The timeline was screwed and there was no fixing it. They'd managed to save the future, but going to the past had caused problems. Unintended ripples that had impacted things they never would have expected — like Daisy's very existence. They'd returned to a present that wasn't their own, where the events they all remembered hadn't transpired in the same way; those ripples were wider and more broadly felt, and in a strange way it was illuminating to see the impact her life had on the world. There were other unforeseen consequences that her teammates had to deal with, such as not arriving back at the right time as when they'd left, but in the end, she made a choice.
It was a choice that led her many places, using her shadow existence to help her move across the world without detection. HYDRA had been exposed within SHIELD just like in her timeline, and they had fallen here as well, but she knew better than anyone how many remnants still remained. If she could find them and stop them, or even simply undo even a small fraction of the harm they'd caused, then it would be worth a few years alone. It would only be a few minutes for her team, her family, but she would spend her years making this world a better place for them all.
With SHIELD's files being exposed to the public, it wasn't hard to choose her targets. She spent months tracking down high-level operatives, stopping their plans and delivering them to authorities, but all the while she worked on another search, one she wasn't sure would pan out. Yet, here she is, back in the DC area, comparing photos on her tablet before stuffing the device back into her backpack. The city was fairly removed from the metro area and the neighborhood was... not great, to say the least. The world had forgotten it and left it to rot, along with everyone who stilled called it something like home.
Pulling her leather jacket closer around herself, she enters the apartment building, the crumbling walls and long broken front door giving her a real sense of homey welcome as she took the stairs up to the fourth floor. The hall is drab and dirty, half the lightbulbs broken or flickering, and she can hear a few televisions through the thin walls along with voices and shouting. Signs of life in an otherwise dying place. She glances at one door in particular as she walks past it, her boots making soft thuds on the linoleum floor, but she doesn't stop until she reaches the one beside it — the one she knows is empty. The lock is quickly picked and she slips inside, every sound she makes almost echoing in the empty apartment.
It's the furthest thing from 'home' she's seen in a long time, and it's a struggle to not let herself think she's made a mistake. This can't be a mistake.
He's been here over a month, now. Here being this particular apartment. He... he's not sure how long he's been out. Time is still strange in his head, rushing past and crawling by simultaneously. He's going to need to find another bolt-hole soon, but this is the best he's found so far; no one cares about the long-haired, defensive man who barely speaks and glares at anyone who gets too close - no one gets too close around here, anyway. He's not the only person armed in this neighborhood, and possibly not even the most heavily armed.
He can hear everything through the thin tenement walls, laughing and crying and shrieks and yells - both happy and scared - all manner of noises. But he... likes? He... wants? The words, the feelings they come attached with, are still a little foreign to him.
The point is: the noise reminds him that he's out in the world, not in another holding cell or cryo chamber. He needs that, if nothing else fits. He needs the constant reminder that he's not The Asset anymore. He's...
He's...
He's a person. Not a tool. Not a weapon.
He's possibly a person named Bucky, although that's still... It's all jumbled in his head. That's what the Captain called him though, and he remembers...
He remembers too much, but not nearly enough. Snatches of words, conversations, images, but with no context to them. He knows the Captain-- no, he knows Steve. He knows he knows him, but the things he remembers can't be right, because no way that muscle-bound all-American hero is the same as the Steve his brain automatically conjures up, shorter than him and so thin a heavy wind would blow right through him. But it's all he's got. Steve. And Captain America. An endless expanse of white. Pain. And Hydra.
He shivers, pulling the topmost layer of his stolen clothes around himself, even though it doesn't have much to do with the ambient temperature in the apartment. He's in the furthest room back, sat with his knees drawn up and back shoved into the corner. He doesn't need a lot of sleep, but what he does get ends up with nightmares 89% of the time, and then he has to regroup. He wishes he could tell himself they weren't real.
He needs to regroup. Pull himself together before he can go out. He's got food stashed around the apartment - along with more weapons, just in case, because he knows the protocol for if he goes missing on assignment, and he's not going back - but he's going to need supplies again soon.
But for now he sits, listening to all the life in the building, the footsteps walking in the hall.
In the hall just outside his door. And not moving further.
The shivering stops, he holds his breath, waiting... and hears the snick of the lock. His eyes are wide, but it's not the ordinary panic, or fight-or-flight reaction. It's never fight or flight anymore. It's fight then flight. Because anybody who comes after him, he's taking down, so they can never come after him again.
What he hears isn't the ominous shuffle of tactical gear, of a group of soldiers trying to move silently but unable to quite mask their presence. Just one. One person, and... they don't really seem to be trying to be quiet?
