Chapter Text
The first thing Bucky registers as he steps into the inky blackness of the Void is the eerie silence. His teammates—can they even be called that? What even are they to each other?—entered before him, and their shadows immediately splattered against the filthy, rubbled covered street.
They were turned into nothing but a smudge really, just like everybody else in the general area, and by the rate Bob’s evil self is going, quite possibly the entirety of New York City in a matter of minutes. Bucky had been the last to enter, his fear of Yelena having died still stuck in his brain. He’d already lost Steve, and couldn’t afford losing anyone else, even this little band of misfits that annoy the hell out of him.
But nothing “big” had happened. Bob’s evil self hadn’t reappeared and laughed at their deaths, his teammates reluctant temporary coworkers had simply ended up like the shadows in Pompeii. And the darkness continued to stretch on. So Bucky gritted his teeth, took in a deep breath, and stepped forward.
Coldness wraps around his body like a snake. It licks his muscles, creating a sort of cocoon. All he can see is black, which no doubt matches his clothes. Sam would laugh if he saw how he chose to fight in just a t-shirt.
Just before his vision cleared, the eeriness set in. It’s a feeling that is unmistakable, this particular emotion/sensation however you want to describe it, crawls underneath the skin. It floods into the veins, entering into one's very essence and settles there with its sinister undertone.
Bucky knows there’s something wrong about the place he’s entered. On one hand that’s obvious, because stepping into a void that vaporizes your body and leaves nothing left isn’t gonna send you to your happiest memory. Bucky knows that, and he also knows pain.
Pain, grief, suffering, agony, affliction.
These are all things that Bucky knows more intimately than anything else. Him and these are friends, not in the emotional connection sort of way, but in the sense of oneness. After all, his time with Hydra lasted for 70 years and he’s continued to be tormented by that in the few meager years he’s had “free” since then.
So when he stepped into the darkness, he knew it wouldn't be pretty. When he opens his eyes, the sight that greets him isn’t a surprise.
There’s the cold
There’s the sinister, eerie aura
And then there’s the chair
The shiny, reflective metal assaults his vision, making him sick to his stomach. The icy blue tint of the air matches the cool temperature of the Hydra base.
And Bucky hates the cold. Always has. Cold meant danger during the Great Depression. He’d seen it with his own two eyes, in the poorest parts of town where he worked. Mothers and children, huddled in packs on the streets, threadbare blankets and shawls pulled taut over their spindly backs as they looked at him with dull, lifeless eyes. He saw how the cold sucked the last remaining bit of their souls, leaving an empty husk. A pit of poison entered his gut each and every time spots previously occupied by these homeless beggars were left empty. Soon to be replaced by others, and swapped out in an unending cycle.
Bucky’s family was well off, not exactly rich, but they certainly fared better than most he knew, especially Steve. And that stupid twig of a man always plunged headfirst into danger much to his chagrin. Bucky’s surprised he didn’t go gray in his 20s worrying sick about his health. Fights in alleys where his skinny ass lay passed out on the frigid snow piles nearly gave him heart attacks.
The care he’d give Steve as he forced him into a shower and into his warmest clothes after that were just as much for Steve’s comfort as they were for Bucky’s.
And then there was the cold of the “table” as a POW.
Bucky doesn’t like to think about that.
Then there was the cold of the war, ever present and covering the ground in a thick, white blanket, soaking into his bones even through his thick jacket.
And then finally, the cold of the snowy alps that preserved his body just long enough for the Hydra soldiers to come by and snatch him up. That coldness never went away. It stuck with him, entering into his very being.
The container in which he was cryogenically frozen between missions. The fierce, biting temperature of the water when he was hosed down of sweat, grime, and copious amounts of blood after assignments.
The cold never left him.
Bucky thought it had, when he had the calm in Wakanda. But seven decades changed the color of his blood. Once Hydra, always Hydra. Steve disagreed, but he’s not here anymore. Sam disagrees too, but Sam doesn’t need to know his personal thoughts on the matter. Bucky supposes Sam knows he hasn’t let go of the guilt and chooses to say nothing, knowing it won’t get him anywhere. A conversation for another time, you old man he can imagine him saying.
But now, as he stares at the chair, confronted with the long gone but ever present memory of his past, the cold and terror settles around him easily. It curls around his form, and Bucky resigns himself to his fate.
