
He licks his lips in an unconscious, wholly-Bucky nervous gesture. He doesn't like that certain words, like 'stubborn' and 'noble' and 'good' make his memories go haywire, just as much as any mention of Hydra. He doesn't have the capacity to deal with memories now, when he's got to stay aware of their surroundings.
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no subject
Slowly, and then gaining speed once she makes no sudden movements, he shifts back into the far bedroom, pulling out small packets of food, wads of cash behind loose boards. He has a go-bag, but he'll get that last; since he has the time, he gathers all his provisions, not just what he deemed necessary for quick flight when he'd packed the bag.
It takes a little over 5 minutes, and the bag is now so full it's a little troublesome to get it zipped, but that's it: every worldly possession he owns. He pauses for a moment, hands resting on top of the bag, staring at nothing, gaze internal.
"Do you know who I am?"
He wonders, even if she does know, if she realizes just what a loaded question it is, for him.
no subject
It makes her angry for everything he's been put through, and also indescribably sad. Could someone ever truly recover from the type of trauma he'd been through? Even with all she hopes they'll be able to achieve together, will he be able to carve out something resembling a life after this?
The question is more than what it seems, she can tell that much. What that more is, though, it beyond her. But she answers honestly, hands holding on to the shoulder straps of her backpack while she watches him with an open and slightly sympathetic expression.
"I have pieces of the puzzle," she tells him without judgment or expectation. "I'm hoping we can both work to put them together."
no subject
"No!" He rounds on her, pointing almost accusingly. "No. I don't-- I know--"
He closes his eyes for a moment, and it's the first time he's ever consciously let go, pulled the Bucky-part forward to talk, because he always seems to have the words when the Soldier doesn't. The Bucky-part can make him understood.
"I don't want some bullshit 'we'll figure it out' psychobabble! I wanna know what you think you know! It ain't gonna change my mind about what I know, so just tell me! Or I'm parkin' my ass in this apartment, and good-fuckin'-luck gettin' me ta move!"
no subject
"You used to be Bucky Barnes," she informs him seriously, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag. "I have files on your missions with the Howling Commandos in World War II. You were supposedly killed in action, but Hydra found you and turned you into the Winter Soldier. I have a handful of SHIELD files that can be attributed to you, but that's it. I don't know who you are now because I do know that when you go through something like that, it changes you."
The memory of being bonded to Hive rises up in her mind and she does flinch then, her calm demeanor slipping momentarily as her stance shifts and she curls ever so slightly inward. Even all these years later, she still feels of the guilt of what she'd done while under his sway. She probably always will.
no subject
Her words now are like daggers hurled at him, wind buffeting him, blowing him all around until he's dizzy, nauseous with it. It's not the words themselves, but every one is a trigger - his fractured mind suddenly eager to pull up corresponding sensory memories to everything she says. The white, the cold. The arm. The scientists. A tiny campfire that can't be too big because they're still behind enemy lines, but it's fuckin' cold and everyone's too tired to give a crap.
Science.
"I remember science," he finally murmurs, and blinks his vision back to find his facing in profile to her, as if he'd turned his body to physically shield himself from her words. "I remember loving all the-- the innovations, the ideas of what mankind could achieve."
He glances down at his arm, and it shifts slightly in response; the movements are fluid, almost too smooth to comprehend that it's a mass of machinery and not a living thing. "And then I became the science. The product.
"I'm not Bucky Barnes. And I'm not the Winter Soldier. But I'm..."
He tries, now. Tries to remember something that's wholly him. And it makes him angry when he can't, too many people calling him Bucky or Asset or Soldier or Sarge even, and the anger--
"James." He looks at her, almost shyly, through the veil of his hair. "You said Soldier wasn't a name. James is a name."
It's one he feels connected to, but has no real memories of ever being called it. Except when Rogers was trying to get him to remember, and even then it was only the once. Every other time, he called him Bucky.
no subject
"It's a good name," she confirms, offering him a supportive, if slightly sad, smile. James Buchanan Barnes. With a nickname like Bucky, he'd probably only been called James whenever someone was upset with him; that was a thing normal parents did, right? Shouted the full name when a kid was in trouble. Had he been the type to get into trouble often when he was young?