He thinks woman, and then he thinks Red Room and that phrase doesn't mean much to his thinking-brain, but some part of him knows that it's bad. That it means things have escalated. He's on his guard, leaning away from the wall before pushing up silently. A knife appears in his hand, and he moves over to behind the door to the bedroom. And waits.
There is a part of him - something he thinks might be the Bucky-part - that is telling him it could be someone innocent. The apartment is supposed to be empty, but he crashed here. What if it's someone else doing the same thing? Don't kill without making sure.
He's got the choice now. Nobody is telling him to kill anymore. And while he has no problem killing anyone who gets in his way, he's finding himself reluctant to do it unless necessary. And necessary is becoming a smaller and smaller margin lately.
Well, she's not dead yet, so that's a good sign. Of what, she's still not entirely sure...
Stepping more fully into the main room, she debates yet again what to do. She could lie, slip into an undercover persona and feign innocence. Pulling on her dark, angry at the world past, she could easily try to earn a place in his good graces. It would give her a chance to observe him, to try to understand where he was mentally and emotionally... But she'd be lying, and hasn't he had enough of that? Layers of lies built up to wash away the truth of who and what he is. No one deserves that. No one.
So, Option B it is.
"I'm pretty sure you're here," she says in a low voice, knowing that he'll hear it but hoping it won't carry far to the other units. There's caution in her tone, but also sincerity and a hint of worry. She lifts her hands at her sides, not knowing if he can see her but wanting him to know she's unarmed. "My name's Daisy. I'm here to help."
He tenses at the sound of her voice. Talking... He hates talking. He hates it when other people try to talk to him, because it just confuses him. Sometimes they know that, and try to use it to their advantage. Make him think things he's trying to push away, make him think he's The Asset again.
But she's not doing that. Not yet. Despite his heartrate increasing due to adrenaline, his breathing grows slower. He's ready, squeezing the handle of the knife in his hand for reassurance. His left arm whirs almost silently as it recalibrates, a reassuring sound of its own.
Staying silent isn't really an option, unfortunately. If he doesn't respond, he's almost positive she'll continue searching the apartment, and ultimately find him. She might continue talking the whole time, which will increase her chances of confusing him with words.
Wherever he is, he isn't moving and so she can't hear him or feel any vibrations. It's not until he actually speaks that she has confirmation he's even in the apartment — she considers it good luck that he is, because she might have lost him if he'd caught wind of her and run. She has one shot at this and she can't waste it.
"I'm not HYDRA," she assures him, though the words are like ash in her mouth. She can't keep her bitterness out of that name, the word alone evoking an anger that she knows she'll never fully shake. "I've been working to stop them. What they did to you was horrible and I don't want them to ever get their hands on you again."
There's no reason for him to believe her, of course. She can't prove a damn thing to him like this. But maybe, if she says the right thing and doesn't spook him... Maybe she can convince him to give a chance at earning his trust. Even that could be enough for now.
The word is out of his mouth before he even registers it. It's true though, there's no way he's going to believe her just because she says she's not Hydra, and just because she says she wants to help him.
"Plenty of people have already 'helped' me. I get much more help, I'll be dead, lady. No thanks."
The Bucky-part keeps taking over his mouth. He doesn't like it. But he's also not saying anything the man disagrees with, so he'll let it go for now.
Yeah, okay, it wasn't her best approach. But look, approaching a brainwashed supersoldier who used to be best friends with Captain America didn't really come with an instruction manual. She's flying by the seat of her pants and hoping for some outcome that doesn't end up with her dead and him back with the people who had put him through literal hell.
"I get it, I wouldn't trust me either. But if I could find you, then it's only a matter of time before it's Hydra at that door." He might be one of the deadliest assassins in history, but she's betting he doesn't know how to erase any sign of himself from the digital sphere. "I covered your tracks for now, but how are you going to handle this on your own?"
Sweat starts to break out over his body without his permission. That's the problem with not being The Asset anymore - he has to think about things, and react. And the longer he's out, the more frequently his body reacts without his input. It's a downside, but still nowhere near tipping the scales into making going back look like any option, let alone a good one.
She makes a good point though. He knows eventually he'll be found, and it's a random chance whether it's anyone he's okay with finding him. Really, he doesn't want anybody finding him, but if it's a choice between Hydra and their electric chairs and cryo chamber, or Steve-fucking-Rogers with his sad puppy eyes and 'Bucky please's, he'll take Rogers.
...Huh. Even his internal voice is starting to sound more stridently of the Bucky-voice. Maybe... Maybe talking to someone else is good for him? Ugh. He hates talking. He wore a mask for a reason, and it wasn't just to filter out any toxins that might get thrown at him.