Evil Bob certainly is putting up a fight. He wonders what the others are seeing. Bucky can guess about Yelena, he did train her and Natalia in the Red Room after all.
Natalia and him grew close, as much as his frazzled brain was capable of, but Yelena was more off to the side. The Hydra agents saw he worked better with the older Widows, so he’d only met Yelena a handful of times.
Her calculated, calm expression fills his mind. The wispy blonde braid that stretched down her back. And her trembling fists. Bucky had silently commended her in his own head on her ability to control her facial expressions, but the quivering of her hands gave her fear away.
Bucky doesn’t see that in Yelena anymore. Time had hardened her. Or healed her. He can only hope it was the latter.
A scream pierces the air.
It cuts like a knife through the thick tension that fills the room, starling him from his thoughts.
The all too familiar stench of himself fills his nostrils as doors open. So here Bucky is, about to meet his past self. Based on the smell, it’s been a little bit since he’d been placed in cryo. The ice always did wonders at preserving him but random body odors always built up, creating a disgusting film over his skin that was later cleaned off.
The Winter Soldier is dragged into the room by two deranged, middle aged men. His eyes flicks around the room, skittering everywhere, trying to make sense of waking up so suddenly.
Bucky looks closer at his image. He had never noticed it before, but against his dark, stringy long hair, the blackness of the mask and clothes, and paleness of his skin—a layer of frost over everything—his bright blue eyes remind him of ice.
No wonder he was called the Winter Soldier. Not just literally as in his cryo freeze tank, but also figuratively.
In his soul. His very being has been frozen over, making him the perfect candidate.
What Bucky didn’t expect is for his past self to lock gazes with him. It startles him out of his melancholy thoughts. There’s desperation in his expression. His eyebrows furrow up in a way that screams help me.
Okay Evil Bob. This is interesting.
Without thinking Bucky marches over and punches the Hydra agents at the same time. They’re effectively knocked out with one hit, crumpling to the ground instantaneously. They didn’t even see him coming, too preoccupied with the dead weight of the super soldier between them. The said person who’s slipping to the floor now that his support’s gone.
Bucky had used an arm each to punch the agents, and now places the limbs underneath the Winter Soldier’s wet, thawing armpits.
Gross.
Bucky’s been desensitized to basically everything, that’s kinda what happens when you’re forced into becoming a slave assassin for a deadlier version of the Nazis. But still, his own mother’s stern voice is firmly ingrained in his mind. Manners and the proper etiquette of a young man were implanted far before Hydra got a hold of him.
So, Bucky’s able to withstand his own filth—had personally lived like that for decades—but didn’t need to like it. Bucky slips to the ground, plopping the dead weight of…well himself on his lap. He takes a moment to hug him, which accomplishes two things.
1) Reassures himself this is real
2) Comforts his past self because he knows nobody is ever going to do that for him for a long time
He sits there, stroking a hand along the Soldier’s damp hair as the he trembles in his grip with arms wrapped tight around his torso. It would be painful if Bucky didn’t have the serum, but luckily he does so his past self can hug him to his heart’s content.
Murmurs of “It’s okay,” and “You’re safe,” pass his lips, Bucky not even realizing he’d uttered them in Russian. The atmosphere had likely gotten to him, plunging him back into the headspace.
Eventually, Bucky pulls back, bringing the Soldier about half an arm’s length away from him, far enough away to look in the eyes but still close enough for comfort.
The scared, cool eyes greet him again so Bucky reaches up with one hand and snatches the mask off his face, throwing it off to the side where it lands with a clatter. Trembling lips were concealed and hidden underneath it, brought forth into the light and truth, revealing his terror.
Bucky closes his eyes as he smooths the Soldier’s hair back again. He personally wants to murder every single Hydra agent with his bare hands, slowly after seeing this.
The man in front of him isn’t the fist of Hydra.
He isn’t a menacing, imposing ghost story that carries hate in his eyes.
He’s a broken man who's out of time; lost, manipulated, and seeking the once familiar clutch of love. The hold he knew in a past life but didn’t even have the memories for at this time, though the lack of it spoke volumes and pierced into his subconscious, that even the repetitive memory wipes in the chair couldn’t mask.