Turning toward the door, she calls softly over her shoulder, "Come on, James. Show me that building you found for us." Because no, she's not leaving him anytime soon.
no subject
He feels like he can breathe more easily, after that. He doesn't understand why, but has learned not to question too hard. The less he questions things, the more easily the answer will eventually slip into the back of his mind, slowly shifting until it slots into place.
Hefting the duffle onto his right shoulder (keeping his left arm free, and also he doesn't need the strain on the joint on top of the metal constantly pulling), he moves over and then sidles past her, opening the door and stepping through, stride confident but casual. Rule #1 of infiltration: Look like you know where you're going, and like you belong there.
No one questions him - especially not in this neighborhood - and it's easy to make it down and onto the street.
no subject
She follows him with that same easy confidence, keeping an eye on their surroundings with her peripheral vision. More than a few people eye them as they pass but most of it's just awareness and not even basic curiosity — curiosity kills in neighborhoods like this. But as they hit the street and start heading down the block, she notices a group of men taking a particular interest in her. Not Hydra, just assholes.
She moves to walk directly beside her new companion and instructs him, "Some guys are watching, pretend you actually like me for a minute." She gives him a smile that anyone watching will believe without question. It's the smile of someone in love; she tries not to think about how long it's been since she last wore it.
no subject
He stumbles over the ground, over his own feet, clumsy and uncoordinated in a way he doesn't think he's ever been, but he doesn't have time to contemplate that, because he's suddenly assaulted with other memories, back alleys and side streets and parking areas and rundown buildings and Jesus did Steve Rogers ever do anything besides pick fights?
"Holy shit," he mumbles under his breath, but at the same time, without conscious thought, he turns his stumble to his advantage, throwing his arm over Daisy's shoulder. His body knows just how to move, to settle his arm comfortably, pulling her in close, but still loose. It's his left arm, which isn't ideal in this situation, if the men decide to try their luck with him here anyway; the duffle will hinder him on the right side anyway, but he'll make it work. Hopefully Daisy knows how to fight.
And that's it. Without really even thinking about it, he's thrown his lot in with her. She could betray him, hell this close she could pull a needle and incapacitate him and there's a good chance he wouldn't be able to stop her. But his mind has apparently been made up, and until/unless she does, he's going to trust her, and he's going to protect her.
"Nobody said I didn't like you," he says softly - the Asset, James, not the Bucky-part, and he wonders if she can hear the difference in the way he talks. She probably thinks he's crazy. He's not sure he isn't. But crazy and functional aren't mutually exclusive. "I don't know you. But you're here, not knocked out in the apartment, so I must like you a little."
no subject
So it's true then. He really does have a metal arm. She can feel the difference now, the contrast between skin and bone and metal. If it were just one or the other, she wouldn't have been able to tell, but with them next to each other, there's no mistaking it. Weird. It makes her wonder, distantly, if he'd let Jemma and Fitz build him a new prosthetic when their timelines finally meet in a few years.
"A little is a good place to start," she acknowledges quietly, still smiling but a measure of genuine feeling behind the expression now. "I like you a little too, if that matters any."
no subject
Shifting the bag as far onto his back as he can while it's slung over his shoulder, he draws the knife he'd had out earlier, but keeps it tucked close, hidden against the dark wash of his jeans. It helps marginally relax him just to have the familiar grip on it, even if he won't be fast. But he also knows flashing it around could backfire, making the men want to try their luck, like drawing a knife is asking for a fight. Best to be discreet.
"Not sure why," he replies to her, glancing at her face for a second. "So far I've threatened you with a weapon, yelled and sworn at you. And yet." He gives her another, longer, considering look. "You're still here. Starting to think I'm a magnet for stubborn."
He licks his lips in an unconscious, wholly-Bucky nervous gesture. He doesn't like that certain words, like 'stubborn' and 'noble' and 'good' make his memories go haywire, just as much as any mention of Hydra. He doesn't have the capacity to deal with memories now, when he's got to stay aware of their surroundings.