"I am handling it on my own. You think I've been here this whole time? Knew it was time to move on. Just hadn't gotten to it yet."
At least he's still talking to her. It's better than him trying to take her out or flinging himself out the window to get away from her, but it's still not the outcome she'd hoped for. Not that she'd assumed this would be at all easy.
There's an urgency gnawing at her nerves, a feeling of needing to hurry that is starting to wear away at her calm. When she speaks again, there's a bit of it in her voice now, her expression matching. What if his answer never changes? What if she fails at this mission she's set for herself, both with Bucky and the world at large? What if she's wasting all these years alone...
"Let me help you," she pleads, knowing this isn't the right way but not seeing any other option. "I can go with you, keep you off the grid. If they find you, you'll need backup."
She may think she's doing it wrong, but he's still there. He's still listening, and more importantly - more surprising - he's still engaging with her. And hearing the emotion in her voice makes him relax. Marginally, but it's there. He knows people can act, but this... something in his gut is telling him it's not acting, and he knows to trust his gut, his sixth-sense.
Plus, she sounds desperate. In a way he's all-too familiar with. It's not fear of him that's making her desperate, she's desperate for herself. And while he doesn't understand why, he certainly understands the feeling.
This is a bad idea. You need help. She's offering. I am you! We need help, she's offering! She could be Hydra. Or Red Room. I don't know what that is. Look, if she betrays us, kill her. I can do that.
He flips the knife so it's held against his wrist, ready to slash out if needed.
"I'm coming out. Back up. Make one move - any move, I'll kill you."
Such a bad idea. Too late now.
Waiting to the count of five, he reaches out and swings the door open, waiting behind it for another 5 seconds to see if she'll attack, before stepping around into the doorway.
He's looked better. He's wearing multiple layers of dark clothing, all of them getting threadbare. His hair is lank and hanging around his face. He's trimmed his facial hair, but hasn't bothered with shaving.
She does as he says, stepping back almost to the door before going completely still again, hands held out at her sides to show they're empty. He doesn't know that she doesn't need a weapon, that one ounce of effort could send him flying into or even through these thin walls. To him, like this, she might be just any other 30something woman with a penchant for wearing black. He has no idea who or what she is.
But he needs to. Maybe it will help him understand.
"My name is Daisy," she repeats because it's not exactly a name that strikes fear in the heart but it's hers. "I'm an Inhuman. That means Hydra will lock me in a lab and cut me to pieces the second they can if they get hold of me."
He won't know what an Inhuman is, this world hasn't noticed them yet, but the rest... The anger is in her voice again along with something like anguish, her emotions getting the better of her after so many months of trying to keep them bottled up. She wants him to say yes so she can help him, absolutely, but some part of her also just so desperately wants to not be alone anymore.
He doesn't move from the doorway. He just watches her. The Asset and the Bucky parts working together, cataloguing the emotions he can see.
And he... wants. Not for her to help him, but... he wants... someone. Someone should be with him. He's always been the one man they send out on a job; there's a handler, maybe other soldiers with him, but he's always The Soldier. The only one. It's been like that for so long, but now that he's been awake and starting to disjointedly remember things, feelings and sensations, he feels like he's missing someone at his side.
He twitches minutely at the mention of being locked in a lab. His first thoughts are of the chair, the cryo chamber - but almost layered underneath them is a large, dim room, on a metal table. Needles and injections and he knows what to do during interrogations by the enemy, so he starts reciting his rank and serial because that's all the bastards will get out of him no matter what they do--
His right hand, still clutching the knife, is pressed against his temple. His breathing has increased. "I--"
Slowly, he moves his arm back down. He flips the knife and stashes it, opening his now-empty hand to show her. He doesn't draw attention to the left - if she already knows who he is, she knows about it already.
She introduced herself. Names are important. They're an identity - Hydra took even that away from him, made him The Asset. The Winter Soldier. He's not a tool anymore, he's a person, but... he doesn't know who that person is.
In a soft voice, he finally says, "I'm the Soldier."
He may not be the Asset, or the Winter Soldier anymore, but something feels right about calling himself a soldier. Something older than Hydra.
She watches him carefully, taking in even the slightest movement and just constantly hoping she hasn't miscalculated. But then he lowers that knife, even puts it away, and she breathes a little easier. He's still a walking weapon all on his own of course, just like she is, but it's a gesture of good faith, one which she will gladly accept.
Frowning at the way he introduces himself, she studies him for a few moments more before slightly shaking her head. "That's not a name," she informs him gently. "But it's okay. We'll find one for you."