He is scared and every single agent, every single Handler, every one of them; they put him in that chair anyway.
For 70 years.
Bucky swallows the rising nausea, and opens his eyes again. He doesn’t know how in the hell Bob made this possible, if this is real or just a hallucination or if he’ll ever get back from it, but he needs to deal with the Soldier.
There’s a thought in the back of Bucky’s mind that he’d rather not entertain. It gnaws at his synapses, like a match lit on fire that burns quickly, firing off ideas and worries in quick succession.
Is this death?
Is this what the big Afterlife with a capital A has to offer?
Did he die when he entered that void, and is this it? Does he need to make peace with his past to move forward, or is it just an endless cycle of the worst moments of his life?
Bucky supposes that maybe it is. Maybe the Creator in the sky or whatever, is punishing him for his crimes, and this is the chosen method.
Dwelling on these thoughts makes the bile in his throat rise again so Bucky figuratively stomps out the flames of that rabbit hole of a theory and focuses on the man in front of him.
“You are me.” the Soldier speaks in Russian, voice weak from disuse. It’s also due to confusion, Bucky presumes, since the situation they’re currently in isn’t exactly a regular Tuesday.
“Da.” he responds as he flicks a melting clump of frost from his hair.
The soldier leans forward again in another hug. “I do not care this is not real,” he speaks with a slight smile, “I like this. As long as it will last.”
You and I both Bucky thinks. The cold is even more intense, as his defrosting body melts against his skin, wet seeping into his thin t-shirt and coating his goose-bumped skin.
The Soldier’s arm brushes against Bucky’s vibranium one, and then he’s pulling himself back to gain a better view. Captivated, he traces a finger along the gold plating that spreads across the expanse of black.
“I do not understand,” the Soldier states. “Why is your arm different?”
Bucky’s considering how to explain the future, escaping Hydra, Steve, Sam, Wakanda, Congress, and Bob into one sentence when his past self stands straight up, stepping out of his grasp.
“What is going on!” he snaps as he clutches his head in his hands. The light reflects beautifully off the silver titanium of his Hydra prosthetic, and Bucky can’t help but wish Stark hadn’t blown that to smithereens. It looked sleek, elegant, and classy.
“Answer me!” the Soldier speaks again. Right. He has to focus on the situation. “What is happening? You are me but different. I do not understand. Is this a test?”
“Nyet.” he answers truthfully. Well, at least to Bucky’s knowledge it’s not a test. But is it for the Creator, or Evil Bob? He’s not sure.
“This is a test! You gave me a drug to change what I see. To test if I would eliminate myself. You are my target!”
The Soldier’s eyes settle into something else.
There’s no panic, dread, or worry in them anymore. There’s acceptance. Bucky’s made that expression too many times himself to not recognize what he’s thinking, and what he’ll say next.
“я готов отвечать”
These familiar words send a chill down his spine. Ready to comply.
Bucky dodges the first swing that comes his way, catching the next one in his fist and halting the shout from the Soldier. Bucky’s at an advantage. He’s not fresh (hah) out of the freezer and delusional, starving from a couple of years of no food, and his brain is less scrambled.
But the other has an advantage he doesn’t.
He’s willing and ready to fight to the death. He’ll go the length to kill. Bucky wouldn’t, not just because that’s his face, but also because he doesn’t know if he’ll cease to exist if he does? He doesn’t know anything about time travel or whatever this is, and is not ready to take that risk.
The Soldier kicks out a foot, sweeping his legs out from underneath him and Bucky starts crumpling to the ground before he’s seized by the throat.
He should’ve seen this coming. That was a particular favorite move of his, a trademark, really. Bucky responds with a kick of his own, laughing internally as his neck is released. Serum or not, a kick to the groin hurts.
Bucky fumbles blindly on the table next to him, blinking away spots in his vision. His hand curls around something and he whirls it forward to connect with the Soldier’s face. A glass jar full of Hydra’s hidden cameras.
It shatters on impact, cutting into the skin in his forehead and temple and Bucky’s palm. Blood wells up and runs down both their skins. Bucky again grabs for the table but this time it was just a flimsy mouthguard.
The Soldier growls, literally growls like an animal before charging forward and knocking him onto his back. Bucky doesn’t even have time to think Shit, did I really sound like that? before the wind’s knocked out of him.
