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."
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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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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"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!"
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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.