Names are important. She's had so many over the years, aliases that never felt quite right, but none of them had ever mattered so much as Daisy. Daisy Johnson, the name her father had given her, the name that had been stolen from her for so very long.
Soldier isn't a name. Maybe he doesn't remember his own name, or perhaps he simply doesn't want it. Whatever the reason, he can choose to be whoever he wants and she won't stand in his way.
There's a slight tightening around his eyes when she tells him that's not a name. He doesn't flinch, but only because he's trained himself out of it. It's still there though, in the subtle shifting of expression.
He finally looks away when she says they'll find one for him. He can't... He's not even sure if it's the finding a name, or if it's the plural she used automatically. He hasn't been part of a we in a long time. Not voluntarily.
"I don't-- I'm not--"
No. He can't. His head was already a mess when she showed up. Focus on the mission, a part of him thinks. He's started interpreting that to mean look at the practicalities of a situation first.
His stance shifts minutely, becoming determined and ready. "You said you hid me. How long do we have?"
There's something in what she said that's bothering him. What, specifically, she can't be sure. That she'd pointed out Soldier isn't a name? That she'd said they would find one for him? Maybe it was even the way she said it. Something had caused his reaction and honestly, part of her is glad to see it because it confirms that he's on the right track.
Taking a deep breath, she warns him, "I'm gonna get my laptop out of my bag." Her movements are kept slow and precise as she shrugs off the backpack and kneels on the dirty floor, removing the laptop with practiced ease and immediately opening it. A few taps of keys and a string of code appears before the program executes.
"I think we're okay for now," she tells him after reading over the results. "I had to dig pretty deep to find you, so anyone else would too. It's possible they might have already before I scrubbed every surveillance image of you, so we shouldn't stay long, but I don't think we have to worry about right this second."
Even with her warning, he takes an automatic step back when she reaches into her bag. He doesn't shift back forward when all she pulls out is her laptop, because he knows with a few keystrokes she could be sending a message for extraction to a team right outside. He just watches her, and listens as she talks. He doesn't understand everything; if he was ever programmed for intel extraction, he doesn't remember it. He's been the guard over others who've done it though - he thinks - but mostly he was just the muscle during those missions. Usually he was the kill order, though.
He understands enough to marginally relax, though. He's very aware of all the ways a person can be tracked, can be found - and how to avoid them. He was trained for it to avoid the enemies noticing him; but he's sure he also wasn't told all the ways, because if he'd gone rogue (before now), they would've wanted a way to find him themselves. She's just confirmed it, too, because he has been trying to avoid detection. And unless you knew where to look and what to look for, he thinks he's probably succeeded, judging by her comment about having to dig deep.
"Wouldn't be a very good assassin if I couldn't stay hidden," he mutters with a half-hearted smile. He thinks it's the Bucky-part speaking again, but... he's not sure. He doesn't think the Bucky-part would be making a joke about being an assassin... but maybe he would. The Soldier doesn't know.
There are so many ways to track a person in this modern era, most of which the average person doesn't even know about. Of course, he's had some training in staying hidden, but with technology constantly changing and Hydra being Hydra, she wasn't a bit surprised to find those traces of him once she really dove into the search. The one positive is that she's very good and Hydra was still reassembling, so maybe they'll have an actual chance of getting through this without a fight.
The joke (that's what it is, right?) brings out a matching smile in her, though she's surprised to look up and see his at all. He hasn't seemed the type... But then, she doesn't know a damn thing about who he is now. Maybe he doesn't either.
"He's funny," she observes while shutting the laptop again and stuffing it back into the bag. "Okay. That's good."
He likes that he got her to smile. She's got a nice smile, he thinks distantly.
The way she says 'he's funny' makes him feel... His face shutters. "Yeah. Sometimes he's funny." It's said with no inflection. Because even if he's funny, is it the Bucky-part? Or... It's not the Winter Soldier, that's for sure. But who is he? Despite what he's been insisting since he broke his programming and became more than just the Winter Soldier, he's not a person. He's an amalgamation. His mind, personality, whatever makes up a person's self, is about as whole as his physical body. Sure it's all there, and it's even all (mostly) functioning. But it's not all one piece.
"I have another place to head to. Just need to grab my provisions." He eyes her. "You... really stickin' around?"
Yeah. Sometimes he's funny. The way he says it... She'd said something again, triggered something in him that made him retreat behind that mask. Was it a mask? She knows that Hydra had really done a number on him mind, that the world had considered him more weapon than man by this point, but she's seen glimpses of an actual person in just their few minutes together. What's going on in his head right now, in the aftermath of all that had been done to him?
"If you'll let me," she confirms, standing again and hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder. For as long as he'll let her, she'll help him through this, and maybe manage to give him a better outcome than he'd had in her timeline.