His head smacks painfully against some sort of sharp edge and all sensation cuts off for a few moments. Through the haze, he perceives that he’s being dragged, then lifted bodily onto something else.
He can almost imagine the butterflies twirling around the top of his face like the old cartoons he used to watch back in the 30s when someone received a blow to the head.
Blood runs thick down the back of his head, he can feel the warm liquid against the coolness of his hair and scalp. He’s in a sitting position now, and then there’s pressure on his arms.
Bucky prys his eyelids open, trying to fight past the spinning world around him. There’s a loud pounding in his skull that makes it difficult to see much, but he does make out the blurry figure of himself, standing at attention.
Bucky almost laughs, and thinks he actually does, at the sight. The Winter Soldier is picture perfect right now. Standing at attention, perfectly pliant and obedient. He’s just taken care of his target and is awaiting orders.
Having no clue what in the hell’s gonna happen next, words slur out of his mouth, in English this time. “Whaaaa….you doin.” His speech is messy, as if the letters are tripping over each other as they escape his lips. Bucky’s Brooklyn accent is also laid on heavy and thick, it always comes out when he’s experiencing high emotions or in distress.
“The mission is almost over,” the Soldier remarks, in a perfectly clipped tone. “I do not understand it or why you share my face, but I think Hydra may want me to treat you as the asset, so I will activate the wiping protocol.”
His figure leaves his vision, veering off to the side out of view as Bucky’s head spins. WHAT???? Is he gonna fucking wipe him? Electrocute him? What what?
His head lists forward, dropping of its own accord. It provides an opportunity to see his body, sitting upright in a chair.
His arms are held tight by metal restraints, and the cool metal looks familiar.
Huh.
Wait…
This is the fucking chair. Yes. He’s in the chair. He saw it earlier, and is just confused from the head injury. And himself—the Winter Soldier—is going to treat him like himself, because he thinks he’s a strange target meant to mimic him. Technically he’s right in the sense that he is himself but…Bucky doesn’t want to think of that anymore. His head hurts too much.
His long hair is suddenly grasped and pulled back. Bucky’s head snaps up to see the Soldier has his silver hand curled tight in his locks.
There’s an object in his other hand, and he shoves it straight into Bucky’s mouth. “Mmphff,” he protests around the intrusion. It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is. It’s something he hasn’t felt in a while. Something that’s bad. An omen of destruction and pain.
It’s the mouthguard.
Terror grips his heart, and it’s an icy hand that wraps around it, sending raw fear into his veins, joining the coldness.
The soldier smirks, and then reaches over to the table again. He’s maintaining eye contact the whole time, a wild, maniacal look in them. This is what his victims saw.
What Howard and Maria Stark saw.
His past self shoves something else over his face…and it’s the black mask. When he’d turned around earlier he was collecting it from where it lay discarded on the floor.
Panicking, Bucky shakes his head violently, trying to dislodge it from his face. He tries to spit the mouth guard out, force it past his teeth with his tongue when the Soldier brings his hand forward, shoving the mask on tight, pressing it right over his teeth and crushing his lips. Bucky can’t move his mouth anymore at all, can’t speak past frustrated and terrified grunts.
He can’t believe this. This isn’t happening. He’s doing it to himself. Bucky nearly shits his pants in fear. He can’t have made all this progress from therapy, healing with Wakanda and Steve and Sam only to be shoved right back into it and tortured again. Tears spring to his eyes, a sign that he’s gone soft.
The Winter Soldier was not allowed tears. They are a weakness, and severely punished if indulged in since no target could ever fear him like that. The liquid of betrayal cuts down his cheeks, landing on the mask that’s shoved roughly on his face.
The hand in his hair starts petting mockingly (a contrast to Bucky doing it with love earlier), carding through the sweaty strands.
“Shhh,” his past self whispers, still in Russian. “It is almost over.”
Bucky starts hyperventilating. Muffled strings of no and nyet pass his lips, he says no in every language he can think of (although they’re all pretty much the same, no), squirming around uselessly on the chair. His legs kick up but the Soldier is off to the side, out of range. His arms buck against the restraints but that only succeeds in the metal cutting tight on his skin.
His vision starts swimming again, a confusing, swirling mass of dizziness and pain.