"I've got a van a few blocks over. You can ride in back, it'll be easier to avoid traffic cameras that way." Yep, she's gone back to her roots of living in a van. It's just been easier that way.
Pausing, he slants a look at her, assessing. He allows her to see it, letting his expressions play visibly over his face. It almost feels like acting, which occasionally he's had to do - except this time the emotions he's showing are real. It still feels fake though, allowing someone else to be privy to them.
Finally, the corner of his mouth hitches, in something that at best could be called 'small-smile-adjacent.' "Over which way? Because if you say North 2 blocks, West 1, that's where I'm heading.
"There's another building over there, rundown. Abandoned offices. I picked it as my second-choice, because there's no other activity there."
He's not sure why he's telling her all this. Except maybe it's the programming, deciding she's part of his team. He'd already recognized how much he... he'd missed having someone with him. And something told him - some memory or understanding that he didn't have conscious access to, maybe - that if he played enigmatic with her... Maybe she wouldn't leave, but she'd make his life a living hell while she stuck with him.
He's not wrong about that. If he kept himself hidden from her and all mysterious, she'd just find some careful way to pester and try to get reactions out of him, which would become increasingly less careful as time went on. So really, just opening up now was really the easiest course of action for the both of them.
She considers his directions for a moment, comparing them to where she'd left the van, and then smiles and shakes her head. "It's right around there, yeah. Looks like we share similar taste."
Slowly, still erring on the side of caution since he undoubtedly doesn't trust her fully yet, she moves over to one of the windows and peers carefully out through the covering. Something occurs to her then and she sighs, glancing back over at him. "I don't know if it's too safe to stay in this area, though. If someone else did manage to trace you here, they might keep watching this city closely in case you're still around."
He watches her moving, shifting to balance on his back leg; a firm stance that still maintains the illusion of being casual. He's starting to think she's not a threat, but he just finished healing from Rogers beating him up with an oversized Frisbee, so he's not taking many chances. In the back of his head, also, is the idea that women pose more of a danger, but he can't access any specific memories that tell him why, or how, what makes him think that.
"Sometimes the best thing to do is the one thing everyone thinks is the dumbest. Nobody checks on that option, because who would be stupid enough to do it?"
It's not something he does often, but it's a strategy that works more than the average intelligence agent would expect. "The key is to stay unpredictable."
She watches him for a moment longer and then... laughs quietly, stepping away from the window. No, the average intelligence agent might not expect that play to work, but this agent? Not so average. Especially not after having spent the last few weeks chasing alien robots who could predict your every move based on past actions. Thank goodness the Chronicom problem had been taken care of.
"You're right," she acknowledges with a nod, unafraid of admitting it like some other agents might be. "Staying unpredictable is the way to go right now. But you should grab your stuff so we can get moving, just in case."
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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for bucky barnes;
It was a choice that led her many places, using her shadow existence to help her move across the world without detection. HYDRA had been exposed within SHIELD just like in her timeline, and they had fallen here as well, but she knew better than anyone how many remnants still remained. If she could find them and stop them, or even simply undo even a small fraction of the harm they'd caused, then it would be worth a few years alone. It would only be a few minutes for her team, her family, but she would spend her years making this world a better place for them all.
With SHIELD's files being exposed to the public, it wasn't hard to choose her targets. She spent months tracking down high-level operatives, stopping their plans and delivering them to authorities, but all the while she worked on another search, one she wasn't sure would pan out. Yet, here she is, back in the DC area, comparing photos on her tablet before stuffing the device back into her backpack. The city was fairly removed from the metro area and the neighborhood was... not great, to say the least. The world had forgotten it and left it to rot, along with everyone who stilled called it something like home.
Pulling her leather jacket closer around herself, she enters the apartment building, the crumbling walls and long broken front door giving her a real sense of homey welcome as she took the stairs up to the fourth floor. The hall is drab and dirty, half the lightbulbs broken or flickering, and she can hear a few televisions through the thin walls along with voices and shouting. Signs of life in an otherwise dying place. She glances at one door in particular as she walks past it, her boots making soft thuds on the linoleum floor, but she doesn't stop until she reaches the one beside it — the one she knows is empty. The lock is quickly picked and she slips inside, every sound she makes almost echoing in the empty apartment.
It's the furthest thing from 'home' she's seen in a long time, and it's a struggle to not let herself think she's made a mistake. This can't be a mistake.
no subject
He can hear everything through the thin tenement walls, laughing and crying and shrieks and yells - both happy and scared - all manner of noises. But he... likes? He... wants? The words, the feelings they come attached with, are still a little foreign to him.
The point is: the noise reminds him that he's out in the world, not in another holding cell or cryo chamber. He needs that, if nothing else fits. He needs the constant reminder that he's not The Asset anymore. He's...
He's...
He's a person. Not a tool. Not a weapon.
He's possibly a person named Bucky, although that's still... It's all jumbled in his head. That's what the Captain called him though, and he remembers...
He remembers too much, but not nearly enough. Snatches of words, conversations, images, but with no context to them. He knows the Captain-- no, he knows Steve. He knows he knows him, but the things he remembers can't be right, because no way that muscle-bound all-American hero is the same as the Steve his brain automatically conjures up, shorter than him and so thin a heavy wind would blow right through him. But it's all he's got. Steve. And Captain America. An endless expanse of white. Pain. And Hydra.
He shivers, pulling the topmost layer of his stolen clothes around himself, even though it doesn't have much to do with the ambient temperature in the apartment. He's in the furthest room back, sat with his knees drawn up and back shoved into the corner. He doesn't need a lot of sleep, but what he does get ends up with nightmares 89% of the time, and then he has to regroup. He wishes he could tell himself they weren't real.
He needs to regroup. Pull himself together before he can go out. He's got food stashed around the apartment - along with more weapons, just in case, because he knows the protocol for if he goes missing on assignment, and he's not going back - but he's going to need supplies again soon.
But for now he sits, listening to all the life in the building, the footsteps walking in the hall.
In the hall just outside his door. And not moving further.
The shivering stops, he holds his breath, waiting... and hears the snick of the lock. His eyes are wide, but it's not the ordinary panic, or fight-or-flight reaction. It's never fight or flight anymore. It's fight then flight. Because anybody who comes after him, he's taking down, so they can never come after him again.
What he hears isn't the ominous shuffle of tactical gear, of a group of soldiers trying to move silently but unable to quite mask their presence. Just one. One person, and... they don't really seem to be trying to be quiet?
He thinks woman, and then he thinks Red Room and that phrase doesn't mean much to his thinking-brain, but some part of him knows that it's bad. That it means things have escalated. He's on his guard, leaning away from the wall before pushing up silently. A knife appears in his hand, and he moves over to behind the door to the bedroom. And waits.
There is a part of him - something he thinks might be the Bucky-part - that is telling him it could be someone innocent. The apartment is supposed to be empty, but he crashed here. What if it's someone else doing the same thing? Don't kill without making sure.
He's got the choice now. Nobody is telling him to kill anymore. And while he has no problem killing anyone who gets in his way, he's finding himself reluctant to do it unless necessary. And necessary is becoming a smaller and smaller margin lately.
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Stepping more fully into the main room, she debates yet again what to do. She could lie, slip into an undercover persona and feign innocence. Pulling on her dark, angry at the world past, she could easily try to earn a place in his good graces. It would give her a chance to observe him, to try to understand where he was mentally and emotionally... But she'd be lying, and hasn't he had enough of that? Layers of lies built up to wash away the truth of who and what he is. No one deserves that. No one.
So, Option B it is.
"I'm pretty sure you're here," she says in a low voice, knowing that he'll hear it but hoping it won't carry far to the other units. There's caution in her tone, but also sincerity and a hint of worry. She lifts her hands at her sides, not knowing if he can see her but wanting him to know she's unarmed. "My name's Daisy. I'm here to help."
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But she's not doing that. Not yet. Despite his heartrate increasing due to adrenaline, his breathing grows slower. He's ready, squeezing the handle of the knife in his hand for reassurance. His left arm whirs almost silently as it recalibrates, a reassuring sound of its own.
Staying silent isn't really an option, unfortunately. If he doesn't respond, he's almost positive she'll continue searching the apartment, and ultimately find him. She might continue talking the whole time, which will increase her chances of confusing him with words.
"I don't need your help. I'm not going back."
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"I'm not HYDRA," she assures him, though the words are like ash in her mouth. She can't keep her bitterness out of that name, the word alone evoking an anger that she knows she'll never fully shake. "I've been working to stop them. What they did to you was horrible and I don't want them to ever get their hands on you again."
There's no reason for him to believe her, of course. She can't prove a damn thing to him like this. But maybe, if she says the right thing and doesn't spook him... Maybe she can convince him to give a chance at earning his trust. Even that could be enough for now.
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The word is out of his mouth before he even registers it. It's true though, there's no way he's going to believe her just because she says she's not Hydra, and just because she says she wants to help him.
"Plenty of people have already 'helped' me. I get much more help, I'll be dead, lady. No thanks."