Bucky’s sitting there, looking every bit the image of the Winter Soldier.
Everything he’s tried his hardest to shed. All gathered back in a matter of minutes. Damn you Bob, he curses. It’s not the kid’s fault but he needs to direct the anger at someone and he can’t bring himself to blame it on the man in front of him. More tears spring forth and he doesn’t even fight against the mouthguard and mask anymore, so his assailant releases his hand.
What’s done is done. He’s endured the shocks many times before, might as well sit back and bear it. It always went easier that way, he learned that pretty quickly.
The Soldier releases the grip on his hair and moves his hand off to the side, ready to flip the switch in the chair for electrocution. He hesitates though, before leaning forward and leaving a quick kiss on the top of his head.
“извини” he says, and that only brings more tears to Bucky’s eyes. Sorry? That's all he has to say? Maybe it’s the only thing he can do. Maybe he realizes this situation is fucked up and and doesn’t know what’s happening, and that’s the only thing that makes him feel better.
Bucky’s sobbing, full on ugly crying in the dreaded seat of the chair, the cold metal jabbing into his bones. He must look quite the picture, a grown ass man in such a state. Snot and slobber fill up his mask and if he had the energy he’d curl his nose in disgust at the improper display of manners that were again drilled in by his ma. It’s like that night with Ayo all over again, after the code words were finally removed from his brain.
But Bucky was never allowed to cry as the Winter Soldier and it seems that 70 years worth of tears are bursting forth right now, splitting apart the seams of the dam. All it took was one sit back in this chair.
The Winter Soldier in front of him presses the button. The switch itself doesn’t make a sound, but he knows that it was flipped since the contraption above him starts flickering to life, humming as it powers up. It creaks and groans as it travels down.
The Soldier backs up, clearly intent on abandoning him here. He doesn’t break eye contact though, that seems to be his thing.
The device enters into his field of vision, the dreaded and familiar blue tendrils of electricity filling his vision and body with terror. The sound alone is enough to send him into a panic attack, and he’s about two seconds away from one right now.
His chest is heaving up and down very quickly, with fast jerky movements that tear harsh breaths out of his lungs. His teeth are tightly clenched around the mouthguard, cheeks puffing slightly as he gasps. His hot breaths barely escape the mask, a stark contrast to the frigid atmosphere everywhere else apart from the tears and sticky blood at the base of his scalp.
His arms, legs, torso—whole body—is shaking like a leaf. He’s not speaking anymore but his head is full of a mantra, a full bloodied chorus of no no no no no.
The last thing Bucky registers before the contraption connects with his face is the look in the Winter Soldier’s eyes before he exits the doors.
It’s haunted.
Truly, and completely horrified at the image in front of him, at Bucky’s pathetic, shivering, crying, mess.
Seeing that expression on his own face is burned right into his memory as the static electricity burns straight through his skull.
The asset is confused at the spectacle that has arised. At first it thought the whole thing to be a hallucination, but nothing is ever this real. Never in its entire time serving Hydra has a mission such as this been presented.
It did panic, confused at the man in front of it that shared the same face. But then the asset knew it was a test, of course it was! No one would ever be allowed to disarm and knock out Hydra agents.
And even if it was not a test, the aggressor attacked Hydra, they were a serious threat that necessitated elimination. It can only hope it did the right thing.
The asset could not think of any other solution besides treating the man as the Winter Soldier. That is why they used the same face, right? Although following through with that plan caused unpleasant feelings to arise. It felt…wrong to do that.
There was such pain in the man’s eyes.
It was the asset’s own eyes, which unfortunately unnerved it even more. The only thing it could think of to soften the blow was to give it a quick kiss on the head and say sorry. The asset witnessed a woman doing that for her child once, so hopefully the effect was the same for the man. It almost felt like a crime to go through with this mission, but the repercussions of a failed assignment are disastrous.
So, it shoved him in the chair, prepped him for wiping, and flicked the switch. The device only turns off when directed to do so, which means the man will be sitting there, subject to the electricity until someone else turns it off.
But it is no bother really, he clearly also has super strength and can withstand it until another agent appears. What concerns it more is why the man is an exact copy. At one point there were several other super soldiers created that the asset trained, including the strong Isaiah Bradley, perhaps Hydra cloned the asset’s DNA and grew this one.