The Bucky-part keeps taking over his mouth. He doesn't like it. But he's also not saying anything the man disagrees with, so he'll let it go for now.
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"I get it, I wouldn't trust me either. But if I could find you, then it's only a matter of time before it's Hydra at that door." He might be one of the deadliest assassins in history, but she's betting he doesn't know how to erase any sign of himself from the digital sphere. "I covered your tracks for now, but how are you going to handle this on your own?"
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She makes a good point though. He knows eventually he'll be found, and it's a random chance whether it's anyone he's okay with finding him. Really, he doesn't want anybody finding him, but if it's a choice between Hydra and their electric chairs and cryo chamber, or Steve-fucking-Rogers with his sad puppy eyes and 'Bucky please's, he'll take Rogers.
...Huh. Even his internal voice is starting to sound more stridently of the Bucky-voice. Maybe... Maybe talking to someone else is good for him? Ugh. He hates talking. He wore a mask for a reason, and it wasn't just to filter out any toxins that might get thrown at him.
"I am handling it on my own. You think I've been here this whole time? Knew it was time to move on. Just hadn't gotten to it yet."
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There's an urgency gnawing at her nerves, a feeling of needing to hurry that is starting to wear away at her calm. When she speaks again, there's a bit of it in her voice now, her expression matching. What if his answer never changes? What if she fails at this mission she's set for herself, both with Bucky and the world at large? What if she's wasting all these years alone...
"Let me help you," she pleads, knowing this isn't the right way but not seeing any other option. "I can go with you, keep you off the grid. If they find you, you'll need backup."
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Plus, she sounds desperate. In a way he's all-too familiar with. It's not fear of him that's making her desperate, she's desperate for herself. And while he doesn't understand why, he certainly understands the feeling.
This is a bad idea.
You need help. She's offering.
I am you! We need help, she's offering!
She could be Hydra. Or Red Room.
I don't know what that is. Look, if she betrays us, kill her.
I can do that.
He flips the knife so it's held against his wrist, ready to slash out if needed.
"I'm coming out. Back up. Make one move - any move, I'll kill you."
Such a bad idea.
Too late now.
Waiting to the count of five, he reaches out and swings the door open, waiting behind it for another 5 seconds to see if she'll attack, before stepping around into the doorway.
He's looked better. He's wearing multiple layers of dark clothing, all of them getting threadbare. His hair is lank and hanging around his face. He's trimmed his facial hair, but hasn't bothered with shaving.
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But he needs to. Maybe it will help him understand.
"My name is Daisy," she repeats because it's not exactly a name that strikes fear in the heart but it's hers. "I'm an Inhuman. That means Hydra will lock me in a lab and cut me to pieces the second they can if they get hold of me."
He won't know what an Inhuman is, this world hasn't noticed them yet, but the rest... The anger is in her voice again along with something like anguish, her emotions getting the better of her after so many months of trying to keep them bottled up. She wants him to say yes so she can help him, absolutely, but some part of her also just so desperately wants to not be alone anymore.
"Let me help you. Please."
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And he... wants. Not for her to help him, but... he wants... someone. Someone should be with him. He's always been the one man they send out on a job; there's a handler, maybe other soldiers with him, but he's always The Soldier. The only one. It's been like that for so long, but now that he's been awake and starting to disjointedly remember things, feelings and sensations, he feels like he's missing someone at his side.
He twitches minutely at the mention of being locked in a lab. His first thoughts are of the chair, the cryo chamber - but almost layered underneath them is a large, dim room, on a metal table. Needles and injections and he knows what to do during interrogations by the enemy, so he starts reciting his rank and serial because that's all the bastards will get out of him no matter what they do--
His right hand, still clutching the knife, is pressed against his temple. His breathing has increased. "I--"
Slowly, he moves his arm back down. He flips the knife and stashes it, opening his now-empty hand to show her. He doesn't draw attention to the left - if she already knows who he is, she knows about it already.
She introduced herself. Names are important. They're an identity - Hydra took even that away from him, made him The Asset. The Winter Soldier. He's not a tool anymore, he's a person, but... he doesn't know who that person is.
In a soft voice, he finally says, "I'm the Soldier."
He may not be the Asset, or the Winter Soldier anymore, but something feels right about calling himself a soldier. Something older than Hydra.
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Frowning at the way he introduces himself, she studies him for a few moments more before slightly shaking her head. "That's not a name," she informs him gently. "But it's okay. We'll find one for you."
Names are important. She's had so many over the years, aliases that never felt quite right, but none of them had ever mattered so much as Daisy. Daisy Johnson, the name her father had given her, the name that had been stolen from her for so very long.