Whatever the reason, the mission is concluded to the best of the asset’s knowledge. It tries not to flinch at the man’s guttural screams that now penetrate the air. Why is this affecting it so much? All the missions up to this point have gone by smoothly. Why now?
There is no more time to ponder that, as Hydra agents strolling by glance in its direction due to the screams. They keep walking but then do a double take at seeing the asset standing there. It makes sense they are confused, not at seeing the asset roaming freely—it is trusted to be by itself of course—but at the fact that the screams are the asset’s voice, yet the asset is right here in plain sight with a blank expression.
Perhaps these particular agents are not informed of the special, confusing new mission. They head towards it, anger in their eyes and raising guns. Change of plans, maybe the man was not supposed to be wiped after all, and they are coming to inflict a punishment.
Fear courses through the asset.
Before it even thinks it turns around and re-enters the room. It bounds a few strides, intent on escaping through the back door when it slips on water on the floor. Whether it was already there or is leftover water from defrosting after cryosleep, it slips on it just the same and body slams onto the window off to the left.
The titanium arm shatters the glass and suddenly its entire form is toppling to the ground. Somersaulting gracelessly through the air, it strangely lands sooner than expected.
Even stranger is that instead of falling onto the grass below, the ground is made of wooden floor boards. The asset picks itself up and discovers it is inside a small room—an attic, instead of Hydra. It does not have time to properly be confused since it quickly notices there are quite a few random people also in this room. People it has never seen before. Two women and three men.
What is going on????
There has never been a mission like this before. The Hydra agents may be harsh sometimes, yes, but they are never cruel. They do not intentionally leave out any information pertaining to the mission.
And now, surrounded by strangers, fresh off fighting a clone of itself, and in a random house, it is all it can do to keep from killing them all to end this. Suddenly it is aware of something tapping its right arm. A man. Tall, shaved head, long beard…wait, Red Guardian?
Yup, that is Red Guardian. He is older, so cryo must have been quite a few years. The man is asking the asset if it is okay.
“Bucky are you alright?”
Who the hell is Bucky?
In the midst of this confusion one of the women walks towards them, saying words it cannot hear. Is it supposed to speak English? Not quite sure, though signs point towards yes.
“I don’t think he’s okay,” Red Guardian says cautiously. Bucky? He? Seems like an extension of the mission. Alright then, the asset can be Bucky.
“Hm…yes?” it he, Bucky, says in English. The woman stares at him, searching his face for something. He quirks his mouth up in a smile, hoping that works. It evidently does not, as she frowns. She looks him up and down and then gasps at his arm.
“What the hell?” she asks, running her fingers along it. “Why is your arm different? That’s—that’s your Hydra arm, I recognize it from…from that time.”
Bucky blinks. This woman knows him? Red Guardian is older so maybe she is a Widow. Blonde hair, blonde hair, blonde hair….green eyes. Then it hits him. A fierce gaze, but puppy dog eyes at the same time. With a young, cherubic face. My God. The woman is Yelena.
He licks his lips, trying to say what he thinks the mission entails. The clone of him had a different arm, which she is obviously referring to. Maybe he has to pretend to be him.
“Yelena I do not know. That place was confusing and I...I saw myself with the chair. I do not understand.” At the mention of the chair her eyes widen. Shit. Did he do the right thing, putting the man in the chair? “It is okay though,” he adds, “I took care of it.”
She seems to relax at that, nodding her head and then scrubbing her face with her hands. “I understand Bucky. That must have been difficult, facing yourself.”
He shrugs. The man went down without much of a fight. The only annoying thing from their tussle is the blood covering his face from the glass jar, though that is clotting now.
She starts walking over to a brunette man sitting cross legged on the floor. “We’ll figure out how in the hell Bob managed to revert you back into your Winter Soldier getup and arm at some point but that’s a later problem.”
The asset Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. He is in the clear as of now. This odd little group of people are his partners for this mission, and he will follow their lead.
He unsheathes a knife from behind his back—an extra in case things went south directly after cryo, which came in handy today—and prepares for the assignment.
Bucky’s grip on the knife tightens as a pang of guilt courses through him at the thought of his other self left behind.
Oh well. That was just a random clone of himself.
Nobody important.