Soldier isn't a name. Maybe he doesn't remember his own name, or perhaps he simply doesn't want it. Whatever the reason, he can choose to be whoever he wants and she won't stand in his way.
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He finally looks away when she says they'll find one for him. He can't... He's not even sure if it's the finding a name, or if it's the plural she used automatically. He hasn't been part of a we in a long time. Not voluntarily.
"I don't-- I'm not--"
No. He can't. His head was already a mess when she showed up. Focus on the mission, a part of him thinks. He's started interpreting that to mean look at the practicalities of a situation first.
His stance shifts minutely, becoming determined and ready. "You said you hid me. How long do we have?"
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Taking a deep breath, she warns him, "I'm gonna get my laptop out of my bag." Her movements are kept slow and precise as she shrugs off the backpack and kneels on the dirty floor, removing the laptop with practiced ease and immediately opening it. A few taps of keys and a string of code appears before the program executes.
"I think we're okay for now," she tells him after reading over the results. "I had to dig pretty deep to find you, so anyone else would too. It's possible they might have already before I scrubbed every surveillance image of you, so we shouldn't stay long, but I don't think we have to worry about right this second."
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He understands enough to marginally relax, though. He's very aware of all the ways a person can be tracked, can be found - and how to avoid them. He was trained for it to avoid the enemies noticing him; but he's sure he also wasn't told all the ways, because if he'd gone rogue (before now), they would've wanted a way to find him themselves. She's just confirmed it, too, because he has been trying to avoid detection. And unless you knew where to look and what to look for, he thinks he's probably succeeded, judging by her comment about having to dig deep.
"Wouldn't be a very good assassin if I couldn't stay hidden," he mutters with a half-hearted smile. He thinks it's the Bucky-part speaking again, but... he's not sure. He doesn't think the Bucky-part would be making a joke about being an assassin... but maybe he would. The Soldier doesn't know.
Is afraid to know.
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The joke (that's what it is, right?) brings out a matching smile in her, though she's surprised to look up and see his at all. He hasn't seemed the type... But then, she doesn't know a damn thing about who he is now. Maybe he doesn't either.
"He's funny," she observes while shutting the laptop again and stuffing it back into the bag. "Okay. That's good."
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The way she says 'he's funny' makes him feel... His face shutters. "Yeah. Sometimes he's funny." It's said with no inflection. Because even if he's funny, is it the Bucky-part? Or... It's not the Winter Soldier, that's for sure. But who is he? Despite what he's been insisting since he broke his programming and became more than just the Winter Soldier, he's not a person. He's an amalgamation. His mind, personality, whatever makes up a person's self, is about as whole as his physical body. Sure it's all there, and it's even all (mostly) functioning. But it's not all one piece.
"I have another place to head to. Just need to grab my provisions." He eyes her. "You... really stickin' around?"
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"If you'll let me," she confirms, standing again and hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder. For as long as he'll let her, she'll help him through this, and maybe manage to give him a better outcome than he'd had in her timeline.
"I've got a van a few blocks over. You can ride in back, it'll be easier to avoid traffic cameras that way." Yep, she's gone back to her roots of living in a van. It's just been easier that way.
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Finally, the corner of his mouth hitches, in something that at best could be called 'small-smile-adjacent.' "Over which way? Because if you say North 2 blocks, West 1, that's where I'm heading.
"There's another building over there, rundown. Abandoned offices. I picked it as my second-choice, because there's no other activity there."
He's not sure why he's telling her all this. Except maybe it's the programming, deciding she's part of his team. He'd already recognized how much he... he'd missed having someone with him. And something told him - some memory or understanding that he didn't have conscious access to, maybe - that if he played enigmatic with her... Maybe she wouldn't leave, but she'd make his life a living hell while she stuck with him.
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She considers his directions for a moment, comparing them to where she'd left the van, and then smiles and shakes her head. "It's right around there, yeah. Looks like we share similar taste."
Slowly, still erring on the side of caution since he undoubtedly doesn't trust her fully yet, she moves over to one of the windows and peers carefully out through the covering. Something occurs to her then and she sighs, glancing back over at him. "I don't know if it's too safe to stay in this area, though. If someone else did manage to trace you here, they might keep watching this city closely in case you're still around."
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"Sometimes the best thing to do is the one thing everyone thinks is the dumbest. Nobody checks on that option, because who would be stupid enough to do it?"
It's not something he does often, but it's a strategy that works more than the average intelligence agent would expect. "The key is to stay unpredictable."
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"You're right," she acknowledges with a nod, unafraid of admitting it like some other agents might be. "Staying unpredictable is the way to go right now. But you should grab your stuff so we can get moving, just in case."
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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.
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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."
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